Man Of Few Words

Chapter 77

It's strange that I didn't think of this before. It's exactly the kind of thing that most people tend to default to when telling stories. I hadn't completely forgotten about it, but it was so, so far back in my mind. I suppose I just stopped caring about it.

But I care about it now, and I'm really glad I thought of it before I got to the end of... well, you know what I mean.

I haven't done nothing with my life other than writing corny advertising copy in return for much more money than it ought to be worth. I've done more than making money, buying things, using people, and disowning my family.

I did do those things. I did them a lot. But once, at least once, I did go on an adventure and experience something beautiful. It's nothing all that spectacular or dramatic, but it felt really special at the time. I just feel sad that the special feeling didn't last. I don't know why not. I really don't.

All I can do is try to bring it back. I can feel it down there somewhere, but it's weak. I guess because I'm weak. I don't know. I'd better stop the build-up and tell the story, otherwise it'll be an anticlimax. I do hope that by telling it, I can relive it.

There were a lot of reasons I was surprised, not to mention reluctant, when Iffi first invited me to join him on holiday in Bangladesh.

Iffi was a graphic designer who worked at the company that I wrote scam letters for. He wasn't a particularly good graphic designer, and didn't really need to be for that particular job, but he was a very likeable, charismatic character. He laughed loud and talked fast.

His name was actually Iftekhar, but if anyone ever tried to pronounce it, he'd cut them off,

"Just call me Iffi. Two fs and an i. And don't call me that in front of my parents."

Then he'd laugh at deafening volume and slap someone on the back. Not necessarily whoever it was who'd tried to pronounce his name. Just whoever was closest.

I never met his parents, but I did meet his cousin, as well as his cousin's wife and kids.

His invitation caught me by surprise firstly because I didn't really think of us as that good friends. We got along very well at the office, but we rarely saw each other outside of work. We'd been to see movies with other people from work a few times, and very, very occasionally he'd join the rest of us at the pub. But he didn't drink so it wasn't really his thing, and he'd never stay long.

I was also surprised because I'd never really expressed any interest in his Bangladeshi roots, and I'd certainly never presented myself as the adventurous traveler type. Simply because I wasn't. So when he said,

"Mate, I'm going to Bangladesh for three weeks this summer. Wanna come?"

I thought he was joking, so I just laughed.

"No joke," he countered, his bushy eyebrows raised to their full extent. "Listen, my cuz has a sweet apartment in Chittagong. Loadsa room for us. Gonna go hang out, see some old mates, have a good time, relax. Don't worry, not too much family time. Just gonna eat a lot of fish."

He made himself laugh uproariously with this last comment, grasped me firmly by the shoulder and, before I could respond, started wagging his finger at me,

"My cuz can pull some strings wiv the airline and get us cheap flights. And we don't need no hotel. Gonna be cheaper than staying home. I swear. I swear!"

He'd now intercepted my intention to protest that there was no way I could afford it.

And he was just staring at me, eyebrows at full mast.