Dark Beer and Prawns

Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia

Around nine at night, I was struck with an awesome idea for a short story. The plot was vague but the characters were clear enough, and surely their conversations would build into a satisfying story. A night cafe across the street boasted dark beer and prawns. Missing the former through geography and the latter by my own choice, I ordered a beer and began to write.

An IT genius had just met a scientist whose life he'd been commissioned to destroy. The scientist didn't know it, but the IT genius' pocket held a flash-drive that could eradicate decades of groundbreaking work. The scientist began to tell the IT genius all about his work, and the IT genius began to doubt his own. My beer came, and for a moment my characters began to edge on something almost interesting. Then their conversation began to wane, and--turning over onto a fourth page--I realized that nothing on the past three were worth the ink that had written it. I closed my notebook and took a sip of beer, trying to clear my mind. Perhaps there was a way to salvage this yet.

"Excuse me?" asked a voice from the table to my left. "What should I order? This is my first time in East Asia, and the food is...strange." His voice had a faint accent, but it was clear he spoke English well. Hiding behind sunglasses and a large fanny pack, I noted he didn't travel much.

I took the menu from his table and began to thumb through it. No wonder the poor man was confused. The menu was trilingual, not in that everything was labeled in three languages, but that food items were labeled in either Malay, Tamil, or a vaguely comprehensible version of English. Sometimes a picture would appear instead of words. Staring into the void of the faded pictures, I put the menu down, and nodded toward the sign at the entrance. "Have you ever had prawns?" I asked.

"Prawns?"

"Prawns. They're like shrimp. Big shrimp, I think." I paused and confessed, "Actually I'm not entirely sure what a prawn is. Seafood anyway."

"I see," he said. The waitress appeared and he ordered spicy prawns. He also ordered another beer. Then he said in a single breath, "When in Rome do as the Romans do, and I never disliked seafood. So where are you from then?"

"America. Michigan."

"Ann Arbor?"

"No, but I know a lot of people who went to school there."

"Good school," he interjected.

"Yes," I confirmed. I thought to ask, "Did you go to school there?"

"Michigan? Heavens, no! I was studying in Isfahan. But I'm from Shiraz."

"Shiraz? You're Iranian?"

"Yes, but the province is better than the wine, trust me. Have you ever been?"

"No, I--"

"It's a shame you should go," he interjected again.

"I would like to, but the visa..."

"Yeah, don't tell me. My dad's in Houston now, and I can't get a visa to the United States."

"Sorry about that," I said solemnly.

"It's not your fault."

There was a pregnant pause. "Why don't you sit at my table?" I asked. My table was better located next to the night market, which--apart from to write bad fiction and eat prawns--was why someone would choose to sit in the restaurant at all. He moved over to my table, leaving an empty bottle of beer behind him. "Are you traveling alone?" I asked.

"Well, yes and no. I'm traveling with my mother, but she's been ill and in the hotel room for three days now."

"I'm sorry. I hope she feels better soon."

"You apologize too much," he said. "You're not response for Iranian-American tensions or my mother's health." He took a sip of his beer. "Still, thank you."

I rarely find myself with nothing to say, but at the moment I had nothing. I awkwardly sipped my beer again. "I'm going to Serawat tomorrow," he said quite suddenly.

"Serawat? I hear it's beautiful. I won't have time to go there, but I hope you enjoy it all the same."

"I hope so too," he said. "I'll be there for a year."

"Are you working?" I asked.

"No, studying. My friends all think I'm crazy. No one's heard of the university, let alone Serawat."

"What are you studying?"

"IT."

For a fleeting second, I thought about mentioning my aborted story, then realized that it was neither appropriate nor relevant. I tried to think of something that was appropriate, and couldn't think of anything that fit with an Iranian studying IT in Serawat and drinking beer in Kuala Lumpur.

"Why did you choose Serawat?"

He smiled glumly. "It was far from home. And I needed a change of scenery. I figured a Muslim country would be an easy first step." He instinctively looked at his beer. "Well, sort of Muslim country anyway," he sighed. "You probably think I'm a bad Muslim for drinking." He stared at me, expecting an answer I could not discern.

"Not at all."

"Well, I'm not. I'm not supposed to drink, I know. But God is ever returning and most merciful. That seems to be our relationship really. I mess up and he returns anyway." His voice was flat, but I heard the unmistakable ring of humor. "I bet you've never seen a Muslim drink before," he continued.

"No, I've seen it a fair few times," I replied, uncertain where this was going.

"Where." He did not accent the word as a question.

"A few places."

"Where's that?"

"Jordan, mostly," I said. "I studied there for a while. Though I had Muslim friends in the States too."

"Jordanians. They hate Iranians, you know."

I sighed and sipped my beer again. "I don't think think the Jordanians really hate anyone. There are some misunderstandings, sure."

"Like what?"

"Political rhetoric engenders social misunderstanding," I said. Then I blinked, trying to understand my own words. Unaccustomed to speaking unadulterated English, I was growing unpleasantly used to saying such sentences.

"What does that mean?" he asked.

"I have no idea," I laughed.

We talked for a while, and I introduced myself as much as anyone can over a glass of beer. I told him I was teaching English in rural China, satisfied in most ways but not in others, and that the New Year's break had allowed me the much needed opportunity to travel again. "Do you like traveling?" I asked him.

"It's all right. Apart from the sick mother and the strange food it's been a good experience," he said. He sounded sincere. "I have to admit though, I'm a bit terrified."

"Terrified?"

"Yeah. You see, I've never travelled before. And now I'm committing to live in Serawat, and almost no one travels there."

I had to admit I would be terrified too. I tried to comfort him by telling him that Serawat was supposed to be a very lovely place, and that any travel experience is really more what you make of the place than what the place offers you. I wasn't sure if I was being helpful or pontificating.

Our conversation turned to other topics, nothing profound, and yet nothing dull either. Yet such conversations are soothing for strangers who are far from home without a clear idea what the immediate future will bring. It was good simply to share company and fears, and a tall glass of dark beer.

"You know," he said. "I should probably return to the hotel. I made it seem like I'd make a quick trip down here, and I've been here a while."

"Of course," I nodded. I doubted there had been such a time limit on his dinner, but I agreed that our conversation was over, and we were both satisfied. He got up to leave. "Good luck in Serawat," I said.

"Thank you. Where was it you said you'd be next year?"

"I have no idea. It changes every few minutes, so it's not really relevant now."

He looked slightly confused, but nodded politely. "Well you said it's all what you make it."

"True. But at this point it's just making it happen."

"It'll come together," he said. "I didn't know I was going to be in Malaysia until a few weeks ago. And look how it turned out? Or at least, I hope it turns out..."

I smiled. "I'm sure it will." I stood up and shook his hand. "It's been a pleasure meeting you," I said. He responded with similar pleasantries, and I watched as he and his fanny pack disappeared into the night market. I returned the notebook I had closed in anger a few minutes before. I happily drew squiggly lines through the first four pages, and began afresh.