Mixed Commands
Lily Thomson
He even makes Russian sound sexy.
I know what you’re thinking – I’ve fallen for a Slav. I’ve fallen for a trap; when I tell you the age gap, you’ll also think I’m being taken advantage of. Poor boy, that man could be your dad. Could be. Isn’t. Not relevant in the world of work is age. We are out of school and we both bleed the same strange, time-blurred fantasies of the kitchen. The dishwasher and the line chef – hasn’t it just always been written in the stars? Isn’t that literary love, to step out of your zone and take one step on the chain of command, one step above where your foot was moulded to land?
I know he’s gay because when he talks, he uses his hands to gesticulate like an Italian. He drinks rosé, not vodka, and his vocal range leans to high-pitched. A walking cliché, really. It’s a shame that the stereotypes do actually come from somewhere. I feel the tension when he comes over and helps me with the dishes. I wonder if he brushes in close on purpose. I wonder why he bothers to help. I want him to move closer. I want to bend over. Scratch that –I want him to bend me over. The actual act isn’t enough; it has to be overwhelming desire, it has to be do or die. Nothing else will suffice.
It is a miserable Friday night, and the rain comes lashing down as we work the end of a shift. A bus party of German tourists comes in early and leaves. All they have is salad and sparkling water. I want to match the romance of a first time in Edinburgh with lashings of Crabbies ginger beer and all that other sentimental picnic crap instead. I want them to eat haggis with whisky, but then I think of the mess; scraping off some leaves is much easier and unlike the southern Europeans they leave no wine stains on the glasses.
Josef is mumbling to himself all night. He is in a foul mood. The boss is on his case –the snarling, off-cut lips of Ruaridh, his North Face gilet fluttering with rage as his overpriced filet mignon sits burning, and all he can muster to say is, “Maraud de péquenaud, que fais-tu?” And then in English: “Fuck’s sake Josef, what is wrong with you tonight?” Then mutters again to himself in that theatrically foreign tongue. He thinks he is French because he is descended from King Louis insert title here. But Ruaridh isn’t French at all, just a cunt. Josef just has to deal with his rage, but because I am young, he sees himself as my mentor: always teaching me things, fatherly corrections and gentle primary education teaching. “No, you don’t do it like that.” Sigh. “Look, let me show you for next time,” with a weak smile creasing his ageing skin.
Josef is dead to him. About as much use as a well-done steak – functional, practical, sustains us through famines and wartime and all that jazz, but definitely not to be thought of as the best option. But because Ruaridh is such a cunt, he scarce has options, and since Josef doesn’t have the correct paperwork, he doesn’t either.
A union of souls, and me in the background washing dishes to pay for a Friday night out. Not yet real life, Ruaridh tells me: “It’s coming down the line.” I think I might seduce Josef instead and stay in the kitchen forever and not have to do very much else but let the soap clear the plate, let the bottle dispense its formula, let me wipe it clean with the towel in that rhythmic shape. Let Josef hover over me while Ruaridh sits back and works out the marking. This seems nice, easy, straightforward. Low stress. Low responsibility. The bare necessities of life.
I watch Josef go out for a cigarette. He stares at me through the glass, smiling through his rage. See the pure compassion on that man? He does not take out his anger on me. He knows better than that. I scrub the dishes and watch him talk on the phone. Oh, those gestures, those hands. Ripe enough to take me by the throat. Just gentle enough to take me by the hand: like French bread and French cheese. Une combinaison gagnante. The perfect pairing.
