Marble Arch

I get an hour off for lunch. I would rather spend it with Facebook at my desk but using the internet is against the rules my archaic office. So instead it is two bananas and The Kite Runner on the bench next to the Marble Arch. And I mean right next to the very arch, with its surrounding flags and traffic. A maelstrom of black cabs and London buses circling the moribund arch and its grass and benches.

The tunnel, under the traffic, up to the arch smells of urine and tourists can’t figure out which exit they want, while standing next to the gypsy begging for money. I sit in my usual spot, not quite in the sun and not quite in the shade of the tree. Hyde park is beyond, green and lush.

A loud guttural belch rocks the bench before I can take in even a paragraph. To my right is a white male, with stubble for beard and hair.

I smile and say “Well done!”

He smiles with a messy grin that reveals pink gums and teeth in a muddle.

“Thank you” replies with an English accent. A kind of blue collar accent though.

We make eye contact, that rare exercise on big city streets. There is usually a punishment for showing such weakness. This could bring on any number of unwanted experience such as conversation about the weather, the weak end (coming or gone) or worse still…the transport system. This man on the bench instead has an unusual follow up to his on usual manners.

“Your half Indian aren’t you?” he asks me.

“No” I say.

“Where you from then.” At this point in conversation I usually hesitate. Most of them not heard of Zambia. And then I explain the geography which mentions the name Zimbabwe, which brings on unnecessary alarm. “it peaceful” I assure them. But no, this man is not interested.

“Your like me” he says, smiling with his cluttered teeth and showing those pink gums. “half white – half black, right?” I smile to confirm.

“I knew it!” he beams. “Let me guess, your mums white and your dads black right?”

“Not quite” I reply. It is the other way around. “My mums black. She is from Zambia” To my relief, he is not interested in Zambia.

“I am from India he says”

There is the smell of alcohol from somewhere. The man on the other side of me on the bench makes his leave. He had only just sat down. I wonder if he knows where this conversation I am in might lead. He leaves me wondering what I have gotten my self into.

“You’re a from fucking Zambia then?” he says smiling. He says everything smiling. He has only a slight slur. He is so pale, his near bold head glistening in the sun. “You must know a lot of things then?” he says more stating than asking.

“You must know about Castro and communism” he blurts out, and takes a swig out his bottle of drink in a plastic bag.

“Well I know who he is” I reply, not quite sure what to say. But before I can add to that he says
“Castro was a fucking cunt.”
“He was I ask?” no really getting interested in the conversation. I think he noticed this because he talked about Castro a lot that afternoon. Always, calling him a fucking cunt.

“Yes he is a fucking cunt” he says again.
“Why do you say that?” I ask.
“You know why? I will tell you why, because he fucked up Cuba. He fucked it up. You there and everything is fucked up.”
“but I thought the people of Cuba loved Castro” I interject.
“yes they love him but he is still a cunt. Fucked everything up. I been there you know. I been to Cuba. Have you been there? No? Well I have and its all fucked up. Castro is a fucking cunt”

“Well he has done a lot you know. That revolution and the people of Cuba are happy right?” I ask him, trying not to let him run the conversation all the time.

“I don’t give a fuck. He’s a fucking cunt. He is Spanish you know.”

“Who Castro? Really?” I say generally surprised. Now I don’t know so much about Castro actually. Maybe there is a good bio out there I should read. And perhaps this gentleman has read such a biography or who knows, be Castro’s grand child. But still, I had good reason to be suspicious of any man in London freely dishing out conversation.

“He is from Spain. I am Spanish you know” he says, as if to validate his claims about Castro’s nationality.
“But I thought you said you were Indian” I said, hoping to catch him out.
“My mothers Spanish. I grew up in fucking Spain my man” he said.

Oh God I thought. I am now his man. How am I ever going to get out of this I thought. I had already given up on the book by now. This Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini was not all it was hyped to be I was beginning to discover. The story, with all it betrayal and loyalty between men, looking right past all the women sidelined in the story, was beginning to seem very ordinary. So I did not mind so much chatting away with the fucking cunt talk. But he half Indian was getting very excited and animated. He was moving closer to me on the bench. Our elbows, which we both threw back over the back support of the bench, were now almost touching.

However, other encounters with strange men in big cities before have not been very pleasant. Three young men beat me and robbed me just 5 months earlier. In Cape Town two men (yes they were black) gave me such a fright I just ran. One in Geneva, who only spoke French to me, put his leg between mine and jiggled it and chanted a football song. He was amusing himself and his friends. They all laughed and so did I, though I thought I was being molested. Ten minutes after that I realized my phone was gone. But he back laughing and gave it back. That is Geneva for you.

