Chapter 3.
When I viewed the flat that I had found on the
university’s notice board I was shocked and delighted at how much you got for
your money here. The bedroom was huge with a double bed, desk, wardrobe and
en-suite bathroom complete with toilet, sink and shower! – just no door between
the two. Fine for a single person with no need for privacy.
The
kitchen had all the modern conveniences. A dozen half full bottles of gin sat
on top of the microwave. The open plan
lounge area had bamboo sofas and a CD changer with a fully furnished CD rack.
Albums including Shaggy’s Hot Shot and Mano Negra live hinted at the flat’s social
history.
The
view from the balcony was a mirror image; dozens of other balconies full of
potted palms and sun bleached towels hung out to dry, once again. But I knew
that behind those flats the sea was tickling the shore and this made the scene complete
for me. Just one minute’s walk down at the bottom of the street cute little
Spinola Bay casually shouldered the bulging Mediterranean, it’s dinky harbour
clustered with Maltese fishing boats known as ‘Dghajsa’ – the traditional
vessels that adorn postcards and the covers of guidebooks. Painted in primary
colours and adorned at the bow with an anti-evil charm ‘The Eye of Osiris’ –
their bloodshot retinas making them all look like floating junkies, nautical
heroes driven to the needle by bearing a responsibility that they have no
control over.
The
rest of the flat was very spacious. The hallway was oversized - big enough for
a few more rooms. At one end a two-meter square canvas painted with abstract
pink, brown and green leaned against the wall. Tucked away at the other end of
the hall in a room with no door was the laundry zone decorated with a framed
copy of the Athena man and baby poster ‘L’Enfant’ the symbol of the new-man, an 80’s ideal of a caring male
in touch with his feelings – the forerunner of the metro-sexual. I made it my
mission to become a new man. No babies involved but I would at least start
ironing my shirts.
I didn’t need to shop
around, Flat 1. Riviera Court was a veritable palace and all for the monthly
rent of a box room in Bristol for a fortnight. Of course there is always a
catch. In the room across the vast expanse of hallway from mine lived Katya -
the bug-eyed, gap-toothed Hungarian lady who sublet all the rooms in the flat.
I paid Katya the deposit figuring her abrupt and disgruntled presence was a
small price to pay for an otherwise perfect apartment. In a days time I would
move in. All I needed now was a job.
I
walked away from the Riviera Court - in the opposite direction to the Astra
hotel. The area smelt of disinfectant and was full of nightclubs, shut during
the daytime lull. Down some steps I saw the Baystreet Mall and beside it the
Eden Superbowl. From films like ‘The Big Lebowski’ & ‘Kingpin’ and TV shows
such as ‘Ed’ I had gotten to know that bowling alleys not only offered a
relaxed working environment but were also a haven for misfits and
underachievers. As if fate was at play, there was a small sign on the customer
service desk advertising the need for a ‘Bar Back’. A vague ambition drenched
in down-and-out Americana formed. I inquired and handed my CV to the
under-enthused manager. The rest of the day I kept handing out my CVs, mostly
to big five star hotels that were the major Landmarks of this town called San
Giljan [St Julian’s].
San Giljan, a
bastion of the tourist industry, filled with language students a mall, luxury
hotels and a marina. The year was 2007, the economic peak before the trough.
Words like recession hadn’t been heard for years. I was sure a job would come
my way. Proudly that night I slept for the last time at the Astra hotel and
woke up feeling like a house cat falling from a tree and landing on its feet
running like a lion.
Moving
into Riviera Court settled it. I was here, no turning back. It didn’t take long
to make myself at home. My few clothes disappeared into the vast wardrobe. My
laptop sat alone on the desk and I blu-tacked the collaged front cover of the Ir-Realta
newspaper to the blank white wall to give the place an activist feel. I met the
other flatmates: A 19 year old freckled Italian girl called Valentina - slightly
chubby and playfully shy and Yin - a tiny 22 year old Korean girl, very forward
in her well-to-do sportiness. I used my new facilities to take a cold shower.
Just before five-o-clock I got a call from the Superbowl “Could you come to
work tomorrow?” Could I! Alas, dreams come true when the dreams come trashy.
