to busboy. I picked up dishes from under the
clientsâ noses and poured water in their glasses while always, always keeping an
eye on Maître Pierre, who stood in the corner, hands clasped in front of his crotch
like a fig leaf in a fresco. He hardly ever talked. His job was to monitor employees, to
answer clientsâ questions, and with the gold braid on his sleeves to give an air
of luxury and aristocracy to the place. When he approached the clients, he would never
kneel an inch. His back and shoulders were always erect and proud, and he was always
calm and composed. He spoke little. And when he spoke in English, the bastard
accentuated and exaggerated his French accent. He sang his words, and when he snapped
his fingers you could detect a small vibration in his neck. The employees nearest to him
would instantly sweep, fill, offer, pick up, fetch, change, bend, call a taxi, open a
door, pass a torch over a cake, and make their way past the fancy tables singing
âHappy Birthdayâ in many languages.
Once I approached Maître Pierre and told him that I would like to be
a waiter. He looked at me with fixed, glittering eyes, and said:
Tu es un peu trop
cuit pour ça
(you are a little too well done for that)!
Le soleil
tâa brûlé ta face un peu trop
(the sun has burned your face a
bit too much). I knew what he meant, the filthy human with gold braid on his sleeves and
pompous posture! I threw my apron in his face and stormed out thedoor. On the way out I almost tripped over the stroller of a dark-complexioned
woman with five kids trailing behind her like ducks escaping a French cook. Impotent,
infertile filth! I shouted at Pierre. Your days are over and your kind is numbered. No
one can escape the sun on their faces and no one can barricade against the powerful,
fleeting semen of the hungry and the oppressed. I promised him that one day he would be
serving only giant cockroaches on his velvet chairs. He had better remove the large
crystal chandelier from the middle of the ceiling, I said, so the customersâ long
whiskers wouldnât touch it and accidentally swing it above his snotty head. And
you had better serve crumbs and slimy dew on your chewable menu, Monsieur Pierre, or
your business will be doomed to closure and destruction. And, and . . . ! I shouted, and
I stuttered, and I repeated, and I added, as my index fingers fluttered like a pair of
gigantic antennae. And, I said . . . And youâd better get used to the noise of
scrabbling and the hum of fast-flapping wings fanning the hot food, my friend, and you
had certainly better put up a sign: No laying eggs and multiplying is allowed in the
kitchen or inside cupboards or walls. And, and, I added . . . And you will no longer be
able to check your teeth in the reflection of the knives and silverware; there will be
no need for utensils in your place anymore. Doomed you will be, doomed as you are
infested with newcomers! And your crystal chandeliers, your crystal glasses, your
crystalline eyes that watch us like beams against a jailâs walls, all shall become
futile and obsolete, all shall be changed to accommodate soft, crawling bellies rolling
on flat plates. Bring it on! Bring back the flatness of the earth and round surfaces! I
shouted. Changeis coming. Repent, you pompous erectile creatures!
And, and, I continued, my voice shaking as I stood on the sidewalk, I can see the sign
coming, my friend, and it shall say: Under new management! Special underground menu
served by an undertaker with shovels and fangs! Ha! Ha! Ha!
And I laughed and walked away, to no end.
WHEN I CALLED and asked Matild about Reza, she said again
that she had not seen him around the house for several days.
I need to come and look in his room one more time, I told her. Maybe he
has fallen under the bed and decided to crawl on his belly and hide. You know that he
owes me
clientsâ noses and poured water in their glasses while always, always keeping an
eye on Maître Pierre, who stood in the corner, hands clasped in front of his crotch
like a fig leaf in a fresco. He hardly ever talked. His job was to monitor employees, to
answer clientsâ questions, and with the gold braid on his sleeves to give an air
of luxury and aristocracy to the place. When he approached the clients, he would never
kneel an inch. His back and shoulders were always erect and proud, and he was always
calm and composed. He spoke little. And when he spoke in English, the bastard
accentuated and exaggerated his French accent. He sang his words, and when he snapped
his fingers you could detect a small vibration in his neck. The employees nearest to him
would instantly sweep, fill, offer, pick up, fetch, change, bend, call a taxi, open a
door, pass a torch over a cake, and make their way past the fancy tables singing
âHappy Birthdayâ in many languages.
Once I approached Maître Pierre and told him that I would like to be
a waiter. He looked at me with fixed, glittering eyes, and said:
Tu es un peu trop
cuit pour ça
(you are a little too well done for that)!
Le soleil
tâa brûlé ta face un peu trop
(the sun has burned your face a
bit too much). I knew what he meant, the filthy human with gold braid on his sleeves and
pompous posture! I threw my apron in his face and stormed out thedoor. On the way out I almost tripped over the stroller of a dark-complexioned
woman with five kids trailing behind her like ducks escaping a French cook. Impotent,
infertile filth! I shouted at Pierre. Your days are over and your kind is numbered. No
one can escape the sun on their faces and no one can barricade against the powerful,
fleeting semen of the hungry and the oppressed. I promised him that one day he would be
serving only giant cockroaches on his velvet chairs. He had better remove the large
crystal chandelier from the middle of the ceiling, I said, so the customersâ long
whiskers wouldnât touch it and accidentally swing it above his snotty head. And
you had better serve crumbs and slimy dew on your chewable menu, Monsieur Pierre, or
your business will be doomed to closure and destruction. And, and . . . ! I shouted, and
I stuttered, and I repeated, and I added, as my index fingers fluttered like a pair of
gigantic antennae. And, I said . . . And youâd better get used to the noise of
scrabbling and the hum of fast-flapping wings fanning the hot food, my friend, and you
had certainly better put up a sign: No laying eggs and multiplying is allowed in the
kitchen or inside cupboards or walls. And, and, I added . . . And you will no longer be
able to check your teeth in the reflection of the knives and silverware; there will be
no need for utensils in your place anymore. Doomed you will be, doomed as you are
infested with newcomers! And your crystal chandeliers, your crystal glasses, your
crystalline eyes that watch us like beams against a jailâs walls, all shall become
futile and obsolete, all shall be changed to accommodate soft, crawling bellies rolling
on flat plates. Bring it on! Bring back the flatness of the earth and round surfaces! I
shouted. Changeis coming. Repent, you pompous erectile creatures!
And, and, I continued, my voice shaking as I stood on the sidewalk, I can see the sign
coming, my friend, and it shall say: Under new management! Special underground menu
served by an undertaker with shovels and fangs! Ha! Ha! Ha!
And I laughed and walked away, to no end.
WHEN I CALLED and asked Matild about Reza, she said again
that she had not seen him around the house for several days.
I need to come and look in his room one more time, I told her. Maybe he
has fallen under the bed and decided to crawl on his belly and hide. You know that he
owes me
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