Fermata

“Are you from Texas?” A guest at the table asks Layla this while she's going through her mental list of the next several processes in line to achieve optimum server function. As she repeats one table’s order in her head, she's thinking about another table’s missing duck breast, the wine bottle she needed to retrieve from the cellar downstairs, and the dessert menu she needed to drop at a table of women whose teeth, she could assume, were beginning to sweeten by the sounds of curiosity about their dinner's epilogue. As her eyes flit around the room, she sees the bar-top is a full queue of drinks that are getting warm while the service bartender is all elbows- shaking like his lil’ life depends on it. She can't tell if it’s condensation from the shaker tins or sweat flying but it is wet back there. She's relieved to notice someone is clearing one of her tables for her then immediately less relieved that every table in sight needs either water or bread and people are fanning themselves with menus. She hears more drink tickets printing and bows her head to give the bartender psychic regards.

“Texas? No. I’m from Somalia by way of Virginia.” She laughs with hardly enough time to ask why she asked before this patron retorts: “tHEn WhAt iS tHaT?” she’s pointing at Layla's chest and she looks down to see her very prominent Africa pendant. She looks at the person who asked this astonishing question, then takes a gander around the table at the other guests, hoping to see a mouth agape or an incredulous look in their one dumb friend’s direction. In her head she's still repeating “halloumi, hindbe, beiruti, carrots, shrimp, ribeye.” Her gaze is met by four blank faces looking up at her, eagerly awaiting a response. Her eyebrows had to be touching her hairline while her brain froze because she didn't know how to say “this is the continent of Africa” without sounding like an asshole. There are only seven continents, they’re on every globe (depicted smaller than scale on most) and a part of it was on the back of the menus in front of them. An error message is displayed on the main operating screen of her brain, the page is not found; all she knew was fine dining and breathing.

She remembered during her tedious training process, being reminded that it’s not her job to correct the guest. The human ego is a fragile thing and in the business of professional people-pleasing, the customer was always right. She considered doing it in Oprah’s voice as it felt non-threatening, white people like Oprah- she’s rich. “This. Is. The. Continent. Of. AFRICAAAAAA!” It had been less than three seconds and she'd already run through all these different scenarios when she heard two shaker tins knock together as she watched a napkin drop in slow motion like an outtake from the movie “The Butterfly Effect,” and she snapped back to reality. “This is the continent of Africa, I’ll be right back with your drinks!” She delivers it like a standup comic ending a set. “My name is Layla Mohamed, you guys have been great!”

She picked up the napkin and scampered to the point of sale system by the bar to put in the order that her mind had been clinging to through the previous scene of jackassery. She asked the first server she saw to run her drinks for her explaining that those people had just asked her if her necklace was Texas. “Shut the fuck up. Again?” her coworker was only half-surprised. It happened so often, she had started calling it her Tex-lace. They agreed to run each other's drinks because he was avoiding his table for another, less ignorant yet still, draining reason. This was a typical scene of the emotional and mental gymnastics that people in the business of hospitality went through on a daily basis at work. It's almost as if creating an absolute sense of home for others displaces you from the home you find within yourself. She looked down to find a new, folded napkin in one hand and a full water bottle in the other with some surprise as if they appeared from thin air. She dropped off the napkin with the person who hadn't realized they lost theirs some moments ago on her way to tempt the gaggle of ladies with an after dinner treat, irrigating the dining room on her way through.

The night began to slow, the guests spoke less and more quietly as the glaze of glutton graced their eyes. A peculiar old man dining alone in tweed called for her attention with no sense of drama or urgency that instantly endeared her to him. As she approached the table, he wiped the corners of his mouth and returned his napkin to its resting place on his lap. "What an interesting wine list you have here," he murmured without looking up from the selections. A response she had grown accustomed to; however, his did not stink of the typical sneering Francophilia she was accustomed to. "Yes, we aim to stay true to the regions our menu represents rather than pander to the sensibilities of Eurocentric wine culture." She rethought this wordy and potentially polarizing response as it slipped from her lips but relaxed when she saw a playful smirk appear on his face. "I'm not familiar with any of these varietals, what would you drink?" She looked at the plates in front of him and asked if he was expecting any other dishes. "Regardless of the food, which wine sings you a song- that's the wine I'll have, money is no object." Her eyes lit up as she thought of the perfect wine and began to explain a selection when he silenced her with a short shake of the hand- "Just bring the bottle."

