London. Portobello Road. Under the motorway flyover. In front of Makan Café. I stood across the road, beyond the stalls selling clothes. My eyes were focused on only one individual. Eunice. She was behind the counter of the café.
I observed her for a long time. She was busy dealing with customers. One moment, she would be taking orders; the next moment, she would be placing food on plates. Sometimes, she would deliver food from the kitchen to the customers' table. She was very focused and very enthusiastic. Most importantly, the smile never left her lips. It had been six years since the last time I saw that smile. My daughter looked cheerful again.
Suddenly a middle-aged woman in a headscarf came out of the café. She had noticed me. She did not stare at me, but I did not feel comfortable, as if I had been caught red-handed doing something suspicious. Before I could turn around to leave, the woman came up to me.
"Hi, I'm Nur. Would you like to come in?" The woman pointed to Makan Café across the road. She must be a Malaysian. Londoners were never that courteous. They would rather mind their own business than pay attention to other people.
I was about to shake my head to turn her down, but Nur had already stretched out her arm in the direction of the café. Willingly or not, I followed her into the café.
A bell rang when the door was opened. Eunice, who was behind the counter near the door, tilted her head to greet this customer. Our eyes met. She was stunned by my arrival. However, she managed to hide her reaction immediately when Nur asked her for the menu.
Nur took the menu and invited me to sit at a corner table at the back of the café. I simply followed without saying a word. I sat down on a chair and sighed quietly.
"What would you like to have? Coffee? Tea?" Nur asked courteously. Huh! It seemed this woman had been determined to get me in here.
"Black coffee, no sugar," I told her in Malay. Nur furrowed her brow as she heard me speak her mother tongue fluently. I was born and bred in Malaysia, and therefore fluent in the Malay language. In any case, she had been speaking in Malay with Eunice earlier, so I knew that Nur understood me.
"Are you Malaysian?" Nur asked, wanting confirmation. I simply nodded. She smiled warmly. She took the menu and left for the counter with my order. Moments later, she was back at my table and took a seat facing me. From where I was seated, I could not see the counter or the café door. I could not see Eunice.
"I'm Malaysian too. Living in London. What about you?" Nur tried to start a conversation. She was a very sociable and affable person. It would have been rude to ignore her. So I simply entertained her.
"I'm just taking a stroll. Walking around," I lied. Of course I could not tell her the truth that I had just discovered my daughter worked here. This was personal.
"That's great. Have you been to Portobello Market before, Mr..." Nur purposely left her question hanging, expecting me to introduce myself.
"Just call me Wong," I replied. Nur nodded.
Suddenly, Eunice appeared with two cups of coffee and a plate of samosas. She placed them on the table without even as much as a glance at me. I sighed again.
YOU ARE READING
Tangled Dreams
Fiction générale8 people. 2 countries. 1 life. Just how tangled up can one be in pursuit of dreams? Experience the journey of different walk of lives as each of them pursue a dream that might or might not be theirs. And in that pursuit, do they know for sure what i...
