The sound is buzzing like a bees nest. One big hum wanders through the room as we sit by the window overlooking the green patio. The restaurant has been renovated, it looks so much fancier now and we’re not the kind of fancy people, we’re more of the wash out jeans and t-shirt sun tanned world travelled kind of people who just happened to want to eat.
Another buzzer comes our way, it’s a waiter. He crouches down on his knees to be able to hear our order. The salmon, a cress soup, potato delight, perfect perch, they all sound like summer in a bowl. It gets worse when dinner gets served.
‘This is the kind of dinner that makes you want to swim in it,’ I say looking at my plate.
‘The outside might have changed but the inside certainly hasn’t.’ Levine is nodding while sipping his soup.
‘You know, I never took you for a soup sipper,’ says Macy.
‘You’re the one to speak,’ he replies gesturing at her shredded salmon.
‘This only adds to the art piece,’ she defends, ‘I am just rearranging the composition. Look.’ And she prepares her food like a painter who splashes his paint on a canvas like a child. Levine watches attentively. ‘This, my dear friend, is pure intuition.’
‘Okay, now watch this,’ he ladles a sip of soup, brings it to his mouth and slurps like a baby, ‘that, my dear friend, is pure intuition.’ Macy raises her eyebrows. ‘Don’t believe me, huh. Watch this.’ He points at his stomach. ‘Hunger.’ Scoops more soup. ‘Food.’ Brings the spoon full of soup to his mouth and says: ‘Eat.’ And he slurps even louder. The people at the next table turn their heads. I smile as an apology. They nod. ‘Slurping like an infant is pure intuition. I get it. It makes total sense for someone with your brain capacity.’
‘No, silly, hunger, food, eat. That is the basic of all intuition. The beginning of all intuition. The mother of all intuition. Intuition at its purest.’
‘I think all you really proved is that you’re a Neanderthal.’
He sweeps his golden angelic hair over his shoulder and shrugs.
‘Art was the beginning of all beginning, without art we wouldn’t be here.’
‘Wow, I just got bumped up from a Neanderthal to a piece of art.’
‘Well, if I may interrupt your most uninteresting display of affection. Take my potato delight; it looks like the potato eaters of Vincent van Gogh.’
‘That is the ugliest painting I know,’ says Levine, ‘that painting is so ugly the ugliness actually makes it look pretty.’
‘Precisely, and you are what you eat they say. So in a way you are both right.’ I straighten my back thinking I must have convinced them. They both laugh. Maybe not.
‘You know earth without art is just eh.’
I stare at her.
‘Do you hate me? You know I hate the clichés.’
‘Hey, I expected you to back me up because art is the opposite of cliché. You should agree with me and not try to find some lame give-and-take.’
‘Hey, despite being an art lover, art is as debatable as the…
…the chicken and the egg. I mean who is to know. The only really way to know is to ask the chicken, but who speaks chicken, huh, think about it, you can never ask the egg even if you spoke chicken and maybe that’s the answer right there.’
I straighten my back once more, but this time it’s to scout the room. Who said that? I can see the man deeply involved in his conversation and I start counting, one, two, three… six tables down. How can hear what that man is saying?
‘Do you speak chicken?’
‘Never mind. There is something wrong with my intuition, so don’t ask me.’ I look about the room filled with happy guests involved in their little own worlds. Who invited me?
…seven years ago, I went mad. I went on a vacation, sat on a towel in the sand and started crying, just like that, and I couldn’t stop not even when I came home.’ Table three.
‘The basic human needs, these are intuition. Crying when you are sad, laughing at something funny, listening to… ‘Levine.
…the car breaks down. So there I was…’ table two.
…in the loo. I heard it I was certain of it. It was like…’ table three again.
‘That is not intuition. That is just basic human needs.’ Macy.
‘True but…’ Levine.
…bird shit all over my shirt…’ table six.
…on my first date…’ table four.
…with the neighbour’s dog, a frenchie…’ table one.
…so I said…’ next table.
‘Shut up!’ I shout and I get up.
‘Okay,’ says Levine, ‘if you wish it. I will oblige.’ He looks up at me with both astonishment and a smile on his face. I look angry and say: ‘this is not funny. There is too much talk in here.’ The man from table six walks by. ‘And no, nobody speaks chicken, sir,’ I say to him. He looks frightened.
Macy urges me to sit down again and looks at me with a big question mark on her face. ‘I can hear them. All of them.’ I whisper on my chair.
‘Well, so can we.’
‘No, not the bees buzz. I can hear their words, their conversations. They collide.’
‘Cool, I say cheers to that.’ Levine raises his glass.
And then it goes. Just as easy as it came. It is the bees buzz again. ‘Cheers, here’s to disturbed intuition.’ And I throw back my wine like a shot of tequila.