Table Number 4

Table Number

By N

igel Royle

By

Phai stares.

Not even a flicker of an eye lid.

Not much of anything in Phai’s dark slender eyes. Not even the incandescent yellow of a setting sun can reverse her pimple skin. Not even the dull annoying laughter of the ten pound tippers can remove her from the rice field.

She observes an old woman harvesting the field, just like an old memory of yesterday, and yesterday in a static moment. The old lady’s back is slightly contorted and her fingers are twisted from the generations of picking. The skin around the old woman’s eyes are worn and wrinkled as left out in the sun to dry like a half eaten mango rioting in the afternoon heat – the fleshy yellow, olive skin that’s no longer attractive; no longer edible: no longer of any use.

Phai dabs away grit from the corner of her eye with the steadiness of a surgeon, then, she precisely adjust a delicate handmade neckpiece so it’s positioned just so and at the same time gently stroking the material. Meditative music of traditional Thai flute fills the space around her; she closes her eyes, for Phai was, and is home. A strained whisper enters her ear “Phai, sister dear…” said Mai as her fingers slide underneath Phai’s neckpiece, pressing firmly on the covered up purple, blacky flesh, “stop staring at the damn painting and serve my customers.” Phai grits her teeth in defiance as Mia prods deep into her skin.

“Stupid painting,” said Mai.

The doorbell interrupts. “Bryan! Shana!” announces Mai. The bell usually announces the next English note wavier, usually dressed in Fashion ugliness that screams I’m rich. For Phai, it’s another smile, a little bow, a childish giggle in reply to a comment about her body.

“Shana, lovely tiger skin dress,” said Mai, “Phai, come look.” Phai moves to the summons, briefly glimpsing at the hills and the crumbled satanic mills far behind the tinted windows. “Mai!” said Shana, “you’re such a tease. I hope you’ve got that lovely little green, native thingy on the menu tonight? I’ve told all my friends about you. Us Northerners will flock to it!”

“Shana, you delight me. You come here, so everyone come here.” They both giggle. “Am so honoured that you and you’re handsome husband come here.”

“I’ve never been called handsome in my entire sodding life,” Said Bryan. “Not even the wife. Unless she wants a new bag.”

“Phai, you look beautiful as always.” Shana enquires. “ I’m sure there’s many broken hearted young men out there?”

“Phai has very generous boyfriend,” interrupts Mai. “He be husband. He help me set up this restaurant.”

“Oh, lucky you!” said Shana, “bet you’re both very happy.”

Phai flicks through her mental script, “He looks after me.”

“My friends... come, sit down.” Mai shows them to a table that has a small centre piece made of flowers and a red candle. “How old is your boyfriend, Phai?” said Bryan. “Phai! Go get fresh flowers for our friends” said Mai. Phai quickly hushes off with tiny little steps made by her flat plimsoll and her heels popping out. “He gentlemen,” said Mai as she removes the small arrangement of flowers from the table. As she does, a blonde waitress walks out of the kitchen with a birthday cake and a single candle.

Mai claps her hands, until the voices dim to an echo and then silence. “All my friends!” announces Mai, “I hear a secret that today is birthday for my old friend, Tony.” She opens her hands fully exposing her hard worn palms at table 12. “My Tony!” A man in his early fifties turns around from his table of companions. “Happy birthday, Tony!” she shouts, “We all sing now.” There is a spontaneous singing of happy birthday. Phai rushes back with fresh flowers for the table. “I order?”

The rice fields are quiet, calm but no riches; they have no loud drinkers; and no skin touchers, just a delicate, handmade, and thoughtful silence. Hidden by the busy singing and laughter, Phai turns to see the door of the restaurant is still open. A breeze flaps the open and close sign. It’s quite out there, peaceful in the falling of day. Thoughtful. Mai slams the door shut turning back as she claps to the beat of happy birthday, never taking her eyes off her little sister. Phai turns back to Bryan and Shana, “I order?” But the singing is louder, and her voice is unheard. “Please order?”

