Tourists in the shop

It's a middle aged couple. He is balding but has his hair combed
over the increasing gap. It is clotted into thick tentacles adhered to
his glossy scalp. He is about 5'5" or seems that way. His stomach
precedes him garishly under his Hawaiian shirt. He looks like a man
badly impersonating a tourist. I feel secondarily sorry for him,
quashing my immediate impulse to turn the fan on his head. Purely for
scientific reasons, you understand, I wanted to test the adhesivity of
his brylcream. His wife is in a red flowery dress that hangs like a
deflated marquee over the evidence of a life spent on wholesome
carbohydrates. She is more timid, almost embarrassed by her husband. At
first this seems unjust, and then he opens his mouth. "Meesterr. Com.
So thees is I buy two CD, I get one gratis?"
"Yes" I reply, unable to wipe the huge grin from my face. I have a
sixth sense for potential hilarity, and that sense is already tickling
me.
"Gut. I buy thiz two. I pay now." "So you wouldn?t like a free CD?" I
ask. Wide eyed with as much innocent surprise as I can muster.
"Yez. First I pay. Then I get CD" His turn with the wide eyed
innocence. I laugh. I just can't help it. "No, that's not how it works.
I see all three CDs and I charge you for the most expensive."
"Picka ti materina" He swears. I recognise rather rude Serbian swear
words, one of the few phrases I know. I store the information.
"Then this sign not true!" Pipes in a surprise contribution from the
red sack. She points at a sign, written in English, stating "Buy 2 Get
1 Free".
"You have my utmost assurance," I grin broadly. "That my grasp of
English, both colloquial and formal is satisfactorily expansive to
grasp the meaning of 'Buy 2, get one free'. It lucidly and concisely
states that the purchase of two CDs entitles the customer to a third
disc without further charge." I am in full flow, now. I have take on
the aspect of Basil Fawlty. "You may surmise, then that the notice
makes no mention of price. It does not intimate the expensive one is
free. Neither, if I may beg your closer inspection, does it mention in
any small print on the aforementioned poster that the cheaper one is
either. The quandary can be resolved by simply referring to current
retail convention in the UK, and I assure you of our adherence to these
principles."
The woman is entirely unfazed. She is obviously well accustomed to not
understanding people.
"This sign not true."
As I draw breath to respond, her husband interrupts. He is afraid of
being side tracked, now that he has understood some of the rules
governing the sale.
"Ah, you are a bandit!" He declares.
I cannot contain my laughter. Eventually I am able to control myself. I
wipe the tear from my eye and face my accuser.
"Yes.. terrible bandit." I splutter between giggles. "Picka ti
materina!" I blurt out.
Suddenly they both look shocked and horrified. They have been wondering
around the shop speaking Serbo-Croatian to each other, now they are
worried that they have been understood. He speaks first.
"How you know that?" There is fear in his eyes. There always is in
Ex-Yugoslavians, the scars are not healed. They are always evasive
about where they actually come from. Admitting to your roots can be a
dangerous business in the Balkans.
"My wife is from Yugoslavia." I reply casually.
"Where from?" Both their eyes have narrowed.
"Montenegro. Where are you from?" The pair exchange worried
glances.
"Bosnia." He says. This means he could be Serb, Croatian or Muslim. It
is his way of trying to remain ambiguous. Having heard former
Yugoslavians joust for hours while trying to evade recognition, I
decide to let them off easily.
"That's nice." I say. "My favourite part is Slovenia." I know that this
will classify me as a non-allied foreigner. And I watch the relief on
their faces as the subject is dropped.
"Meester. Com." He furtively gestures to me, inviting me into his
confidence. I lean forward.
"Where I buy.." He is doing a V sign at his lips, stubby fingers
flapping to an fro. He has not attended mime classes.
"Huh?" I put on my best perplexed expression. I am standing on my toe,
to try to stop myself giggling.
"You know!" More urgent finger flapping.
"Nope". I am sure I am going to be limping after this.
"Smoking." He replies, abandoning his attempt at subtlety.
"No thanks. I've given up." I say, turning the grin that is pushing
it's way onto my face into a grimace.
"No, no.. Bob Marley."
"Er.. over there, under reggae." I point. Other people have walked into
the shop now, and are looking at my inquisitor curiously. His volume
has raised with his enthusiasm to be understood. He waddles across the
shop and picks up a Marley CD, and starts reading the back. He seems
frustrated.
"You know ... the song.. Leg-a-lice it..?" His sentence trails of into
a half remembered tune.
"Aaaaaah!" I say loudly. We now have the complete attention of the
other four or five customers in the shop. He is nodding
encouragingly.
"You mean HASHISH!"
"YES!" His arms almost shoot up to the heavens.
"No, we just sell CDs here. Sorry." The other customers are now
unashamedly staring and a couple are giggling loudly.
"But friend.." I raise my eyebrow, bandit to friend in a few short
minutes. This man would cry at my funeral if I bought him a drink.
"Where I buy a shish?"
"Just go to where all the bars are and ask a Moroccan." I point in the
general direction of bars.
"You know name? Number?"
"No, just go there and ask for Mohammed." I reply, conspiratorially. I
know about a dozen Moroccans on the Island. They are all called
Mohammed.
"Thenk, you, thenk you." His head bobs up and down.
"I buy this three." He gestures at the CD?s as our chuckling audience
disperses.