Walking to work for
the first time - smug - my walk now had a definite direction like everybody
else’s. So what if I was wearing black trousers a size too big and worn out
black shoes? A looser look completed when given an XL staff polo-shirt, the
only size left until they ordered more in, usually I wore a Small.
I walked into the
manager’s office and had a brief chat with him. He was English himself, from a
small sea-side town, but had lived here for the past twenty years. I imagined
him when he first arrived; keen and sprightly just like me. Now he had resigned
to this managerial role, hidden behind the venetian blinds of his small
pain-glass-window office surrounded by stacks of paper. Lines were appearing to
furrow the brow of his forehead, which was increasing in size as his hair
reseeded. He had a wise but saddened demeanour. Framed photographs of bowling
tournaments and plaques hung on the walls, small trophies stood on top of a
filing cabinet the larger ones had a cabinet of their own, a few had his name
engraved into their past. Stuck to the bottom of the computer monitor a novelty
sign read ‘My drinking team has a bowling problem.’ He lead me to the bar and
handed me a cloth, taking himself a John Smiths before walking back to his
office. Over his shoulder he shouted “The barman will show you what to do, in
the meantime just clean the tables.”
I
surveyed the scene from the business side of the bar; a cacophony of arcade
games, a few unanimous characters sipping soft drinks, a bubblegum machine
painted with a clowns face, a couple playing pool and dozens more couples
bowling. Soon I realised it was Valentine’s Day and the absolute romance of the
place became apparent, first dates and strikes, tactile tips following gutter
balls and friends picking up the spares. After clearing the coffee cups and
wiping the tables, I began to relax into my role then suddenly.
“Aw”
A limp hand plunged at me from above. I took it,
and shook it. Stood beside me was a man’s torso with one hip slightly raised. I
looked up at a weasel-faced giant the width of a beanstalk. His name was
Neville Borg – you might have heard of him? The Playboy.
Although much bigger
than me it was clear Neville’s staff polo shirt was a Small, not that I was
sore about having to wear the XL. It was tucked tightly into his fitted black
trousers that were crowned with a huge silver belt buckle. He wore the uniform
as suavely as possible except for the polo shirt’s collar that remained
completely undone to reveal as much bare chest as possible along with the faint
smell of cologne. His hair was short but heavily gelled making it look wet and
jet-black. His ears appeared to have been sliced diagonally taking off the
tops, leaving them too small for his tall face and they stuck out to make it
obvious. His thick black eyebrows formed a brave mono-brow, thinning only
slightly above the bridge of his nose. Between blinks his sharp eyes took me
in. I just stood agasp. It was a long way from the top to the bottom of his
nose where a shadow of a moustache showed through his pale brown skin. His thin
toothy mouth started to grin showing off pearly buck teeth before it began to
speak. “You have moved to Malta?” his
tone used for questioning, like Jocelyn’s, sounded accusatory.
I tell
him I moved here seeking sunshine.
“You have family in Malta, you?”
“No”
“Not even friends?”
“No”
“Vera?
And where do you stay?”
I tell him about the flat and his eyes light up
when he hears that I just moved in with three foreign females. He raises his
right arm and shakes his hand, karate chopping the air and mock scolding me “Allah!”
Taking me to one
side Neville starts explaining exactly whom he is. Hurriedly asserting his
authority as a true-blue playboy, lowering his already deep voice to accentuate
its masculinity.
“Last Friday. Places club. Bottle of vodka.
Drinking-drinking.” He makes the action of knocking back shots. “Pah-pah”
…“Nice shirt. Girls around me.” The stammered
speech coming from his lungs but it’s his hands doing all the talking, using
his whole body to get his points across. Bent over and looking up through
puppy-dog eyes “Neville. Neville” he whimpers in a high pitch, meant to be
feminine but instead sounding frightening, he laughs a little.
“The music Allah
madoffe” his hand whirls upwards like a tornado “Mela the DJ knows me.” Chest stuck out proudly. Breathing heavily.
“Doof, doof, doof” he pushes the sounds through
his teeth and pumps his fist out in front of him.
