Rigmarole

TOM

A new customer had begun to visit the shop. He’d been dropping in over the past month, so far not to buy but to comment, look around, chat with Tom. He entered now with assurance, pulled up a chair and sat near the front desk. He positioned his chair so that he could keep an eye to the doorway. He did not present his back to the entrance, nor was he face on; he maintained a kind of sidewise position.

The man’s name was Allam. He did not mention a surname. He might have been Egyptian, Lebanese, Syrian. Arab, of some sort. He had dark but greying hair; he was muscular, heavy-set, about Tom’s height. He spoke English as if he had learned it from a dictionary.

Allam was vague about personal details. He could address many topics and might have come from anywhere, and for those reasons, his name suited him. His name meant “learning,” “having knowledge,” he told Tom. His parents valued education and wanted their children to be learners. His father and mother came from a small village, and when Allam was ten, they moved to the city. He didn’t say which city. He addressed Tom by his full name, with emphasis on the second syllable: Toe-mas. During his first visit, he had examined and then pocketed one of the business cards Tom displayed on a calling-card tray at the entrance. The tray was shaped like a lotus-leaf, Victorian silver, a favourite of Tom’s. When he’d had the cards printed, he’d used his full name, Tomas Ollery, and added the short form (Tom) in parentheses.

“Toe-mas. Do you know that Egyptians are eating twenty-two pounds of dates per person in each year? Imagine someone in this country eating so many dates!” The word “pounds” came out as “bounds.” Twenty-two bounds of dates per person. While Tom was catching up, Allam tipped his chair back and laughed. Rubbed at his chin. His skin was dusky-coloured, creased. He was probably in his early sixties, hard to tell. He had what appeared to be a two-day beard. Allam never seemed to work in the morning, or to be expected anywhere. Only some days, in the afternoon—if he happened to be in the shop—did he dodge out the door, always at the same time, twenty minutes before three. No explanation for these quick exits.

“Toe-mas. The scarlet ibis, have you been fortunate enough to see one? Brilliant red, magnificent. Along north regions of Venezuela. Beauty like that should be protected. The beak is a wonderful curve, a marvel. There are other ibises, close to extinct now. Bald ibises. Some few are found where once I lived.”

When asked if he had lived in Venezuela, Allam gave a quick shake of the head and made a sound like mmph, which could have meant yes or no. Tom would like to see the scarlet ibis. Somewhere, anywhere. He and Ida had never travelled to South America. Nor had they been to Trinidad and Tobago, where, according to Allam, the scarlet ibis was the national bird.