“This is the drink that accompanies the first course,” he said, taking a sip.
I reached for my own glass and took a sip too. Anything rather than eat that food! The yellowy-green liquid turned out to be some kind of alcoholic infusion. It had an indescribable but not unpleasant taste, very voluptuous and mellow.
“Now for the dentelles Florentine,” said Mr Quode, spearing the coral-coloured horseshoeshaped thing on the end of his fork.
“What does that mean?” I asked. “Can you translate?”
“Ah, en anglais! Quelle dommage!” He bit off a small portion and chewed at it with succulent relish.
“The dentelle,” he said at last, “is from the mouths of young pigs. Je pense que vous l’appellerez the gum. Extracted whole and softened in a marinade of fennel, capers, and their own mother’s milk.”
He bent forward and dribbled the residue once more onto his plate.
“As for these,” he added, indicating the greyish-black things like sliced mushrooms, “these are the tender muzzles of young calves, sauteed in butter and herbs. Or, as we prefer to say, les almeches à la Mirabeau. Try them! Essayez!”
“Er, in a minute. I’m still enjoying my drink first.”
I sipped at my drink with a great show of enjoyment, trying to make it last. I waited until Mr Quode was once more absorbed in the inward intensities of his gastronomic experience, too much absorbed to notice what I was doing. Then I took my fork and quietly mashed the stuff on my plate, reducing it to little piles of slop. By the time I had finished it looked quite similar to the little regurgitated piles on Mr Quode’s own plate.
Only Craylene noticed what I was doing. She noticed because she wasn’t eating either. She had pushed her plate to one side as soon as the food was served. Now she kept catching my eye, then glancing coyly away again. She was like a sixty-year old schoolgirl. Finally she leaned across the table towards me, and said in a whisper:
“I’m a vegetarian! I don’t believe in eating meat!”
I smiled and nodded, as if I were a vegetarian too.
After the hors d’oeuvre came the soup course. Mr Quode served it out from the tureen on the trolley, using an enormous ladle. It was a hot thick green soup, quite ordinary-looking at first. But when I dipped into it with my spoon, I discovered hordes of tiny live worm-like things swimming about just under the surface. They were black and shiny and very squirmy.
I played around with my spoon in my soup, and drank from my second glass. It was the browny-black liquid this time, with a curiously pungent spicy flavour. I sipped at it slowly, again trying to disguise my loss of appetite. But I couldn’t repeat my previous trick. My Caulkiss looked down from the top of the table and saw that my bowl was still full.
“Mr Smythe,” he said, smiling and showing his teeth. “You must eat up. Make yourself strong. Remember your promise! You need lots of good red blood.”
“Mais oui!” Mr Quode took a quick look at my bowl and joined in too. “Swallow them while they’re still active, Mr Smythe! Otherwise you’ll miss the full effect!”
I could see the full effect demonstrated by Mr Quode himself, even as he spoke. There seemed to be a million tiny sensations going on inside of him. He wriggled and jiggled, he shivered and churned, he twitched and clutched and hiccupped. He was enjoying himself so much that his eyeballs rolled up until only the whites were showing.
Reluctantly I supped my soup. But I made sure that none of the little black worms got into my spoon. I left them all in a heaving mass at the bottom of my bowl. As for the flavour of the soup – I never even tasted it. My taste buds had gone numb.
Finally I finished and pushed my bowl away. Across on the other side of the table, I saw that Craylene had done exactly the same. The liquid part of her soup was gone, but the little black worms had been left at the bottom of the bowl. She batted her eyelashes at me and gave a sort of conspiratorial titter.
Then it was time for the main course. Mr Quode went out with the trolley to fetch it from the kitchen. Everyone else began drinking from the next glass, the glass of ruby-red liquid. They were getting quite intoxicated by now, with flushed cheeks and swaying heads and woozy eyes. I felt quite intoxicated myself.
When Mr Quode wheeled in the main course, I almost vomited at the sight. It was piled up in an open dish on top of the trolley: hot steaming purply-red coils, smothered in a sauce of greenish slime. The smell was unspeakable, a sort of rich ripe rottenness.
“Ma piece de resistance!” Mr Quode proclaimed proudly.