She began her descent into the cellar, a cool dark oasis where you could feel the hum of service proceeding upstairs without being personally assaulted by it. With her finger tips dragging across labels, she reveled in this short vacation from human interaction as she searched for the perfect bottle. "Of course," she threw her hands up to the camera or the heavens- either eye in the sky examining her mortal toil. The bottle she was looking for had not yet been restocked so she looked at the unopened case sitting under two other cases and rethought her choice. "I mean, he doesn't know which one I was gonna pick." Something stirred in her and her hospitality calling or work ethic moved her to lift, drag, and rearrange until she was looking at the case that she needed. The wooden crate had dramatic cursive lettering that read "Fermata" across it that appeared to be burnt into the surface. She looked briefly around the room for the flathead screwdriver they employed for the occasion of prying such a case open and found it atop a stool. She envied its position for a moment, thinking of what she would do to sit on a stool in this room all night- unbothered.

The wine was of the natural variety, one produced without sulfites, so it had a bit of unpredictability to it. The producers were a quirky lesbian couple whose ethos was grounded in that same sense of unpredictability. They planted the grapes at different times every year, let them sit on the skins for cycles that varied with the moon, aged the wine at random- sometimes in oak barrels, sometimes in cow intestines, sometimes steel. One was a musician and heiress to a great mining fortune, the other a retired chemist. They found this song and science the most satisfying and were equally delighted by the rub they caused to traditionalists and wine snobs. The fact of the matter was, the wine they managed to produce against all odds of practice was, in fact, delicious. It could not be denied. This vintage was particularly fresh, juicy, with bright fruit notes not undermined by an earthy subtlety. It was the perfect wine for any time and she admired their freedom from afar as she wobbled the screwdriver back and forth between the lid and the side-panel. She heard a crack rip through the air and echo, the sound ricocheting from bottle to bottle as she leveraged her weight to remove the rest of the lid.

A small cloud of sawdust and wood shavings sprayed out as it opened and she regretted having her mouth open. She pulled out a bottle and started up the stairs but that worker bee buzzed in her deepest consciousness and she returned to the case to restock the shelf it belonged on. There was something about leaving a job half done that irked her to her very core. She mused that this was capitalist conditioning as she carried on pulling bottles from crate to shelf. Upon pulling the last bottle out she heard a small thump from inside the crate as if something had fallen over. She peered inside to see a small black book and looked, incredulously, at this aberration appearing before her. She picked it up and quickly flipped through it to find hand-drawn sheet music, perplexed but running out of time- she slipped it into her apron and ran back upstairs with the bottle as the automatic timer in her mind began to go off.

On her way past the kitchen, the chef shoved a plate into her one empty hand and shouted a table number that she only vaguely registered until she was upon it and realized it was her destination all along. The man in tweed adjusted his glasses as she set down the plate in front of him, she watched him take in the aroma of a spice blend exotic to him but reminiscent of her mother's kitchen. She presented the bottle facing him and began her spiel "The 2018 Fermata blaufränkisch. The producers are an eccentric pairing and their wine is too..." she artfully begins the process of opening the bottle without breaking eye contact "...the name "Fermata" refers to the musical symbol that suggests a note should be held longer than standard duration..." the bottle is always facing him as she twists the wine key through the cork '...the grapes are picked when they're overripe and left to sit on the skins for much longer than a standard blaufränkisch. One of the producers is a musician, the other a chemist." Her cadence is timed perfectly, as she finishes this blurb to pour a taste into the glass she didn't even remember bringing to the table.

"Fermata, huh? Clever," he swirled the wine around his glass and took a deep inhale. "It was the obvious choice when you said to choose the wine that 'sings me a song;' although, I would have picked it no matter your phrasing- it's truly my favorite. I hope you feel the same," she waited expectantly as he takes his first sip and swallows. His eyes closed, head slightly tilted toward the sconce behind him, candlelight dancing on his face amidst his contemplation. "This is the last wine I would have chosen," she deflated as he began, "but I'm thrilled I didn't have to do the choosing because this song is a beautiful symphony of sound." Her sphincter relaxed at this news and she smiled at him earnestly. "A chemist and a musician have more in common than you'd think- studying patterns and timing, fine motor skills. They make an excellent team," he continued musing while she fiddled with the napkin she was holding. "It's a nice testament to how good things sometimes take longer than expected."

