ENGULFED BY A CONSUMING sense of grief, I walk up on St Peter’s street, on yet another sunny morning, sweating profusely in my black uniform which I’ve now worn for nine consecutive days. Unless you look at the sides of the alley with a discerning eye, where vomit from last night’s clubgoers lingers conspicuously, the high street exudes a picturesque, Tolkienian ambience – a stark contrast from the Soviet boulevards scared by neglect and the relentless force of time, punctured by cavernous road craters and uncovered drains. A painful reminder of one of the many reasons I have left, why today I am relegated to the status of an outsider, in a society that feels unwelcoming.
People migrate for many reasons: to escape poverty, war, broken families, corruption or maybe stress, but regardless of our circumstances, we chase the same thing, a better quality of life. Our background differentiates us, but our common goal unites us. In developed countries, corruption happens among the elite, between big players: politicians and corporations. In developing countries, it seizes all aspects of everyday life. Whether you want to open a bakery, build a house, see the doctor, or access public services of any kind, you have to pay your way through. If you don’t, others will, and your turn will never come.
My family lost everything twice. The first time was during the forced collectivisation in the 60s, the second time after the revolution when they lost their right to restitution under a corrupt and bureaucratic government. Growing up, I bore witness to my parents' financial struggles and endured my father's absence for five years as he sought work in England to keep us afloat. I made a vow to myself that I would never experience the same financial instability in my adult life. Money doesn’t bring happiness, but it buys you a house in a safer area, better food, and easier access to healthcare. It allows you to buy your children ice cream when you take them to the park and to offer them a worry-free childhood, better education and prospects in life, and what is that if not happiness? I promised my future children this kind of prosperity and safety. Perhaps because of the influence of my father who deeply admired the British lifestyle and instilled in me a romantic view of the country, England, with its long-standing democratic values, orderly society and prestigious academic institutions, seemed like the place that could help me turn my ideals into reality.
When I moved, I didn't realise that becoming a migrant meant never feeling entirely at home anywhere. It is the trade-off for the enriched life I live, for the new experiences and opportunities. Upon arriving in Canterbury, even on a cold, rainy day, I fell in love with life in England. It's difficult to explain why; home is more of a feeling than a list of solid facts. Yet, no matter how much you come to cherish your adoptive country, it will never feel entirely like home. It won't be where you grew up or where your family's roots lie, it will never be the place where you are truly one of us, instead, you are one of them, an outsider to both worlds. On the other hand, while you may fondly remember your native land, time has a way of softening the negatives and accentuating the positives. It will never quite feel like home again after the rupture, as there will always be something missing: your new home, the new you.
I shift focus back to the bustling street. Even in this state of dread, I cannot help but acknowledge the beauty of this ancient city soaked in sunlight and feel touched by hope, as I watch the delivery drivers casually unloading their goods, leisurely chatting with the store owners and realise there can be joy in the mundane. Elegant, silver-haired ladies walk out of a department store, delicately clutching bags in well-manicured hands, a nod to a time when online shopping was not commonplace, the older generation reminds us that impracticality can be a rare indulgence in our fast-paced world. I envy the impeccably dressed tourists who walk slowly, gazing around in amazement, the couple who savours coffee in the sun, with the man flipping through the paper, the wife quietly observing the passersby, exchanging occasional comments among themselves. In this moment, life seems good and simple, yet this sensation wanes quickly, joy is a feeling that becomes more elusive, surviving only during my brisk walks from home to the restaurant and becoming increasingly difficult to resurrect with each shift.
There is nothing simple at the restaurant. The grey-haired ladies I encountered here don't indulge in leisurely shopping trips with pals; they toil twelve-hour shifts, seven days a week, in the hostile conditions of the kitchen. There are no carefully manicured hands here, just calloused palms and swollen fingers, the result of years of relentless manual labour and poor nutrition. One thing that Galata does have in common with the outside world, is the presence of tourists, who gush over the flashy decorations, oblivious to the chaos beneath, the split families of the staff bunking upstairs, the constant bickering, the night shifts that bleed into the early mornings and the minimal sleep before waking up to do it all again.
I find Adrian upstairs, sulking, holding a small knife – the one we use for slicing lemons because it’s sharp and precise. Standing by the till, leaning against the wall, he stares blankly at the emergency exit, vaguely aware of my presence. He doesn’t seem to register anything I say, just tilts his head slightly when I walk to the closet where I drop my bag. He follows me with empty eyes, cleaning some invisible dust particles off the blade, then starts spinning the knife between his fingers.
