Author: PaLao

It was around 6.00 pm, when my friend Hak, her son Kita and I walked into Swedish Bakery for an early dinner. We were scanning the board displaying the menu when Hubert called. He suggested dinner together and since he lived just about 100 metres away, I invited him to join us. Hubert, one of my closest friends is an epidemiologist and I edit some of his papers that are published in professional journals. He is also an epicure, much spoiled by the terrific cooking of his lovely wife, Fitiava. I almost sensed him turning up his nose at our choice of an eating place.

“Let’s go into town,” Hubert said, “I’ve been working all day and I need to stretch my legs.” Without waiting for an answer, he added, “I’ll pick you up in 15 minutes.” We cancelled our order and walked out of the restaurant.

Soon Hubert, Fitiava and their youngest son, Tristan, drove up and the three of us climbed into his Toyota Land Cruiser. On the way into town we discussed what we should eat and where. Hubert suggested that we should try a restaurant that neither of us had ever eaten in before and I agreed. He parked his car along the Mekong and we walked up and down the narrow streets in the city centre.

If I mentioned a place, Hubert had eaten there and vice versa. We turned right and we turned left, we went straight and we turned back, looking at every restaurant we passed. There were some that neither of us had eaten in but without a second thought, we just walked past.

The women and kids trailed behind us, laughing at our indecisiveness. As they began to tire, amusement started giving way to irritation. We were back on Fa Ngum Road along the Mekong, when we came across a sign “Café Chagall” with an arrow pointing down a narrow lane. Hubert and I looked at each other and agreed immediately. It must have been new because neither of us had even heard of it before. I was particularly surprised because at the end of the lane was one my favourite restaurants, which I frequented regularly.

We turned into an old French colonial house with a well-tended garden and lots of potted plants at the entrance. We were greeted by about a dozen attractive women standing in a line, beautifully dressed in a range of colourful kimonos. They said something Japanese in unison and bowed low. We didn’t understand and so a few of them giggled, “Welcome.” They parted in the middle and an older equally attractive and well-dressed woman stepped forward. “Greetings. Welcome to Café Chagall.” She smiled at us two middle-aged men and asked how many of us there were. Hubert told her and I thought her smile changed slightly when two women and then two teenagers followed us in.

As we were ushered into a large private room, I looked around. The restaurant was very elegantly furnished, Japanese minimalist style. Six women pulled the chairs back for the six of us, then handed us cold towels and poured green tea. It was still early in the evening and the restaurant was empty and I presumed that was the reason why so many women were attending to us.

“A French name for a Japanese restaurant,” Hubert remarked and then said the same thing to Fitiava in French. We looked around at the décor, the large number of people waiting on us and in hushed tones made various observations. Then the six women re-appeared and handed the six of us a menu each. I have no recollection after that of what I read, except that a plate of rice, the cheapest item on the menu, was $4. Something was $89! An odd price; not quite $100, but getting there.

I turned to Hak and whispered to her to take away the menu from her son. Across the table, Fitiava did the same thing to Tristan.

“Should we leave?” I asked Hubert, but we were too embarrassed to do so, after having used the towels and sipping some of the tea.

Hubert and I took the easy way out, leaving it to the two sensible women to save us from having to do the washing up and the mopping of floors later.

Fitiava and Hak, matched the minimalist furnishing with some minimalist ordering: three plates of rice, two plates of sushi and two plates of tempura. The woman taking our order must surely have thought that we were on strict diets. I glared at Kita when he asked for a mango juice and Hak over ruled him, asking for just plain water. Hubert, who likes a good wine with his meal, skipped that, and though my throat was parched, I decided that a cold beer could wait for another day. I had about $200 in my pocket and hoped that Hubert would have something similar.

The food came and the servings were minimalist too. By the time the plates were licked clean, I was hungrier than when we first came in.

One of the women asked us if we would like some dessert and I, of the famed sweet tooth, shook my head vigorously.

