Thee Random Words

06 – BÖREK, FRENCH, ROCK

06 – BÖREK, FRENCH, ROCK

“Hey!”

She turned her head towards him in response to his greeting, a lopsided smile her only response. Something tugged at his heart as he took in her appearance.

As usual, she was sitting on the back of the bench, her bare feet resting on the seat. Those were her two favourite things, he had noticed. Always sitting on the back of the bench with her shoes off, and her shoes discarded wherever she had tossed them, never caring much, or at all, how they landed. It doesn’t really matter, she had once told him. Neatly placed next to the bench or simply thrown to fall on their own accord, they were off her feet, and that was all that mattered.

He followed her example and sat next to her but kept his shoes on. He didn’t like how his feet looked; they were very wide but with short, stocky toes and surprisingly large toenails. Unlike her feet. Her feet were simply marvellous. Slim, perfectly long toes, none of them longer than the big toe, and her toenails always painted in vibrant colours, like small candies.

But everything about her was perfect, he had always thought. Especially her hair. Before meeting her, he had never cared about girls’ hair. He still didn’t care about his sister’s hair. But hers was perfect. Long, cascading in soft waves down to her waist, and the most scrumptious caramel colour.

And it smelled nice as well. Not like caramel, as he had expected at first, but more like roasted sweet nuts. It reminded him of baklava.

“Do you like baklava?” he asked her, suddenly curious.

“It’s ok, but can’t say I’m dying for it,” she responded. That was her usual way of answering. She never gave you just yes or no, she always elaborated on things. He liked that. She taught him new things like that.

“Oh? How so?” He felt that her answer still needed additional clarification.

“I’m not overly fond of sweets that are that sweet. I prefer creamy desserts, like French pastry. The contrast between the flaky pastry and the soft cream, and if it’s topped with some fruit for freshness, amazing!”

“I like chocolate,” he told her.

“Everyone likes chocolate,” she informed him on the simplicity of his taste. “It’s a no-brainer, because we have been programmed from our childhood to like chocolate.”

“Really?” He’d never thought of that.

“Well, of course!” she was more than happy to confirm her own theory. “Since we were little, we’ve been constantly given chocolate by our parents, as presents. It’s advertised everywhere, for every opportunity. And that’s why it’s a bit boring to me. That’s why I prefer French pastry. Éclair with vanilla cream is my favourite type.”

“Is that why you took French as your second language at school?” he suddenly had an idea.

Until then she had kept her eyes staring forward, giving him not even a single glance beyond the initial greeting, unlike him who had stollen plentiful in her direction. But now, as if she had suddenly noticed something in him she had never noticed before, she turned her head towards him.

Her eyes were slightly narrowed, and her lips pursed in scrutiny. She gave a half smile then turned away again.

“It’s not because of the dessert only,” she confessed. “I love everything French. The food is unbelievable, the country gorgeous and warm, and the people are so charming. They live life to the fullest every single day. And the language is so romantic, isn’t it?”

He didn’t think so. He rather thought French to be tedious and overbearing, but he was certainly not going to contradict her. To study French had been his mother’s idea, who, looking in hindsight, had mentioned reasons to similar effect.

Clearly expecting to go unopposed, she continued: “Have you ever been? I’ve been three times already. And once we’ve graduated from high school, my parents have promised to treat me to a summer-long holiday in France. You should go as well.”

He had no desire to go to France. Maybe to Paris, to see Paris Saint-Germain football stadium. Otherwise, his only enticement to go would be her.

“I’m trying to organise a stage in one winery in Provence,” she revealed.

“What’s a stage?”

“It’s like an internship, unpaid. I’d work there for free, but I’d learn all about wine making,” she sounded excited.

Why would she want to know how to make wine, he wondered. It was fascinating to him how she was always interested in things other kids their age knew nothing about.

“Why would you want to know how to make wine?” he couldn’t resist the sinful temptation of curiosity.

“Because I love wine, and I want to know everything there is to know about wine! And champagne! Oh, I do love champagne.”

“But you’re only sixteen!” His reaction sounded a bit more appalled than he had intended.

“So?” she demanded defiantly, challenging him to produce an opinion contrary to her own.

“I mean, you aren’t allowed to drink at sixteen,” he offered a meek objection.

She started laughing in response, her giggling voice ringing like a hundred small bells joined in a polyphony of tones.

“Gosh! I didn’t know you were such a prude,” she teased him. “Well, of course I don’t go to wine shops and buy wine, but what’s the harm in having a glass here and there to educate myself on the fine art of wine tasting and appreciation. There’s more to wine than just alcohol. Don’t tell me you’ve never had a drink before.”

He had had. His father always kept beer in the fridge, and when he was helping him with chores around the house, his father would give him a glass.

“I’ve had beer a couple of times,” he admitted.

“Beer???” The reproachful tone in her voice was unmistakable. “Beer is such a common drink. There’s nothing special about beer.”

Again, he disagreed. There were so many different beers, and his father was particularly keen on trying all sorts of craft beers. And again, he preferred not to express his disagreement for fear of the challenge costing him his time with her.

Instead, another thought had occurred to him, and he acted on it: “How come you’re organising everything already now? Our graduation is more than a year away.”

“You’d hardly expect them to have unlimited places available, would you,” she delivered a ready answer. “I want to have things nicely organised, so I don’t need to worry about them.”

This was in stark contrast to her usual treatment of her things – freely discarded shoes, her bag being left in a classroom on more than one occasion, forgetting – or not really being bothered – to keep appointments with her friends, him included. Yet, she was planning her life so well in advance. It seemed odd to him.

“I suppose you’re right,” he conceded, and was happy to notice that his answer pleased her.

“Are you going to that party on Friday?” he asked after a lengthy, yet comfortable silence.

