The Prophet
by Kongyin
This seemingly ordinary restaurant had an interesting name: the Prophet. Business had never flourished over the course of its ten years, and its appearance remained as commonplace as its menu. Its position on a quiet lane meant a secluded place for dining to its few potential customers. Only three other workers had been employed by the owner, whose wife came to the restaurant a few times daily to add the secret blend of ground spices to the meatballs.
The Prophet’s business was even lighter than usual, and by eight o’clock not a single customer remained. The fried meatballs lay out in the kitchen with only the flies to pay them any attention. Though the owner perspired heavily in the hot weather, he was too stingy to turn on the air conditioner. Shooing the flies away with an old straw fan, he stared at the dimly lit lanterns before the gate, hoping for a customer. He waited a long while before waving permission to his eager workers to eat their dinner.
“Since there are no more customers tonight, should we eat the meatballs? It’s unlikely they’ll keep until tomorrow,” one worker with a shaved head said, bowing to his employer as he regarded the meatballs hungrily.
“Business is so poor. How can we afford to eat the meatballs?” replied the owner impatiently, fanning his face. “Besides, those are no ordinary meatballs. They have my wife’s secret spice blend. How could we finish them off like that? Tomorrow we’ll cut them into slices and mix them into dishes.”
“Boss, it’s so hot. Can we turn on the air conditioner?” asked a waiter, whose bumpy face was dripping with sweat.
“The air conditioner takes electricity. Where would I get the money to pay the power bill?” The owner sighed. “I’m afraid the restaurant will soon be out of business, and then…”
The workers understood what the owner had left unsaid. They glanced at each other and ate their meals in silence—one veggie dish with soup each. Though they usually laughed and chatted over dinner, nobody was in a cheerful mood. The worker with the shaved head ate slowly, long after the others had finished. Just as the owner was about to scold him, he spotted two figures passing by on the other side of the street. One was thin and slender while the other was tall and stout—and better yet, they were approaching the restaurant from different directions. The owner pushed the worker into the kitchen before he could swallow his last mouthful and ordered him to turn on the air conditioner. In a panic, his arm bumped one of the meatballs on the counter and knocked it to the floor.
“Ayaaa. If everyone was as careless as you, I would have been bankrupt a long time ago,” mumbled the owner. He picked up the meatball and blew the dust from it. He thought about putting it into the garbage can, but placed it back on the counter instead.
The stout man entered first and sat at seat nine with dignity. Wider and more comfortable, seat nine was next to the window—kept at a distance from the other seats—and reserved for VIPs. The owner was overly pleased; this visitor was no small fish. The stout man seemed to be pondering the heat in the restaurant; he blinked his eyes and surveyed the space as if wondering if he should stay. The owner hurried over to fan him, cursing in his heart that his employees didn’t have the air conditioner working properly yet. He called toward the kitchen.
“We have a noble guest! Bring him the best iced tea we have!”
The restaurant had only one teakettle, and the tealeaves were just ordinary leaves, but the bumpy-faced waiter rushed out to give their guest a full cup. The stout man glanced at the tea but did not partake of it, still unsure if he should stay or not.
The slender guest arrived momentarily, and the owner greeted him with a smile that suddenly became stiff. Noticing his unusual reaction, the workers and guest turned to regard a young man clad in dusty, tattered clothing. His cheekbones were high, his forehead wide, his complexion pale and weary; he was obviously poor and had come from afar. The young man didn’t seem to notice the surprised disgust in the eyes of the five men; instead, he sang out a request with pride. “Gentlemen, I’m a poet, and I have hardly any money on me. If I recite a poem of mine, would you be kind enough to provide a bowl of rice?”
A beggar. The workers sniggered with their mouths covered. The owner frowned. He wanted to chase the man away, as he often had other beggars who loitered around. He turned to see that the stout man had taken an interest in the poet, and changed his mind. If the young fellow didn’t have money today, perhaps he would tomorrow. He wants a bowl of rice? Why not give it to him? There was too much rice anyway.
As the young man recited his poem enthusiastically, the owner went into the kitchen, filled a large bowl with rice, and placed the meatball that had fallen on the floor on top. The young man accepted the bowl with propriety and ate with great appetite. The air conditioner was running now; the stout guest had already taken off his jacket, sat down comfortably, and ordered a few of their most expensive dishes.
Several additional guests also came by the Prophet that night, and none were frugal with their meals. The owner was overjoyed as he counted the day’s income: it was the most successful day they’d ever had. The stout man’s orders alone were enough to keep the restaurant running for a few weeks. The owner’s wife arrived and gave him a stress massage. “How I wish that guest could come to our restaurant every day!” she said, hitting her soft fists against her husband’s shoulder.
