The Iinglish of Dynya: Part 3
Pabbi was a content man. Too content, some would say. He did not weep alone at the altar on his wedding day, without bride or priest. He was the talk of Dynya, a man of sheer stoicism and unflappable restraint. Men would buy him drinks to hear his tale, pulling him off the streets and into shady bars, hoping to hear of a man with a strong will, untremblingly lip, and a renewed sense of bachelorhood. What they found, instead, was a bore.
Pabbi was not unkind. He was, according to the elders who’d sit in his bar’s outdoor seating, shaded by the erected canopy top, and from whom he never expected orders for food or drinks in exchange, a gentleman. To the school children who’d pass his bar, The Iinglishman, with their parents or class on their way to the maritime museum, he was the friendly old man who’d smile and wave to them. Old to them, of course. Pabbi was a healthy and bustling sixty-nine years old, with a handsome face that managed to keep some shape. He had a blocky, squared head which gave him a broad jaw, a strong nose, and a flat brow, crowned with modestly thick hair, a sandy caramel, that had been the blond envy of his childhood. He was approached on occasion by drama teachers to give a career in the arts serious consideration, as he possessed two things no actors can hope to learn; aesthetics and humility. Unfortunately, much like the men would later find, Pabbi had no strong opinions on his life at all.
It was this quiet acceptance and almost comedic level of passivity that led Pabbi to inherit and continue to manage his estranged uncle’s bar; The Iinglishman. Pabbi did not know why the bar was called The Iinglishman. As far as he understood, his uncle was, as were many generations of his family, not Iinglish. Stranger still was the fact the name, The Iinglishman, was in Iinglish, rather the Spangle “La Umbra D’Englatta”. Pabbi had no idea why the name was The Iinglishman, but saw no reason to change it either, which proved to have been a smart move.
Around the time Pabbi inherited the bar, Dynya was still a rather underdeveloped part of the world. The United Europa Coalition had only been formed two decades previously before Spangle became a member state. As part of the western coast, on the southernmost tip, Dynya was one of the ports best suited for development grants from the UEC. The harbour development made fishing, especially from huge, hulking Spangle supertrawlers, a huge market once more for the struggling town. Along with that, trips to and from Dynya, by tourists, either coming to Dynya from Étalía or Phranc, or disembarking from Dynya to the nearby islands of Mayaka and Ybza, transformed the strip into hot real estate practically overnight.
The Iinglishman, being written in Iinglish, mere yards from the harbour and the marina, was now a mecca for Iinglish tourists who found the whole thing amusing. Pabbi was then approached by real estate developers with a very generous offer. So generous, in fact, even Pabbi, in his strange, dull manner, was tempted. He had a flash of a fantasy rush across his mind, showing him lounging out in the mountains overlooking Dynya, on the balcony of his luxurious manor, shielding his eyes from the dazzling swimming pool, beckoning him for a refreshingly frigid swim in this barking heat, with his fashion brand sunglasses. But, as soon as it had come to his mind it had vanished. He refused the offer once, twice, thrice, quarce, quince. A rumour, that The Iinglishman was to be torn down by these developers, was met with outrage and protests from locals who campaigned for weeks before the development company released a statement, denying the validity of the rumour, and ensuring they had dropped all interest in purchasing the bar. Amidst cheers of victory, and the busiest night for business Pabbi ever experience, he found the whole thing deeply confusing. Really, he didn’t care about the bar, he just cared less about the money. If the developers had just told him he was going to sell, he probably would have. Pabbi was a content man. Far too content.
Pabbi didn’t linger on his past. Pabbi was happy just being Pabbi. And being Pabbi meant, on that scorching hot day, after the match between Hermmania and Spangle, he was to open up at ten o’clock, pull up his window shutters, turn on the lights and fans, and straighten the chairs and tables beneath the large canopy.
Pabbi stood in the shade of his bar, staring at the wall length mirrors that stretched opposite him. His staff would not be in for another few hours, mostly due to being hung-over college students who celebrated the match last night. He stood there and stared into his own deep, worn, unshakable eyes. Nothing was troubling Pabbi. He wasn’t lost in thought, nor was he tormented by worries, concerns, nor fretful considerations of any kind. Pabbi was just waiting.
Pabbi stared into his own eyes until around eighteen minutes past ten, when, in the corner of his eye, he saw Mr. Bunch, red and sweating, as though he were a lobster that survived a boiling pot of water, staggering under the large canopy, plopping onto a chair by a table. Pabbi, taking a moment to recognise the puffing Iinglishman desperately fanning himself with his hat, briskly walked out into the balmy, salted air.