He moved around the table and served it out with tongs. He lifted it up in three-foot-long sausages, then deposited it with a great flourish onto our plates. The greenish slime fell off in spots and clots all over the lace tablecloth.
“Ah!” cried Mr Caulkiss. “We haven’t had this for over four years!”
“And with a new sauce too!” added Mr Quode.
When he had finished serving, he sat down once more beside me. His frilled shirt and black trousers were now spattered with food stains. He picked up one end of a sausagey thing, and bit off the top with his teeth. Inside was a sort of thick stodgy mash, mottled with little white lumps.
“This is the chopped nuts with oatmeal and chives,” he said, holding it up for me to inspect. “See? Only partially digested!”
He popped the end of the thing into his mouth and began to suck. The stuffing moved slowly up the tube. When he had drawn off a whole mouthful, he stopped for a while and swallowed. Then he took the thing out of his mouth and again held it up. Now there was a new kind of stuffing visible inside the opening, yellow and soft and paste-like.
“This,” he said, “is from the previous day’s ingestion. Cabbage and honey and artichoke. It’s the cabbage that makes the yellow colour. But much more fully digested. You’d hardly know it was cabbage at all, would you!”
He started sucking again. I sipped at my drink. I found that the smell of the ruby-red liquid at least covered up that other foul smell. But not for long. Soon Mr Quode had sucked his way through to yet another kind of stuffing. Once more he held it up for me to inspect. A thin fluent ooze this time, brownish-grey and smelling worse than ever.
“Half way through now,” he explained. “Chopped mince and onion and cheese. See? That’s the diet I fed them on Friday last week.”
I couldn’t keep quiet any longer. I had to know.
“What do you mean, fed them? What are these things?”
“What are they? Oh, didn’t I say? These are moncelles d’agneau en daube à la Provencale. Or in translation if you must, the upper intestinal tracts of specially-fed sheep. Voila!”
“Sheep’s guts?!”
“Moncelles d’agneau. Six different flavours, each in a different stage of digestion. It’s taken twelve days to prepare the animals for this dish, you know!”
“Eat up, Mr Smythe,” Mr Caulkiss called out from the top of the table. “Offal is particularly good for the blood!”
Luckily, though, neither Mr Caulkiss nor Mr Quode kept a close watch on me. I stirred the sausagey things around on my plate for a while. Then I slid my plate to the edge of the table and with a sudden movement tipped it right off. The whole foul mess of intestines fell to the floor.
“Oh! Mr Smythe! Your moncelles are tombes!” Mr Quode emerged with a start from his inward gourmet raptures. He studied the steaming green and brown pile on the carpet. “Shall I put them back on your plate?”
“No! I can’t eat them now.”
“Quelle dommage! Would you perhaps like to share from my plate?”
“No thanks. I’ve already eaten half of my own anyway.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m absolutely full. Couldn’t eat another thing!”
“Ah, but you must have some dessert!”
“Must I?”
“I made it specially for you.”
“I’m having some!” Craylene piped up suddenly from the other side of the table. “No meat in the dessert!”
&n
bsp; I noticed that her main course plate was perfectly clean and bare. Evidently Mr Quode had not even bothered to serve her his moncelles d’agneau.
So we came at last to the dessert. It wasn’t like the other courses – not obviously repellent and disgusting. But I got a great shock when Mr Quode wheeled it in.
It was a decorated cake made in the shape of a face. My face. There was no mistaking it. Mr Quode had portrayed me in coloured icing, with pink and brown and black for mouth and eyes and hair. It was a work of art.
There was a general round of applause.
“Magnificent!” cried Mr Caulkiss.
“Welcome to Morbing Vyle, Mr Smythe!” cried Melestrina.
“Wonderful to have you!” Mr Caulkiss raised his glass, the one containing the creamy-white liquid. “Your health!”
Then Mr Quode divided up the cake and passed it around. They took a piece each, with much laughter and merriment.
“I’ve got your forehead, Mr Smythe!”
“Here’s your chin!”
“Your eyebrows! I’m going to nibble your eyebrows!”
