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.
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.
No comments:
Post a Comment