The bill came and the waitress handed it to Hubert. I took out my wallet ready to kiss hard-earned money goodbye. I asked him the amount but he wouldn’t tell me. “It was my idea to come here,” he said generously and then even more generously paid the full bill. I was embarrassed as I saw a bunch of 1,000 baht notes slipped into the leather folder and handed back to the waitress.

As we left the restaurant, now filling up with older Japanese men, some of the women lined up and bowed at us. “Sayanora” they chanted.

“Sayonara,” I replied, bowing exaggeratedly low. A thought crossed my mind; I had eaten there twice that day – the first time and the last time. Within fifteen minutes of leaving the Café Chagall we were in an Italian restaurant ordering pizzas, wine and cold beer. And later tiramisu too.

A few days later, I told my Japanese friend about the Café Chagall. She laughed. “That’s where the rich Japanese businessmen go for the “phu sao” she said, using the Lao word for girls.

COMMENTS 

Jan Nerurkar

October 11, 2017 at 12:46 am

Finally you have become an accomplished writer!! Nice read. Let me know when you have time for a chat.

Von meinem iPhone gesendet

© Percy Aaron

Inside the bedroom, the only place air-conditioned in the flat, the three of us sat on what must have been a bespoke giant-sized bed, whisky glasses in hand.

On a chair, with his feet up on the bed, sat the host, a likeable but dodgy businessman in his early 30’s. He made a fortune from buying and selling used luxury cars, switching original parts for clever fakes, knowing his nouveau riche customers wouldn’t know better. With the tight import controls in the country, genuine auto spares were priceless on the black market. He had invited me over to dinner, with the promise that he would settle a long outstanding bill.

On a pillow at the top of the bed, in a lotus position, sat the strikingly handsome deputy commissioner of police, reciting Urdu couplets. He prided himself on being more a poet than a policeman and was looking forward to retirement when he could write poetry full time. Diagonally across the bed, occupying most of the space, lay an attractive voluptuous woman, quite obviously his lover. In her late 40’s, she oozed sexuality and self-confidence. I sat between her and the host on the chair.

My elbow still hurt from earlier in the evening. The policeman, quite high by that time, had boasted that despite being decades older, he was the strongest and fittest in the room. Then, he had grabbed the host in a martial arts hold and tossed him onto the bed, sending a bottle of Scotch crashing to the floor. Then he grabbed my hand but I managed to pull free, roll off the other side of the bed and dodge him.

Close to midnight, the cook-cum-caretaker announced that dinner was ready. Eating at the midnight hour and then straight to bed, is quite typical in India. The others headed for the dining room and I went to the attached toilet to throw some water on my face. Midnight and the malt were showing their effects on me.

The rest of the flat wasn’t air-conditioned and when I left the bedroom, I pulled the door shut to keep the room cool. Despite the eleventh hour and the eleventh floor, it was humid and stinking hot. I asked the host why he didn’t have the whole flat air-conditioned. He replied that he was here only for a couple of days each month. Though he lived in New Delhi, he maintained this flat only for his business visits to the city.

Dinner was delicious but hurried because of the discomfort. After the meal, we headed back to the bedroom but the door was locked unwittingly, because of me.

The host had an early morning flight back to Delhi and it turned out that his keys, ticket and other documents were in his attaché inside the room. So was my cash.

We rattled the door knob and banged at the door but it wouldn’t budge. The cook brought out a long thin knife and tried picking the lock. I got the feeling that he had tried this a couple of times when the owner wasn’t around.

Then the Deputy Commissioner of Police had a solution.

He called Lal Bazaar, the police headquarters and spoke to somebody. Then he asked the cook to go downstairs and summon his bodyguard. Soon, a large moustachioed policeman in khaki followed the cook into the room, hand resting on his holster. He received some instructions from his boss, then bowed, a little too obsequiously, and left.