My own piece of cake came from the side of my face, one cheek and one ear. I drank my drink and nibbled away with the rest of them. The creamy-white liquid was very alcoholic indeed. Soon I didn’t much care what I ate – as long as nobody actually told me the ingredients. The cake was very sweet, with multiple layers, melting in the mouth.
“Mmmmmah!” Mr Quode finished his cake and drink, and slumped back in his chair. He eased his hands in under his shirt, and rubbed and pressed all over his stomach. He seemed to be encouraging his digestion with gentle massage. His stomach gave forth a long effusive gargle.
Melestrina relaxed too, and Mr Caulkiss. Melestrina loosened her corset with a mighty twang, and immediately underwent a kind of overall expansion of thighs, hips, and bosom in every direction. Mr Caulkiss balanced his chin on his hands and his elbows on the table. He seemed to be contemplating his own nose.
Only Craylene was still watching me. She kept casting little simpering glances across the table. Finally she leaned right over and said in a whisper:
“Mr Smythe! I’d like to show you my Little Ones now! Come and I’ll show you!”
“Your Little Ones?” I repeated fuzzily. I was having difficulty focussing my mind. I stared back into Craylene’s pink-and-white face. “You’ll show me?”
“Yes, if you come down to the cellar – ”
“WHAT IS THIS!?” Down at the end of the table, Melestrina flung back her head and pointed accusingly. “It is not your turn, Craylene Caulkiss! It is I who will now provide the entertain-ment!”
“Oui! Oui!” Mr Quode slithered upright in his chair and clapped his hands. “My wife will perform!”
“Entertainment by Melestrina Quode,” announced Mr Caulkiss.
Melestrina lumbered to her feet. “I shall present my tableaux!”
∨ The Vicar of Morbing Vile ∧
Thirty-Four
She crossed to the far side of the parlour and vanished behind the long black curtains. There was a great deal of bulging and billowing, followed by sounds of pinging elastic and fasteners being unpopped. Then various items of clothing were kicked out one by one from under the curtains: gown, petticoat, corset, stockings.
Mr Quode, meanwhile, had left his chair and gone out of the room. He returned a few moments later dragging a huge tea-chest. On the side were the stencilled words: COSTUMES & PROPERTIES. He rummaged around and selected for himself a silver trumpet. Then he propelled the tea-chest in behind the curtain to Melestrina.
There was more bulging and billowing. Melestrina called out:
“I need my theatrical assistant! Where is he? Let him come!”
Mr Caulkiss reached for the ornate silver dishcover that had been lying on the table since the start of the banquet. He lifted it high in the air and revealed underneath the small chubby form of a naked baby. It was Panker, curled-up in the silver dish. He was motionless for only a fraction of a second. Then with a WHOOOSH! and a pink blur of speed he took off across the table. He bounded to the floor, flew twice around the room and vanished behind the curtains. There was the tiny squeak of a baby that had found its mother.
More bulging and billowing. Then a hand appeared, holding a large placard:
OUR WORLD OF WONDER!
SCENES OF HISTORY AND IMAGINATION
PRESENTED BY
MELESTRINA QUODE
The hand waited until we had all had time to read. Then it withdrew, and reappeared a moment later with a slightly smaller placard:
N°1: THE CORPSE OF HANNIBAL DEVOURED BY RATS
Another pause. Then Mr Quode raised his trumpet and blew a long flatulent note. The curtains parted and Melestrina stepped forth. Her toga was a voluminous white nightie, and she wore an upturned metal basin for a helmet on her head. She stood in front of us and lowered herself to the floor. Slowly, grandly, she subsided into a state of outstretched immobility.
Then Panker appeared. He was bundled up in an old grey scarf. One end of the scarf trailed out behind him like a tail. Obviously he was playing the part of the rats. He darted up and started to devour the mountain of flesh which represented the corpse of Hannibal.
What he actually did was to make small nudges against Melestrina’s arms and legs. Melestrina showed that she was being devoured by appropriate jerks and twitches. Finally Panker scampered all over her stomach and thighs and bosom, uttering a series of high-pitched squeaks. By the time Melestrina stood up to take her bow, it was clear that the rats had eaten the entire corpse of Hannibal from top to toe.
