by Peter Carey
In this delicate perfect world, you will see the Perfecto Kiddo banners. You will see the three great crystal chandeliers. You will see an upper gallery in which people have crowded to look down at the spectacle below. In this gallery you might recognize Muriel and George, and in the ballroom below you should be able to find the small figure of Sam Kellow walking to take his place at the beginning of the Perfecto Kiddo Competition.
It is a wonderful painting, and justly famous, but it cannot tell you that Sam Kellow’s borrowed shoes were pinching his feet, or let you hear the loud noise they made as he walked across the shining floor in front of the judges.
It is really far too small a painting to show you the expression on his face. It cannot tell you that his nose tickled. Or that his head itched. Or that he imagined Mr. Lopate hated him.
When Sam walked across the grand ballroom of the Redward Hotel, he felt as if he had walked into a dream.
In the middle of the room was a sort of raised island on which the judges sat. There were three of them: a young man in a navy-blue suit, a middle-aged woman with a lot of gold jewelry, and a slightly disheveled old man with a handsome face, striking white hair, and rather mild blue eyes. This was Mr. Lopate and people always described those eyes as “kindly,” but when Sam saw those eyes watching him, he thought that the chief judge hated him.
On his left he saw the line of chairs George had told him would be there. He quickly found his seat: Number thirty-two was right in the middle of the row.
He sat down. Wilfred’s suit was tight under his arms and across his stomach. He undid the buttons of the jacket and put his hands under the belt, trying to stretch it a little looser.
George and Muriel were above the ballroom, on the very edge of the gallery, but even from that distance, they could not leave him alone. They waved and signaled for him to get his hands out of his trousers and do up the buttons of his jacket.
Sam thought they looked idiotic. Just the same, he took his hands out of his trousers and he did do up his buttons. Then he saw Judge Lopate observing him. The judge’s lip seemed to curl as he wrote on his scorecard.
He had that leaden feeling he got in his stomach before piano lessons. In a minute, he would have to dance.
Soon the other boy contestants came to sit beside him. These were the rich-looking kids he had seen in the hotel lobby—the redheaded twins in the brown velvet suits, the tall pale boy in the black tuxedo. They were scented like shampoo. They looked happy and as handsome as movie stars.
“Attention, please.” It was the youngest of the judges, the man in the navy-blue suit. “The first section of the contest will now commence.”
All the boys beside him stood up, so Sam stood, too. He looked up and down the line. There were tall boys and short boys, chubby boys and boys with legs like rake handles, but they all stood up and walked across the floor, as confident as kings, or ambassadors, or senators. They walked toward the girls, who remained seated on the other side of the ballroom.
Some of the girls were tall and some short, and some thin and some plump, and their hair was of different colors, but they had one thing in common: They all looked very glamorous and sophisticated.
There were strapless ball gowns made of organza, tight sheaths covered with shining sequins, dance dresses shaped like big Icelandic poppies.
Sam walked toward his opposite number—thirty-two. He felt clumsy and stupid in Wilfred’s tight suit.
There she was, holding up the number thirty-two. This was the very same girl who had smiled at him in the lobby. She had been wearing a tiara then. He had been plain Sam Kellow with his pathetic little bag of bread and peanut butter. Now she smiled at him again and showed a pretty dimple in her cheek. Sam liked her deep-blue dress, but this only made him feel sadder.
In a moment, he knew, this tall slender girl with the huge excited brown eyes was going to hate him. He knew he was about to step on her shining black shoes.
Then the orchestra began to play. All the boys around him swung their partners onto the floor. There was nothing for him to do but follow their example.
It had been easier dancing with Wilfred. It had been easier following the beat of George’s thumping foot. Here in the ballroom, the saxophones got in the way and Sam got lost in the music and stepped on his partner’s foot almost as soon as they started. When he saw her wince, he thought he could not continue.
“Look …” he began miserably.
“Just move,” she said. “Don’t be so tense.”