‘I am efficient,’ he begins, ‘Robert’s most reliable asset.’ He starts tapping the tip of the knife with his finger, ‘I show up, I serve, I bow, I lift, I run,’ looking attentively at the cutlery I am polishing am I doing it wrong? carries on, ‘What more can he want from me?’ and swings his hand, still holding the knife, which cuts through the air, ‘I work my ass off, God damn it, I do double shifts most days and what do I get?’ he stops, looking confused he corrects himself, ‘better said, let me tell you what I don’t get,’ I stare at Adrian, who has found a more palpable outlet for his anger: he is slicing a lemon into very thin slices, ‘Well, not even one thousand pounds a month.’
The only thing worse than taking orders from someone you are scared of is having to feel sorry for them and find something consoling to say. I give him my best: ‘That’s awful.’
He is peeling off the skin, which he smells and then throws away. ‘If only I could break a thousand pounds per month,’ he says gesticulating again, swinging the knife slightly too close to me for comfort, but I remain stunned, unmoved, the only response I am capable of is to raise an eyebrow. He raises his eyebrows but doesn’t say anything, puts down the knife, then says, I’m not sure if to me or himself, because he lowers his voice so much that I can hardly hear the following sentence, ‘then I could save enough to leave this place.’
I stare at the 100% from concentrate label on the apple juice, which we advertise as 100% natural, frowning, wondering why it’s not in the fridge, and for some reason unbeknown to me, I feel compelled to ask, ‘Why?’
‘Well,’ puzzled, Adrian explains, ‘I hate working for this asshole.’ I ask which one, he says all of them, we both laugh, ‘But especially Robert! I never wanted to work for him, but I had to.’ After a moment of hesitation, ‘I owned him money,’ then, reluctantly, ‘For a gambling debt.’ I don’t say anything, but I’ve noticed that for Adrian and Robert, that just means carry on. ‘I borrowed a few thousand euros from some people,’ he lifts his shoulders, twists his lips, nods his head from side to side as if saying you know what people I’m talking about, ‘Then I borrowed money from Robert to pay them.’ With a sigh, ‘Of course, I couldn’t pay him back, so I had to come work for him.’
‘Malaka!’ Boyan interrupts, shouting from the top of the stairs, arms waiving above his head, ‘Coffee when?’ He asks tapping his left wrist.
‘Are you going to twist those skewers any quicker if I make you coffee?’ Adrian shouts back, then whispers to me in Romanian, ‘Make an americano for the looser, but make it decaf.’
I pick up the cup, then the scoop, but when I reach for the grounds I look at Adrian to double check, ‘Decaf?’
Adrian puts a finger over his lips, which he squeezes into a pout, ‘Just do it,’ he says winking and blows me a kiss.
The emergency exit door opens and Gulizar comes out of the staff quarters, walks into the restaurant and the three of us stare at her. She is pale, moves slowly, seems unwell.
‘Ooh, our long lost princess!’ Adrian exclaims, then more seriously asks, ‘Aren’t you a bit late for your shift, or do the elderly get preferential treatment?’
‘Cut,’ the woman waves her hand up and down, ‘It,’ she says with a strong Turkish accent ‘Ill, hot,’ touching her forehead.
Adrian takes a step back, almost hops, ‘Then stay the hell away from me!’ Boyan interferes, soothingly, ‘You look worse than Adrian.’ Then adds, smugly, ‘And that is something.’ ‘Hey!’ Adrian shouts, hurt.
‘Don’t get mad, baby, you’re just not my type,’ Boyan says, Adrian ignores him, turns to me.
‘Do you think I’m ugly?’
‘I think he’s just messing with you,’ I say, trying to sound consoling.
‘That’s beside the point,’ Adrian adds, annoyed, throwing a cloth at me, then takes off his glasses, and asks again, ‘Do you think I’m ugly?’
‘No,’ then I add quickly, ‘Of course not,’ scared of offending his fragile ego. ‘Call GQ,’ Boyan tells me. ‘Tell them you found someone new for their next cover,’ then to Adrian, ‘Do you do nudes, handsome?’ Posing, chest forward, hand on chin, ‘Or do you not want everyone to see that you have a small penis?’
‘If you must know, I’ve had offers, I am also very good with the ladies, and I don’t have a small penis,’ Adrian says in one breath, red-faced, visibly upset by the direction the conversation is heading towards.
‘This is too much for me to think about at twelve in the afternoon,’ Boyan puts his hands up, leaves.
Gulizar drags her feet, walking very slowly downstairs.
‘Should she be working?’ I ask Adrian, genuinely concerned about our colleague’s well-being as well the possibility of her spreading whatever virus she has to us and the customers.
‘Good one, sick leave, sure,’ Adrian bursts into laughter, ‘Right after Mustafa calls his private doctor to check on her,’ he says ironically, ‘Are you out of your mind? Who would replace her?’
