The Oddfits (15 page)

“Brilliant!” the diners would exclaim.

“Now, now. It took a lot of training to whip this one into shape,” Shakti would say modestly. “Well, my dear. You’d better get back to work.” She would pat him on the head or the shoulder as one might a well-trained dog, but with his bearing, it was as if Shakti had dared to coochie-coo Sir Laurence Olivier on the chin. The company would gasp. There would be a moment of suspense. Then Murgatroyd would smile and they would give a sigh of relief. He would bow again to the company. He would glide away to attend to one of his tables. It was a familiar routine.

Tonight, however, it would be Murgatroyd who would seek Shakti out, albeit with much apprehension. As he did up his bow tie, he realized that he still hadn’t quite figured out how he would deliver the news of his resignation and was quite frightened of what her reaction might be. Actually, he knew what her reaction would be. She would be angry—angry at the prospect of losing her best waiter at less than two weeks’ notice. Angry at his inadequate explanation—how do you tell someone you’re quitting your job to embark on a quest to explore unknown territories at the invitation of a strange one-eyed woman? And, most likely, she would be angry at his ingratitude. Shakti had given him not only a job, but also months of personal training. He would have to be careful, he thought, as he took the black jacket off its coat hanger and brushed the lint off its lapels.

As Murgatroyd slipped on the jacket, he felt the familiar surge of authority and confidence filling his veins. His spine straightened, his shoulders squared, his motions became surer, and he felt certain that he could effectively communicate to Shakti what he wanted to say in a precise yet respectful manner. Airily dismissing the exceptional clumsiness of last night from his mind, he glided into the dining area where they would all be briefed about the special dishes of the evening and the guests who would be dining that night—the regulars who were coming, which tables they would be seated at, food allergies and preferences, and so on. The restaurant officially opened for dinner at five thirty, but the waitstaff and kitchen had to be ready and standing by at five fifteen, just in case a guest showed up early, which rarely happened. However, today was exceptional, and at 5:15 p.m. sharp, they admitted a very nervous young woman who (she told the waitress pouring water into her glass) was meeting someone for a first date, and hadn’t wanted to risk being late. She occupied her time by humming, darting her eyes towards the entrance every now and then, and drumming her fingers on the table.

Closer to five thirty, more guests began to trickle in, including a nervous young man who turned out to be the nervous young woman’s dinner companion. By six, the dining room was half full, with the area immediately surrounding the arena completely filled by glamorous-looking types who preferred to eat dinner at the fashionably later time of eight or nine, but had made the requisite sacrifice in order to dine in the restaurant at all.

As Murgatroyd seated his first table of the evening, he glimpsed Shakti entering the restaurant out of the corner of his eye. As usual, she seated herself, ordered her glass of Coca-Cola Light, and called the headwaiter over for an update on how matters stood for the evening.
Tonight’s the night
, Murgatroyd thought to himself, handing a menu to each of his guests. And yet, for some reason, he felt no inclination to do anything, to change anything. No inclination to break the news to Shakti, to quit his job, to go on the Quest.

“May I inform you of some of the specials the chef has prepared this evening?” That was his own voice he was hearing, addressing the guests seated at the table before him. As he did so, he found his eyes wandering, surveying the world around him—a world created by a team of expensive interior designers and bathed in a soft orange glow that had taken a lighting specialist three weeks to get right. The recitation issuing forth from his own mouth—a cloying monologue of culinary delight—seemed to cast a spell over his own person, and without a single pause, stammer, or slip in his speech, he reflected on the wonder of it all. He, of all people—Murgatroyd Floyd Shwet Foo—was privileged enough to inhabit this magical world of porcelain dishware and silver cutlery and spotless white table linen, of pink peonies blossoming in vases, of long-stemmed glasses filled with wines red and white, of men in beautifully cut suits done up in silk neckties, of women with berry-tinted lips and glittering jewels draped about their earlobes, throats, and wrists.

