I wrote this in 2008 as a tribute to a wonderful man I knew, Dennis OConnell, as he grew old and it became apparent to me that he was truly mortal. He died a year or so later. He had spent many years of his life in China and loved the true Chinese culture. This work is entirely imaginary. Encounters At The North East Chow Grill There was the road, the North East Road, dry and depressing; an asphalt tarmac with a patina of yellow-brown dust and sunlight, and rushing traffic slowing and surging to the orders of the lights. Restaurants and fast food joints stretched along it: a Subway, a Fasta Pasta, and then an intersection; a chemist and a hairdresser side by side for whatever reason. Then there were a McDonalds, a KFC, a Hungry Jacks, and then the South East Asian Chow Grill. Dennis walked slowly past them all, taking in the colours and the smells, and doing a middling job of ignoring the racket of the impatient traffic, the heat of the summer sun on his shoulders. Sitting under the verandah in front of the Chow Grill he saw an old Asian man, a man as old as he. He sat at one of three tables with four chairs up against each, and his face and his knotty old forearms were slick with sweat, for the day was very hot. Dennis nodded and smiled as he approached and began to pass and the old man said, ‘You in a hurry?’ Before Dennis needed to reply the old man read his face and said, ‘Sit down here. Sit down here,’ and came to the post by the two steps that mounted the verandah and stood with his hand out to aid Dennis in climbing from the street. ‘I am Tan,’ he said. ‘Hello Tan,’ Dennis greeted him. ‘I am Dennis,’ and he allowed Tan to take his arm until he was seated alongside him, so that they faced the street together. ‘Let me pour you a drink of water please,’ Tan asked and Dennis said, ‘Yes please.’ Tan took a jug from beneath a heavy cotton cover and poured cold water into a medium sized glass. ‘There is more,’ he said as he set the glass in front of Dennis. ‘Thank you Tan,’ Dennis said. As he sipped the water he smelled the cooking smells of the Chow Grill. ‘This smells like a very good restaurant,’ he said. ‘Thank you Dennis,’ Tan said. He smiled. ‘I must not lie,’ he said. ‘I cannot lie. It is a very good restaurant.’ ‘Is it the best place to eat along this part of the road?’ Dennis asked, to see if Tan was humble, and Tan said, ‘I have not eaten at the others, but let me show you this,’ and he stood and beckoned for Dennis to follow him. Tan and Dennis walked, under the eaves, along the side of the Chow Grill, Dennis half-behind Tan because the path was narrow. They were brushed by the leaves of tall bushes that rocked in the hot north wind, and at the back, where the wall and the line of bushes ended, Dennis saw that a lane ran behind the restaurants, and there was a large rectangular bin at the rear of each one, filled with wrappers, boxes, used paper napkins and food scraps. The bins of the other five restaurants stood treat to a seagull or two, while the bin of the Chow Grill was a moving mass of smooth white feathers slashed with grey at the wing and tail tips, red legs and beaks, rice-coloured eyes and clacking squawks. ‘Most seagulls eat here,’ Tan said, and there was pride and closure in his voice. Dennis was convinced, but he said playfully, ‘But Tan, have you seen the things that seagulls eat? They’ll eat anything.’ ‘Ah,’ said Tan, with a twinkle in his eye. ‘But not if they are given a choice.’ He turned back and they walked together along the side of the building. ‘Now, a dog – a dog is a different matter,’ he said as they neared the wide, rushing road. ‘Dogs are the grubs of great moths, maybe dragons. All that they do is in preparation for their metamorphosis to perfection. They immerse themselves in disgusting things in order to overcome.’ They sat beneath the verandah and the seething traffic and a lonely pedestrian or two streamed past, and Tan spoke again. ‘Have you seen the black shapes between the stars on a clear night? the darkest patches on tall thunderclouds? These are the wings of these great moths. ‘Dogs howl at the night sky and whimper and hide from the storms because they are overcome at what they will be.’ Tan and Dennis sipped their water until the glasses were empty. Tan raised his eyebrows to Dennis and Dennis nodded, and Tan filled the glasses again. They watched as a black and white mongrel dog waited down the road at the intersection. It had come up from the river, along the road that crossed the North East Road. They saw flashes of it between the heavy traffic as it stood at the curb, and they watched as it crossed in the pedestrian lane when the turning arrow was red so that no cars crossed that lane from behind it, and they saw that it kept a close eye on the approaching traffic, trotting to the opposite curb when it was safe. It trotted purposefully up the same footpath that Dennis had used earlier. ‘Good day dog,’ Tan said politely, and it raised its ears at the two old men and smiled as it passed, and turned abruptly to the path that went to the back of the Chow Grill. ‘I was born in The Year Of The Dog,’ Dennis said. ‘1924, to be exact.’ ‘Yes,’ said Tan.
Posted on: Tue, 22 Jul 2014 06:35:33 +0000
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