Mr. Bunch, gasping, lazily turned around and nodded to Pabbi as he approached.
“Ah, Bonjovi to you, Pabbi.”
“Good morning, Mr. Bunch.”
Mr. Bunch chuckled to himself. Pabbi spoke fluent Iinglish with a grating vocal fry Mr. Bunch found amusing.
“The bar is open, sir.”
“Ah, good, Pabbi, good. Just a pitcher of water will do before we get onto breakfast. More ice than water, I’d say. It wouldn’t be long before it melts in this heat, I’d think.”
“No, sir. I mean the bar is open if you’d like to sit inside instead. The air is much too hot out here.”
“Oh! No, no! I’m alright. I just walked, is all. It’ll take more than a star floating out in bloody space to kill an Iinglishman. We went all around the world, from the depths of Zam Zam to the frigid centre of Arcratica. There’s no weather, no climate, that can kill an Iinglishman.”
“Yes, sir. But Mr. Bunch, the bar is cool, and we will be on a heat warning for the next few days. Please, cool off inside for a little while. The tables will be empty for some time.”
“That’s what makes you a good businessman, Pabbi; customer service. You should go down to my hotel and tell them how to do it properly! Can you believe the young fellow on the reception desk, Fillips, or something, accosted me at the entrance! Practically demanded my papers, like it was a check point. And I thought the Hermmanians were strict on rules. Who’s ever heard of a Spanglesian barking orders around?”
Pabbi laughed a little, assuming Mr. Bunch was being sarcastic and referencing the once brutal Spanglesian dictator, Franci “Jereisiomijo” Jorge. He wasn’t. Mr. Bunch knew very little about history, let along Spanglesian history.
“No, Pabbi”, Mr. Bunch continued, “I’ll stay out here this morning. It’s a fine day. Why waste it hiding inside like some cretin, sipping on wine in the dark? Dynya is beautiful. Just look at that sandy beach. Those gentle, ebbing waves. And just look at that — -”
“The young men in shorts won’t be coming today.”
“OH FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE!”
Part of the charm of The Iinglishman was the fact that the strip was popular, with a parade of people passing throughout the day. The early morning, starting practically at sunrise, was for the elderly who enjoyed a quick dip in the sea, followed by tai chi on the beach. By noon, a cycling club would zip past in a flock of twenty. And by the evening, as the day cooled and the sun sank, the traders would open their stalls to haggle and scam gullible tourists, too drunk to know better. But, every morning, at around ten-thirty, a local running group would come around the corner and stop at The Iinglishman for shade and refreshments. With Pabbi busy pouring drinks, Mr. Bunch would sit there alone and soak up the alluring musk of sweating, young men, staring at how the light would catch their beaded, light brown skin, and how they’d laugh and smile with starry white teeth. And Mr. Bunch would love every second of it, savouring the smells, the sounds, and the sights.
Sadly, today Mr. Bunch wouldn’t enjoy his regular, feeble erection. Pabbi knew how Mr. Bunch looked forward to those.
“I am sorry, sir.”
“Why aren’t they here! What was the point of waking up today! Everything’s going wrong for me!”
“Again, I am sorry, but there is a heat warning, not just for Dynya, but for much of Spangle. Many groups would take today off to avoid heat stroke. Maybe tomorrow as well.”
“But why are you open then?”
“I was waiting for you.”
“Oh.”
Mr. Bunch pulled into himself a little, no longer fanning himself with his hat but rolling it between his fingers. Over the years, Mr. Bunch found Pabbi’s nature to be endearing, though he suspected he may have been autistic. What Mr. Bunch lacked in self-awareness for his own blunt and annoying nature around others, he made up for with his respect for Pabbi. Perhaps not entirely indulging in Mr. Bunch’s grating traits, knowingly or obliviously, put Mr. Bunch on the backfoot with Pabbi. Pabbi was kind but not simpering. He was not confrontational, yet he was blunt, nearly unaware that he was coming across as curt. In this case, Mr. Bunch was reminded that Pabbi was well within his rights to open whenever he wanted, and even eject Mr. Bunch if he wanted to. Mr. Bunch would never admit this, but his living conditions at the hotel had spoilt him. Put simply, Pabbi may have been the only person in all of Dynya that Mr. Bunch actually respected.
“… Yes, maybe I will go inside… thank you, Pabbi.”
“You are welcome, Mr. Bunch.”
#HI
