It was a strange
feeling of uneasiness that I first associated with this old lady with a
drooling dog and a vague desire of what she really wanted, with a taciturn
teenager sipping hot chocolate in the corner, with an Eastern foreigner coming
at exactly the same time for over two weeks and ordering the very same apricot
croissant.
I couldn’t see what
it was until Bertie mentioned Paul. Paul, I thought? Ah yes. Paul. Hell, where
was Paul?
Paul was someone you
wouldn’t notice. In his navy blue tracksuit and with a look of disarming
dimness, he was virtually nonexistent. And yet in a way – he was conspicuous.
There was something about his awkward ways and quiet voice that did not spell
central London. Paul would come every day. Normally, he would search for coins
for what seemed like eternity and then order small tea. Or else I could offer
him water (straight water) and he would accept it gladly.
After I placed the reason
for my anxiety, I found it hard to concentrate on work, mixed up a few orders
and Bertie did most of our job that day. Paul didn’t come that day. In fact, he
hadn’t come in over a week. Bertie said she had no idea.
The next day I asked
this strange Indian lady Paul sometimes talked to if she knew where he was. ‘Who?’
she asked. ‘Paul’, I said – slightly taken aback. And even when I described him
to her, she still looked puzzled. It was raining heavily that day, and I
thought I would go look for Paul after work. The old lady with a drooling dog
wanted cappuccino and I made her one. She said she wanted regular, not big. She
stared at me impatiently and I thought I would never find Paul in this rain. In
central London.