There was great applause. Melestrina and Panker vanished once more behind the curtain. Then another placard came out to announce:
N°2: FALLING DOWN A 500 FOOT CLIFF WITH HANDBAG AND POODLE
This time Mr Quode not only blew a note on his trumpet, he also passed amongst us with a length of tarred rope, waving it under our noses.
“It’s a cliff by the sea,” he explained. “This will give you the smell of the sea.” Then he arranged one of the dining-table chairs in front of the curtains. Melestrina appeared, dressed in a straw hat and a bright summer frock. She carried a handbag in one hand, and Panker in the other. He was still bundled up in the old grey scarf, only this time without the tail. It seemed that he was to represent the poodle.
Melestrina stepped up onto the chair. For a long minute she looked around at her audience, while Mr Quode struggled and heaved to hold her steady. Then suddenly she raised her arms and jumped. The floorboards shuddered with seismic quakes and after-quakes.
But that was merely her leap from the top of the cliff; now came the 500 foot descent. Still with her arms uplifted, holding handbag and poodle out at the sides, she stood as if transfixed by the speed of her fall. Only her face moved. Mouth agape, eyebrows hoisted, eyes wide, she stared in mounting terror at the carpet below.
And then the impact. She buckled all over and collapsed suddenly in a heap. Again the floorboards shuddered. Handbag and poodle flew through the air and landed on the other side of the room. She lay on the floor in sprawling disarray, bursting forth from her frock in every direction. I could see her giant naked legs exposed to the thighs, and her bosom like twin plump pillows spread out on the carpet. It was a spectacularly inelegant sight. But Melestrina, true to her art, remained exactly as she had fallen. She waited until everyone had had a good long look. Then she rose, readjusted herself, and received her applause.
“Remarkable! Incontestable!” cried Mr Caulkiss, clapping on his dry bony knees with his dry bony hands. “Don’t you think so, Mr Smythe? Have some more to drink!”
He pushed one of the decanters down the table. This one contained yet another kind of liquid, deep violet in colour. Under Mr Caulkiss’s watchful eye, I poured myself a glass and took a small sip. It nearly burned the roof of my mouth off. For a moment the room seemed to be spinning around in circles.
Meanwhile the tableaux continued. There were so many, I can’t reme
mber them all. But I remember:
N°5: STRANGLING AN ESKIMO WITH GUITAR STRINGS
(Panker played the eskimo)
and
N°8: THE MAGNIFICENT SCREAM OF ENNIUS INCONTABULUS
(a five minute mime in total silence)
and
N°12: BATTERING THE BELOVED BY MOONLIGHT: AN INTERLUDE
(Mr Quode accompanied the action with a trumpet serenade)
Those were just some of the ones that I could understand. There were also many more where I couldn’t even begin to guess who was who or what was supposed to be happening. For example:
N°11: LOST IN THE SLAUGHTERHOUSE
(Melestrina appeared to be playing several parts simultaneously in this one) and
N°22: AL AHMEG’S FAMOUS GLUE TORTURE
(Melestrina wore a sort of striped rug, Arabian-style)
and
N°24: QUEEN BOADICEA AWAKENED BY AN EXTREMELY LOUD NOISE
(Here Melestrina made highly suggestive movements with her legs that seemed quite unrelated to loud noises or awakening)
So it went on. I was partly bored and partly disgusted. Several of the tableaux were actually very crude and sexually explicit. I’d never thought of myself as narrow-minded, but often I had to look away in sheer embarrassment. There was:
N°20: PRIMITIVE SEX-MURDER IN THE SOLOMON ISLANDS
(Melestrina bounced her bosom violently against the floor)
and
N°26: THE PYTHON’S REVENGE
(Here Melestrina did unspeakable things with Mr Quode’s tarred length of rope)
“Oh dear! Oh dear!” twittered Craylene across the table. “Isn’t it blatant! Isn’t it shameless!”
But I had the impression that she didn’t really mind. Her tiny doll-like eyes were lit up with excitement. And Mr Quode and Mr Caulkiss were equally excited, calling aloud for their favourite performances.
“Do N°29!”
“Let’s have N°31!”
The Vicar of Morbing Vile Page 12