by Hughes, Rhys
Weiner taps his nose with a long finger. “Oh yes, but we’re not beaten yet. The Greenwich Spice Centre was set up specifically to grate away the root ginger of the problem. Our founder sniffs over all; you are his latest avatar. The day of reckoning is approaching, when cosmic bills will be recalculated and refunds made. Indulge and explore! Glory awaits more golden than any Zafrani Pullao.” Standing aside, he ushers Mondrian out into the day.
The launch pad is a fifteen-minute walk from the Spice Centre. In his suit, Mondrian is reduced to a puppet gait. He takes a traditional route, down Norman Road, over Deptford Bridge and along New Cross Road. Mission Control follow at a respectable distance. When he reaches the exact spot, he stops and takes a deep breath. The Spice Centre no longer use countdowns, it unnerves the men. It is up to the individual to pick the moment. With an odd sort of laugh, one that aptly singes his tongue, Mondrian plunges into the urinous darkness.
He does not have to wait long for a train. He is dimly aware of the others boarding a carriage behind him. Holding onto a strap, he braces himself for the acceleration. As the train builds up speed, he turns and sees Mission Control swinging on their own straps, signalling through the glass of the connecting doors. They are making jokes as they lurch wildly all over the place. Despite this attempt to put him at his ease, he still feels afraid. There are shadowy figures beside him, shapes he cannot quite focus on. Do they exist only in his imagination? They too are dressed in suits, yoghurt tanks strapped to backs. As he tries to pin them down, he realises they have always been with him on missions. Why has he never noticed them before?
From New Cross to Finsbury Park is a complex flight path. He will have to change at Whitechapel, taking the District line to Aldgate East, changing again to the Hammersmith and City line for the short run to Liverpool St. From here, the Central line to Holborn will enable him to make the final approach on the Piccadilly line. There are more direct routes, but this one has been calculated as representing the minimal exposure to the perennial underground hazards of cultural vacuum and gamma-poetry. His heart beats wildly as he makes the first change; his accompanying ghosts follow, some of them. New ones join, all seemingly oblivious of him and each other.
Could these be parallel Khormanauts, from an alternative spicetime continuum? It is a staggering concept, yet the existence of dimensions other than the one based at Greenwich cannot be ignored. Suppose there are also Spice Centres at Kilburn or Sidcup or Putney? They might exist in raw form only, just waiting for the right atmospheric conditions to bubble into this world. Mondrian shivers. Some of the faces are stained with lime pickle. Spicemen returning from difficult missions? The idea is absurd; it irritates like a pappad splinter lodged between the teeth. Still they shimmer out of focus, needing a suitable lens, the bottom of a lager glass, to pull their photons together.
Mondrian decides not to inform Mission Control of his observations. His sanity would be questioned. He reaches into a pocket for his shades and protects his equanimity and his retinas. Sydney Cradle looms in his mind, shaking a finger blistered on the crusts of a million hot Naans. I must persist, Mondrian thinks. But his conscience feels weighted at the wrong end. Something has happened to him; even his nervousness is not of the same order as before. By the time he reaches Finsbury Park, he feels as if a rival has been sewn inside his skin, like a samosa stuffed with cherries instead of chillies. Rising from the tube, tie rolled away from escalator rail, his disgust is too vibrant.
He struggles to orient himself. At first his destination cannot be seen: he has emerged during an eclipse; but as the occluding bus passes, he catches his first glimpse. The restaurant does seem unstable; facade too gaudy, plaster gateway too crumbly. Behind him, Mission Control call indistinct words of encouragement. Once inside, they will still be able to communicate with him, through the plate glass of the re-entry window. But there is a period of raconteur silence when he will be alone in the piquant void: that moment when he passes through the spicelock between the two sets of doors, neither in one world nor the other. Breathing the differently layered air of North London, he struggles to calm his wildly fibrillating taste buds; his saliva mooches.
With a final check on his wallet status, he pushes with icy fingers and enters the spicelock. It is still not too late to abort. A few more paces, however, and he is committed. Now the doorman notices him and opens the second portal; Mondrian steps over the threshold. A sub-waiter is launched from the kitchens, crossing his walk-path at a tangent. “A drink, sir?” Mondrian orders an ethnic lager. This is the pint of no return. He takes a place at a table, twisting the fringes of the red tablecloth with his nervous hands.