He danced one more step and watched her face grimace again. He was embarrassed, humiliated.
“Maybe you can get another partner,” he said.
“Come on, dance. Keep moving.” Her forehead was creased into a frown. “What are you doing here?” she said. “You don’t belong here. How did you get in?”
“It’s not my fault,” Sam said, dragging his feet after her From the corner of his eye he could see Mr. Lopate pointing him out to the other judges. “I was kidnapped.”
She did not believe him. He could tell.
“I sleepwalked out of my room,” he insisted. “And the door locked behind me and my parents couldn’t hear me knocking and these creeps grabbed me and put me in this stupid suit. That’s kidnapping,” he said. “That’s what kidnapping is.”
“The suit certainly doesn’t fit you,” she said doubtfully.
“Their son has chicken pox. It’s his suit and it’s really uncomfortable. I can hardly breathe. If I could breathe,” he said apologetically, “I could dance better.”
“Where are they—these ‘kidnappers’?”
“See, up there, with the red glasses and the droopy fellow with the long nose.”
The girl laughed so loudly, she put her hand over her mouth to stop herself.
“Oh,” she said, “that’s just perfect.”
“What? What?”
“That’s Wilfred’s parents.”
“Yes, Wilfred’s parents.”
“Did they really kidnap you? Did they really? I believe it. I totally believe it. Some of these Perfecto parents are a little strange, but George and Muriel are total fanatics. If they really kidnapped you, you could have them arrested. Everyone would be very happy.”
“You know them?”
“Well, I’m new. I don’t know anyone really well. But even I know about Muriel and George. I don’t know how they do it, but Wilfred always wins the boys’ prize.”
“Well, I want to be perfecto,” Sam said. “I want to win this time.”
She smiled. “I thought you wanted me to get another partner.”
“I have to win. I need the money. And you needn’t laugh,” Sam said. “You don’t know me. You don’t know what I can do.”
She had been laughing, but now her expression became more sympathetic. “Tell me all about being kidnapped. Was it exciting?”
“I guess it wasn’t really kidnapped. I could have run away if I hadn’t wanted to win this prize so much,” he said mournfully. “They didn’t tell me I’d have to dance.”
“Actually,” the girl said, “you are dancing! Do you realize you’re moving to the beat? Not very well,” she said quickly, “but still, you’re almost promising. And you do have quite nice hair. The hair is at least half the points.”
When the music stopped, he looked across at the judges. Mr. Lopate was still staring at him.
“He can’t believe you.” The girl giggled. “He thinks you’re from the planet Mars.”
Sam was hurt by this, but tried not to show it.
“I’m going to win that prize,” he said.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the chief judge announced. “Please escort your partners to the allocated tables.”
“Come on,” the girl said softly. She put out her arm. “It’s spag and nag time.”
And they walked together to the fifteen tables, which you can see in Toronto in a Matchbox. These are round tables, at the right-hand side of the ballroom. Behind the tables, next to the kitchen
door, you can see a grinning chef, holding a huge bowl. The bowl is gleaming white and rimmed with gold. Inside you can see, painted in the most meticulous detail, the meal that has the power to change Sam Kellow’s life.
FOURTEEN
THE BIG ROUND TABLE was set for eight. “Now,” Sam’s partner said as they approached it, “when we get to the table, hold the chair out for me. Then as I sit down, push the chair in.”
“Okay,” Sam said. He did not ask what spag and nag was. He had a nasty feeling he already knew.
“They’re not bad kids,” she whispered, nodding to the other kids who were already sitting at the table. “I’m Nancy,” she said, more loudly.
“Sam,” he said.
“That’s a nice name,” she said.
“Yes,” said a tall pale boy in a dinner suit. Sam recognized him from the lobby, too. He had striking, shining jet-black hair down to his shoulders, and an expensive watch shining on his wrist. “Yes,” he said. “Sam Peanut Butter, am I right? You eat peanut butter sandwiches so you don’t have to pay for room service.”
