by Jeff Oliver
“I thought for sure I was being taken by terrorists. I assumed I’d be tortured and killed. Truth is, I was not in such bad shape. My arm was cut deep, but God spared me—it was only a flesh wound. In fact, if I was being taken for interrogation, I knew they would tend to my wounds because they would need me alive to get information.”
“Neeeeeeeed you aaaaaaalive…”
“That’s right, if I was a prisoner, I might have gotten the medical attention I needed, and might still have my arm. But Bhiza, bless her, saw me in pain and wanted to save me. So she took me to her village and hid me with her family so I would not be found by her brothers. And I sweated it out. The families tended to me, Bhiza tended to me. Like family. But they did not have the right medical supplies, and had zero medical knowledge, and so, though it was only an infection—totally solvable with some antibiotics—I lost my arm in that village.”
“He lost his aaaaaaaaaaarm.”
“That’s right—my good arm!”
“The one he used to druuuuum!”
“But I gained something much more useful that day. I gained an understanding of the people I was once at odds with. Plus, I gained a wife.”
“Meeeeeeeeee.”
“Let us sing.”
“Mayayayayahja!”
Every mouth in the semi-circle opened, seeming to say: “WTF?”
“The point of my story, dear friends, is that togetherness is the key to peace,” the drummer went on. “Being amongst the Palestinian people, eating with them, sleeping with them, burying my arm in their backyard—all that made me understand them, and they understood me.”
“Heeee turned my brother in to Israeli authoritiesssssss,” Bhiza sang out, her face tensing up.
“We must make compromises,” said the man, with a tight smile.
“Iiiit was at his wedding ceremonyyyyy.”
“I thought we settled that,” the man said.
“Not eveeeen close, bucko.” Bhiza shot her husband a look so full of venom, you’d have thought he’d die on the spot.
He turned to the cast, his frown smoothing over again into a calm smile. “Seems we have shared a bit too much,” the drummer said. “But maybe that’s the point. Sharing. Over-sharing even.” He shot a look back at Bhiza but didn’t seem to make a dent. “Now, let us all share. Share our feelings about those who we are at odds with. Share our anger, our personal disappointment, our rage.” He looked over at his wife. “And then throw it away.”
“Raaaaaaaaaaaage and disappointment,” Bhiza sang.
“Each of you has given me something personal—something that reminds you of that rage.” He unfolded a rug and revealed an assortment of objects. Inside were some modern items like clothes and makeup. Some were old, like leather sandals.
“Why is my iPad in there?” said Chrissy.
“This is about sacrifice and absolution,” the drummer said. “Who wants to go first?”
In the control room tent, Sara leaned over and kissed Ruti on the neck.
“So this is what turns you on?” Ruti said. “Material sacrifice? I’ll keep note.”
“Just happy is all,” Sara said.
“Me too.” Ruti smiled.
At the campfire, Chef Joaquim clutched a pair of oven mitts adorned with a skull-and-crossbones. His eyes were wet as he gazed into the fire.
“Some of you have asked why I got this tattoo with a date on my wrist,” said Joaquim. “And I told you it’s the date that a friend died. Well, it wasn’t a friend, exactly. It was the day I tried to commit suicide.” The other chefs listened intently. “I stole a rifle from my old man’s shed, got down on my knees, and put the barrel in my mouth… and… and…” He broke down, weeping snot and tears. The producers in the control room high-fived.
The one-armed drummer prodded, “Why, Joaquim? Why were you there? In that dark place?”
“I kept telling them, ‘Don’t do this to me,”’ Joaquim sobbed. “I pleaded. I called, I wrote letters. Nothing worked…”
“Who? Who didn’t listen to your pleas, Joaquim?” asked the drummer.
“The Kitchen Network. Despite everything, they cancelled Wedding Cake Wizards!” Joaquim collapsed in a heap of tears, tossing his baking mitts into the fire and then, realizing what he had done, almost leapt into the fire after them. But he pulled himself back, sobbing as he watched them burn. “Where’s the fondant?” he yelled at the flames. “Where’s the buttercream? And don’t tell me cupcakes! Fuck cupcakes! Cupcakes aren’t a replacement for cake. They’re fucking cupcakes. A child could make ’em. Aahhhhhhh…”
The drummer wrapped his parka around Joaquim’s shoulder and sat him back down. “That was great, Joaquim. Really great,” he said. “So, who’s next?”