In restaurant terms, The Taste of Asia is not enormous. There are bigger establishments in Soho: the gassy Mexican giants. But those have only a tiny core and consist mostly of pretentious atmosphere. Eateries such as this are much more dangerous. They generate money too fast; they are centres of activity that warp the entire profession. Mondrian risks a glance over his shoulder. Mission Control are huddling in front of the external menu, pretending to study the prices. They make subtle signs; a hunched Weiner grimaces precise ordering instructions. Bambai Bhajya for Starters, followed by Darchini Aur Suwa-Walla Gajar with a side dish of Piston-Walla Raita and a dozen Bhaturas, all rounded off with Tarbooj Ki Kheer. As a Khormanaut, Mondrian’s palate is licensed only to range the mild and creamy end of the spice-spectrum.
A swarm of waiters is captured by his gravity. They steer with the aid of menus and well-directed sighs. Most overshoot and spiral away to the corners of the establishment. One docks successfully and wields pen and notepad. A sudden depression takes hold of Mondrian. He feels a vast impatience; he has had enough of following orders. After all the dangers of previous missions, they are no closer to understanding the secrets of the Curry-Cosmos. A pinch of recklessness is called for. Savagely, with a defiant snort, he requests the hottest meal in the house. For once he will not cry: “That’s one mild Madras for a man, one extra hot Vindaloo for mankind.” This time he will have the real experience. Departing, the waiter gleams, like a wedge of Badam Paprh.
Mission Control view his disobedience with something akin to panic. Weiner hops on one leg. Mondrian ignores them and concentrates fully on his surroundings. The restaurant, which he initially thought was empty, seems crammed with wispy figures, similar to those he encountered on the tube. A single solid form sits in a dark corner, its back to Mondrian. A fit of trembling seizes the Khormanaut: is he losing his reason? Sipping his beer, he awaits the solar fare.
The kitchen doors swing again; with mounting velocity the plate of steaming lava sputters toward him. With hasty calculations scribbled on a napkin, he predicts its point of collision, clearing the appropriate spot before him. The meal’s course is elliptical: a slingshot round the other living diner, then a sequence of wobbles as it passes translucent patrons. Mondrian swallows dryly; if the angle of service is slightly out, the curry will either bounce off to another table or burn up in his lap. He lifts his drink in preparation.
The touchdown is perfect. Mondrian extends his fork and pokes his dinner in the eye. A thin crust has formed over the scarlet sauce; the tines of his implement shatter it into four continents, which begin to drift apart. One tectonic plate sinks into the magma, bearing a culture of carrots and chopped spinach. Steam gouts from the fissure. The fork bears traces from each strata of the feast; a geology of pain. Waiters go into orbit round the table, shirttails lengthening as they approach the kitchen’s furnaces, stains and sweat evaporating from the fabric. I am afraid, Mondrian realises. It is possible that a waiter will graze his atmosphere, break into a million fragments of politeness and shower radioactive manners on his head.
With a grimace, Mondrian tucks a sample of his meal into the corner of a cheek. The effect is not quite instantaneous; there is enough time to feel a profound regret. He is aware of Mission Control making utterly frenzied recalculations. A minor change in expenses amplifies right down the line: his fin
al mass will be different. As he attempts to swallow, a rogue lentil, encrusted with cayenne pepper to triple its standard size, detaches from the greater mouthful and spirals into a lung. This is what all explorers of international cuisine fear most: a blowout. Oxygen and legume react explosively. The blast scours his throat, dislodging teeth. His vibrating epiglottis sounds the alarm.
A waiter targets his plight, pitcher of iced water held aloft. Half blinded by tears, Mondrian is oblivious of his presence. Rising from his seat, the Khormanaut strikes the descending pitcher. The glass falls and shatters on the table edge; the liquid is quickly absorbed by the cloth. With this second impact, Mondrian’s incisors clatter onto his plate. His frantic report to Mission Control is made with a series of rapid blinks. The loss of enamel tiles is a serious disadvantage for future meals. The waiter flicks a towel at him, though whether in guilt or anger is rather difficult to determine. Mondrian catches him by the collar in an attempt to drag him down, but the spiceman is too debilitated and succeeds only in yanking himself from the table.
