Fish of the Week

by Steve Braunias

  Good luck, I suppose, to the Nigerian brute who stomped up and down the stairs, watched idiot TV game shows at top volume, stunk out the house when he rose early each morning to cook a rank dish of blackened catfish in tomato sauce, and worked on a sensitive study of African literature. I don’t much care what happens to the shrill Afghani virgin or the dull Malaysian fattie, who hated each other, snitched to the authorities, and seemed to cast themselves in their own version of Big Brother—who will be the first foreigner to be voted out of Barton Close?

  The safe bet was on the Afghani, but in a surprise twist the Malaysian voted himself off, and found somewhere else to live. He left behind his bicycle; he had ridden it once or twice, but it puffed him out and gave him cramp so he walked everywhere, and moaned that he got blisters. Strange to think of his bike— mockingly, it was emblazoned with the legend MOUNTAIN RANGER—rusting in the English rain by the back door.

  Strange to think of biking over cobblestoned alleyways made for horse and carriage, to hear the sound of loud grim bells hinting at some fresh plague every hour—Cambridge is an antique shop, and these are its expected postcards. It can be quaint, precious, suffocating. The desperate notion sometimes occurred to hijack a punt on the river and demand to be taken to Manchester, even Sheffield. But what you could never take for granted, never thought of as banal, was a kind of hum in this home to some of the best minds in Britain. A hum of an ambient high IQ.

  You heard it drinking in the pubs, you felt it whispering in the library, you saw it stuffing its face with gammon at supper. Strange to arrive home in New Zealand and think of all that presence of genius, in the dying afternoon light, my friends surviving in a society that is earth of nobody, in the medieval gloom of Cambridge lit up this Christmas.

  [December 3]

  News, 1599

  One week back in New Zealand after a term at Cambridge University—one of the world’s great centres of learning, its heritage of genius glowing on the walls of each ancient college— and friends and colleagues have already remarked, with some shock, perhaps even awe, on the marked change in my intelligence. They are in no doubt that I’m even stupider: more of an imbecile, more of a moron, more or less gormless. You could say I’ve half a mind to complain, but what they fail to understand is that I am in fact carrying the damp torch of a long Cambridge tradition.

  Everyone is told the Cambridge story—this scientific discovery, that literary masterpiece. Its students and masters have done the atom (Rutherford), the economy (Keynes), the computer (Babbage), the diary (Pepys), and each other over (Ted Hughes, Sylvia Plath). Its PR as home to the heavyweight intellectual champions of the world is maintained in the amazing shape of Lucasian Professor of Mathematics Stephen Hawking. A letter from his seventeenth-century predecessor, Isaac Newton, detailing his first steps towards his theory of gravity, is preserved at Trinity College: ‘Suppose on a very calm day a pistol bullet was let down by a silk line from the top of a well…’ In a letter in a nearby display case, Lord Byron details another step towards his theory of bedlam: ‘At Malta I fell in love with a married woman and challenged a rude fellow who grinned at something; but he apologised and the lady embarked for Cadiz so I escaped murder and adultery.’

  So many immortal names, such epic achievement. But the history of Cambridge is also writ large with successive centuries of bums, clowns, louts, creeps, wretches, toads, knaves, galoots, dullards and dumbos. My source material for this claim are the volumes of the biographical index of undergraduates who have filed into the university since it was established in 1209. I devoted many soothing hours to poring over these priceless records in the high-ceilinged reading room of the university library.

  The volumes were a who’s who of absolute nobodies. Thomas Wake was sent up to Gonville and Caius College in 1599. He became a church rector. ‘He was removed for swearing, drinking, quarrelling, and riding over a woman, of which she died.’ William Frost, class of 1609: ‘A tippler. In his distemper he came hallowing and whooping home at unreasonable hours … Dangerously suspected of incontinency.’

  Christ’s College boasts a splendid index. John Cudworth, 1672: ‘He spent his time bemoaning his lot and complaining of his relatives. Of doubtful sanity.’ William Neville, 1720: ‘A large, rawboned jolly man who loved good eating and drinking; died young, of no good character.’ Edward Franklin, 1604, became a Catholic fugitive. ‘He was driven from place to place until one day, beset with soldiers, he made his escape through a garden, but as he was climbing over the pales one of them run him into his groyne, of which he would soon die.’ John Sawyer, 1665, is only remembered thus: ‘It is possible he was illegitimate.’ Poor bastard.

  The one notable fact of Simon Every’s years as an undergraduate in 1680 is that he assiduously recorded his meals in the college dining hall. Sample: ‘Saturday, dined on Stinking Mutton. Sunday, dined on Pig’s Head.’ George Rooke, 1721: ‘He had haughtiness, meanness and servility to an inexpressible degree, being the most abject slave and fawning sycophant I ever saw.’ Anthony Shepherd, 1740: ‘He had a taste for wine and musical instruments, but the goodness of each taste was questioned … Fanny Burney found him “dullness itself ”.’ And yet Shepherd tasted immortality—in 1774 Captain James Cook named a group of very dull islands in the New Hebrides after him. The name of John Heyden, 1577, also lives on. So does his left hand—he lost it in a duel and it is preserved in the Museum of Canterbury.

  Titus Oates, one of the vilest figures in English history, whose lies and treacheries sent innumerable Jesuits to their execution in the Tower, came to Gonville and Caius College in 1666. His entry in the index: ‘He and the plague both visited the University in the same year … He was a dunce, ran into debt, and cheated his tailor of a gown.’ The superbly named Midgely Horsfalk, 1745: ‘Expelled for notorious offences.’

