Banana Call

A Story by Cal Whimsey

In the life of an expat, uprooted and blown miles away by the wind, peculiar things happen.

She was sitting on a kitchen chair. Toes curling nervously, shoulders tense, her fingers hugging a cup of coffee. It is crucial for the development of the story to mention right at the beginning that neither the chair nor the kitchen were known to her.

Neither was the cup, for that matter. The coffee in it was, but not dearly. She was absolutely not fond of coffee capsules and only drank capsule coffee out of politeness if offered and not given an alternative. She always found them vaguely futuristic in their compactness and ease of use. It was the disconnectedness of the coffee and the human preparing it that struck her as weirdly sci-fi.

She’ll be here any minute. She smiled.

She smiled back. There was nothing to add. Nothing to talk about. Not that she wasn’t nice, she was. She really was. But so guarded. Of course, it’s good to be self-aware and not give away too much. In the end, she wasn’t the one about to be interviewed. She was well past it. She’s been living there for a couple of months now.

Well, that’s what she said. And only now it strikes her as an incredibly vague piece of information. Just like all of her answers so far. IT. Smile. What she answered when she asked her about her job. Sure. Smile. Whether she liked living there. A little. Did she speak the language of this country, foreign to both of them. Not really. Whether she was learning it. Don’t think so. Might it be useful for her to learn it. Okay then.

She just wasn’t as terse as her. By no means. She liked words. She preferred words to just smiles. Words are the entry ticket to one’s personality, to one’s soul, one’s experiences waiting to be shared. An honest exchange. Start of a friendship. In some cases. I’m here to work on my writing. Smile, but only a short one. Didn’t meet with the same reaction. I’m starting my PhD in literature in two weeks.

Oh.

Yeah. It’s exciting, but also terrifying. I just don’t know what to expect. Being admitted doesn’t guarantee that I’ll be good at it.

They are here. I’m going to open the door for them. As though beckoning her to keep her monologues for the right audience. So she did.

Steps, voices, whispers, more steps.

Hi. Good to meet you. Sorry to keep you waiting.

That’s completely fine. I’m happy you invited me for the interview.

Thank you for coming and waiting. My name is… and this is my daughter, … .

Hi, my name is…

Have you been shown around the flat?

Yes, thank you. I’ve seen the room, the kitchen, the bathroom. The flat is really beautiful and stylish and the room looks cozy. I’m just concerned about the fact that there is no wardrobe. There is a lot of space on the shelves, but I could use a proper wardrobe to hang clothes in…

The conversation started off with practical issues regarding the flat, the room in question mainly, questions and answers of pragmatic nature. Mundane. She was happy to chat a little about the weather, then about the landlady’s cat, her daughter’s dog and the hamster who resided in a spacious cage in the hallway. She had had bunnies when she was a child. She loved both of them. She talked about them. How she got them, why she named them like she did, why she thinks bunnies enjoy a special place in the realm of little furry friends to humans. Noble creatures. Quiet and humble.

The landlady listened. She had a constant smile on her face. Made sure she did. It was a skill acquired through years of practice and necessity. A woman of mature age, with a grown-up daughter, a cat, a career and a so many rooms she some of them to young expats living in her town. Stray kittens to be rescued from drowning in the river. Life’s vicissitudes taught her to hide what she thought behind a subtle smile. Unchanging, revealing very little.

She asked her about her life before coming to their country. She was pleased to have her talk about herself. Just what she needed to safely evaluate whether she’s serious enough to pay her rent on time, to clean after herself, to keep her room in order. It’s fair to expect her to share things about her so she can decide whether she’s a good fit for their flat. She will tell her all that is necessary for her to know. It’s an honest exchange. Start of good and peaceful flat-sharing.

They started renting free rooms to tenants when her daughter was a child. They’ve had many of them. Thinking back, there must have been over twenty-five of them over the last fifteen years. Coming and going. It’s a constant hustle, but she has good memories of most of them. There have been a couple of strange ones at interviews though. The one who started smelling the curtains to make sure she wasn’t using a particular brand of detergent he suspected he was allergic to. Or the girl, a biology major, who wanted to grow different kinds of mushrooms in her room. She was to keep them in glass containers and asked to raise humidity in her room to a point where walls would grow mildew. So bizarre.

Her daughter was used to these encounters even as a child. In fact, she had a pretty keen sense of reading people. She could quickly uncover their weirdness. Perhaps everyone has some degree thereof, but some degrees of weirdness are just unsuitable for flat-sharing. For these moments of discovery, they had this funny little agreement. Her and her daughter. She would use a safe word: banana. Incorporate it in a sentence somehow. She was creative enough even as a small child. A potential tenant would talk about his interest in tropical spiders or her vast collections of sneakers she wanted to keep in the flat and the child would go: Mom, can I have a banana?

Tell me again, what is it you do at the moment?

I’m starting a PhD in literature in two weeks.

Oh. What will you do when you finish your degree?

Well, that’s a question waiting to be answered. I didn’t really come here to boost my career prospects. A PhD in literature, it’s not a thing one does to land a better job. It’s out of pure love for the written word. I’m actually a writer.

A writer? Of… what? Sme was smiling warmly. The smile inviting her to talk more, to open up.

The true reason I’m here is that I needed new experiences and a change of surroundings to improve my writing. One improves writing not just by honing and polishing one’s style, enriching one’s vocabulary or, on the contrary, making it more precise to express oneself concisely yet straight to the point. It’s first and foremost, she smiled, a question of what rather than how.

There was a brief silence in the room. Just brief though.

You know, one needs to have stuff to write about. Then they can experiment with writing techniques, with switching perspectives, with subtle playing with words.

You like to play with words? She kept smiling.

That’s what makes even the dullest text interesting. But idea is what comes first. Taking a pen in your hand si what you do at the very end. After you have thought it through.

After you have thought it through, right? Her smile unchanging.

Absolutely. She smiled even more. Her face glowing. Maybe her next landlady is a book lover. Kindred spirit. I wonder where she keeps her books. She hasn’t noticed bookcases yet.

I’m sure writing can be profitable when you do it well and diligently. Perhaps you also need good contacts to get your writing published, to build your readership.

That’s another thing I need to work on. The world of publishing is entirely foreign to me. I hope to get to know some people. Perhaps find an internship in a publishing house. That would be a great opportunity. Useful in so many ways.

Hmm. She nodded and smiled.

And what is your favourite genre if I may ask?

I don’t have much time to read these days. She was smiling. There was a good book that I read years ago. Maybe you know it… What was the title? It was such a compelling story…

What was it about? She asked excitedly. Her smile widening. A kindred spirit after all.

About the harsh life of slaves on a banana plantation.