The owner glanced at her. “Women have such weird ideas. This doesn’t happen every day. I suggest you put fewer sesame seeds in your meatball spices. You know, the price of sesame seeds is getting higher and higher.”
His wife burst out laughing. “Sesame seeds? What sesame seeds? I replaced them with ground beans a long time ago. If you really want to save money, try making the meatballs a little smaller.”
The Prophet’s good fortune continued. The dignified guest came in to dine at that exact time every night. The poet also came, and asked to read his poem in exchange for a bowl of rice. Though the owner was frugal, he put up with the poet, for there were always leftovers and the young man always ate with terrific manners, totally unlike other noisy beggars. Whatever he was given, he took it gladly and ate quietly. He and the stout man sat across the room from each other without speaking, as if both were in a faraway dream world. One was impeccably dressed, and the other tattered; one was spending money without a blink, and the other was penniless.
Though the meatballs in the Prophet were getting smaller and the owner’s wife continued to use ground beans instead of sesame seeds, clients still came in droves, proclaiming them the best in the city. The crowds became aware that a famous, well-off philanthropist dined there regularly; it was said he had once donated money to help establish ten schools in Africa. He was also famous for his unapproachable temperament—he was notorious for rejecting TV and newspaper interviews—and even though many fancy hotels and restaurants tried to lure in his business with gift cards, he turned each a blind eye. The rumour spread that he would go out of his way to dine at the Prophet every day, and that a special seat had been reserved just for him. The restaurant built an extraordinary reputation, and before long clients began using it to stage their weddings and banquets.
The owner’s good luck had made his mouth crooked from smiling. He hired five more workers but still found himself too busy, often counting money until midnight. “It looks like we’ll soon need a chain of restaurants,” said his wife as she massaged his shoulders, the wrinkles on her face appearing like open chrysanthemums. The owner squinted—if he really opened a chain, he might ask the new girl, Mimi, to be the manager. She was pretty and had a great figure; her breasts alone were enough to attract anyone’s attention, and he had noticed her shooting him adoring glances in the kitchen over the last few days.
No matter how busy the restaurant was, the owner always kept the special seat reserved for the stout man, and began serving him better kinds of tea. He knew very well that the Prophet’s success was all due to this special guest. Although he never mentioned anything, he was quite graceful in accepting whatever special service the owner provided. When he came he talked with no one, only sat down in the noisy restaurant with dignity and waited. He took his time eating, alone in his thoughts, enjoying the scenes that played out under the flickering streetlights.
The poet continued to come every day. The owner put up with him, waiting until he finished his poem before giving him a bowl of rice. He began refusing him meatballs—the worker with the shaved head rarely knocked them to the floor anymore. The owner became displeased with the poet’s appearance. They were often too busy to provide him with a spare chair, and he worried that the other well-dressed guests were unhappy with the presence of a beggar in the restaurant.
One night the poet arrived and made his usual offer. “I will recite a poem of mine, if given something to eat.” The owner handed him a bowl of rice before the young man could begin. “Please wait until I finish reciting,” the poet said shyly.
The owner spoke as if delivering a manifesto. “Spare us your poem. We don’t need it. You’ve been coming in here for the last six months. Take this bowl of rice and eat it outside. Don’t come back again. We have done enough for you.”
A trace of red colour showed on the poet’s pale face. He opened his mouth slightly as his eyes flickered with tears. “Ah, Boss, the reason I come here is because your restaurant’s sign says ‘the Prophet.’ It’s the title of a collection by the poet Gibran. I thought you liked poetry as much as I do, and I never thought you considered me a beggar. I thought we were making a fair exchange: poetry for food. However, if you don’t like this exchange, I’ll say goodbye.” With that, he left the restaurant and blended into the darkness.
The owner shrugged casually and returned to wait on his guests. Suddenly, the always-silent stout man stood and threw a few hundred-dollar bills onto his table. “Goodbye, Boss,” he said, “you will not see me here anymore. Why do you think I’ve been coming here for the last six months? For the food? The service? Neither of these keeps me coming back. I came to hear the young man’s poems.” He too walked out and vanished into the darkness, heading in the direction in which the poet had disappeared.
From that moment on, the Prophet returned to its usual quietness. The idle workers resigned before they could be given pink slips, including the flirtatious Mimi. And even when the heat became too much to bear, the owner kept the air conditioner turned off, using his straw fan to chase the flies away from the meatballs.