He knew every intimate detail about this world. Over there, to Mrs. Woo’s right, was the salad fork with a prong slightly askew, used by Ahmad to fix one of the dishwashers. That fifth pane of glass walling the execution arena had had to be replaced when an unwieldy young calf, crazed with pain and terror, had slammed into it with surprising force. Here, on this tablecloth, just where he was lightly placing his forefinger, was the faint shadow of a stubborn spot of oyster gravy, barely noticeable, left over from Mr. Harold Wong’s twenty-seventh birthday dinner.

His own voice wafted back into his ears. “. . .
 
poached pears infused with brandy, drizzled with a dark chocolate sauce, and served with a dollop of hazelnut ice cream on the side. Now, may I answer any questions about the specialties of the evening?”

As Murgatroyd glided away to submit their orders to the kitchen, he reflected on how leaving the restaurant seemed an option far less attractive than it had been earlier that day. Why
would
he want to leave all this? Here, he was truly in his element—the first time he had ever been so in the entirety of his lonely and awkward life. The evening passed as usual, with Shakti calling him over to a table periodically to parade him in front of various diners. That night, he was marvelled at by a group of ten Japanese tourists, the Hwee family (who was celebrating a sixtieth wedding anniversary), and an attractive middle-aged Lebanese man whom Shakti thoughtfully decided to keep company for the rest of his meal. Murgatroyd and Shakti had their routine down pat—her declarations of his complete transformation from caterpillar into butterfly, his modest but elegant responses to any questions asked of him: their timing, their rapport, was impeccable. It was an act refined over years of practice, and Murgatroyd took a certain pride in performing it. He refrained from bringing up the subject of his resignation, not out of fear (resting his hands confidently on his black silk lapels, he felt no fear); rather, he refrained because he found himself incapable of disturbing a dynamic so exquisite—something that worked as well as the inner machinery of a delicate and finely tuned timepiece.

Here at the restaurant were tranquillity and security and familiarity and even a fair amount of prestige. Here, he thought as he swept a tablecloth clean with his silver table crumber, was where he belonged. He caught himself. No, it wasn’t. He was an Oddfit. He remembered Ann.

Tell me something, Murgatroyd. Do you belong here?

He remembered Ann’s question and the perturbation it had caused him. True, this world wasn’t exactly everything he’d wished for, to be sure. But it came close. And it was comforting.

Just past midnight, the last two guests—the nervous young man and woman, now no longer nervous and a tad tipsy—departed from L’Abattoir in a taxi, and the waitstaff could finally clear the last table and begin closing the restaurant. The evening was over, and at long last, they could go home. In the back room, Murgatroyd changed into his casual clothes, and as he did, he underwent his customary transformation into his own self. Little by little, his chest collapsed inward and his spine curved into a hunch. His jaw went slack, the expression in his eyes clouded over into dullness, his fingers fumbled with his buttons and zippers and shoelaces, and he felt himself once again yearning for true happiness and thinking of the Quest. But now, in place of excitement, was profound confusion. How could he have so easily dismissed the Quest from his mind when now it seemed as if he had never longed for anything more desperately in his entire life? Abruptly, he thought of his parents.
Couldn’t do without you, dear boy
. Was it true? He was, after all, their only child. Was he being selfish? Was his personal happiness everything? When he was at work, he may not have been
happy
,
but he was comfortable and at peace. Wasn’t that enough? Wasn’t that all one should expect from life? To be almost content some of the time?

There was a pounding on the door. “Eh, Shwet Foo! Can hurry up or not? Got other people also need to change!”

Murgatroyd gave up trying to tie his shoes and hurriedly emerged from the room, bumping into a grumpy-looking Ahmad holding a bundle of clothes.

“Sorry, lah. Sorry.” Murgatroyd apologized before tripping on his shoelace and landing flat on his face at the expensively shod feet of Shakti Vithani.

