I suppose it’s not too far-fetched for a beautiful woman to ask me if it’s kosher. My kebab, that is. Not too bizarre if you consider I was in the center of Belgrade, a very Jewish looking man perched on a stool for all the world to see, tearing into a chicken kebab like someone who has never seen Balkan fast food before.
I’d just taken my first bite when she lent up against my table and popped the question.
“Erm, I don’t think so,” I replied, intrigued by her sudden appearance and immediate intimacy.
She had something of a French resistance fighter look with her dark curly hair, round glasses and beige raincoat. “Just asking,” she said with a smile. “Please, don’t let me stop you. You’re a skinny man, you should eat.”
I didn’t like being called skinny. “I’m trying to fatten myself up. This is my second time here in two days.”
“Oh, then it must be good. So where are you from?”
I’d been wandering around Belgrade alone the last few days and the sudden attention from her ran through me like electricity. I told her I was from London but now living in Budapest.
“I’ve never been. What’s it like? What do you do for fun in Budapest?”
I looked like a bum or an animal, with my four day beard and hair I’d stopped caring about, kebab juice down my jacket and fingers covered with ketchup. Yet here I was, on a mild September evening in Belgrade, having a spontaneous conversation with a pretty, humorous and mysterious woman. She couldn’t be interested in me, could she? Was she really kosher?
I was going to tell her about the bars in Budapest when she continued, “I should have more fun. I used to, when I was younger. When I lived in America I had fun. But now I don’t, not so much.”
“We only have this moment,” I said, trying to sound inspiring. Was I telling her to seize this moment or myself?
“You remind me of someone. A friend from America. You look like him. I miss him a lot.”
“Handsome is he?” I joked. She didn’t seem to hear.
“That’s why I’m talking to you, you see. It’s like talking to my friend again.”
I could feel myself starting to attach to her.
“So it’s good is it, your food? I’m thinking about buying one, but I don’t eat meat, well, I’ve been thinking about starting again. But I’m not sure if I can stomach it. Shall I buy one? What do you think?”
She began counting out bank notes while looking dubiously at the sweating hunks of meat being sliced off the skewer. Inside I was saying, “Buy one, buy one, go get one then sit next to me and eat and talk and talk…
With a sigh, she strode into the restaurant. I looked at the stool next to me and imagined her sitting there.
Then she was back. “I couldn’t do it. I just can’t stomach it. I’m going to check out another place. Bye, nice to meet you.”
I was alone again. A bum with a four day beard and hair I’d stopped caring about, kebab juice down my jacket. People looked warily at me as they passed. She’ll be back, I thought. I just couldn’t imagine her not coming back or not ever hearing her voice again.
She came back.
