It’s many a year since I read Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island as a wide-eyed child. But this morning, it came back in full force.
Sitting in an Iranian (maybe) cafe nursing a couple of espressos. A bright and breezy day in the English coastal town of Hastings. The vibe is more-than-chilled.
Outside, a man stops, screws up his eyes to read the name of the place. He is deeply tanned, powerfully built, moves slowly but with intention. He has a crutch.
Slowly, with purpose, he shuffles inside. There is a glint in his eye, and it is not kind.
The owner comes up. I hear “what would you like, sir?”
The newcomer fixes him with an unblinking stare. He does not speak.
And then he reaches out, again slowly, with unhurried precision.
He grasps the owners hand. And does not let go.
Then he speaks words I don’t understand, painstakingly articulated, in a voice that is sub basso profondo.
The atmosphere has shifted from chilled to pretty damn intense.
A guy sitting behind me leaves quickly.
Then the owner bows, genuflects almost.
They clearly have never met each other, but some heavy shit has just gone down.
The restaurant owner’s hand is slowly released, the newcomer is respectfully shown to a table.
I don’t know what I’ve just seen but it feels like someone has just been tipped the Black Spot.
Sitting in an Iranian (maybe) cafe nursing a couple of espressos. A bright and breezy day in the English coastal town of Hastings. The vibe is more-than-chilled.
Outside, a man stops, screws up his eyes to read the name of the place. He is deeply tanned, powerfully built, moves slowly but with intention. He has a crutch.
Slowly, with purpose, he shuffles inside. There is a glint in his eye, and it is not kind.
The owner comes up. I hear “what would you like, sir?”
The newcomer fixes him with an unblinking stare. He does not speak.
And then he reaches out, again slowly, with unhurried precision.
He grasps the owners hand. And does not let go.
Then he speaks words I don’t understand, painstakingly articulated, in a voice that is sub basso profondo.
The atmosphere has shifted from chilled to pretty damn intense.
A guy sitting behind me leaves quickly.
Then the owner bows, genuflects almost.
They clearly have never met each other, but some heavy shit has just gone down.
The restaurant owner’s hand is slowly released, the newcomer is respectfully shown to a table.
I don’t know what I’ve just seen but it feels like someone has just been tipped the Black Spot.
