Catfish, you want catfish?
Please, yeah.
The guy went into one of the food compartments, got a catfish fillet and tossed it onto the hotplate. You want hot sauce?
Yeah. And what goes with it, is that rice?
Rice, sure. The guy spooned hot sauce onto the fish and began the frying.
Murdo studied the different side foods. I think it was salad you gave me the last time.
Salad, si.
Are ye busy? asked Murdo.
The guy grunted something and turned from him to see the listed meals and meal deals.
Murdo thought to say something again but the guy waved him aside. Another customer was there, a big man wearing short trousers. The foodstall guy took his order. Obviously he didnt remember Murdo. But the festival was busy and thousands of people were here. A bottle of coke and a packet of doritos. That was the customer’s order, and he dropped coins into the tips jar.
The foodstall guy watched the man open the packet of doritos with his teeth while heading along to the main festival area. He yawned and shifted a step, looked at the catfish, flipped it over. He folded his arms and stared way over Murdo’s head.
Murdo turned to see the grass square and the people going about. After several moments he said to the guy: I’m playing tonight eh…doing a gig.
The foodstall guy glanced at Murdo who gestured at the accordeon-case. The guy turned to rearrange something on the shelves behind him, wiped his hands on a dishtowel.
We dont go on until after nine o’clock, said Murdo.
Mm. The guy used the dishtowel to wipe along the counter top then ripped the cellophane surround from a pile of paper plates. He extracted one and set it on the counter. What drink you want?
You’ve not got any orange juice?
No orange juice.
You have water?
Si water. The guy lifted the catfish up off the hotplate, and slid it aboard the plate. He picked a bottle of water from out the glass-fronted cupboard: You want salad?
Please, yeah. Murdo had taken the flyer for Diego’s gig from his pocket and read the details. I’m going to a gig, he said, this other gig. It starts at seven. Scene Kiosque à Musique.
The guy was pronging out the lettuce and tomato. While he did that Murdo read aloud from the flyer. The guy jerked his head to the left, spooning a dollop of rice to the plate. Diego Narciso, added Murdo, he plays kind of
Huh?
The gig eh, Scene Kiosque à Musique.
Diego Narciso? said the guy.
Yeah.
Is Diego Narciso? You are going al concierto Diego?
Yeah.
Whohh! The guy laid down the paper plate and patted himself on the chest. Diego! I listen to him, I play his music. Here…! He reached for his phone. See Diego, his music!
You like him?
Si I like him, si: Diego! The foodstall guy laughed.
I’ve got a ticket.
Good! Lucky.
I actually met him. This afternoon.
The guy squinted, listening. Murdo passed him a $10 note. The guy took it and held it a moment. I met him this afternoon, said Murdo. I mean I was like introduced to him. That’s how I got the ticket… Murdo brought out the comp ticket and looked at it, then showed it to the guy.
The guy studied it and replied, Is backstage.
Yeah.
The guy nodded and half turned from Murdo to collect the change from the till. He laid the money on the counter in front of Murdo. He smiled, lifted the dishtowel and flicked at the hotplate.
Murdo let the money lie. The truth is, he said, I cant actually go. I dont have enough time. Because like my own gig, where I’m playing, I’ve got to be there for something like eight o’clock. Diego’s gig is seven o’clock.
The foodstall guy was listening but not maybe understanding.
Murdo said, I mean you could go. He reached over the counter, gesturing with the comp ticket. You take it.
The guy smiled, shaking his head.
Honest. You take it. It’s a comp. No money. Just take it.
No.
No?
The guy shook his head. No. Gracias.
Murdo said, I know you are working just now but could you not get somebody to maybe let ye away or whatever?
The guy didnt answer. He moved back from the counter and involved himself somewhere beneath it. Murdo waited but that was that. He lifted his change from the counter and put a dollar bill into the tips jar, stuck the bottle of water in his pocket and lifted the plate of food.
He walked along past the bench from last night. There was space at one end but he didnt want to sit there. He kept going to the next and sat down there.
Back at the foodstall the guy stepped outside for a smoke, had lit his cigarette and just stood there gazing into space. He had the phone in one hand but wasnt looking at it.
But it wasnt Murdo’s fault, whatever it was. Having to work there instead of playing music. Being married with his wife and kids, having to work at that job. Night-shifts and long hours; her days, him nights. Whose fault was that? Who was the guy blaming, Murdo? How come? If ye want to play music and ye dont. Who do ye blame? If ye blame somebody, who is it? Cooking grub for folk. Murdo would have hated that. Then if it was you hungry and you had to cook for them. Who wants to do that! Just like a servant. So a guy comes up to ye and asks for a hamburger. But it’s you wants the hamburger. And you’ve got to cook it for him. Ye would be angry. Aw here ye are and ye would just bloody throw it at him, there’s yer fucking hamburger, catch. No wonder ye got angry, anybody would. Ye would be in a daze all day dreaming and just like fantasizing; one day this and that. But then it is day after day after day here’s a hamburger, no hamburger, catfish. That guy loved Diego. Murdo didnt know who he was. It wasnt his fault. That was life. Murdo should have left the ticket on the counter and went away. Then the foodstall guy, whatever he done with it was up to him. Dump it or keep it, go ahead, instead of blaming Murdo. A guy gave him the ticket. Whose fault was that? A guy from Diego’s band. It wasnt Murdo’s fault. Only offering him the ticket. Maybe he shouldnt have. How come? It made the person feel low.
But a present? The ticket was a present. He gave the guy a present. A present is a present. What is wrong with a present? Why didnt he just take the ticket then he could have ripped it up afterwards, or sold it. He could have sold the thing! Who cares. It was like being too proud. Oh I’m not taking a present off you, who do ye think ye are. Oh ye play accordeon, well ha ha, so do I. That was like school, just daft nonsense.
*
The end of the road widened out near a railway line and Murdo saw the Jay Cee Lounge way across the other side, no longer a road, just a free-standing building on an open stretch, with a large parking place to the front. Quite a few vehicles were parked. A big man was by the door; African-American and dressed like a cowboy; the hat and waistcoat, jeans and boots. Murdo paused to switch hands on the accordeon-case. There was nowhere else he could be headed except to the club entrance. The man watched him until he arrived then held up his hand to stop him: Where you going?
Murdo would have had to push past him to enter. To one side of the doorway was a large glossy poster advertising The Zadik Strollers and Special Guest Queen Monzee-ay: $15 cover. To the other side of the doorway was a cardboard notice: RU25? The doorman pointed at the RU25? notice, crooked his right forefinger: ID. ID!
Murdo looked up again at the notice and at the poster.
You are way too young, said the doorman. I need some ID.
I’ve not got any.
Not got any?
I’m not American.
The doorman stared at Murdo and at the accordeon-case. I got to see some ID. You are way too young.
Do ye mean like a passport? If it’s my passport like I mean I left it at home. Murdo pointed to the poster. I’m playing with Queen Monzee-ay.