The restaurant abates back into the noise of eating and chatting, Bryan looks up at her, “No. we order.” He opens the menu, “Are you happy here, Phai? Living in the U.K?” Phai replies back with a beaming vacant smile, “We order?”

“She doesn’t speak very good English, Bryan,” said Shana as she strains to read the menu,” Phai just smiles, as she does with every table, every person, even if they don’t care or even if they scream at her--I smile.

She waits patiently. From behind her a familiar low ruffed male voice can be heard. His voice low, almost audible from the many voices as he orders a beer at the bar: Phai’s mouth dries. Her back twitches from a chilled vulnerability. She looks at the closed door, and then at a decorative temple clock, it’s 8:27. Then she stares at the painting and beyond its silence but couldn’t find those peaceful thoughts. “Oh! I found the green thing! I think,” said Shana. She holds up the menu and taps it, “This one, honey, I’ll have this one!” Phai writes the order down and turns to Bryan, “I have the Pad-Thai.” Phai smiles and bows her head and begins to turn away. “Phai, my dear!” shouts Shana, “Is it spicy, I can’t remember?”

“It Thai, it all spicy.” She turns away towards the bar, he was gone.

She didn’t hear the doorbell. How can someone walk through a door like it wasn’t there? No glass, wooden frame to stop him, and no listening bells. A ghost that can go anywhere it pleased, haunting the insiders with a strange ability to go where it wanted, and never consider the idea of closed doors with alarms. Phai’s attention is on the outside. She watches him from the window as he walks down the street, past the monuments of recycle bins, disappearing and reappearing in street lights, heading to a group of parked cars. A place where she first kissed a man without her skin being frozen by the thought of doing so. “My Shana,” said Mai as she holds up her arms to embrace, at the same time the stepping on to Phai’s tiny feet as she went by, “My beautiful friend, have you ordered?”

A florescent light hums in the staff corridor, it’s consonance is warming and sings to Phai. A sweet lullaby while she works as folds red napkins into neat little piles. The humming is binaural, almost sensual, her body could work; her mind could sleep. Phai didn’t notice Mai standing behind her, the humming can mask some many things.

“You love your family?” said Mai.

“I love my family.” Phai carries on folding red napkins.

“I saw him,” said Mai. She pulls out a bunch of keys, “I given you a good life, a future husband,” She unlocks the rear outside door, “Built a strong family business to look after you,” the air rushes in and displaces the red napkins. Mai steps out into the cold breeze and lights up. “Paid by the money he give us.” She puffs. The napkins lay at Phai’s feet. Red on her shoes. She Kicks one off her foot. “I hate him! Every night, when he is asleep I want to stab him in his fat, ugly, old face.”

“Think of what your family has done for you! He’s a little rough and kinky, that’s all. You need to toughen up.” The smoke billows into the corridor removing all sense of smell, Mai grabs Phai’s tiny waist from under her clothes, her polished blue nails penetrate Phai’s soft skin, as if she is trying to squizz out the red stuff from her, “We look after family. We are family!” Phai clinches her teeth. “See him again. It’ll destroy us. My restaurant will close, and we’ll go home.” Mia’s smoky breath hovers over Phai’s ear. “Remember home? Tourist really like young skin. By the hour and followed by a beer.” Mai pulls away her nails and starts to rub around the wound, stroking her finger in circles . “It’s so soft.” Said Mai, whimsically. “Tenner. Like mine was. Old leather cow they call me now. I hear them. The bitches in these little towns haven’t got a clue about life. Beaten skin quickly becomes old leather.

By the hour.”

“Mai!” shouts the blonde waitress, “problem with table four.”

“Shit!” Mai runs into the restaurant.

The wind from the open door swirls around Phai. The humming light is now a buzz. Her thoughts go to a ticking clock, a flash of car headlights, a low ruffed voice, then into the eyes of the old woman in the rice field, and her old wrinkled eyes and smile.

Phai stares into the night--no longer edible. No longer of any use.

“Mum.”

Phai pushes down on the rear outside door leaver and closes it. All the napkins float to the floor, they‘re now dirty and stained and of no use.



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