seven

My GP tells me later that I have a concussion, which she refers to as a “mild traumatic head injury.” My boss is waiting for me in the waiting room after I have seen my GP. I tell him that she said it was just a concussion and she said I am to get plenty of rest. He tells me I can have the next week off work if I like, but he’ll put it down as holiday. I say thanks and he drives me home.

His car seems like it is brand new and smells of air fresheners in the shape of pine trees that you get at garages. The radio volume is on about 1 and I ask him if he can turn it up. He says he doesn’t like to have to speak over the radio and he continues to drive me back to my house in silence, albeit for the tiny sound of the radio coming out of the doors.

I spend the rest of the day on the sofa watching TV and applying ice packs to my head. My Mum tells me I should try and stay up because it’s bad to fall asleep after getting a concussion. I tell her that the doctor would have said something to me when I saw her if that was the case. Still, I end up staying up until around four in the morning with the TV still on. When I wake up I cannot remember any of the dreams I had during the night. I go to the bureau in the hall and take out a pen and a piece of writing paper. Our address is pre-printed in the top right hand corner. I pause for a second and then start writing a letter of resignation.

six

I am in my parents bedroom, unwrapping Christmas presents. It's their old bedroom in the house we used to live in when my Dad was still around. My ex is there, but my ex looks like Mozart. My Gran is there too, but I guess my parents must be downstairs or else out at a friends. My ex keeps on asking me why I am there but he is doing it in such a roundabout way that I am not really sure what it is he's asking. I open a jar of sweeties. My Gran explains what it is my ex/Mozart is trying to say to me and I say, 'where else am I supposed to go?' as I play with the light-switch on the bedside lamp I have just unwrapped. I want to kiss my ex/Mozart or for him to kiss me, but I play with the lamp instead.

I think about this on the bus to work. I think it’s weird. Not because of my ex/Mozart or anything, but because it’s in our old house. I didn’t know my ex or Mozart when we lived in our old house. I was 9 when we moved out.

My ex was into interpreting dreams; I couldn’t care less to be honest. I think they’re interesting of course. It’s fun thinking about the fucked up stuff that goes on in your head that you don’t really ever have any control over, but I think trying to give them a meaning is just pointless.

My mind is everywhere. Mozart keeps on coming into my head like an endless chorus to a cheesy pop song. I try and focus on other things like the other people on the bus, but then suddenly my mind will spring back to thinking of a way to confront Mozart.

When I get to work the place is packed. One of the other waiters tells me that there’s probably a wedding or business conference on, but I think this is just a guess he has made.

I don't have time to accept Mozart's nods until the lunchtime crowd has subsided. I have brought sandwiches with me today and I take my break in the garden area that backs onto the car park. I eat my sandwiches quickly before going back in to confront Mozart, thinking the reason why my stomach feels weird is because I am hungry. When I get back to the kitchen Ant is shouting at Mozart because a plate isn’t clean. Mozart looks at the plate patiently, like Ant is explaining some mathematical equation.

I go to the walk-in freezer and look through the stacks of meat and fish. It all looks like lumps of flesh and then I laugh because that is exactly what it is. I am laughing out loud when Ant walks in. He looks at me and I turn red.

'Did the tuna tell you something funny?'

I ask him what he was shouting at Mozart about. He tells me to go and suck him off if I feel so sorry for him. I tell him in a calm voice to go and fuck him self. I look at the frozen salmon lying on the shelf. Ant is silent and looking at me. I look at him and his eyes are on my breasts. He asks me if I am feeling cold and then gives me a smirk. I try to walk past him and try to walk out of the walk-in freezer. He grabs my wrist and pulls me round. I turn quickly and use my force to try and push him away but instead I end up falling over backwards and hitting my head on the back of the solid door. I rub where I hit my head before trying to get up. I get to my feet and realise there is blood on my hand. I don't remember what happens after this.

five

Mozart and I sit next to each other on the bus home again. It is not raining but you can't see anything anyway. He is sitting next to the window, looking out into the passing nothingness; I am sitting next to the aisle taking occasional glances at him. I apologise to Mozart about what Ant said and tell him not to pay any attention to what he says. Mozart looks at me and shakes his head.

'I don't like that nigger.'