‘I don’t know,’ I add hesitantly ‘Can’t the other chefs cover?’ ‘Well, if they could, why keep her on the payroll?’
‘But she’s sick.’ ‘Do you really–’
‘Adrian?’ We hear Boyan’s ragged voice over the radio, covered by static. ‘What?’
We hear nothing back, he turns to me, continues, ‘Do you really think–’ he is interrupted again, by a loud, deafening crackling noise, and some distant voices. Synchronously, we both distance the headset from our ears.
‘Ad-’ Boyan makes another attempt before his voice is yet again swallowed by the radio demons, by which point Adrian is fuming, screams into the microphone, ‘What, what do you want?’
Boyan, unfazed, tries again. ‘Adrian.’
Static.
‘Adrian, your friend the butcher is here, come.’
‘God. Damn it!’ he says as he runs down the stairs. A minute later, he comes back, snaps his fingers, asks me to help unload the meat, says it has to be done quickly.
The butcher, a man in his forties, walks in dragging several crates packed full of vacuum-sealed bags. He sweeps his gaze over me, tracing a path from the crown of my head to the tips of my toes. ‘Get me a cup of tea, sweetheart,’ he requests, then turns to Boyan, says something in Turkish, both men look at me and start laughing, then the butcher lifts four fingers in my face and says, ‘Four sugars please.’ I look at Adrian, who approves with a subtle nod, I fetch the tea, the butcher man is pleased. Though compact in appearance, he moves with confidence, and in a matter of minutes, he unloads the meat with swift, precise motions. He demands three hundred seventy-five pounds for the meat. Adrian scribbles something down and hands him a cheque which he carefully folds and puts in his chest pocket. The man then takes a seat, sips his tea, chatting with the kitchen staff. Boyan starts carrying the crates upstairs, ‘Grab two of these, follow him,’ Adrian tells me. My arms are shaking under the weight of the crates, I lean back trying to support their weight against my small frame, but at 5’3 and 50 kg, carrying the load two floors up feels like a Sisyphean task. Adrian passes me by with the rest of the meat, and since I am moving slower than the guys, I find them both giggling when I reach the freezer. I put the crates down in the dimly lit freezer when–
‘Think fast!’ Adrian screams, throwing something. Instinctively, I reach my arms to catch the flying object. It feels wet and slimy in my palms, I look down to the undefined lump in my hands. I am holding the skinned head of an animal, a sheep maybe? Its lidless eyes are staring at me, and the absence of lips stunned the animal into a morbid smile, showcasing what looks like an absurd amount of small teeth. Suddenly I feel like I’m on unsteady ground, my head is woozy while the room sways, my breath gets caught in my throat, my senses become dull and my heart is beating so loud it completely drowns the voices in the room. Petrified, with my eyes bulging, I realise that I am still holding the head of the animal, and I just stand there staring at it. With effort, I drag my focus back to my surroundings and the words become sharper, clearer, until finally, Adrian and Boyan’s laughter pierces through the fog.
‘Didn’t even think you’d catch it,’ Adrian says with a puff, struggling to get the words out amid his laughter. ‘Hop,’ he throws an invisible object to Boyan, who plays along, faking astonishment when catching the imaginary item.
A few hours pass, I am standing behind the bar with Adrian. We have been cleaning for most of the morning and early afternoon. He pours drinks into a tumbler, takes a sip, fixates me with a blank stare. I am squatting, dusting the wooden shelves underneath the bar table.
‘I’m sorry if I’ve been a bit tough on you these past few days,’ he pouts. I hand him another glass, he fills it up, throws out the carton. ‘Being interim manager comes with a lot of responsibilities,’ he tries to appear indifferent but I can sense a change in his voice, something bordering fear. ‘As you can imagine I wanted to make sure that everything runs smoothly in Robert’s absence.’ He doesn’t admit it, but I can tell that he is worried about Robert’s return tomorrow. The past two days, Adrian has been more attentive with customers, helped me clean and even offered to take out the trash last night on account that it was too heavy for me, although it was about the same as the nights he didn’t offer to help. ‘I like your shirt,’ he points to the uniform I’ve been wearing every day of this bloody week. I thank him, forcing myself to smile, he takes another sip from the glass before taking the drinks to the only customers in the restaurant, a family with two young children, a bored dad, and an attentive mother.
