Belgin Durmush
I work as a computer Analyst/Programmer and have been writing short stories in my spare time for about three years. I started writing this story based on an idea I had about a character which was inspired by a television series.
DISCOVERY
I realised how bored I was when during my meal with Maurice I found myself thinking about the washing-up at home. I thought of the pile of plates and pans waiting for me, cluttering up the kitchen, and here I was wilting with boredom, trying to find an interest in the table-cloth.
I had not expected that the table-cloth would rival Maurice for my attention for I had walked into the restaurant half expecting to ditch all my ideas at his slightest opinion. When he did open his mouth as we sat down, I searched for a depth of meaning which, I later realised, was absent.
"Wet out isn't it," he said dryly.
"Yes, very," I said, lethargically mimicking his tone.
"Well, at least it gives the pavement a nice shine," he added, raising his tone to a drone.
I nodded trying to find the hidden significance to his words, which so distracted me that I did not hear his next comment.
"A dry pavement has none of the interesting reflections," he repeated, trying to attract my attention.
I wondered if I had made a mistake. I was probably sitting at the wrong table, interviewing the local nut who had prepared a discourse on the weather and its affects on concrete, tarmac and paving stones.
"Maurice," I said to see if he would respond to the name.
He did. "Please call me Mo."
I looked at him disbelievingly, hoping that he was joking. He stared back waiting for me to continue. An impatient frown appeared on his brow.
"Mo," I said, and the image of Toyland flashed through my mind as my imagination carved out the characters Mo and Bo jumping about playfully in my head. "Mo," I repeated, working up to the challenge of serious discussion, "you have a great reputation as a Thinker, an Innovator. How contentious is this view of you?"
"I don't dispute it. Anyone who does is an idiot."
"Do you deserve your reputation?"
"Are you asking me if I'm a sham?"
I did not reply.
"I deserve more than just a reputation..... I deserve wealth, respect....to be a great leader."
A mild irritation flushed through me, niggled at me and then blossomed into annoyance as the sight of him boasting in his glaring, striped suit sent me diving for the bottle of wine on the table, the strange green shade of which failed to discourage me from taking a large gulp. His thin eyebrows nearly hit his forehead at my impetuosity.
"Leave some for me won't you," he said majestically, his stern eyes seeking the bottle as they competed with me for the next drop of wine. The eyes relaxed and grew languid as I filled up his glass to the brim, and he sipped the wine not with relish but with relief.
"No it's not difficult," said Maurice lordly, continuing a sentence which he had not started. A smug expression crept across his face, "Discovery is not difficult but you probably couldn't do it...you have to have the right brain."
I bottled my exasperation and grinned condescendingly at him. "You find it a piece of cake do you?" I replied provocatively.
"Cake!" he exclaimed his huge ego belittled, but belittled only for a short time for it soon pounced back like a yo-yo on springs, rejoicing at my next question.
"Do you think you have the right brain?"
"Of course, the evidence is everywhere... I discovered the original shaggy carpets you know," he said confidingly. "I knew how to get that shaggy look..."
"Yes I see," I said looking at his hair which I suspected was the source of his inspiration. He noticed that I was staring, carefully placed his knife and fork over his plate and rigorously ran his hands over his head, attempting to harness the rebellious strands which defiantly plopped out from under his sweaty palms and stood to attention like soldiers on lookout.
He looked at me as I attempted to hide my smirk behind the basket of bread rolls. He continued to stare at me, slipping into his celebrity face: a moody pair of eyes, a pouting mouth and a face drooping with pretentious sincerity, but this guise only managed to enhance the dopiness of his features, and I saw before me a face conveying all the subtleties of a sloppy, dopey, dodo. He continued to gape as he carefully handled the bread rolls, as if to demonstrate the mystique oozing from the intensity of his actions, but each bread roll had a uniformity about it which belittled his painstaking deliberation.
I looked back at his shaggy hair to remind myself what he had been talking about. "..But the challenge wasn't there, I needed a better conquest for my naturally inquisitive, sharp, incisive mind... so I went on to discover the drink that makes you think...ever heard of it?"
"Yes. Do you ever drink it?" I asked, eager to find out if he had found the cure for his own predicament.
"Yes, it's part of my daily diet," he replied enthusiastically.
"And you've noticed no significant improvement?" I asked attempting to give my voice a tinge of sympathy.
He looked at me sternly, pinched his chin and said in a harsh tone, "Of course! It has helped me expand my thinking. YOU should try it. You'd soon climb out of your shallow head into a world of dreams. Here," he said, reaching for his bag and emerging with a bottle filled with thick, green juice, "have some. Grow a little brain."
"I'm OK with the little brain I have already, thank you. That thing could be dangerous, have you had it scientifically tested?"
My question turned him into a watchful child protecting his toys as he cowered over his bottle of juice and mumbled sulkily: "You don't realise how hard it is for me to sit here and listen to you when I know I have the power to give you a mind that's piping hot with new thought."