Cast adrift in the restaurant, struggling in each other’s arms, the pair lose angular momentum and begin to spiral toward the kitchen. There is terror on the waiter’s face; Mondrian is too dazed to notice. “I want to know the secret!” he wails. “Tell me the answer! How do you manage to stay in business with so few customers? How do you make enough money? Is there a flaw in spicetime on the premises? Do you have connections with minority retail outlets? Tell me about lingerie shops!” Breathlessly, as they pass the inner tables on their doomed course, the waiter points out the ghostly patrons, who look up in misty alarm.
Mondrian understands the terrible irony. His hunch was right: there really are other dimensions, with rival Spice Centres and Khormanauts. A ridiculous oversight on his part! It is the convergence of these diners, these menu-explorers, which keep the establishments viable. By seeking a reason for the existence of so many restaurants, the parallel spicemen provide that reason. Never has a self-fulfilling process stuffed his mind’s belly with such insubstantial provender. “Our fault!” he bellows, struggling to disengage from the waiter.
At last, as the warmth of the ovens starts to baste his brow, he is alerted to his precarious situation. He releases the safety catch on his yoghurt tank and clasps the nozzle. “The glare is too bright. I’m unable to aim accurately. I require assistance! Which way?” Placing his cracked lips close to Mondrian’s lobe, the waiter hisses: “South!” The spiceman is bemused. He knows that there simply are no directions in Spice. “When you travel on down toward the ovens,” the waiter replies, “and food gets yellow and hot and creamy, then you’re going in one direction only.” The phantoms are pushing aside their plates.
Mondrian sees a future removed from them by the merest Naan: curry is a black-beaned meal where taste drowns its speech and kisses. Cream a big cream, but spice snuffs it out before it is half down your throat. Gourmets curry, coriander in a flaming matchbox; the dinner is dripping lava, gushing sweetcorn, nothing! In desperation, the Khormanaut presses the lever on his tank. He hates anything to do with south; north is his favourite direction. The retro-blast of the yoghurt should propel him to safety, but the nozzle sputters ludicrously: the tank is empty! With the fatalism of a dishwasher, he sends another desperate message to Mission Control: “Greenwich, cheque please.”
They are approaching the chutney-horizon, the boundary between the world of forks and that of cleavers. For the first time, he is aware of other Mission Controls, huddled next to his own. And now the ghosts are busy making their own communications — “Euston, we have a problem!” “Can you read me, Cape Kennington?” “Hampstead, kindly advise!” Mondrian commends his soul to Sydney Cradle and mumbles a prayer. As he does so, the other solid patron in the restaurant activates his own yoghurt tank and blasts from his table, intercepting the helpless pair. He clutches them round the waist and unstraps Mondrian’s useless tank.
Mondrian gasps. “Nascent Nosegay!” His old enemy has come to rescue him. As the empty tank is drawn through the double-doors and flashes out of existence, the spicemen lock eyes. Nascent’s breath smells sweet; he has obviously changed his diet. While Mondrian ponders this development, Nascent straps his spurting tank to his chest. “Not enough power for all of us,” he explains. “Don’t grieve for me!” Mondrian demands to know the recipe of this self-sacrifice.
Kicking himself away into Spice, tumbling like a drunkard, Nascent shouts: “I sabotaged your tank! I wanted you to perish! But when we collided after Vespas, our fruit got mixed up. You received one of my Schopenhauerian kumquats; it made you bold enough to risk a Vindaloo. I gnawed on a notion of goodness, which gave me a conscience. It then became imperative to precede you here.”
