My Little Goddess

The cafe's decor was an eclectic riot. Art deco panels, pre-Raphaelite prints and old advertising signs vied for prominence with a flock of stylised birds and a whole pantheon of South American deities. Here, a jolly matelot upheld the benefits of Capstan cigarettes. There, Dicksee's La Belle Dame Sans Merci enthralled yet another Sir Knight with her glamour. The Hippodrome announced its latest musical-hall attraction while Inti, the Inca sun god, and his moon-goddess wife, Mama Quilla stood impeccable guard on each side. So it went on and on. Gaps between exhibits were filled by blocks of mosaic; yellow, orange and brown; hiding the olive green walls beneath. Quarter scale motorcycles, Ducati, Triumph and Harley-Davidson, hung from the rafters while fishing nets strung between them held their catch of crab and starfish. Celtic pipe and drum music issued from speakers set high in the corners of the room, completing the pot­pourri.

      Standing in the doorway of this culture conglomerate Harold Smith tried, as he did every day, to make some sense of it all. As usual, he quickly gave up and headed for the counter.

Lisa noticed Harold as he stood in the doorway. She glanced back at the witless individual before her who struggled with the choice between Lasagne and Carbonara.        
      ‘Helen,' she called. ‘see to this one will you?'

She left the confused customer and moved to greet the approaching Harold. He was old, somewhere in his seventies, but his ruddy complexion and shock of silver-grey hair belied his age. He was slight, almost frail, but carried himself erect, proud. His face was aquiline, his nose classically Roman. His eyes she could only ever describe as tawny. As always he was immaculate in a mid-grey suit and matching tie, his overcoat across his arm. He smiled when he saw her.

      ‘Hello Mr Smith. The usual is it?'

      She turned and headed for the coffee machine.
      ‘Yes,' he replied to her receding back; ‘the usual please.'

      ‘You sit down,' the girl called, ‘I'll bring it over.'

      The man made his way to a plain, worn table standing in a paved area, an indoor ‘outdoor' cafe. He sat himself down on an equally worn but comfortable chair and proceeded to wait.

      ‘It'll be a while,' He thought. ‘Always is. She'll samba over and giggle her stupid giggle. "sorry `bout the wait, we're a bit busy", flash that beautiful smile and waltz off again.'

      He glanced over at the waitress, now caught in conversation with another customer. A pretty girl in her early twenties, she wore her long black hair in tight braids tied in bunches framing her alabaster face. Her mouth was wide, lips full and sensuous, and her eyes dark, almost black. She was slim, athletic; her short T-shirt revealing an inch and a half of well toned midriff.

      ‘A dark gothic goddess.' he mused. ‘Shame about the giggle.'

      As he watched the girl he became aware of a noise, a murmur, growing louder, insistent. His gaze swept the area, alighting upon a couple engaged in making very public what was obviously a domestic dispute. The man, a thickset unshaven individual, ran his hands through his hair and shrugged in the universal expression of defeat, arms wide. He looked directly at his beloved shrew.

      ‘I just don't know what you want from me,' he pleaded.

      ‘Exactly. You don't do you?' came the retort as the woman turned her head aside in disdain.

      The couples' children; twin girls about seven years old; pushed unwanted fish fingers around their plates. Occasionally, a baked bean would be flicked out across the cafe and barely controlled laughter rippled between them. One of the girls caught Harold looking, stared back wide-eyed and then slowly stuck out her tongue. He smiled to himself and tentatively poked out his own tongue right back at her.

      ‘Here's your coffee Mr Smith.'

      He turned as the waitress set a large foaming cappuccino in front of him, catching the amusement in her eyes. His own flashed anger, fading to embarrassment. He smiled.

      ‘Thank you, Lisa. So kind.'

      He watched as she retreated to the counter and then turned his attention to his coffee. He took a cautionary sip and then a longer drink as the temperature proved to be just right. He set the mug down and dabbed the foam from his top lip with a napkin. Momentarily refreshed he sat back taking in his fellow diners. The cafes clientele was as diverse as its decor. Businessmen, students and housewives all sought brief respite from their daily routine. The domestic row had subsided into a sulking silence although their body language screamed loud enough for all to see. Only occasional whispered accusations and denials passed between them. Meanwhile their offspring continued to launch baked beans on voyages of exploration across the cafescape.

      A young couple sat across a table, heads conspiratorially together, oblivious to the world around them. He smiled as memories of Mary percolated through. Gone these past five years now she had been a vision to turn any mans head in her youth. He found it hard to believe that they had once been as these youngsters were now. His thoughts turned slowly to the beautiful waitress and from there to his lunch; this last accentuated by a small, nibbling rather than gnawing, pang of hunger.