About an hour later, the bodyguard and another policeman returned with a blindfolded and handcuffed man between them. The blindfold was pulled off roughly and the lock breaker was shoved in front of us. The deputy commissioner gave the man some instructions and one of the policemen handed him a dirty bag. The man took some instruments out and walked to the locked bedroom door. Within minutes he had it open.

I sat there in disbelief, more at the open camaraderie between the lock breaker and the police escorts.

When he had finished opening the door, the lock breaker came back to the deputy commissioner and touched his feet. He insisted that he was in prison despite his innocence; that he had been drunk and had entered the wrong house by mistake. Then he tried a different story; that his wife and her lover had framed him.

The deputy commissioner looked at all of us. He reminded the lock breaker that everybody in the room – the host, the guests, the police escorts and the cook had just witnessed him committing a break-in. The policemen laughed as they blindfolded the trembling man and led him away.

Then calling the cook, the deputy commissioner told him not to try opening any doors in the flat, when the owner was away. For him, it wouldn’t be prison, he warned, but crushed knuckles.

© Percy Aaron

It’s the second week of the teacher-training course and the instructor walks around the class, shaking a cardboard box in her hand. “Today, we’re doing an activity called shock therapy. Inside are slips of paper. Each slip has a single word on it. When I call your name come up and choose a slip. You will then have one minute to prepare a two-minute talk on the topic you get.”

Immediately, we deluge her with questions: inane questions; hypothetical questions; obtuse questions. We’ve been taught to encourage our students to ask questions but we’re not playing that role now. We’re doing it solely to waste time. It’s an hour to lunch and we’re trying to avoid this silly activity. It occurs to me that one day our students are going to try the same stunt with us.

The first person walks nervously to the front, picks a slip from the box, opens and reads it. She looks at the ground for a minute and then talks about ‘envy’. The alarm cuts her off and she looks like she could have gone on and on. Obviously, she has a lot of experience there.

Then that cadaverous know-it-all who always sits in the corner shuffles up. He has a supercilious expression when he reads what’s on his slip. He doesn’t have a lot to say about ‘love’. Looks like ‘envy’ at the lack of ‘love’. After about thirty seconds he stops talking, and looks around the class indifferently. The class waits in silence for the alarm but he doesn’t seem to care.

My name is called but it doesn’t register. The instructor raises her voice and the class looks at me. I hate speaking in public and as I push myself up from the chair my legs turn to lead. My name is called again and I struggle to get up. Even though the air-conditioning makes the room uncomfortably cold, my palms are damp.

I shuffle to the executioner who is calling my name once again. I must consider a career change I think as I look at the ceiling and dip my hand into the box. I look down, unfold the slip and read ‘dust’. I curse my luck. Why couldn’t I have got ‘football’ or ‘sex’ or something easy to talk about?

My mind is blank and my shirt is sticking to my body. My throat is parched and my palate feels like sand. I curse myself for not being absent today. The person who thought up this activity definitely worked for the Gestapo.

“Start,” says Mrs. Hitler after a minute and presses the timer.

But my mind is as empty as my bank account and I’ve lost my voice. I start coughing and then get a brainwave. I’ll keep coughing for two minutes. I start doing so uncontrollably, getting carried away with this act of a lifetime. The tears are streaming down my face as I try to cough out my larynx, my kidneys and even my big toe. I may not make it as a teacher but I’m going all out for an Oscar on this one.

Madame Hitler is unimpressed. “When you’ve stopped, we’ll begin,” she says stopping the timer.

I cannot believe how callous she is. Had positions been reversed, I’d have called a doctor, the fire brigade, maybe even the president. I’m even more offended when I hear giggles across the classroom. How heartless has society become? Is life so cheap? I could be having cholera, the clap and a cardiac arrest for all they care.

I take out my handkerchief, determined to salvage some dignity. I read the word again, ‘dust’. How could any self-respecting person even think up a word like that, leave alone speak on it for two minutes?