In the control room, Sara pulled out her earpiece. “We’ve hit our tears quota,” she said to Ruti. “Let’s go make out.”
They left the control room tent and stood under the stars. Sara softly touched the panther-shaped scar on Ruti’s neck and kissed her.
“You were talking in your sleep again last night,” Ruti said between kisses.
“Oh yeah? Anything hot?” said Sara.
“Not exactly.”
“Did I mention ex-girlfriends?”
“It was about Nathan,” Ruti said. “You kept saying you had the money but that Lopez has to die first.”
Sara laughed. “Wow, I’ve really got some pent-up rage over working such long hours. Help me relieve the tension.” She nuzzled Ruti’s neck.
“What’s even crazier,” said Ruti, “is that you were speaking in perfect Arabic.”
“That is nuts,” said Sara, who kept nuzzling.
“You’ve been pretending not to understand it this whole time,” said Ruti. “Why?”
Sara shrugged. “Collecting info. Why should Al-Asari know I can understand his orders?”
Ruti pulled away, a serious look in her eyes. “Do you have something to do with this?” she said. “With Al-Asari—with the terrorists? You would tell me if…”
“Ruti, it was just a dream,” said Sara. “We’re all under a lot of stress.”
“But it has worked out for you, hasn’t it?” Ruti said. “This whole terrorist infiltration. You’re in charge now. Suddenly, head of the production.”
“You think I conspired to shoot Lopez in the foot?” said Sara.
“When we were up above the pavilion in the middle of the night, you popped a pill. You knew you would be doing some public speaking.”
“I was nervous. It was an impulse. Are you seriously accusing me of orchestrating a terrorist infiltration?”
“You’re not planning on letting them go, are you?” Ruti said.
“All I’m planning to do is get us all out of this alive,” Sara said. “Now, can we please continue making out? Because this is seriously killing the mood…”
“I know him, Sara,” Ruti said. “I know Al-Asari. From before.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He was there in Tel Aviv when the bomb went off, when I was burned on my neck,” she said. “I saw his face. He pulled me from the fire, maybe saved me. I swear it was him. I remembered it last night. He did it! He set off that bomb! I know it to be true. And now we have him. We must not let him get away alive. His death will be my justice.”
“Whoa! Settle down,” Sara said, seeing a frightening faraway look in Ruti’s eyes. “Do you know how crazy you sound?”
“The others can try to get away. But I must take my revenge on Al-Asari,” Ruti said. “He must die at my hands before he is able to escape.”
“Let the police do their job,” Sara urged. “I don’t want you in danger.”
“If he escapes, I will not be able to live with myself. He must die. It is written.”
“Ruti, don’t do anything crazy. Promise me,” said Sara.
“I cannot.”
“Ruti, I’ll handle Al-Asari. He’s going down, I promise you.”
Just then a producer ran over. “Sara, s
hit-show by the campfire. Need you there stat.”
Sara took Ruti’s hand and looked her square in the eyes. “You asked if I had a plan. And I do. I’ll explain everything later. Just don’t do anything about Al-Asari. Promise me, okay?”
Ruti nodded. Sara plugged the walkie back into her ear. “Sara, here. What’s the trouble?”
At the campfire, Bhiza circled the one-armed drummer with a small, curved blade. “You betrayed Jabbar!” she cried. “He trusted you! We all trusted you!”
“He was a thug,” said the man. “He needed to be locked away!”
“And you need to burn in hell!” said Bhiza.
The chefs and terrorists watched in awe as the woman lurched forward and sliced her husband’s stomach with the blade. The man looked down, saw the dark blood ooze from his body, and did the only thing a sane person would do: He ran.
“Get back here, you cowardly son-of-a-bitch!” Bhiza screamed. She gave chase, knife in the air. “You betrayed Jabbar. You must pay!”
The producers looked to Sara for direction. “Get everyone in interview,” she said. “We need raw emotion. Then right to sleep. No night reality tonight.” She turned to the cast. “We need everyone ready for tomorrow’s elimination battle. Network’s orders. It’s going to be a huge day, so get your beauty sleep, people.”
