Habib came back from Goa last week. He sent a postcard a few weeks before that didn’t mention him or his wife but explained the entire history of Goa and the Portuguese colonization.
Habib told me proudly that he met so many “pretty girls” there, but they were too young for him, he said. “Scarlet”, he said, he met a girl called Scarlet. and he bought many women drinks.
“But what about your wife Habib?” I ask.
Habib continues to ramble on vaguely about Scarlet …. bananas…..too young…very nice. He refuses to look you in the eye when he talks to you. He’ll look to the left, up, down, to the right, on the ceiling, on the floor. Then he’ll tug his ear lobes fondly.
You need to ask the same question a couple of times for it to sink in. Otherwise he seems to continue having a conversation with himself.
So I ask again,
“Habib what about Margaret? Did she make you sleep in the car? Did she get upset when you were chasing all these young girls?”
But he continues with his own internal monologue…
“Oh you know we went to a plantation. Wonderful, you know spices…bananas…… I tell you something….”
he leans closer and whispers confidentially in my ear.
“At the plantation we were with the British people you know, British group, and the man, he ask to name five spices, you know I was the only one who could name it. Ha Ha four out of five I got right. Only one wrong”
“Wow” I say.
Habib happens to be about 60. It’s hard to judge his age. Last year Moss Bross rewarded him with a 200 pound bonus after 20 years of service. Cheap ass fucking company. I’m really motivated to spend the rest of my life in tailoring NOW.
Habib, who is originally from Bengal married a polish woman in Britain and settled down here. He has no children and gambles incessantly on horses. Everyday he goes bet on a horse (or nag as it may be) but insists he’s “going to the post office”.
His family back home apparently believe he is a rich and successful accountant. How they never found out he works in a suit shop is a miracle. Margaret, his polish wife, has a bit of a reputation of being not only an olympic shot-put thrower but also a crockery and plate thrower.
But to be fair, if I was married to Habib, so would I. Sources tell me he wears full length woolen long johns to bed. Poor Margaret.
She made Habib uproot all his strawberry plants and replaced them with Gardenias, so when she had gone out-of-town he chopped down her apple tree in their garden. As you can imagine she wasn’t Olympic shot put thrower for nothing. Habib came to work with a black eye.
More History of Habib later.
Good morning all.