I see a few people turn around. I turn red, that final word echoing off every face. I try not to respond. I try to ignore it. But the more I do the more I feel like a tiny man in Klan robes is chiseling a swastika onto all of my internal organs so that even after I am dead people will know what kind of person I really was. We sit in silence for the rest of the journey..When we get to his stop he asks if I would like to come round to his, perhaps. I tell him that I need to get home to feed my dogs, but maybe another time.

In bed I make up excuses for Mozart. Maybe he had heard Ant refer to himself in that way and had just adopted it due to his poor grasp of English. Nothing's working for me though. Every time I think of him saying it my fists start to clench. I get up and go downstairs, unable to sleep. I take a bottle of sparkling water from the fridge and sit down at the dining room table. In my mind I weigh up all the things I now know about Mozart: he is from Poland; he has blond hair; he plays the violin; he is quiet; he washes the dishes where I work; his hands are hard and worn; he doesn't like TV; we get on the same bus; he is probably a racist; his level of English probably isn't too good; he knows the word 'nigger'; he's probably a racist.

I decide I will talk to Mozart tomorrow. I go to sleep thinking about what I’ll say to him.

The theme from 'Friends' is playing over and over, except it is different. It’s like it is playing backwards but it all makes perfect sense (not like if it was a record being played backwards). I watch TV and there's a program on about it, which Mozart is presenting. He is speaking fluent English and he tells me about how the producers of 'Friends' thought that the song was now outdated and that people were getting annoyed with it. So they got a new band to record a song where all the chords were reversed and they changed the lyrics around a bit. Mozart is now interviewing the band and they ask him to play violin with them. He starts to play but it is all in a different key and sounds more like an entire orchestra rather than just one violin. They stop and look at him. Mozart apologises bashfully and puts down the violin.

***

I dread having to see Mozart at work. I walk into the kitchen and he looks up at me through his blond hair that’s hanging in front of his eyes and asks in his Polish accent:

‘Busy?’

But in my head the only word that is coming out of his mouth is 'nigger.' I flinch and say: ‘Yeah, seems to be a lot of people out tonight.’

He doesn’t say anything to this and goes back to his sink. I place an order and one of the chefs looks at it absent-mindedly.

Jazz is piped through, even to the toilets. I sit on the comfortable wooden seat. My trousers are done up and I am not going to the toilet. There is a sign on the wall, covering where someone has written some graffiti. The sign says:
RUNNING A RESTAURANT IS LIKE A GOOD FRIENDSHIP
SOMETIMES YOU MAY FIND FAULT.
IF YOU HAVE FOUND FAULT WITH ANYTHING HERE
PLEASE LET A MEMBER OF STAFF KNOW

I start to cry.

I go back to the kitchen and Mozart looks up at me. He looks at me slightly shocked. He can probably see I have been crying. Tears leave an unruboutable trace on your face. I want to say something to him. Tell him to stop being a racist or something, but it all sounds ridiculous in my head. He smiles at me and says,

‘Are you okay?’

I go over to the plates waiting to be taken out to the customers, pick them up and walk out of the kitchen.

four

Having to get the later bus means being trapped in a packed cage for twenty minutes with an army of school children. At a set of traffic lights the bus driver starts yelling from his seat that everyone needs to settle down or he will pull over and throw everyone out. There is silence, except for a few giggles. Then everything starts all over again when the lights turn green, and the bus driver doesn't stop. Eventually they all fall out of the bus a few stops before mine. I watch them through the safety of the window. They ignore the separating kerb between the pavement and the road and already I can hear car horns. A boy of about thirteen starts banging on the window next to me as the bus starts to pull away. A group of five other boys are standing behind him and laughing and as the bus pulls further away I see he has his hand down his trousers.

Mozart is not there when I get to work. There are no customers either. I start my shift by going through the clean cutlery and dividing them into sets of knives, forks and spoons. I then take a serviette, wrap it around the cutlery and dip a triangle in water, tying it all together. I walk through the kitchen door. Mozart is standing over the deep sink with his blond hair in his face. He looks up at me and nods. I smile back at him.

A couple are standing at the bar. They both have suitcases with white tags around the handles. The man has white hair and a dark tan. The woman has dark hair and an olive complexion and looks at least ten years younger. The man tells me they would both like Irish coffees. I tell them to sit where they like and I will bring it over to them.

Making Irish coffee is one of the few duties I enjoy at work. There is a certain chemistry in getting it right and making the whipped cream stay on top. Once I am satisfied I place both glasses on a tray and take them over to the couple. The woman is silent and does not say a word. The man with the white hair and dark tan thanks me and calls me babe. The top buttons of his shirt are undone and reveal more white hair on his chest. I say thank you and walk back behind the bar.