I am paying attention and saying “Really?” or
“Oh” but Neville doesn’t need these signs that I am listening, by now he is
talking as much to himself.
“I know how to talk to women, ta.” He says with a huge smile but
serious eyes, clapping his thumb against his fingers (a hand movement used in
England when someone is talking too much, often accompanied by a silent
mouthing of words.) I didn't really understand what he meant by this and was
further confused when he made a clucking sound to go with it.
“And the girls” He
closes his eyes, pinches his fingers together brings them to his mouth and
kisses them like an Italian stereotype about to say belissimo. Instead he tuts.
Jerks his head left. And looks away momentarily. Then, with an air of finality,
pronounces “Jinn a playboy.”
I look hard at him. This guy added meaning to
the word lanky. A kind of Neolithic Peter Crouch. My vision, once again, as in artschool,
belonged to Egon Schiele. I saw sharp angles, akward poses and thick drastic
lines fronted horribly with a brilliant white lash of light. Neville Borg was
an elongated Mediterranean Schiele styled by Dolche & Gabana, his every
mannerism irksome but cloaked in bravado:
the living
embodiment of the painter’s self portraits.
Lips pouting, he looks at himself in the mirror that runs the length of
the back bar. Staring back from behind the glass shelves that store bottles of
spirits his reflection adjusts his belt and proclaims, “I know how to wear.”
Then he smoothes out his polo shirt from the top of the ribs down.
He pulls himself
away from the mirror and slaps the bar. Then pointing at the girl on the customer service
desk about fifteen yards away tells me, whilst keeping a straight face “This one. One day.
My wife ta.”
Was this diatribe a territorial warning or was
he offering to be my mentor? Either way I wasn’t going to argue. He was just
the kind of calculating underdog you always hear about but never actually meet.
A misunderstood Casanova. His success a badge wearable only through obtrusive
boasting. I was in awe.
Eventually he got
round to explaining the job that I was here to do but his jagged way of
speaking and cryptic phraseology made me realise I should just figure it out
for myself. “The bar, the tables… The house of work.” He nodded and looked at
me to see if I understood. I nodded back and he smiled his contagious, devious
grin.
An hour later
another barman clocked in and introduced himself in a much more conventional
manner. Alex Grima was Maltese but had lived in Canada until he was eight years
old, meaning he barely had the Maltese accent or speech patterns. He spoke
frankly and to the point in a low slow voice, the sort you would want to hear
narrating a nature documentary. He was a
year older than me and was at university studying Computer Programming. His
dark curly hair looked naturally messy but had been crew cut to make it smart
and presentable. He had the peaceful, cold, dark, black, lifeless eyes of a
great white shark. His face was blank, dominated by thick lips that always
seemed on the verge of a smile, or a frown. Something about him made it obvious
he had spent time state-side. His stocky sporty physique was heightened by the
fact he wore trainers that he would undoubtedly refer to as sneakers. He
explained my job role to me – How to mop the floor and wash the glasses. What
chemical solutions to use. Where the clean glasses went and where the full bin
bags were to be taken. Which beers were in which fridges. Where the ice was.
How to make the various coffees. What the staff were allowed to drink: Coolee,
a brand of orange squash, was one of the permitted beverages and when I told
them it was my namesake naturally I had to try it, and naturally from that
point on it was my nickname. Alex also made sure I tried the famous local
bitter orange carbonated drink Kinnie, on to which both barmen bestowed a great
pride.
“Has he told you how many women he has slept
with?” Alex asks me defiantly, clearly irritating Neville.
“No, is it a lot?”
Neville tut-tuts and wags his index finger from
side to side to say no, no, no then walks a few steps away.
“Tell Coolee how many women you slept with.”
Alex persists.
Neville paces back and forth behind the bar like
a caged animal, knowing we are watching him eagerly.
“Hu ejja Neville” bellows Alex.
Neville pauses mid stride, looks skywards for a
brief moment then pure matter-of-fact says “forty nine.” He then quickly turns
to face an oncoming customer, slaps the bar and points at them saying “You!”
GO TO CHAPTER 4