Sara snuck off to the main office and dialed up her brother on Facetime. When Nathan’s face appeared on the screen, he looked pale, even a little sweaty. Sara wondered for a second if that was her own reflection.
“Hey, buddy,” Sara said. “You look like you’ve been up all night playing Halo.”
“Chasing Pavement is the worst song ever written,” said Nathan.
“Yup, that’s the code,” said Sara. “Now turn the video games off.”
Nathan eyes widened. “Chasing Pavement is the worst song ever written ever.”
“Oh, uh… okay!” Sara’s whole body shook. She grabbed for the phone and began dialing Reno police.
“Don’t even think about calling the cops,” a gruff Russian voice said. A meaty hand shifted the Facetime camera to reveal a rough, flat-nosed man with a deep scar splitting his eyebrow and a prominent neck tattoo. “You must be the sister who sends money. How nice.” His voice oozed disdain.
“Who are you?” said Sara.
“I ask the questions,” the man said. “All you need to know is your mother owes my boss a debt.”
“I’ll settle it,” Sara said. “Whatever it is. Just leave the house. We can work this out together.”
“The debt is substantial. Sixty thousand. Ten more because I have to visit so much. I give you two days, or else.”
“Wait. That’s too soon,” said Sara.
“You’ll find a way,” the man said. “And no po-po, or else your brother will know what a halo really is.”
“If you touch him!” The screen went blank. “Wait, come back!” Sara yelled. She slammed the phone onto the desk. “Goddamn it! Fucking dammit!”
Sara raced out of the office and passed some crew hanging out down the hall. “Where’s Al-Asari?” she said. Several people shrugged.
Then a PA said, “I think he’s getting that bandage he has on his hand looked at by the medic. Yeah, it got infected. She said she’s giving him a tetanus shot or something just in case.”
And that’s when Sara realized it. Ruti wasn’t tending to Al-Asari’s wound. She was exacting revenge. Sara sprinted down the hall.
“Something I said?” the PA said, and the crew members laughed.
Sara ran. She ran up the hill, through the resort. She burned her way towards them.
In the Medic’s office on the third floor, Al-Asari sat on an examination table, which was covered with a paper sheet. He had removed and folded his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He was sweating profusely.
“You really think a little dog bite could give me rabies?” Al-Asari said to Ruti. “Seems like the military would want their dogs up to date on shots.”
“Do I think it’s rabies? Probably not,” said Ruti. “But it’s inflamed. And it could turn into a nasty infection that could be just as bad.”
“I’m uneasy about shots,” Al-Asari admitted, closing his eyes and taking short breaths. “I have fainted before. So take it easy on me.”
Ruti prepped the needle. She plunged the tip into a small glass vial, then sucked out the clear fluid inside. “You won’t feel a thing,” said Ruti.
Al-Asari shivered. He took deep hypnotic breaths.
“Just lie down. You can’t faint if you’re lying down.”
“That’s what they always tell me,” said Al-Asari. “Complete myth.”
It was exactly how Ruti wanted him—tense and sweating. Increased blood flow would help get the contents of the needle into his bloodstream to do its work. She milked his nervousness and held the needle in the air, flaunting it. Al-Asari clutched the sides of the table. His eyes darted around the room and his breath sped up. He pulled a locket from his shirt pocket and opened it to the photograph of a young woman. He stared at it and then closed his eyes tightly, as if in prayer.
“Who’s the lovely lady?” Ruti asked.
“My wife. She passed, but she used to make me calm every time I feared the needle. But waking up to her face after fainting, that was always the treat.”
Ruti, taking Al-Asari’s wrist, found a nice, juicy vein. He jerked.
“Steady,” she said, “or else we’ll have to do it twice.”
Al-Asari winced as she plunged the needle into his arm. He went cold as the liquid pushed into his bloodstream.
“Oh, God,” Al-Asari said. His sickly face turned pale, his eyes rolled back, and he fell back onto the bed unconscious.
Ruti snapped her fingers in front of his eyes. Nothing.
“Goodnight, sweet murderer,” she said.
