by Kate Brown
We are a funny story, my brother and I. Twins of Africa in a kitchen on wheels the size of a cupboard, we serve tourists baguettes and pain au chocolat, in the gardens adjoining the square where the tricoteuses did their knitting, heads were chopped and blood fed the gutters. Sometimes, when I have a really sharp knife in my hand, I wish…
My brother is the sweet one, the queue on his side of the booth is always longer. “You were lazy coming out of the womb,” he tells me. I smile. Smiling is not something I do very much. My brother smiles at all his customers. I save my smile for the ones who smile first, the ones who smile with their eyes.
The man who owns our kitchen wagon is Paul. He is a name on our white uniforms. He is four yellow letters. Each morning, my brother pins his name tag on top of the letters, concealing them entirely, pretending they are not there. I pin my badge just a little higher up my breast than the P, the A, the U and the L. I think myself to a place above this person we have never seen.
The man who turns up every day and tells us what to do, the man who thinks he owns us, is called Mohammed. When my brother and I get home in the evenings and turn on the light, I try to stamp on at least one cockroach before they run and hide. This is what I would like to do to Mohammed.
My brother's name is Souleymane. I am Haïdara. These are not the names we wear tagged for all to see.
“Too muslim,” said Mohammed.
“What? The tourists'll think we're going to fly the baguette stand into the side of the Louvre?” My brother smiled. He still looked kind. Mohammed was confused.
I suggested we call ourselves Sophie and Frederic.
“That's too French. The tourists are foreigners. Good German names, that's what you need.”
I chose Ingrid. I thought it was a beautiful name. I wasn't sure if it was German, but Mohammed was satisfied. He said something about Ingrid Bergman and started licking his lips. Souleymane had spent a day visiting a cousin in Berlin last year. He knew one German name, he said. He'd seen a mother hitting her little boy on the U-Bahn and shouting at him. The boy's name was Kevin.
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This story was previously published in The Linnet's Wings, Spring 2009 and in Blue Print Review, 2010.
Audio version coming in a couple of months time with 4'33"
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"I save my smile..." the protag's voice and actions captured me completely.
Thanks, Julie. It's great you enjoyed it so much.
there is so much in this story.
loved the contrast of words in the title ('revolution') / first line ('funny story') / and then the story itself.
the story also made me think of children in india / se-asia who sell souvenirs and tea and stuff to tourists, and learn english and other languages while doing so.
Thanks, Dorothee. Glad you enjoyed the read. It's so helpful to hear what people make of what I've written.
sooo good! the story leading to "Ingrid" and "Kevin" is marvelous. i'm glad you didnt go for "roberto" (rossellini) or this would've been a different piece...and (2nd tongue!) i can see you've got round!
Thanks, Finn. Glad you enjoyed it!
Beautiful. I particularly loved the way in which each twin processes his and her own harrowing history into the moment.
Thanks for taking the time to read my story, Carol. I get so much out of all the different comments. It's truly appreciated.
I keep coming back to this because of your characters; you've made them so strong yet vulnerable. One twin making a statement, the other so protective of self.
A vignette that reveals so much more if you peek into it. Nice.
Thanks, Sue. It's interesting, whenever I've re-read the story my main concern has been that it might be too dense. I discover new meanings of my own. It's been great to find out about the layers other readers see - and that the density seems to attract rather than putting off.
Kate, I think I would describe this piece as faceted rather than dense. New glints of meaning with each read.
Thanks, Carol. Facets make me very happy!
Wow. I love how much you cram in this very few words. I get a good sense of these immigrants and of their discomfort in their surroundings, but also their sweetness and youth (at least, they come across as youthful--teens or young adults).
Really wonderful story, Kate!
I let this one work on me for a day or two before returning to read it again, and it is as I thought it would be: a living thing.
How lovely to wake in the morning and find your comments. Sometimes the variety of time zones delivers secret pleasures. Thanks for reading and commenting. So happy you enjoyed it.
Kate,
Great vignette. I love the punch line. A warm-hearted look at two appealing young people.
Thanks, Jack. Glad you liked it.
I like the stories behind it, hearing that this narrator doesn't smile unless the other person smiles first and with their eyes. It's interesting.
Thank you, Catherine.
There's so much happening within this short yet powerful story. I particularly like the renaming of the kids.
“Too muslim,” said Mohammed.
“What? The tourists'll think we're going to fly the baguette stand into the side of the Louvre?” My brother smiled. He still looked kind. Mohammed was confused.
It made me think of calling tech support and getting an Indian rep with a name like Pete or something. This story took me several different places and it showed me things. Nice job.
Great writing; sadly and yet almost serenely surrealistically realistic. I like this a lot.