The glint in her eye dulled as she began to think of the self-sustaining beach house she had invested most of her time outside of work and funds into building. It had been five years since she bought it and every time she made a step forward, life pushed her ten steps back. Her goal was to escape the capitalistic rat-race hellscape she currently found herself settled in and live off the land, primarily in solitude- save her dog, Luna, and her housemate Rufus. She further deflated thinking of how she would spend the very next day, her only day off that week, on her hands and knees- ripping up rotting floor boards in the barely-operational kitchen. In another world, she could hire some help and be done in absolutely no time but there was no use in thinking of other worlds when she was so clearly bound to this one. Daydreaming was a privilege afforded to those who can exist between the world of possibility and reality; whereas, she existed only in the realm of absolutes. She realized she had spaced out for too long when she met his gaze, head cocked assessing her constitution with vague concern drawn on his face.

The jig was up, she had broken character for only a few moments but the damage was done. He was now hip to her humanity. "HANDS!" they both startled as the chef called for help running food to tables with awfully convenient timing for her, she straightened with a smile and excused herself, "duty calls, cheers!" A clipped nod of her head and her body matched her spirit in being elsewhere with ease. It was just one more hour of smiling at strangers while plates burned her hands, resisting the compulsion to roll her eyes at the woman who wanted ONE ice cube in her water that she insisted be infused with cilantro and lime, and bringing a plate of chicken back to the chef for them to cut it for the guest. It was just one short hour until she returned to the gentleman's table with his credit card and check donning another smile- this one, less forced than the others.

"It was really a pleasure helping you this evening! I hope everything was to your liking," she began to leave her final impression upon this lone diner. "Above and beyond my liking, truly. The pleasure was all mine, I just got to sit here while you ran around fetching cilantro for that horrible woman. Entertaining as it was, I felt bad for you." A guffaw escaped her mouth that surprised her as much as his attention to detail. "You get used to it, that's not even close to the worst I've been asked to do for someone here," she blinked away the trauma reel that was beginning to play in her mind. "That's sad to hear. Thank you for your service," he replied solemnly. "It's not all so grim, I get to try really cool wines every so often," she gestured at the half empty bottle on the table. "Well, the rest of that bottle is yours, if that's allowed. Either way, I'm leaving it." He signed his check while she coyly asked if he was sure. "I insist." He stood to shake her hand, put on his hat and turned to leave. He paused and turned back "Be patient, life always surprises you when you least expect it."

At the end of the night, after the last guest makes their delayed exit, table 104 welcomes the staff with open arms to decompress. Over flattening bottles of bubbles and leftover scraps of food, they recounted their encounters of the night--the good, the bad, and the funny. The kitchen and waitstaff came together to celebrate or lament another service. A manager might be seated in the middle of the chaos, collecting tips from servers and writing up any notes of incidence for the night. “Almaza?” they might ask for a beer with pleading eyes, juuling into the shadowed corner. Table 104 trapped them in her arms of mismatched pillows while they had sometimes profound and moving conversations with the people who didn’t make such a fuss about calling each other family but instead made one another feel like it. Tonight there was also half a bottle of Fermata as a tribute to their nightly ritual. She studied the label briefly taking in the silhouette of a naked man with his arms up, next to a scarlet tunic. She found it odd two lesbians chose a naked man for their label but was satisfied to surmise it was a commentary on the objectification of women.

As she counted her money she heard the chef, getting louder and more drunk at a different table complaining about the stresses of that evening's service "...AND THEN LAYLA BRINGS ME A FUCKING CHICKEN, ASKING ME TO CUT IT FOR THESE MOTHERFUCKERS..." over his shoulder he continued "not your fault Layla- just doing your job! MEANWHILE I'VE GOT A FULL BOARD OF TICKETS, NO DUCK BREASTS SOUS VIDE, AND THEN THE OVEN STOPPED WORKING..." the servers laughed while the line cooks gravely shook their heads. She reached in her apron looking for any stray bills and her hand was met by a smooth, foreign leather feeling- that's when she remembered the little black book she found in the wine case earlier that evening, it felt like years ago. She thought she was going to give it to the manager when she had found it but something told her not to, to take it home and make sense of it.

The next morning she was in bed, dreaming of being underwater. She was swimming with fish, wait no- she was a fish but she still had legs. The light broke through waves and was refracted against coral, a kaleidoscope of otherworldly color somehow transforming into sound. A grand piano swelling in the distance became more and more real until she began to stir in response to this serenade. Eyes still closed, her ears followed the sound to its origin upstairs, the living room. Her nose informed her of the breakfast awaiting her, the yeasty scent of brioche touched by the warmth of cinnamon and vanilla filled her room. She opened her eyes to near darkness and Luna was laying next to her, already staring in anticipation of her awakening. "We are so lucky to live with this angel of a man, you know that?" The dog cocked her head. They began upstairs as if in a race.

"You magnificent human, I do not deserve you!" she draped herself over the burly, bottomless man swaying at the keys. He stopped short of completing a musical phrase to hug her limp body "Good morning, my little dungeon princess. It's french toast today!" She was still squinting as her eyes adjusted to the light in his embrace as she perked up. She ran off to the kitchen and returned to the piano with half a slice hanging out of her mouth. "You and that dog are one and the same, sister girl." His southern accent always brightened her mood, especially when she mimicked it in jest. "Well now darling, don't you go thinking I forgot about that time you ate that can of beans off the table when we went camping." He gasped, "You promised you'd never speak of Nattygate 2015 again!" She looked briefly from left to right, "I did, didn't I? I'm sorry. I have something that will cheer you up though- it's a musical mystery." His voice got higher as he asked "a mystery about musicals?!" She shook her head, "sorry to disappoint but it is actually a mystery involving music." She grabbed her apron that was hanging off the first chair she found, stumbling in the night before.

She handed him the book and he flipped through it. "I found it in a crate of wine and I'm not sure if I technically stole it from my job but," she began. "Oh misdemeanor crime, the plot thickens," he interjected "but please continue." She smirked and followed his direction "I was hoping you would play it for me and help me solve this little mystery- is it just a sweet song for us to enjoy?" She stared at him with puppy-dog eyes. "Let's give it a go," he said as he set the book down on the piano. He started and she felt the tune was a familiar one. "This is Gymnopédie No. 1 by Erik Satie, a bit of a weirdo in the old days of composition. He called himself a 'phonometrician,' not a musician." She stopped to ponder a bit, "Like he measured sound?" He looked at her and sneered "Oooh look at you, putting those years of middle school latin to use. Precisely that. The name is derived from an ancient Spartan festival where men competed and danced completely naked. I was clearly born in the wrong era."

"Time is relative, who is to say you weren't there? You just might not..." she trailed off. "Might not what? What is your face doing? Are you having a stroke?" The synapses in her mind fired in slow motion and dots became connected akin to lightning striking a pole. She pulled up a photo of the label on her phone and showed it to him. He looked, glancing back and forth between the phone and the sheet music. "You think it looked like this?" Both of their eyes brightened and they squealed in delight. "This doesn't really tell us anything but it feels like a clue, or a sign that we're moving in the right direction. He turned the page and continued playing until the sounds became disjointed and cacophonous. He squinted at the page "it's getting a little weird down here." Luna began to whine and howl from the corner of the room and Layla grabbed her temples. "PLEASE stop." The last note echoed through the hall as they stopped to consider the possibilities.

He got a pen and started writing down the letter of the notes that followed Erik Satie's song or measurement. "A... C-A-C-H-E-D. Oh my God is this a message?!" She rushed over and stood over his shoulder as he wrote. Eventually she began to remember which note went where. He scribbled as fast as he could until they were left with what read like a poem written by someone having a fever dream. "A cached decade effaced, faded facade, a hedge, beef bag aged, beach ebbed." They stared at each other incredulously. "Now what in tarnation does any of that mean?" he stood from the piano, belly wobbling as he strutted into the kitchen. She sat down where he had been, reveling in its warmth and rereading the words. She was still sitting there, statuesque, as the sun set and the scent of rosemary, sage, and garlic filled the home. "BEEF BAG AGED. That's the biggest clue- but which one of their wines is it alluding to?" She thought about a lot during those hours, inescapable was the dread of returning to work the next day. There was remorse for a day promised to her dream-home project that she felt she had wasted in pursuit of a fairytale.

"I don't know how I didn't think of this sooner," garlic bread sprayed out of her mouth as she spoke, one hand holding a fork and the other furiously typing away at her laptop. Rufus and Luna both looked on, a bit worried at her frenzy. She went to their website and found it was an empty page with just a box that read "send us a poem." She typed in what she had discovered in that small black notebook, reading it aloud once more "a cached decade effaced, faded facade, a hedge, beef bag aged, beach ebbed." She clicked the return button with some hesitation and the screen went blank for a moment. They heard that familiar refrain begin, Gymnopédie No. 1 began playing as the screen displayed a confetti explosion as an animated version of the man on the label emerged from the background. He began to speak in a booming voice, "CONGRATULATIONS, YOU'RE THE WINNER OF $1,000,000 DOLLARS!" Layla looked between Luna, Rufus, and the naked man on the screen back to Luna then at Rufus once more.