She tossed the needle into the dispenser, and was washing her hands when Sara burst through the door.
“Please, no!” she said, panting. Sara saw Ruti, then Al-Asari lying motionless and white as a bed sheet. “It’s over,” Sara said, hands over her face. “It’s all really over.”
Ruti gave her a quizzical look.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Sara continued. “He wasn’t all bad. He was just…” Sara fell to her knees. She leaned over a small waste paper basket and vomited. “Oh gawd…”
Ruti rolled her eyes. “Now I have two big babies in my clinic.”
Sara wiped vomit from her chin and looked up in horror. Ruti was a cold-blooded killer, and she was making a joke? Sara vomited some more. Everything was lost. Sara would have to improvise. There was an air rifle in the office cabinet. She’d have to take them out one by one. But even then, there would be no hope. All was lost, all was lost…
“Oh, I am so embarrassed,” Al-Asari moaned. His face was a jaundice yellow and shiny with sweat. “I can’t believe I fainted… again.”
“You weren’t kidding,” smiled Ruti. “You should take a Xanax next time. Here, have some water.”
“Thank you,” said Al-Asari, slurping gratefully at the paper cup. He noticed Sara on the floor. “Ms. Sinek, what are you doing here?”
Sara’s mouth was agape. “I-I-I…”
“We will have to watch that hand,” said Ruti. “Just keep it clean and dry.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Al Asari said. “I feel better already. And thank you for being so gentle with me.”
“You’re welcome, my dear,” said Ruti.
Al-Asari stood up shakily and walked toward the door. He looked down at Sara and the vomit-splattered trash basket, and wrinkled his nose. “You ate the babganoush, didn’t you? Disgusting,” he said.
Al-Asari walked out and it took a full minute for Sara to pull herself together. “But I thought…”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Ruti said. “Besides, I stole his ID card when he fainted, so now I know where he lives. Al-Asari gets a pass this time, but I will kill him and eventually his entire family too. There will
be no mercy whatsoever.”
Sara gulped.
Tough Israeli chick.
CHAPTER 12
A stack of pizza boxes and Diet Cokes awaited the cast back at the mansion. They all groaned.
“Jesus Christ, again?” Chef Nisha said.
“Fuck it, I love pizza,” said Joaquim.
But then they smelled something other than the melted cheese and cheap tomato sauce—an earthy sweetness that could only come from authentic Middle Eastern cooking. Hints of cumin, za’atar, chives, the sizzling of fried onions and lamb. It was an aroma that bespoke a long culinary tradition.
The cast bee-lined for the kitchen like a mob of famished zombies. There they witnessed a sight they hadn’t seen in a long time, and some had never seen: a cook engaged in the pure joy of making food. No clocks, no screaming executive chefs or expediters, no incessant buzz of a restaurant ticket machine, no haughty waiters or picky customers returning dishes for lack of seasoning. Just joy.
Salid’s movements were breathtaking—his eyes were closed and his nostrils wide to take in the aromas of his cooking. He stopped only to consider a taste, to add spices or peppers, to upgrade flavor or texture. Minced lamb sizzled in bulgur crust. On the stove, lentil stew simmered with red peppers, dill, garlic, and cumin. Turnips stuffed with rice, flavored with cloves, garlic, and cardamom, baked slowly in the oven. Eggplant with pomegranate seeds and garlic cooled under a fan next to fried dough balls stuffed with meat, pine nuts, and onions. The aromas were beyond tantalizing.
“Pavlov don’t know shit about salivating,” Cowboy said.
When Salid turned to take his cauliflower out of the oven, he opened his eyes to the sight of a pack of primal wolves. He knew just what to do. He quickly doubled and tripled his recipes. He pulled out bags of fresh eggplant and tomatoes; he laid ingredients out in place. As if under hypnosis, the chefs all picked up paring knives, chopping, dicing, and seasoning what Salid set out for them.
“Oil the eggplant just barely,” Salid instructed softly. “The natural oils are tastier. And don’t pull the seeds. They make it less bitter.”
The chefs obeyed every word.
“Deconstructed nothing. This is real food,” said Ghana. “Simple, earthy, flavorful. God’s food.”