I start putting the glasses back once I finish dusting, while reflecting on the past week which has been peculiar, to say the least. Between the unorthodox payment arrangements, my colleagues’ living situation, and the unnatural control the owner has over his employees, there is nothing conventional about Galata. I haven’t seen Robert in over a week, since he went on holiday, but he has been calling from Romania every morning before work, and at night after my shift. As if on a timer, he calls almost exactly five minutes after I get home. Amidst the oddities he delves into – ranging from the mundane details of the dates he’s been on during his holiday, food his mum made, progress updates on his new house, as well as stomach-churning questions regarding my bathing rituals, and whether I play the flute, he asks me to spy on Adrian. Could it be a trap? After all, they are friends, as well as housemates. I could have said that Adrian delegated most of his tasks to me, while his cigarette breaks have increased in frequency and duration, but I try to keep the reports generic, not because I want to protect Adrian, but mostly because it feels weird to be a whistleblower, especially since I am pretty sure he asked Adrian to do the same. I am hoping that if I don’t get Adrian into trouble, he might reciprocate with kindness.
In the evening, the restaurant fills with couples, families, and groups of friends. Adrian decides he will take all orders, and I will be on busgirl duty, but when a group of young girls arrive, he completely forgets about other customers, presenting me with the opportunity to practice being a proper waiter. I take orders, fill up empty wine and water glasses, offer more drinks, persuade customers to order desserts. I feel content and in control. Adrian’s glamorous customers are wearing outfits fit for a night out: pretty makeup, styled hair, and deep, very deep- cut shirts. Every time they ask for something, Adrian responds eagerly, bringing forth his best attempts to be charming and funny, alongside a variety of freebies we don’t usually give out, like fresh mint tea, olives, Turkish delight (before the main course nonetheless) much like an eager puppy seeking to please its owner. He lingers at the girls’ table longer than necessary, and I feel sorry for them, and a little embarrassed for Adrian. While cleaning a nearby table, I overhear Alex asking the girls, ‘So ladies,’ constantly clenching and unclenching his palms, desperate to continue the conversation, ‘What are we celebrating today?’
Slurring her words, flirting back with Adrian, one of them responds, ‘It’s her birthday,’ and points to the girl sitting across the table, who seems asleep, squished between balloons and gift bags, her head leaning on the window – of course Adrian gave them the best table.
‘Bethany!’ Her friend yells. ‘Wake up!’ But Bethany remains still, if anything I think she starts snoring. ‘Shake her!’ She demands of the other friend, the one sitting closest to the birthday girl. ‘Wake her up,’ and she seems visibly concerned as she says this next bit, ‘She’s missing out on all the fun.’
Desperate to remain involved in the conversation Adrian offers, ‘More drinks ladies?’ But looking at Bethany, whose body twitches as her head momentarily droops, jolting her awake, it is evident that they don’t need more alcohol, a detail that no one seems to take into consideration.
‘What drinks can you give us?’ one of the girls entertains Adrian’s offer.
‘Jas-on’ Bethany says then drifts back to sleep. Her friend is gently shaking her to wake, but she is deeply asleep, a fuchsia Cheers to 20 balloon floating over her head.
‘More bubbles, wine, Turkish liquor maybe?’ Adrian spits out a list drinks, eagerly, but he is ignored, the girls’ attention now being fully focused on their friend. Seizing a chance he clearly doesn’t have, he asks, ‘Where are we going after this?’
‘We,’ the most sober one of the group says, visibly annoyed, ‘Are going to Havana Nights.’
‘Are you sure you don’t need a man to escort you?’
‘Excuse me sir,’ the girl puts her manicured hand in front of Adrian’s face, ‘We are kind of in the middle of something,’ looks to her friend, then back to Adrian, ‘Do you mind?’
In one final attempt to impress the girls or maybe to fish for an invite to go out with them, Adrian brings a large slice of Kadaif, an Eastern Mediterranean pastry made from thin strands of shredded phyllo dough, as a substitute for a birthday cake. He comes behind the bar to fetch a candle, where I am preparing drinks for some of the few tables that are left, and distracted, he asks, ‘When is your birthday?’
I hesitate for a moment before saying, ‘Today.’
As he lights the candle, becoming suddenly attentive, he turns to me and says, ‘We’ll have to celebrate,’ then leaves the bar as soon as the happy birthday song starts blasting from the speakers to the familiar rhythm but in Turkish. I step out of the bar to serve the drinks, and I hear Adrian say theatrically, pointing to himself, ‘Did anyone order en-ter-tain-ment?’ He pronounces each syllable in a low voice, trying, I think, to be seductive. The girls start clapping, take the cake, take pictures, and Adrian is once again forgotten. The rest of the shift passes with no other incidents worth mentioning.
Twenty minutes to midnight, Adrian and I are the last people in the restaurant, after the customers left, the cooks closed the kitchen and went up to their dormitories. We clean the tables, turn off the lights, and I am ready to leave, but Adrian asks me to wait.
‘I have a surprise for you,’ he announces, darting downstairs. Reluctantly, I wait by the bar in almost complete darkness, the streetlamps casting a shy light inside.
Adrian returns with a bowl filled with bulgur and rice, singing Happy Birthday. ‘So, how many candles should I be hunting down to match your age? Twenty?! When I was your age I was already four years into the workforce!’ He looks around, puzzled, ‘I don’t think I have that many,’ so he uses the candle that was sticking out of the kadaif earlier. I blow the candle, the room is dark again.
My family lost everything twice. The first time was during the forced collectivisation in the 60s, the second time after the revolution when they lost their right to restitution under a corrupt and bureaucratic government. Growing up, I bore witness to my parents' financial struggles and endured my father's absence for five years as he sought work in England to keep us afloat. I made a vow to myself that I would never experience the same financial instability in my adult life. Money doesn’t bring happiness, but it buys you a house in a safer area, better food, and easier access to healthcare. It allows you to buy your children ice cream when you take them to the park and to offer them a worry-free childhood, better education and prospects in life, and what is that if not happiness? I promised my future children this kind of prosperity and safety. Perhaps because of the influence of my father who deeply admired the British lifestyle and instilled in me a romantic view of the country, England, with its long-standing democratic values, orderly society and prestigious academic institutions, seemed like the place that could help me turn my ideals into reality.
When I moved, I didn't realise that becoming a migrant meant never feeling entirely at home anywhere. It is the trade-off for the enriched life I live, for the new experiences and opportunities. Upon arriving in Canterbury, even on a cold, rainy day, I fell in love with life in England. It's difficult to explain why; home is more of a feeling than a list of solid facts. Yet, no matter how much you come to cherish your adoptive country, it will never feel entirely like home. It won't be where you grew up or where your family's roots lie, it will never be the place where you are truly one of us, instead, you are one of them, an outsider to both worlds. On the other hand, while you may fondly remember your native land, time has a way of softening the negatives and accentuating the positives. It will never quite feel like home again after the rupture, as there will always be something missing: your new home, the new you.
I shift focus back to the bustling street. Even in this state of dread, I cannot help but acknowledge the beauty of this ancient city soaked in sunlight and feel touched by hope, as I watch the delivery drivers casually unloading their goods, leisurely chatting with the store owners and realise there can be joy in the mundane. Elegant, silver-haired ladies walk out of a department store, delicately clutching bags in well-manicured hands, a nod to a time when online shopping was not commonplace, the older generation reminds us that impracticality can be a rare indulgence in our fast-paced world. I envy the impeccably dressed tourists who walk slowly, gazing around in amazement, the couple who savours coffee in the sun, with the man flipping through the paper, the wife quietly observing the passersby, exchanging occasional comments among themselves. In this moment, life seems good and simple, yet this sensation wanes quickly, joy is a feeling that becomes more elusive, surviving only during my brisk walks from home to the restaurant and becoming increasingly difficult to resurrect with each shift.
There is nothing simple at the restaurant. The grey-haired ladies I encountered here don't indulge in leisurely shopping trips with pals; they toil twelve-hour shifts, seven days a week, in the hostile conditions of the kitchen. There are no carefully manicured hands here, just calloused palms and swollen fingers, the result of years of relentless manual labour and poor nutrition. One thing that Galata does have in common with the outside world, is the presence of tourists, who gush over the flashy decorations, oblivious to the chaos beneath, the split families of the staff bunking upstairs, the constant bickering, the night shifts that bleed into the early mornings and the minimal sleep before waking up to do it all again.
I find Adrian upstairs, sulking, holding a small knife – the one we use for slicing lemons because it’s sharp and precise. Standing by the till, leaning against the wall, he stares blankly at the emergency exit, vaguely aware of my presence. He doesn’t seem to register anything I say, just tilts his head slightly when I walk to the closet where I drop my bag. He follows me with empty eyes, cleaning some invisible dust particles off the blade, then starts spinning the knife between his fingers.
‘I am efficient,’ he begins, ‘Robert’s most reliable asset.’ He starts tapping the tip of the knife with his finger, ‘I show up, I serve, I bow, I lift, I run,’ looking attentively at the cutlery I am polishing am I doing it wrong? carries on, ‘What more can he want from me?’ and swings his hand, still holding the knife, which cuts through the air, ‘I work my ass off, God damn it, I do double shifts most days and what do I get?’ he stops, looking confused he corrects himself, ‘better said, let me tell you what I don’t get,’ I stare at Adrian, who has found a more palpable outlet for his anger: he is slicing a lemon into very thin slices, ‘Well, not even one thousand pounds a month.’
The only thing worse than taking orders from someone you are scared of is having to feel sorry for them and find something consoling to say. I give him my best: ‘That’s awful.’
He is peeling off the skin, which he smells and then throws away. ‘If only I could break a thousand pounds per month,’ he says gesticulating again, swinging the knife slightly too close to me for comfort, but I remain stunned, unmoved, the only response I am capable of is to raise an eyebrow. He raises his eyebrows but doesn’t say anything, puts down the knife, then says, I’m not sure if to me or himself, because he lowers his voice so much that I can hardly hear the following sentence, ‘then I could save enough to leave this place.’
I stare at the 100% from concentrate label on the apple juice, which we advertise as 100% natural, frowning, wondering why it’s not in the fridge, and for some reason unbeknown to me, I feel compelled to ask, ‘Why?’
‘Well,’ puzzled, Adrian explains, ‘I hate working for this asshole.’ I ask which one, he says all of them, we both laugh, ‘But especially Robert! I never wanted to work for him, but I had to.’ After a moment of hesitation, ‘I owned him money,’ then, reluctantly, ‘For a gambling debt.’ I don’t say anything, but I’ve noticed that for Adrian and Robert, that just means carry on. ‘I borrowed a few thousand euros from some people,’ he lifts his shoulders, twists his lips, nods his head from side to side as if saying you know what people I’m talking about, ‘Then I borrowed money from Robert to pay them.’ With a sigh, ‘Of course, I couldn’t pay him back, so I had to come work for him.’
‘Malaka!’ Boyan interrupts, shouting from the top of the stairs, arms waiving above his head, ‘Coffee when?’ He asks tapping his left wrist.
‘Are you going to twist those skewers any quicker if I make you coffee?’ Adrian shouts back, then whispers to me in Romanian, ‘Make an americano for the looser, but make it decaf.’
I pick up the cup, then the scoop, but when I reach for the grounds I look at Adrian to double check, ‘Decaf?’
Adrian puts a finger over his lips, which he squeezes into a pout, ‘Just do it,’ he says winking and blows me a kiss.
The emergency exit door opens and Gulizar comes out of the staff quarters, walks into the restaurant and the three of us stare at her. She is pale, moves slowly, seems unwell.
‘Ooh, our long lost princess!’ Adrian exclaims, then more seriously asks, ‘Aren’t you a bit late for your shift, or do the elderly get preferential treatment?’
‘Cut,’ the woman waves her hand up and down, ‘It,’ she says with a strong Turkish accent ‘Ill, hot,’ touching her forehead.
Adrian takes a step back, almost hops, ‘Then stay the hell away from me!’ Boyan interferes, soothingly, ‘You look worse than Adrian.’ Then adds, smugly, ‘And that is something.’ ‘Hey!’ Adrian shouts, hurt.
‘Don’t get mad, baby, you’re just not my type,’ Boyan says, Adrian ignores him, turns to me.
‘Do you think I’m ugly?’
‘I think he’s just messing with you,’ I say, trying to sound consoling.
‘That’s beside the point,’ Adrian adds, annoyed, throwing a cloth at me, then takes off his glasses, and asks again, ‘Do you think I’m ugly?’
‘No,’ then I add quickly, ‘Of course not,’ scared of offending his fragile ego. ‘Call GQ,’ Boyan tells me. ‘Tell them you found someone new for their next cover,’ then to Adrian, ‘Do you do nudes, handsome?’ Posing, chest forward, hand on chin, ‘Or do you not want everyone to see that you have a small penis?’
‘If you must know, I’ve had offers, I am also very good with the ladies, and I don’t have a small penis,’ Adrian says in one breath, red-faced, visibly upset by the direction the conversation is heading towards.
‘This is too much for me to think about at twelve in the afternoon,’ Boyan puts his hands up, leaves.
Gulizar drags her feet, walking very slowly downstairs.
‘Should she be working?’ I ask Adrian, genuinely concerned about our colleague’s well-being as well the possibility of her spreading whatever virus she has to us and the customers.
‘Good one, sick leave, sure,’ Adrian bursts into laughter, ‘Right after Mustafa calls his private doctor to check on her,’ he says ironically, ‘Are you out of your mind? Who would replace her?’
‘I don’t know,’ I add hesitantly ‘Can’t the other chefs cover?’ ‘Well, if they could, why keep her on the payroll?’
‘But she’s sick.’ ‘Do you really–’
‘Adrian?’ We hear Boyan’s ragged voice over the radio, covered by static. ‘What?’
We hear nothing back, he turns to me, continues, ‘Do you really think–’ he is interrupted again, by a loud, deafening crackling noise, and some distant voices. Synchronously, we both distance the headset from our ears.
‘Ad-’ Boyan makes another attempt before his voice is yet again swallowed by the radio demons, by which point Adrian is fuming, screams into the microphone, ‘What, what do you want?’
Boyan, unfazed, tries again. ‘Adrian.’
Static.
‘Adrian, your friend the butcher is here, come.’
‘God. Damn it!’ he says as he runs down the stairs. A minute later, he comes back, snaps his fingers, asks me to help unload the meat, says it has to be done quickly.
The butcher, a man in his forties, walks in dragging several crates packed full of vacuum-sealed bags. He sweeps his gaze over me, tracing a path from the crown of my head to the tips of my toes. ‘Get me a cup of tea, sweetheart,’ he requests, then turns to Boyan, says something in Turkish, both men look at me and start laughing, then the butcher lifts four fingers in my face and says, ‘Four sugars please.’ I look at Adrian, who approves with a subtle nod, I fetch the tea, the butcher man is pleased. Though compact in appearance, he moves with confidence, and in a matter of minutes, he unloads the meat with swift, precise motions. He demands three hundred seventy-five pounds for the meat. Adrian scribbles something down and hands him a cheque which he carefully folds and puts in his chest pocket. The man then takes a seat, sips his tea, chatting with the kitchen staff. Boyan starts carrying the crates upstairs, ‘Grab two of these, follow him,’ Adrian tells me. My arms are shaking under the weight of the crates, I lean back trying to support their weight against my small frame, but at 5’3 and 50 kg, carrying the load two floors up feels like a Sisyphean task. Adrian passes me by with the rest of the meat, and since I am moving slower than the guys, I find them both giggling when I reach the freezer. I put the crates down in the dimly lit freezer when–
‘Think fast!’ Adrian screams, throwing something. Instinctively, I reach my arms to catch the flying object. It feels wet and slimy in my palms, I look down to the undefined lump in my hands. I am holding the skinned head of an animal, a sheep maybe? Its lidless eyes are staring at me, and the absence of lips stunned the animal into a morbid smile, showcasing what looks like an absurd amount of small teeth. Suddenly I feel like I’m on unsteady ground, my head is woozy while the room sways, my breath gets caught in my throat, my senses become dull and my heart is beating so loud it completely drowns the voices in the room. Petrified, with my eyes bulging, I realise that I am still holding the head of the animal, and I just stand there staring at it. With effort, I drag my focus back to my surroundings and the words become sharper, clearer, until finally, Adrian and Boyan’s laughter pierces through the fog.
‘Didn’t even think you’d catch it,’ Adrian says with a puff, struggling to get the words out amid his laughter. ‘Hop,’ he throws an invisible object to Boyan, who plays along, faking astonishment when catching the imaginary item.
A few hours pass, I am standing behind the bar with Adrian. We have been cleaning for most of the morning and early afternoon. He pours drinks into a tumbler, takes a sip, fixates me with a blank stare. I am squatting, dusting the wooden shelves underneath the bar table.
‘I’m sorry if I’ve been a bit tough on you these past few days,’ he pouts. I hand him another glass, he fills it up, throws out the carton. ‘Being interim manager comes with a lot of responsibilities,’ he tries to appear indifferent but I can sense a change in his voice, something bordering fear. ‘As you can imagine I wanted to make sure that everything runs smoothly in Robert’s absence.’ He doesn’t admit it, but I can tell that he is worried about Robert’s return tomorrow. The past two days, Adrian has been more attentive with customers, helped me clean and even offered to take out the trash last night on account that it was too heavy for me, although it was about the same as the nights he didn’t offer to help. ‘I like your shirt,’ he points to the uniform I’ve been wearing every day of this bloody week. I thank him, forcing myself to smile, he takes another sip from the glass before taking the drinks to the only customers in the restaurant, a family with two young children, a bored dad, and an attentive mother.
I start putting the glasses back once I finish dusting, while reflecting on the past week which has been peculiar, to say the least. Between the unorthodox payment arrangements, my colleagues’ living situation, and the unnatural control the owner has over his employees, there is nothing conventional about Galata. I haven’t seen Robert in over a week, since he went on holiday, but he has been calling from Romania every morning before work, and at night after my shift. As if on a timer, he calls almost exactly five minutes after I get home. Amidst the oddities he delves into – ranging from the mundane details of the dates he’s been on during his holiday, food his mum made, progress updates on his new house, as well as stomach-churning questions regarding my bathing rituals, and whether I play the flute, he asks me to spy on Adrian. Could it be a trap? After all, they are friends, as well as housemates. I could have said that Adrian delegated most of his tasks to me, while his cigarette breaks have increased in frequency and duration, but I try to keep the reports generic, not because I want to protect Adrian, but mostly because it feels weird to be a whistleblower, especially since I am pretty sure he asked Adrian to do the same. I am hoping that if I don’t get Adrian into trouble, he might reciprocate with kindness.
In the evening, the restaurant fills with couples, families, and groups of friends. Adrian decides he will take all orders, and I will be on busgirl duty, but when a group of young girls arrive, he completely forgets about other customers, presenting me with the opportunity to practice being a proper waiter. I take orders, fill up empty wine and water glasses, offer more drinks, persuade customers to order desserts. I feel content and in control. Adrian’s glamorous customers are wearing outfits fit for a night out: pretty makeup, styled hair, and deep, very deep- cut shirts. Every time they ask for something, Adrian responds eagerly, bringing forth his best attempts to be charming and funny, alongside a variety of freebies we don’t usually give out, like fresh mint tea, olives, Turkish delight (before the main course nonetheless) much like an eager puppy seeking to please its owner. He lingers at the girls’ table longer than necessary, and I feel sorry for them, and a little embarrassed for Adrian. While cleaning a nearby table, I overhear Alex asking the girls, ‘So ladies,’ constantly clenching and unclenching his palms, desperate to continue the conversation, ‘What are we celebrating today?’
Slurring her words, flirting back with Adrian, one of them responds, ‘It’s her birthday,’ and points to the girl sitting across the table, who seems asleep, squished between balloons and gift bags, her head leaning on the window – of course Adrian gave them the best table.
‘Bethany!’ Her friend yells. ‘Wake up!’ But Bethany remains still, if anything I think she starts snoring. ‘Shake her!’ She demands of the other friend, the one sitting closest to the birthday girl. ‘Wake her up,’ and she seems visibly concerned as she says this next bit, ‘She’s missing out on all the fun.’
Desperate to remain involved in the conversation Adrian offers, ‘More drinks ladies?’ But looking at Bethany, whose body twitches as her head momentarily droops, jolting her awake, it is evident that they don’t need more alcohol, a detail that no one seems to take into consideration.
‘What drinks can you give us?’ one of the girls entertains Adrian’s offer.
‘Jas-on’ Bethany says then drifts back to sleep. Her friend is gently shaking her to wake, but she is deeply asleep, a fuchsia Cheers to 20 balloon floating over her head.
‘More bubbles, wine, Turkish liquor maybe?’ Adrian spits out a list drinks, eagerly, but he is ignored, the girls’ attention now being fully focused on their friend. Seizing a chance he clearly doesn’t have, he asks, ‘Where are we going after this?’
‘We,’ the most sober one of the group says, visibly annoyed, ‘Are going to Havana Nights.’
‘Are you sure you don’t need a man to escort you?’
‘Excuse me sir,’ the girl puts her manicured hand in front of Adrian’s face, ‘We are kind of in the middle of something,’ looks to her friend, then back to Adrian, ‘Do you mind?’
In one final attempt to impress the girls or maybe to fish for an invite to go out with them, Adrian brings a large slice of Kadaif, an Eastern Mediterranean pastry made from thin strands of shredded phyllo dough, as a substitute for a birthday cake. He comes behind the bar to fetch a candle, where I am preparing drinks for some of the few tables that are left, and distracted, he asks, ‘When is your birthday?’
I hesitate for a moment before saying, ‘Today.’
As he lights the candle, becoming suddenly attentive, he turns to me and says, ‘We’ll have to celebrate,’ then leaves the bar as soon as the happy birthday song starts blasting from the speakers to the familiar rhythm but in Turkish. I step out of the bar to serve the drinks, and I hear Adrian say theatrically, pointing to himself, ‘Did anyone order en-ter-tain-ment?’ He pronounces each syllable in a low voice, trying, I think, to be seductive. The girls start clapping, take the cake, take pictures, and Adrian is once again forgotten. The rest of the shift passes with no other incidents worth mentioning.
Twenty minutes to midnight, Adrian and I are the last people in the restaurant, after the customers left, the cooks closed the kitchen and went up to their dormitories. We clean the tables, turn off the lights, and I am ready to leave, but Adrian asks me to wait.
‘I have a surprise for you,’ he announces, darting downstairs. Reluctantly, I wait by the bar in almost complete darkness, the streetlamps casting a shy light inside.
Adrian returns with a bowl filled with bulgur and rice, singing Happy Birthday. ‘So, how many candles should I be hunting down to match your age? Twenty?! When I was your age I was already four years into the workforce!’ He looks around, puzzled, ‘I don’t think I have that many,’ so he uses the candle that was sticking out of the kadaif earlier. I blow the candle, the room is dark again.
As a Romanian living in the UK, Irina Cristache-Taylor draws from her experience working in restaurants to portray the dangerous and invisible world of immigrant workers. Having witnessed the abuse migrants face, she aims to shed light on these environments, hoping that awareness can catalyse change.
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