“What’s your problem?” Sam said.
“No, no, Geoffrey,” said the girl next to him. She had piles of curly strawberry-blond hair and bright, bright blue eyes. “Don’t upset him. I’ve seen him on the dance floor. He’s really violent.”
“Shut up, Gloria,” said Nancy.
The boy with the long jet-black hair covered his mouth with his hand. “Judges can lip-read,” he said.
And the girl with the strawberry-blond hair smiled at Nancy as if she was her favorite friend. “Oh dear, Nancy,” she said. “I do hope your feet are feeling quite recovered.” She picked up her napkin and held it delicately over her mouth. “If he’s a clodhopper,” she said into her napkin, “he’s sure to be a sauce-splatterer. They’ve put me next to a violent splatterer for spag and nag.”
A boy’s voice hissed: “Judge incoming.”
Then Gloria changed completely. She lowered her napkin and revealed a sweet friendly face.
“I was wondering, Sam,” she said, “did we meet in New York City? Were you staying at the Royalton? I thought I met you with your folks in the lobby.”
If Sam had not already seen how creepy she was, he would have thought she was a blond-haired angel.
“Or maybe at JO JO’s,” she said. “Do you eat at JO JO’s? Do you know it? Sixty-fourth and Lex? Or the Metropolitan Club Christmas party.”
Of course she was making polite conversation for the judge who was circling the table with a clipboard. Sam knew he would be wise to do the same, but he was so angry about her two-faced act, he did not answer.
“You’re supposed to talk, Mr. Peanut Butter,” she said when the judge had walked on. “There are a whole six points for conversation. And your hair is horrible, like an old janitor’s mop.”
“I was never at the Royalton Hotel.”
“Neither was I, Monsieur Peanut,” said the boy with long black hair. “You’re supposed to pretend. And don’t glower and glare at me, that won’t help you pay for room service.”
“Talk to me, Sam,” Nancy said. “I think your hair is gorgeous.”
“Yes, talk to her,” said the girl who looked like a porcelain angel. “Not to me, I beg of you.”
“Here they come,” said the tall boy with the jet-black hair.
Sam expected more judges, but this time it was waiters who came swooping down on the table like great penguins. They left huge plates of salad in front of every Perfecto Kiddo, then retreated.
Sam smelled the salad before he even saw it: the onion, the vinegar in the dressing.
“Eat it,” Nancy said. “Pretend you like it I hate the onions.” She smiled at him and began to eat. “I hate the pickles, too,” she said. “But when I’m the Perfecto Girl, I’m taking my family to Jamaica and then I’m retiring. I’m thinking about Jamaica.”
It was like a dream, but there was no hallway to wake up in. There was no escape from the onions and the pickles. There was nothing to do but eat them. Every time Sam thought he couldn’t take another bite, there was Nancy smiling at him. He thought he’d like to take his mum and dad to Jamaica at the same time. He remembered to hold his elbows in. He remembered to use his napkin. He even made some jokes that Nancy thought were funny.
He ate everything on his plate, and the waiters, descending on the table, whisked the empty plates away, refilled the water glasses, and retreated so the judges could come in and circle the table one more time.
So far, so good. Sam knew he had not been a perfect dancer, but he was an optimist and he knew he was having a great conversation with Nancy about Jamaica. He knew it was a great conversation because he wasn’t thinking about it until Nancy stopped him.
“Uh-oh,” she said. “Here comes the dreaded spag.”
The waiters swooped in with big plates of spaghetti and meat sauce. As Sam turned to thank the waiter, he caught sight of Muriel and George up in the gallery. George was looking at him with a little brass telescope. Muriel had a tiny pair of binoculars. Wilfred was not with them. He was locked up in their room, looking at his spotted face and his Blue Jays cap in the bathroom mirror.
Sam put his fork into the spaghetti just the way he had practiced with the slimy string. He used a spoon and a fork. He held the spoon underneath and twirled with the fork on top, and it worked.