“Probably not,” she shattered his hopes. “House parties at our age are usually boring. People vaping, talking bollocks, playing video games, and what not. Just a waste of my time. I prefer to stay at home.”

“Oh…” He had been hoping that the upcoming Friday party would be one of those she attended. Sometimes she did make an appearance. And whenever she did, he made sure to be as close to her as possible, getting her drinks, snacks, and talking about anything she wanted.

“I just feel like I’m getting too old for that s**t,” she felt the urge to explain. “There are far more important things in life than wasting it on some parties where I can’t learn anything new. Don’t you think that just sitting here, being in nature, gives one a far superior experience than a Friday night with a bunch of hormonal teens who are acting as if they've just climbed from under a rock?”

He heartily disagreed. Friday parties were his escape from every day. She was the only reason he was coming to this part of the park. Without her presence, he didn’t see anything spectacular in the trees and bushes around them.

But once again, as it was usual with them, even though he was tempted to say that he liked them, he said nothing. His desire to be with her was greater than his desire to be right.

They remained sitting, each in their own thoughts. From time to time, he stole glances at her, and like on so many other occasions, wondered what was going on inside her head. She seemed so different here, in the middle of the park, sitting on this bench, than she seemed at school.

Here, there was an air of indifference that trickled from and around her, her gaze lost in aimless wonder, settling on nothing in particular. But at school, she was always hyperalert, her focus unwaveringly on the teachers and on the subject, always making sure she participated, whether it was expected from the students or not.

“Why did you want to know if I like baklava?”

He froze. Of all the questions she could ask, why this one? Maybe he should tell her that her hair smelled like baklava to him? But she didn’t like baklava. So, it was probably better not to explain about the hair.

“Well?” She was determined to have an answer.

He started tapping his foot nervously on the bench. He had ruled out the possibility of admitting the thing about her hair, so what was he going to say now? How do you explain asking someone randomly if they liked baklava?

“Are you nervous?” she sounded surprised.

Of course, he was nervous. Because now all he could think about was her baklava smelling hair. And how she didn’t like that Turkish dessert.

“Do you like Turkish food?” an idea popped into his mind.

“Is that why you were asking me about baklava?” she made her own connection. “To understand if I like Turkish food?”

That was a great idea! She had been to Istanbul for a dance competition last October, during the autumn school break. It would only be natural to ask about food. They had previously never spoken of that subject.

“Yeah, yeah, you know, because you’ve been to Turkey.” His confidence picked up again, a large chunk of nervousness falling of his shoulders. “Did you like it?”

“Turkey or the food?” she teased.

“Well, food, but yeah, Turkey as well, I suppose.” How was it possible that she had managed to put a c***k in his already fragile confidence with such ease?

“I loved Istanbul, it’s such a diverse city. Every corner seems different from the one before. There is that constant cacophony of people yelling, cars honking down the streets, music playing from restaurants and bars, and that makes you feel so alive, so stimulated to be, to explore, to learn more. And that always present distinction between the West and the East, contrasting starkly against one another, only to merge into a cohesive ensemble.”

He decided then and there that he would like Istanbul as well, because of the ebullience it evoked in her. Surely, he could not dislike something that brought her such satisfaction.

“The food was a bit too seasoned for me,” she continued. “They do not shy away from using spices and herbs. And they seem to put cinnamon in everything. Luckily, I worship it. But my favourite was börek with fresh cheese and spinach.”

She cackled at that last sentence. The statement took him by surprise. Börek was so ordinary, there was nothing spectacular about it, it was a humble dish. He would never have imagined her liking something so ordinary.

“You like börek?” he exclaimed, unbidden words the result of the surprise that kept a strong grip on him.

“Yes,” she responded somewhat indignantly. “And why not?”

“But I like börek as well,” he hurried to explain, as if that explained it all.

“You do realise you don’t have a monopoly on liking börek, right?” she taunted him, but he could hardly resent it. His reaction had been ridiculous.

Rather than embarrassing himself even more by answering, he simply laughed. And she laughed with him. He loved hearing her laugh, it was probably one of his favourite sounds. It was even more special because hearty laughter was not something she practiced often.

Perhaps they weren’t the polar opposite he had always believed them to be. Liking börek was the first real thing they had in common. Maybe he could find more things they had in common. And if she came to understand that they liked similar things, she might see him in a different light as well.

Maybe he should test that theory straight away.

But before he could act on his plan, she got up and started putting on her shoes: “I’ve got to be going, it’ll be dinner soon, and mother doesn’t tolerate anyone being late.”

“Oh…” his disappointment sounded raw. He watched her determined movements as she put on her shoes and adjusted her clothes. He watched her scurry away, his chance leaving with her.

Wallowing in his sadness at her departure, he prepared to leave as well. And as if providence, or she herself, had wanted him to act, she had conveniently forgotten her bag. He grabbed it and quickly ran after her.

*

My second nephew, M.R., was very kind to give me a rather challenging word, börek, to incorporate into the story. Not surprising, since in our parts, börek is popular with youngsters. French is less popular with him as it’s been giving him headaches throughout high school, and he is eagerly anticipating his last grade in his French class so that he never needs to use French again. Naturally, this provides so many opportunities for people to taunt him that, undoubtedly, his wife will be French. If that is to be so, let us all hope that her family will own a vineyard because that would be cool.

Whenever I am writing a story based on words provided by someone, I somehow try to incorporate something into the story that associates me with that person. In the case of my nephew, it’s the fact that he is [still] a teenager. Thinking of my teenage years, so often the sentiment is associated with lack of belonging, when you start questioning who you are, what you are about, where you belong in this world. And it just so happens that a connection with someone, or something, can be formed over such a trivial, yet essential, thing as food. And its enough.