“Castro and I were born in the same village in Spain. In the same fucking hospital. Can you believe that man. HE is a fucking cunt. He fucked up Spain. Spain was fucked up in the 40’s and 50’s man. Castro fucked it up”

Now I was beginning to wonder. Spain? Even for lunch time entertainment, this was beginning to seem rather fanciful. I took to reading the not so enthralling book about honor and betrayal.

“What you reading man” he asked like we known each other long and I replied like he was an old friend. I showed him the cover too.

“Don’t read that book man” he said. “That book is fucking shit”

“Really” I asked, genuinely looking for his opinion.

“Don’t read that shit, I will tell you what to read” he said. I knew he hadn’t read this book. It was just an opening for him to tell me what book he has read.

“I will tell which book to fucking read. Read this book by Herman Hesse. Its about the guy who started Buddhism. Can you fucking believe that? It’s a great fucking book. Read that book. Fucking read it! I am telling you man, it a good book, a great fucking book”

“Ok I will read it”

“Write it down” he said. Through all this he smiles, showing his pink gums. I smile too, with a slight frown. A frown in part because I can’t believe this conversation but in part from the bright sunshine making a rare July appearance. I take out a piece of paper, some old boarding pass that is doubling as a page keeper. He spells the name and title for me. Siddarta by Herman Hesse.

He then proceeds to prattle on about how good the book is. He mentions no other book, except one other book by Herman Hesse he says he has half read. But still “Read that fucking book”.

Just then the hobo spread-eagled on the grass in front of us come to life. His long unkempt beard and hair like an extension of the grass under him. His skin red from drink and exposure to the sun. He too has a plastic bottle of something cheap and foul in a plastic bag. It says on the side in bright red ‘$2.35’.

Then my half Indian friend says “He Mick! You want a fag man. I will give you a fucking fag.” In response Mick only grunts.

Mick is slowly coming to life. Freeing himself from the grass. It is a struggle. The grass is pulling at him, holding him down. The Mick fumbles through his untidy clothes of red sweater and scraggy trouser. Both too big for him and decorated with bits of dead grass. Mick pulls out a cigarette finally. I see that my Indian friend is rolling his own cigarette from a bag of Tobacco.

“Mick, you want a fag man?” to which Mick replies in grunts. It seems Mick only speaks in grunts. But the Indian man understands what he wants. Mick wants a light. Mick collapses back into the grass. The grass has won. The Indian gets off the bench, bends over to light Mick’s cigarette and returns to my bench. Sitting even closer to me this time. I am glad that my wallet is in the opposite pocket from the Indain.

The conversation goes on about cunts and bastards. The English are arrogant he says. They want to build an empire. I told him their empire has already crumbled. He smiles. He does most of the talking while I point out little things from his already long list of observations. He is pleased by these interjections. He taps me on the shoulder in appreciation. We are like brothers now.

“Religion is the root of all evil” he said when he denied being a Budhist (since he like the book by Herman Hesse so much).

He had opinion about many things. He said I was intelligent, that is why he liked talking to me. It made me wonder where people get the notion that I am intelligent. I cannot not escape this ubiquitous assumption people make about me.

The Indian told me he would visit a whore house later. “Only twenty pounds in Soho, man.” He said there were lots around. He would take me if I wanted, which was where the me getting robbed would take place I thought.

Many people had sat next to us and left in the mean time. I think in part to escape the site of two strangers having a conversation in a city. A girl sat next to me across the bench. She ate a sandwich and read a book

“Look at those tits man” he said, not hushing his voice enough. “You can have that whore for free man. Go tell her you want to suck her tits” he said.

I looked at her and considered sucking her tits. Then I considered asking her. Then I turned to the Indian and said “I would rather not”

“C’mon man!” he said. He smiled some more, showing more pink gums and his tiny teeth. How could some one so pale be from India and Spain I wondered.

“Ok I will tell her” he said and stood up. I jolted into action. I was smiling and indignant, feeling embarrassed already.

“No!” I protested. “Sit down I said.” I had just met the man and already I was policing him like a younger brother. Yet he is thirty. He told me so, right before I told him my age. “twenty six” I said, feeling silly for telling the truth to a stranger.

“Look” I pleaded. “Some people just like to sit by themselves and not talk to any one for lunch, just like you said.” I was using his own wisdom against him “they stone wall you as you said.”

“Ok I won’t” he said, very pleased with himself. “I like you”

Later a middle age couple in sun glasses sat next to him. They were from Spain. And would you believe, the Indian spoke Spanish to them. Not well, but the had a whole conversation. I got up to leave.

“Nice talking to you” he said. My name is Antonio”