“Dust,” I hear myself croaking, “is a filthy four-letter word. And if anybody has a dust allergy, please leave the room.” And I walk out.

Twenty minutes later, I sneak into the room and everybody looks in my direction. They have been waiting for my return.

COMMENTS

khaidao

November 4, 2020 at 4:53 pm

This story is true, I’ve had experiences like this. I can’t control myself when in front of so many people. But I’ve been through it with the courage to express myself. I tried a lot of this , finally I did it.

Penny

November 6, 2020 at 3:55 pm

I have faced this kind of problem sometimes. Although my teacher gave us time to prepare, I still could not talk in front of many people and I always picked a topic that was difficult.

Bee

November 6, 2020 at 6:01 pm

This activity is great and makes my brain work so hard😂. First time I did this activity I was really nervous but the second time it was easier ( still excited 5555 )

Dodo Phunyathiboud

November 9, 2020 at 7:48 pm

I hate public speaking. I’m always too nervous when people look at me. I’ve tried to overcome such situations but until now I can’t.

© Percy Aaron

As the alarm pierced my deepest slumber I sprang out of bed, switched on the light and headed for the bathroom. I brushed my teeth, dressed hurriedly, went downstairs and slipped into my walking shoes.

Less than five minutes since getting up, I was heading for the square in front of Wat That Luang Temple, Laos’ iconic temple.

In an attempt to keep fit I had resolved to speed walk for an hour every morning. Making resolutions was the easy part. Getting out of bed, instead of the lifetime habit of lying in as long as possible, was another thing all together. Then somebody lent me Robin Sharma’s ‘The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari’. In a chapter on inculcating good habits, he had written about the power of 21: do something 21 times and it slowly became a habit.

Thus, for the last week, as soon as the alarm went off at 5.00 am, I forced myself out of bed. Any urges to turn over and grab another 15 minutes of sleep were banished in the count down to 21.

As I walked down the street, I noticed that it was darker than usual. And the streets were emptier. In fact there wasn’t a single jogger to be seen, not even the usual traders on their way to or from the early morning wholesale markets.

I reached That Luang Square and started warming up. Two policemen, rifles strapped over their shoulders, were sharing a cigarette. They looked in my direction, probably recognised me, and then went back to making sure that the other didn’t grab more than his share of puffs.

I picked up pace revelling in the fact that I had the whole place to myself. I smiled at the thought that I had got here before all the other insomniacs, or at least those who read self-help books that exhorted them to get out of bed before the roosters.

A couple of drunks, or addicts, were snoring at the base of a lamp post as I strode silently past them. One round, or approximately 1.7 km, later as I passed them again, I realised that the street lights were usually off when I started my daily walk. Then it hit me.

I wanted to watch my favourite football team play a Champions League match. To catch the live telecast of the quarter-finals coming from a continent away, from the usual 5.00 am, I had reset the alarm for 1.45 am.

No wonder, the streets were darker and emptier than usual. I cursed myself as I trotted back home wondering how much of the match I had missed. The dogs in the neighbourhood started the bow wow symphony and as I opened my gate I controlled the urge to throw a stone at the mongrels that punctuated my sleep night after night with their incessant barking.

I yanked off my trainers and raced to the TV. Alleluia, the match hadn’t started! I hurriedly went to the kitchen switched on the coffee machine and came back with some crackers and peanut butter.

The match still hadn’t begun and so I checked the other channels. Sometimes, the cable operator changed channels without any prior notice. No, the match hadn’t started. I looked at the clock and it showed 2.28 am, almost half time. This couldn’t be, such delays never happened.

I switched to the BBC to see if the match had been cancelled due to the weather. The sports news showed the team manager in a pre-match interview. Pre-match interview? Then I realised that I had got the date wrong.

To add injury to insult, twenty-four hours later my team were knocked out of the competition.

© Percy Aaron