Read Online The Rise & Fall of Great Powers by Tom Rachman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Tom Rachman
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They spotted the farang man and cooed. One waved innocently at Tooly, who waved back. “Don’t!” Paul told her. “Really, don’t.”
She spotted a taxi and flapped her arms at it, then tugged Paul’s shirt so that he might turn and believe he’d discovered it himself.
“Here’s one!” he exclaimed, pushing past, nearly treading on her. “Hurry, I’ve got us a cab!”
Communicating to the driver that they wanted lasagna was beyond Paul, so he allowed the man to drop them outside a place in Chinatown.
A waitress ushered them into No. 2 Heaven Restaurant, past a tank of underbite fish, which glared at each new customer, and with good reason. Framed photos of suckling pig, roast lobster, and shark’s fin soup hung on the red-gold walls. Paul took a metal water carafe and slopped a wave into her glass, which filled with a fast glug and overflowed onto the maroon tablecloth, a dark patch that expanded.
“Do animals get haircuts?” she asked.
“Which animals?”
“Rats.”
“They don’t need them. Their hair doesn’t grow long.”
“It just stops growing?”
“Yes.”
“So why doesn’t people’s?”
“People’s what?”
“People’s hair.”
“Tooly, please. We’re about to eat.” He raised his menu.
She consulted hers. “You don’t like sweet-and-sour, do you.”
“No,” he confirmed. “I want food that can make up its mind.”
“What is ‘cheeking breast’?”
“It should say ‘chicken breast.’ ”
“They have something called Unique Leg of Camel. What’s ‘unique’ mean again?”
“One of a kind.”
“Isn’t every camel leg one of a kind?”
He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Please, Tooly, let’s not talk of animals at the table.”
This made discussing the menu difficult. Eventually, she defied him, speaking so fast that he didn’t have time to object: “They have something called ‘lamb without odor’ and ‘slice pigeon.’ ”
“We’ll get the chef’s special noodles,” he informed her, closing his menu. “Plus crab meat with asparagus.” Paul always picked for her. It never occurred to him that this was bossy.
“I shall tell them our order,” Tooly said, swiveling around for a waiter. “Excuse me!”
“Tooly, quiet.”
“Then how do we get them to come over?”
“We wait. That’s why they’re called waiters.”
The staff confirmed his interpretation, chatting at length by the fish tank, then vanishing through the swinging kitchen doors for dishes that sailed past their table. Tooly swallowed hard, suddenly famished.
She folded and refolded her napkin. Paul did the same. Now and then, he refilled their water glasses. Something to say! She wished for a sentence. When they were on flights or at home, there were distractions. But dining, seated opposite like this, there was nothing. Silence sat between them as if upon its haunches on the table. She watchedthe uniformed doorman, who watched the fish, which watched Tooly. “Is that man a soldier?” Tooly asked, knowing he was nothing of the sort.
“He’s a guard.”
“Why do they have a guard at a restaurant? In case the cheeking escapes?”
He looked at her, uncomprehending, then at his water glass from several angles.
A waitress arrived and food came soon after—a huge bowl of soup they hadn’t ordered. Tooly launched herself at it before Paul could protest. She spooned it in ravenously, while he held her hair out of the way. Plates seemed to emerge from the kitchen at random, dishes served whenever it suited the cook. Presently, another arrived. “Oh, no!” Tooly said. “Fish!”
“It’s not one from the tank,” Paul said unconvincingly. “Anyway, we have to eat it or it’ll be perceived as an insult.”
“By the fish?”
Paul chewed on one side of his mouth, gazing off as if there were something untoward about dining, a necessary embarrassment like toileting.
“Was your job okay today?”
“Was it okay?” he said, the wrinkle
She spotted a taxi and flapped her arms at it, then tugged Paul’s shirt so that he might turn and believe he’d discovered it himself.
“Here’s one!” he exclaimed, pushing past, nearly treading on her. “Hurry, I’ve got us a cab!”
Communicating to the driver that they wanted lasagna was beyond Paul, so he allowed the man to drop them outside a place in Chinatown.
A waitress ushered them into No. 2 Heaven Restaurant, past a tank of underbite fish, which glared at each new customer, and with good reason. Framed photos of suckling pig, roast lobster, and shark’s fin soup hung on the red-gold walls. Paul took a metal water carafe and slopped a wave into her glass, which filled with a fast glug and overflowed onto the maroon tablecloth, a dark patch that expanded.
“Do animals get haircuts?” she asked.
“Which animals?”
“Rats.”
“They don’t need them. Their hair doesn’t grow long.”
“It just stops growing?”
“Yes.”
“So why doesn’t people’s?”
“People’s what?”
“People’s hair.”
“Tooly, please. We’re about to eat.” He raised his menu.
She consulted hers. “You don’t like sweet-and-sour, do you.”
“No,” he confirmed. “I want food that can make up its mind.”
“What is ‘cheeking breast’?”
“It should say ‘chicken breast.’ ”
“They have something called Unique Leg of Camel. What’s ‘unique’ mean again?”
“One of a kind.”
“Isn’t every camel leg one of a kind?”
He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Please, Tooly, let’s not talk of animals at the table.”
This made discussing the menu difficult. Eventually, she defied him, speaking so fast that he didn’t have time to object: “They have something called ‘lamb without odor’ and ‘slice pigeon.’ ”
“We’ll get the chef’s special noodles,” he informed her, closing his menu. “Plus crab meat with asparagus.” Paul always picked for her. It never occurred to him that this was bossy.
“I shall tell them our order,” Tooly said, swiveling around for a waiter. “Excuse me!”
“Tooly, quiet.”
“Then how do we get them to come over?”
“We wait. That’s why they’re called waiters.”
The staff confirmed his interpretation, chatting at length by the fish tank, then vanishing through the swinging kitchen doors for dishes that sailed past their table. Tooly swallowed hard, suddenly famished.
She folded and refolded her napkin. Paul did the same. Now and then, he refilled their water glasses. Something to say! She wished for a sentence. When they were on flights or at home, there were distractions. But dining, seated opposite like this, there was nothing. Silence sat between them as if upon its haunches on the table. She watchedthe uniformed doorman, who watched the fish, which watched Tooly. “Is that man a soldier?” Tooly asked, knowing he was nothing of the sort.
“He’s a guard.”
“Why do they have a guard at a restaurant? In case the cheeking escapes?”
He looked at her, uncomprehending, then at his water glass from several angles.
A waitress arrived and food came soon after—a huge bowl of soup they hadn’t ordered. Tooly launched herself at it before Paul could protest. She spooned it in ravenously, while he held her hair out of the way. Plates seemed to emerge from the kitchen at random, dishes served whenever it suited the cook. Presently, another arrived. “Oh, no!” Tooly said. “Fish!”
“It’s not one from the tank,” Paul said unconvincingly. “Anyway, we have to eat it or it’ll be perceived as an insult.”
“By the fish?”
Paul chewed on one side of his mouth, gazing off as if there were something untoward about dining, a necessary embarrassment like toileting.
“Was your job okay today?”
“Was it okay?” he said, the wrinkle
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