“Ah, Shwet Foo! Splendid job this evening. The Hwee family in particular was very impressed.”

He squinted up at her from the floor. “Thank you.”

“Not at all. Well, then,” she said, yawning and turning away. “Goodnight. See you tomorrow.”

“No, wait!” Murgatroyd called after her.

Shakti turned around. “Wait? What for?”

“I mean, can I talk to you about something?”

“About what?”

“Erh
. . .
”

Shakti squatted down and looked Murgatroyd squarely in the face, and her voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “Is it about a raise? Because you do know I pay you
extraordinarily
well.”

“No, no. Not about pay, lah,” Murgatroyd said frantically, getting to his knees. “About something else.”

“About what?” she repeated, patiently.

“About maybe leaving the restaurant!” Murgatroyd blurted out. He held his breath.

“What, ‘leaving’ as in going home right now like everyone else is doing or ‘leaving’ as in quitting?”

“Quitting.”

Shakti’s brow furrowed, and she looked at the other staff scurrying around the kitchen finishing their final chores. “Perhaps we should talk about this outside.”

They entered the deserted dining area and sat down at a table. Shakti folded her hands in front of her, her face fixed in a surprisingly neutral, businesslike expression.

“So, Shwet Foo. When you say, ‘leaving the restaurant,’ you really do mean to say that you wish to quit your job?”

He felt rather taken aback. He hadn’t expected Shakti to react so calmly about the matter. “Erh. Maybe. Yes. Maybe?”

“Which is it? ‘Maybe’ or ‘Yes’?”

Murgatroyd clenched his teeth. “Yes.”

“For what reason would you wish to quit? Is it an offer from another restaurant?”

He shook his head vigorously.

“And it’s not because you’re dissatisfied with your pay?”

He shook his head again.

“Do you not like working here?”

He shook his head.

“Well, then,” she said, drumming her fingers on the table. “I’m a bit confused. Why on earth would you want to leave?”

Murgatroyd said nothing. Saying that he needed to go on a Quest seemed ridiculous in the extreme.

“As your employer, don’t I at least deserve an explanation?”

Murgatroyd nodded.

“Or
. . .
perhaps, you’re not sure whether you want to leave?”

Unable to make eye contact, Murgatroyd stared at the tablecloth for a while. And then nodded again.

Shakti sighed and massaged the temples of her forehead with her index fingers.

“So, basically, you might want to leave, but you’re not sure, and you don’t really have a reason.”

Once again, he was still for a while, and then nodded glumly. Shakti rose to her feet. “I tell you what, Shwet Foo. Why don’t you think about it more and talk to me when you have your thoughts in order, all right?”

Another nod.

“But I will say one thing—you’re a good waiter, Shwet Foo. I would hate to lose you.”

She patted him on the shoulder, and returned to the back room, leaving Murgatroyd to ponder upon the one-way conversation which had just taken place, and which had been surprisingly cordial.
Now what?
he asked himself. He reached into his wallet and unfolded his to-do list. At least he had a new toothbrush. As his eyes skimmed over the rest of the list, he remembered that he still needed to call Kay Huat. That’s what he would do. He would call Kay Huat immediately. He glanced at his wristwatch. It was a little late to call, but Kay Huat would understand. Kay Huat would know what to do.

Kay Huat sat cross-legged on the black leather sofa in his living room, typing away furiously on his laptop, old-time jazz music wafting through the amazingly expensive speakers of his amazingly expensive sound system. Inspiration had struck him while he was eating dinner, and chapter forty-five of the Great Singaporean Novel was flying effortlessly from his fingertips onto the screen before him. The remains of a partially consumed bowl of ramen noodles sat on the mahogany coffee table in front of him. Balanced precariously on the sofa armrest was a mug of black coffee. He raised it to his lips and took a swig before triumphantly typing up the last sentence of chapter forty-five and moving on to chapter forty-six. Suddenly, his mobile phone rang.