      He looked across to the counter, stretching himself upwards, eyebrows raised, questioning. Lisa saw his movement and raised a hand in acknowledgement

      ‘Won't be long,' she mouthed across the crowded space.

      Reassured, he settled back and began to study a carving that stood in a niche on the wall in front of him. It was a naked woman, crouching, head back; her mouth locked

in a rictus smile. Between her legs was the head of the man she strained to birth.  

      ‘Tlazolteotl!'

      ‘Sorry?' He turned to the man who had come to stand beside his table. He was a big man with a mess of dark hair and a straggly beard. He wore a patched corduroy jacket that smelt faintly herbal.

      ‘The statue.' He pointed at the carving. ‘Tlazolteotl, the Aztec mother-goddess. Do you mind if I sit here? The place is rather crowded.'

      Not waiting for a reply, the man sat down.

      ‘Actually I ...' Harold began.

      ‘Also known as the "eater of filth", you know.' The man continued with his lecture. ‘She comes to a man at the end of his life to hear his confession. Cleanses his soul - eats the filth of his sins - so to speak.'

      ‘I really don't ...'

      ‘Rumour has it that that's where the Catholic Church got the idea of confession from, you know. Picked up the idea from a report by Cortez apparently.'

      He leant back on his chair, tilting his head to look at the statue. Abruptly he sat forward to look at Harold.

      ‘I'm not disturbing you am I? Do you mind if I smoke?'

      The man fished into his jacket pocket, drawing out a pack of cigars and a lighter. Harold felt himself flush with anger. How dare this unkempt lout impose himself like this? He steeled himself.

      ‘Actually,' he began, `I would prefer it if ...'

      ‘What?'

      The man turned blowing a grey cloud of cigar smoke over him. He pulled back gagging on the noxious fog. He tried again

      ‘Look sir, I'm waiting for my lunch and I would prefer it if...'

      ‘There you go Mr Smith, sorry about the wait.'

      The giggle cat-clawed its way across his nervous system as the waitress finally delivered his lunch

      ‘About time too!' he snapped.

      Her smile disappeared. She glared at him, tight lipped. ‘Well, we are very busy, sir.'

      She turned and stormed off only to collide with another waitress, sending a plate of spaghetti spiralling to the floor.

      ‘Bugger!'

      She shot Harold a vitriolic glance before continuing on her way leaving the other, hapless, girl to clean up the mess.

He sat there, ashamed. He felt breathless and an anxious palpitation protested his outburst. Fighting down alarm, he consciously slowed his breathing, relaxing. He turned all his attention to his food. He ate hunched over his plate; each tiny morsel transferred quickly to his mouth and chewed a precise number of times before swallowing. The rhythm of the act calmed him. Mary had often joked that only he could turn eating into a meditation.

Lisa stood, her arms wrapped around herself. She was shaking, hurt now rather than angry. She had a fondness for Harold; he was always so polite and patient, a gentleman. What had she done wrong? She watched, mystified, as he ate - seemingly calm now - in that peculiar, bird-like, manner of his.

      ‘You alright love?' Helen paused beside her. She glanced from Lisa to Harold and back again.

      ‘Never mind my dear. Customers eh!'

      ‘Tempestuous bitch, isn't she?'

      Harold raised his head to regard his unwanted guest. `I beg your pardon?' he asked tersely.

      ‘The little waitress.' He waved his hand in the general direction of the counter. ‘Got a bloody temper on her eh?'

      The man leered

      ‘Still, she's got quite a fine, eh, arse on her. Wouldn't you say?'

      Harold went rigid. His heart rate rose as adrenaline flooded his system, preparing for fight or flight. Anger became rage He snatched up his coffee mug, throwing its contents over the man who recoiled backwards, stumbling over his chair.

      ‘Bloody hell!' he cried, crashing to the floor.

      ‘Bloody hell!' Lisa whispered.

      ‘Don't you ever dare talk about her like that again, you filthy bastard.' Harold shouted.

      The whole room stopped as his anger reached them. He turned to see Lisa  watching, wide-eyed, shocked. He carefully placed the coffee mug back on the table, smiled and started towards her.

He had taken just two steps when his chest seemed to constrict, crushing lungs and heart. He gasped for breath, clutching at his chest.

Lisa started to run.

The world spiralled grey to black. His heart stopped.

Something was bouncing on his chest. He opened his eyes as the bouncing stopped and Lisa's face loomed above his, her mouth clamping down on his, her breath filling his lungs. She drew back and Tlazolteotl gazed down upon him - the "eater of filth"

      ‘My little goddess. I'm sorry,' he gasped, ‘I tried.'

      Pain overwhelmed him again. He reached for her in the fading light. ‘Mary!'