Mondrian weeps, partly from grief and partly from steam. Now he has the reason for Nascent’s absence at his launch. The yoghurt tank rapidly carries them away from Nascent’s floundering form. To be saved by such a glib fellow! As Nascent vanishes over the chutney-horizon, he closes his eyes. His scream is as brief as the protest of pounded cumin. The scared waiter sees Mondrian’s original table; when they pass near, he leaps for it and clings to the tablecloth. This reduction in mass accelerates the Khormanaut to a frightful velocity; he works the controlling valve, but it is jammed. He is unable to arrest his motion as he steers through the tables for the plate glass re-entry window. Mission Control flee in all directions as he connects horribly…
He wakes to find himself in his bed at the Spice Centre, swathed in bandages. He is quite alone; but he can hear muted voices emanating from the common room. Throwing back the sheets, he climbs to his feet and out the door. The stairs make few allowances for his condition; by the time he reaches the bottom, the conversation has stopped. Weiner glances up as he enters the room. Mondrian blushes. “I’ve made a complete phaal of myself,” he mutters. Weiner nods in agreement. The spiceman rotates his splinted thumbs. “How long have I been unconscious? I’ve got a stereo to demonstrate. I mustn’t be late.”
Weiner chuckles. “That was weeks ago. You’ve lost your job with the company. Ancient Electronics Ltd don’t want you. I’ve taken your place. I was working for them anyway. Old Speckled Henrietta and myself have a thing between us. It’s not a growing concern, though.” At this news, the Khormanaut wipes his cheeks with his plaster sleeves. “Don’t cry!” snaps his superior. “You must have known she was unfaithful. I dropped enough hints to that effect. I told you I was allergic to lager. Old Speckled Henrietta is dark and full bodied.” He licks his lips. “She’s using me to pick up gold coins with a magnet…”
Mondrian slumps in a chair under his portrait. Weiner ignores him and growls into the picture’s ear. “You destroyed Nascent! You set back the Biryani program by a decade! But we’re not finished with you. We discovered another restaurant this morning. The biggest yet.” Lifting the portrait, he carries it to a window. “Look up there! Seems a colony of spicemen have been living on that crescent since classical times. They finally decided to open a curry house. We’ll get you to it before prices go up. We’re converting the moped, adding wings, a pressurised cabin.” The real Mondrian lumbers over and squints into the lunar glow, soft as ghee. He silently mouths the question, “The name?” With a sneer, Weiner whispers it to the picture, but not to him.
(1996)
Lunarhampton
(i)
The city was tugging at her elbow.
It felt like that, as if the fumes, litter and rain were conspiring to irritate her. She liked cities, but this one mistrusted her. Flyovers clapped hands above, falling away in exhausted parabolas, shadowing her car but doing nothing to keep the elements at bay. The convertible was a bad idea, she realised, as she changed lanes to avoid an ancient tanker, windows tinted like a blind man’s glasses, which kicked up whole puddles of oily water to baptise her anew.
On the edge of her vision, she was aware of addicts skulking in the shadows of tenements, needles catching her headlamps and signalling like heliographs.
Was there substance in these messages, ironic insights from beings who closed down veins like television channels? She passed a huddle of towers and a figure lurched onto the road before her, syringe impaled in a wrist, clutching something in a clawed hand. He seemed to tread on the pools, feet gripping the surface tension. Swerving to avoid him, catching his disappointed wail, Melissa Sting wondered if this was not a junky but a patient from some eviscerated asylum, saturated with so much lithium he was lighter than water.
In her mirror, she watched the man dance between the vehicles. His movements were jerky as he lunged at speeding windscreens. With a start, she recognised his weapon as a sponge: he was a squeegee merchant. She awaited the collision with an abstract pity, but it did not come; he was too agile. Soon her view was blocked by other drivers: a sedan attempted to overtake her on the inside, losing its exhaust as it glanced off the safety barriers. Brown smoke merged with the drizzle and was beaten into dead rainbows in the choked gutter. A second car struck the exhaust and flipped it into the air. It curved over Melissa and landed on the grassy embankment between pavement and road.
A depression, the first of the day, enveloped her as she approached the city centre. It was nearly noon, but still dark. Though this was her first visit to Birmingham, myths of its soullessness had filtered into her sceptical consciousness. Now she had to acknowledge the truth of the stories. The environment was self-parodic, and thus essentially baroque, with tangled junctions crumbling like plaster scrolls, effluents in the canals swirling into complicated filigrees. From above, the megalopolis surely resembled a shattered portico to an extravagant tomb. Once inside it was difficult to avoid the reek of putrefaction, the taste of bruised faith. The grandeur was a stamping boot.