“Eureka!” he said to Nancy.
“Man’s a pro,” said Nancy.
Sam saw the spaghetti twirling onto the fork and he was, for a full ten seconds, a champion, a winner, excited, pleased. He really did have a chance of winning. The spaghetti, he thought, was just like the string he had practiced with.
But string is string and spaghetti is spaghetti and this spaghetti was long, and really slippery; and much more rubbery than string. As Sam lifted it to his mouth, it unwound like a spring.
It did more than simply unwind. It became an elastic band, a catapult. It sent a single gob of sauce flying across the table and, as chance would have it, it landed on the obnoxious tall boy with the jet-black hair. It landed smack on the front of his perfect white dress shirt.
The boy looked at him and shuddered. “You vile little peanut,” he said.
“I’m sorry” Sam said. “It was an accident.”
He looked up at the judges’ podium. He saw Mr. Lopate looking right at him with a weird kind of look in his old face.
“You’re dead, Mr. Peanut.” the boy said, mopping at his shirtfront with his table napkin. “Why don’t you leave the table now and stop ruining it for your betters.”
Sam did not like being talked to like this, but on the other hand, the last thing he wanted to do was splatter sauce on Nancy’s dress. He wanted her to have her holiday in Jamaica.
“I’m sorry,” he said to Nancy, and began to stand.
“No,” Nancy said.
But it was too late. He stood at the moment when the waiter was pouring water into his glass and now a whole jugful came spilling down, over his carefully arranged Perfecto hair, over his scrubbed Perfecto face, over Wilfred’s suit, and worst of all, it spilled right over Nancy. Her shining hair hung like rattails over her dripping face. She looked like she had fallen into a swimming pool. She had water in her eyes. She was spluttering.
Everyone in the ballroom was looking at them.
He wanted to die. He wished the ballroom floor would open up and swallow him. But when he saw the boy with the jet-black hair laughing behind his napkin, he got mad.
“Get a life,” he said, and this time he did not care who heard him.
Sam picked up his fork and dug it deep into his spaghetti. He watched the boy’s face change as he stood.
“No …” the boy said.
But Sam was already lifting the dripping mess high. And then Sam Kellow flicked.
“Oooooh,” said a woman in the gallery.
“Aghh,” said the judge with the gold jewelry.
The sauce and spaghetti flew high above the table, in a perfect ar
c. It was like a shooting star, a comet. One hundred pairs of eyes watched its shocking, scandalous trail. It lobbed up high, it plunged toward the earth, its tail streaming behind it.
And it landed—smack—on the top of the boy’s jet-black hair.
Red sauce leaped upward before spilling down his cheek and neck. Long strands of spaghetti flexed and flopped and lay like long white worms on top of his Perfecto hair.
Sam bowed. “Mr. Peanut Butter,” he said, “sends his compliments.”
And for a moment he felt wonderful.
FIFTEEN
SAM SAW THE CHIEF judge holding his head in his hands.
He looked up to the gallery and saw red-faced Muriel and ghost-white George.
He looked to the Perfecto Kiddos. They sat with their knives and their forks in their hands and their mouths wide open.
Nancy pushed her chair back. Her dress was drenched and probably ruined. She had a shocked, smiling look on her face. She touched his arm and began to say something, but then Sam heard his mother’s voice, calling from the gallery.
“Sam Kellow, don’t you move!”
He looked toward the gallery, at all the staring silent grown-up faces. His mother and his father were hurrying down the stairs into the ballroom.
Sam watched them come toward him. He felt so sad and sorry. No one would believe the grand plans he had had. All they would see was that he had behaved badly.
On his right he could hear Gloria sobbing.
But now his mother and his father were running across the ballroom. The three judges put their score-cards to one side and stared open-mouthed.
There was no hope. Everything was lost completely. The public-address system made a spluttering, laughing sound. Then a voice boomed: