Mattress Man - Short Story by Lynda Tavakoli

 

Mattress Man

 

From the entrance of the sun-house Abdullah surveyed the aftermath of last evening’s storm with resigned acceptance. The clean-up operation had added an hour to the beginning of his day but that was of little consequence to a man who had already dedicated twenty years of his life to a vocation. For in truth, his work seemed not like work at all, but more a continuing programme of learning in the habits and idiosyncrasies of the human condition. Abdullah ruminated unconsciously on his tongue and considered his good fortune, knowing that he was indeed a very lucky man.

Every morning a white coat, freshly laundered and newly ironed, hung on a peg at the back of his locker door. Today he would inspect it with added scrutiny, ensuring that no particle of sand or dust dared invade the deep sanctuary of a crease in either pocket or cuff. After all, Abdullah was nothing if not fastidious in his habits. He lifted the coat off the peg and ritually extended first one and then another arm inside a starched white sleeve, thinking how soothing the fabric felt against his honeyed skin. So clean and unsullied. Clinical even. But he liked that – the fact that sometimes a guest mistook him for the hotel physician. The thought made his lips curl in satisfaction and the tip of a chewed tongue could be seen protruding from the corner of his mouth.

It was early yet. The sun had barely stolen a peek around the further reaches of the gardens but Abdullah set to his task with the determination of an ant bearing home the body of a dead comrade. No guest could be allowed to happen upon a pool that was anything less than perfect and in all his twenty years of dedication Abdullah had received not a single complaint. It was the mark of the man, everyone agreed – his patent attention to detail.

Fortunately the parasols, trussed up and secured the evening before, had remained impervious to the vagaries of wind and sand but many of the sun beds had succumbed to the force of the storm and lay upended like albino beetles kicking their legs futilely into empty air. The swimming pool, a corner of which was now serving as a receptacle for foreign bodies that bobbed hospitably together on the surface of the water, had also failed to escape unscathed. With his long hooked pole Abdullah retrieved the worst of the debris and as the first rays of sunshine seeped across the poolside he managed to complete his morning duties, surveying the results of his labours with a certain pride.

But Abdullah’s uncharacteristic moment of contemplation was abruptly interrupted by the arrival of his first guest, a pretty Russian girl called Anya whom he had spoken with the previous day. He had been happy to accept her bribe of twenty dinar to secure a favoured place for the week and he had generously thrown in her mattress for free providing, of course, an additional tip was forthcoming when the sun went down.

Abdullah’s powers of observation were legendary. He could spot an interloper at a hundred metres and with the skills of a jessed falcon would hone in on his prey with the same deadly precision. Although weighted down with a cumbersome mattress or two, his short staccatoed stride would immeasurably lengthen, followed predictably by a sideways dip of the head before arriving at his quarry to enquire deferentially, “You need mattress, yes?”

Given a negative response he would politely escort his charges to the outer regions of the gardens whilst apologising for the poolside places having been previously reserved. Only once had someone dissented by refusing to relocate their belongings and that exchange had buried itself deep into his subconscious with the intensity of a maggot feasting on a mango.

“Excuse please. You need mattress?” he had enquired politely at the time, seeing a man throw a towel on one of his most prized sun loungers. A very white lady and a delicate-faced young girl with saffron curls stood by the parasol, waiting.

“No need mattress,” mimicked the man dismissively in reply.

“This sun bed not free, I sorry,” Abdullah proffered, stepping forward slightly to obstruct the sun’s rays and therefore have full cognizance of his detractor’s face. He took in the man’s red hair and ruddy complexion with a certain satisfaction knowing that before sunset his skin would be toasted nicely in the hundred degree heat. Thinking about it now, Abdullah recalled proudly how easily he had defused the situation with a simple deferential bow before making a dignified retreat. It was an art he had perfected in order to appease his other more accommodating guests. 

But today there were no such distractions and Abdullah put Anya in his most sanctified spot between the poolside bar and the hotel fountain. She smiled sweetly as he placed the mattress dutifully down upon the hard, plastic lounger and then attended to the position of the parasol. He imagined that he could feel her eyes scanning the back of his white coat as he walked away. 

It was a busy morning. Thursdays were his most demanding days with the arrival of new guests but Abdullah did not object to the extra work, providing he finished at precisely seven o’ clock; a condition clearly stipulated within his contract of employment. On leaving the young Russian he shuffled back to the sun-house for more mattresses but stopped abruptly by the open doorway to listen. It came faintly at first; the unmistakable timbre of a man’s voice mixed with soft female laughter and through the crack above the hinges he could see their shadows moving rhythmically together in the half light of the locker room. There was no surprise in it of course, as he had witnessed such trysts before and in more unusual places than his humble sun-house. They were commonplace amongst the wealthy hotel clientele but Abdullah had long since learned to hide his disdain, from common view at least, at such debauchery and now simply leaned against the doorframe to wait. Discretion would bring its own reward and later when they had gone and he fingered that crisp twenty dinar note in his pocket he couldn’t resist a little smile.

It was a clammy day with leftover wisps of storm clouds threatening to occlude the sun in fits and starts and by six o’ clock the guests had all but left the poolside. Abdullah began the task of collecting abandoned mattresses to scrutinize the fabric for misuse but he sighed to think of how little respect people had anymore. And so, having secured the last mattress into its rightful place, he locked the door of the sun- house and left. He checked the time. It was four minutes to seven precisely.

Hurrying on along the winding pathways to the rear of the hotel he finally reached his destination and getting into his van, drove through the shadowy bends and corners to the tradesman’s entrance and on to the open highway. He maintained a watchful eye on the clock to ensure his arrival before seven-thirty. She would be waiting for his return.

At exactly twenty minutes past seven Abdullah opened the door to his isolated farmhouse and surveyed his worldly goods Everything was as it should be; neat and exact, the way it had been left earlier and he felt a satisfied smile settle at the corners of his lips. The dark stone walls leaked their silence as he walked to the kitchen and selected a large knife from a drawer. He jammed its point into a crack between the floorboards and began to prize one up, his tongue jutting out between his teeth as he recalled his good fortune. It amazed him how easy it had been to entice her into his van that day when she strolled, vulnerable and lost, behind the hotel. He later discovered that no one noticed her missing for several hours afterwards and that someone thought they had spotted her playing in the sea earlier. Even after all these weeks they still expected her body to be washed up along the coast somewhere.

It had taken him many nights to finish it, but eventually the hole he had dug was just large enough to fit one of his mattresses. He had specifically chosen the one her father had rejected which seemed somehow appropriate. She lay on it now, tied up and gagged with only her eyes and nose exposed and her saffron curls sticking hotly to her delicate face. Soon he would prepare a meal for them; something exquisite that he would cook to perfection and serve on milk-white plates that had been scrutinized for their cleanliness.

He looked at his watch. Seven- thirty on the dot.

Yes, Abdullah was nothing if not fastidious.

Lynda Tavakoli lives in County Down, Northern Ireland, where she facilitates an adult creative writing class and works as a tutor for the Seamus Heaney Awards for schools. A poet, fiction writer and freelance journalist, Lynda’s work has been widely published in the UK, Ireland, the US, South America and the Middle East. She is a contributing writer for The Belfast Telegraph and Slugger O’Toole and her poems and prose have been broadcast on BBC Radio and RTE. Lynda has been winner of both poetry and short story prizes in Listowel, the Westival International Poetry Prize and runner-up in The Blackwater International Poetry Competition and Roscommon Poetry Competition. Her poems have appeared in The Irish Times and translated into Farsi and Spanish. The Boiling Point for Jam, Lynda’s debut poetry collection, was published recently by Arlen House. Beyond the world of writing her main occupations are gardening and playing squash (not necessarily in that order).