The couple drinking Irish coffee leave, the white haired dark tanned man thanking me once again as the woman walks out the front entrance, expressionless. I take an empty tray to pick up the empty glasses. The tables are now empty and Ant comes out to tell me to go on my break. Mozart brings my plate out as well as a plate with a sandwich on it. He puts the plates opposite each other on the table and goes back behind the bar to pour himself a pint of coke.

'It's not busy,' he states as he sits down to his sandwich.

We sit there, eating and drinking, not talking, as the music changes from Big Band to Bebop. I wait for the sound of the door, which will force me to put down my knife and fork and pull myself up from my chair. But the door doesn't open and we stay seated. We start to talk about what was on TV last night, Mozart tells me he tries not to watch too much TV and that he finds it too distracting. I think about him revealing these tiny bits of information to me about himself. I think about what I know about him. That he plays the violin; he is from Poland; he washes dishes where I work. I also now know that he does not like to watch TV. Not a lot really.

I watch him as he bites into his sandwich with the same effort and expression as when he is washing dishes in the kitchen. I want to ask him where he is from in Poland. I want to find out when his birthday is. There is mayonnaise on his lip and he shyly wipes it away.

The sound of the door opening surprises me and I get up to see Ant wiping his hands and coming though the door from the kitchen.

'So... What are you two talking about?'

We both look at Ant in silence as he grins back. I want to look at Mozart to see how he is reacting but I realise that this has the possibility of creating more drama than it's worth. But the comments keep coming, regardless.

'Has he shown you his "violin" yet?' Ant laughs, making inverted comma marks in the air with his hands. 'Maybe you should compose her something, Mozart.'

Mozart gets up from his chair and takes his empty plate to the kitchen. I finish eating while Ant sits beside me. After a while I break the silence with: 'Y'know, you don't have to be such a prick to him.'

He laughs and asks: 'Why do you care? He probably can't understand half of what the fuck I'm saying anyway.'

The sound of a plate breaking comes from the kitchen and Ant leaves the table swearing to himself.

three

Mozart and I get the same bus home from work. He gets on first and I'm not sure whether he wants me to sit next to him or not. I sit down and he looks up at me and smiles in the same way he does when I give him empty plates to wash up. It's raining outside. The journey has the musical accompaniment of tires sloshing through puddles, windscreen wipers screeching away the endless amount of rain blinding the driver. The bus engine is rumbling like a hungry stomach. Mozart is looking at his hands, thinking about playing the violin or something else in Polish. I look at his hands as well. They are rugged. I think of violinists as having dainty hands but Mozart's are pink like a cartoon pig, swollen by having them submerged in water for eight hours a day. I see Mozart looking at me in the corner of my eye. I am still looking at his hands. I look up at him and realise that he has been looking at me looking at his hands. I start to blush, but Mozart doesn’t seem to mind.

'Is the work tough on your hands?' I ask.

'It's okay.'

We get to Mozart's stop and I stand up to let him get off. He whispers 'thanks' as he passes me and then repeats himself to the bus driver as he hops off the bus and starts walking in the rain. I sit next to the window and close my eyes until it is time for me to get off.

I look up Poland on the Internet. It is a big country. Bigger than Germany, or maybe about the same size. It’s definitely bigger than England. I wonder where Mozart used to live and if he ever wants to go back someday. This town is small and uneventful and I can't imagine it is much more exciting than living anywhere in Poland. It’s not like living in London or Paris. Still, I like it here. Nothing changes because it doesn’t need to. At least it seems that way to me.

I look at pictures of Warsaw. I find a skyline picture showing the high-rise buildings. There is one building in the middle of the picture that is mirroring everything in the opposite direction. It reminds me of the view I get from the motorway when I go up to Leeds to visiting my cousins. I think I would like to go to Warsaw but only if Mozart could go with me as my guide. I think about going to the airport and getting on a plane with Mozart. Pulling luggage on wheels, making sure we have our tickets and passports. We're sitting down in the plane and it's about to take off. I'm sitting by the window. Mozart buys a drink from the trolley going past.