I glared at him. "I don't want feverish thoughts!" I said, feverishly sipping my wine. "I don't need a steaming bubble brain!" I added taking another sip of bubbly, green wine.
"Look at me," he said taking me firmly by the hand, and showing me his eyes which danced under the flicker of the faulty light bulb, and changed colours like holes consumed by spitfire. I thought he was going to delve into the mysteries of life, but this impression was shattered as soon as he opened his mouth.
"Once, I was common and shallow, but my invention has taken me to heights I could never have dreamed of." He reached for the green bottle and held it tightly in his hand. "Try my wonderful brain drink, your life will change, believe me, it will free your mind, it will give you food for thought."
"I'm on a diet," I said pulling away.
"It's low calorie."
"I'm allergic to brain stimulation".
He paused and pinched his chin, "I've noticed." He slumped back in his seat with a sulky expression drooping from his face threatening to spill over onto his shirt. He pinched his chin again, unable to shake off his sulky face. "You have such a fresh, untainted perspective, uncorrupted by experience or wisdom. I wish I could share that perspective...sometimes I so want to switch into that world of narrow vision which is so comfortable." He smiled. His teeth rattled in my mind as I imagined, smashing them to pieces.
I hugged my wine glass and said through gritted teeth: "I don't think you are ready to see yourself through my eyes." My head seared with the pain of a headache and I held my glass to my temples, surprised by the unexpected pounding in my head.
"Oh please let me help you, I've created a great cure for headaches."
I got up and collected my bag. He gripped me by the arm and said in a mysterious, intense low tone: "Dip your nose in some yoghurt. Dip it, outwit it, it never fails." He turned and with an air of exuberance shouted: "Waiter, yoghurt please."
"No! Waiter, hold that yoghurt. I don't need a face pack. I'm going home."
"No you really must stay. Waiter, hurry up with that yoghurt."
"No."
"I insist."
"My headache's gone."
"Nonsense...." He paused, held his head in his hands and grimaced. "I've got a headache now... It's the excitement. Waiter some yoghurt please."
I sat down, curious, enthralled, and helped myself to some more wine. The waiter disappeared on his errand. Couples in their splendour nibbled at their exquisite dishes, taking their napkins to dab at the tiniest crumbs on their chins. The yoghurt arrived and was placed in front of him. He took a deep breath and immersed his nose in the plate then bopped his head up and down, dipping into the dish like a diving seagull, only, he did not emerge with a prize fish but popped up from his plate like a cat interrupted from its cream.
Couples stopped nibbling. Waiters did not serve. Chins were not dabbed. All eyes were glued on Maurice's chin, which dripped with yoghurt, and his nose, which protruded like a ridge covered with icicles.
"Did that help?"
"Of course it did," he blurted out, offended. He closed his eyes to compose himself then looked up searching for inspiration: "Discovery is like Art," he continued from nothing in particular. "You have to roam through the imagination, glide through thought, defy reason."
"You mean you haven't the faintest idea what you're doing?"
He ignored me, looked away at the next table and stared at the fat mouth chewing a tiny portion of lean steak. He observed the masticating teeth until the meat had been shredded and the pieces lodged firmly between the teeth.
"See that large woman with the teeth?" The woman looked up and caught my gaze. "She's nibbling like a squirrel. She is almost ashamed to indulge in her food."
"So?"
"So she'll leave this expensive restaurant with its child portions, go home and help herself to some real sized food."
"So?"
"So, that's the point. It's not what I tell you but what you observe. Right now I could dazzle you with a million false stories of how I found this or invented that. But the truth is unless you can think for yourself, you'll never learn the truth."
I swallowed a large potato forgetting to chew and looked at him. "Why should you lie?"
"You are so NAIVE." He said, stating the word 'naive' like it was something he had just discovered. "How do you survive in your job? Don't you think people lie sometimes?"
"Of course if they have something to hide."
"Do you know what my true discovery has been?" He didn't wait for an answer, "It is knowing how to lie, how to sell your achievements in a glossy wrapper. If I'd used plain paper you wouldn’t be here today would you? You wouldn't even think about writing an article about me. Would you?"
"Once the truth is out, the gloss is forgotten. You can't hide behind the dazzle forever."
"That sounds a little bit threatening. I want to read your article if only to see what you think of me. Have you really figured me out?"
"You're almost transparent if it wasn't for that huge ego getting in the way. How did you convince those companies to invest so much in you?"
He smiled, a devious glint flashed in his pupils. "You don't know what to believe anymore do you?"
"Are your inventions just gimmicks or does your think drink really work?"
"By tomorrow you'll know it works."
"What do you mean?"
He paused, took the bottle of wine on the table and emptied the last drop of green liquid down his throat.
"Tomorrow you will write what an intelligent, resourceful, wonderful, entertaining person I really am, even if you think it is not true, for tomorrow my think drink will make you think well of me."
I dropped my glass. My head was spinning. I thought of tomorrow. The dazzle drifted from my eyes and I pictured Maurice sitting prettily, surrounded by a glossy screen, and in a flash realised his true brilliance.
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