I fall asleep looking forward to going to work tomorrow, like when I used to look forward to going to school on a Wednesday because we had PE on a Wednesday. We got to get out of the classroom for at least an hour for PE, but I won't be getting out of the restaurant tomorrow. I'll be walking the same Scaletrix figure 8, into the same kitchen and Mozart will look up at me and nod without saying anything.

I am at my cousins and we are in Leeds going round the shops but everyone around us is speaking a different language. I see the back of my Gran walking into Boots and I call out for her. She doesn’t hear me so I start running after her. I can see my self running after her from an outside perspective and my cousins are standing behind me, rolling their eyes and clucking their tongues, saying, 'it's your own fault if you get lost.' I then fall down a step and wake up with a jolt.

I've missed my bus and have to phone work to let my boss know I'll be late. He sounds pissed off, but then he always sounds pissed off, in that way that quiet, bald, middle aged men who never smile do.

I brush my teeth furiously and look up at my face a couple of times to see the face of an Olympic sprinter, completely in the zone. I laugh, brush my tongue and gag for a second. I leave the bath water for my Mum and run out the front door with a piece of toast between my teeth and my arms still climbing into my coat.

two

Mozart is standing over a deep sink with a hose that looks like a showerhead. His blond hair hangs over his eyes as I walk through the kitchen door with a plate in each hand. Each plate is splattered with the remains of a meal: bits of fat, a stray potato, lots of peas. I place the plates down and he looks up from his sink to nod at me.

'Hallo,' he says.

Ant calls at me, his body half obscured by the lights that keep the plates warm. (The plates themselves are lined up sitting there, waiting for me to take them out to their tables.)

'When you wear a black bra I can see it perfectly through your white blouse, you know?'

I pick up the plates, taciturn. I don't stop for a second.

'What are you anyway, an A cup?' He laughs. I walk out the kitchen, pushing the door open with my backside. I don't acknoweldge him.

I think it's been like this since I started. I can't remember it being any different. Now that I think about it Ant could have said something similar on my first day. I never respond.

I walk out of the kitchen and into a restaurant drowned in Jazz. The restaurant has a collection of 16 Jazz CDs that play on rotation non-stop. Despite this wide selection available, I am now familiar with every song. I used to hear them in my head before I went to sleep sometimes, when I first started working here. Now they are no less annoying than the sound of forks scraping on plates.

I stand by the bar and wait for customers to come in. A middle-aged man in a suit comes in and orders a pint of bitter. He sits at a table on his own reading the paper. A group of four men come in and one of them orders for all of them. They sit down and start talking about county cricket. In the evening we get a fair amount of people coming in for food. I show these people to a table and then let them get settled before taking their order.

I go back to the kitchen to give orders to Ant. He makes a comment about my breasts or my white skin or something. I feel like a Scaletrix car going round a figure 8 continually – never going fast enough to filp and fly off the rail.

one

Mozart is a kitchen porter – a KP, a washer-up – at the restaurant where I work. He’s from Poland and he hardly ever says anything, except for Hallo, or Busy. He also plays the violin, but this took some serious bullying and is all he has let us find out about him since he started working here six months ago.

Ant, one of the chefs, was the first one to start calling him Mozart. He would question Mozart at length about meaningless things and repeat everything he said in a bad Polish accent. He would then question Mozart’s intelligence any time he ever did anything wrong or looked like he wasn’t doing anything in particular.

One day while Ant was berating him, Mozart broke down and let a shard of personality slip.

‘Did you ever go to school?’ Ant would say. ‘Do they even have schools in Poland?’ These were the kinds of things he would ask to wind Mozart up.

‘Of course they have schools.’

‘What’d they teach you?’

‘Maths, Science… Reading, Music.’

‘Music? They taught you music?’

‘Yes. I play the violin,’ Mozart replied, pride and annoyance resounding in his voice. This was met with laughter and ridicule from Ant.

After this Ant would only refer to him as Mozart. At first, Mozart would turn red and look like he wanted to say something to Ant that he couldn’t quite articulate, or just didn’t want to. Now he just accepts his moniker reluctantly, resigned to his fate: he is a kitchen porter; he is from Poland; he plays the violin; his name is Mozart.

Most of the time when I see Mozart he looks deep in solitude, expressionless, thinking to himself in a foreign language that I would never be able to make sense of. I sometimes think that if there wasn't the language barrier he'd be a completely different person. He'd be loud and charismatic instead of quiet and humble.

I think of him going back to a one bedroom flat riddled with mildew and playing violin until three in the morning.