  My favourite is the Earl of Scarsdale and Baron of Sutton, born Francis Leek. He came to Cambridge in 1596. ‘A devoted royalist. After the death of Charles, he is related to have become so much mortified, that he clothed himself in sackcloth, and causing his grave to be dug some years before his death, lay there every Friday.’

  So many clowns, knaves, etc. I found such sympathetic company in the indexes. Merrily flipping through the biographical register of Christ’s College, though, I saw an entry for an undergraduate who came to Cambridge in 1827. ‘A popular man. He rode, shot, and collected beetles.’ I doubt this means he rode and shot beetles. In 1831 he set sail around the world. In 1834 he spent a miserable Christmas in New Zealand. He was at sea for five years. He published his findings in 1859. Even an idiot can recognise that he arrived at the single greatest idea in the history of mankind. Oh well. There’s only one Charles Darwin.

  [December 10]

  Father’s Days

  Over two Saturdays this month, a room in Titirangi hosted fifteen of New Zealand’s fattest women. They were up the duff, expecting, big with child. At eight months pregnant, very big with child; they sat on chairs and held their enormous stomachs: the summer of 2007, all the windows open in a hot, plain room where fifteen buns baked in fifteen ovens.

  There were fourteen men. A solo mother-to-be brought along her mother. One man laughed it up, pulled amusing faces at every graphic description of childbirth—he was a Card, a Good Kiwi Joker. Most offices suffer someone like that. His wife or girlfriend arrived on the first Saturday wearing a T-shirt that read, IT STARTED WITH A KISS. XXX. That’s nice. But the best T-shirt was worn by a guy who had different ideas. He wore it both Saturdays. It read, SAVE A TREE. EAT A BEAVER.

  The days started at 9.30 a.m., finished at 3 p.m.—school hours, more or less. It was most educational. Babies can hear voices long before the eighth month of pregnancy; their ears were probably burning those two Saturdays. They were hearing how they would come into the world.

  They also heard about what they would leave behind. An hour or more was devoted to that subject. ‘I planted my placenta,’ said the instructor, ‘beneath an olive tree.’ She
knew a woman who planted her placenta beneath an orange tree. Perhaps, she wondered, someone might farm a placenta orchard? She also said you could place it in the deep freeze, and added that it was probably a good idea to label it.

  But a placenta was more than meat. It was meat with feelings. The instructor read out a poem that was written, she claimed, by a placenta. Titirangi hosts an annual literary festival; I appeared a few years ago in a packed hall right next door to the antenatal classroom, and went down like a lead balloon. Festival organisers might want to book the placenta. Although self-important (‘I took care of you … I will always be with you’, etc), its poetry provided food for thought.

  There was also a video made by an Australian ‘lactation consultant’. The screen filled with Australian babies feeding on Australian breasts. It was a short film, and like most short films it seemed to go on forever. One guy laughed hysterically; the beaver-eater lay on the floor and seemed to fall fast asleep—you could say he went down gently.

  There were a few other entertainments, including a tape of some bore with a French accent and a low, dreamy voice who asked his listeners to close their eyes and meditate for five minutes. Low, dreamy music filled the room. One woman laughed hysterically. ‘Sshhh,’ I whispered into her ear, but I didn’t mean it. It’s strange the times you know you love someone with all your heart.

  Silence was in short supply those two Saturdays. The instructor kept up her happy incessant baby talk for hours on end. In the modern New Zealand fashion, she chanted ‘Okay?’ when she concluded every fresh piece of advice. I counted her chanting ‘Okay?’ thirty-two times in five minutes. This arithmetic only reveals that she gave a lot of advice. Her lessons were more than okay. She performed a valuable service. In the age of civil obedience, where New Zealanders are forever being told how to behave, it’s true that antenatal classes are among the most boring events on offer. But human life is at stake. The classes are there to be taken very, very seriously.

  Which may or may not explain why fourteen men on a Saturday in summer were told to wear a pair of fake breasts and advised how to place a doll to the nipple. ‘Haw, haw!’ hooted the Good Kiwi Joker, as he suckled a Donald Duck doll. In the age of dual parenting, where women are women and so are men, we all know that fathers are the new mothers. But this was taking matters too far. Hell was a room in Titirangi. ‘You’re not feeding your baby!’ said the instructor, as I held my chin high above a pair of pert plastic B-cups and dangled a doll with strawberry hair by one leg while a tape recording of a hungry baby screamed blue murder in my ear. ‘No,’ I scowled. Most offices suffer someone like that.

  There were bondings over the cheese and crackers at morning playtime, over the pastries and watermelon at lunch. Oh the heat, said the ladyfolk, and compared their swollen ankles. Yeah, how’s it going mate, said the menfolk, and looked at their watches. We had nothing in common and everything in common —a common experience. In the year to September 2006, there were 59,120 births in New Zealand. The fifteen buns of Titirangi were fifteen nascent New Zealanders.

  They were more than population statistics. They were dear life. Remain calm at all times, the instructor had said. Good luck to us all. We may never meet again. It was a strange feeling to wave goodbye, to go out into the world, left to await the day of the hospital and the separation of the poetry-writing placenta— good luck, especially, to each and all of those fifteen immortal souls, those fifteen mysterious secrets.

  [January 28, 2007]

  A Brief History of Noodles

  Earth, receive an honoured guest: Momofuku Ando is laid to rest. The inventor of instant noodles died on January 5. He was ninety-six. His death ought to have been front-page news. He was born Go Pek-hok in Taiwan, and later moved to Japan, where his name, challengingly, became Momofuku Ando—now a household name in pantries around the world, with 46.3 billion packets of his noodle meals sold in 2006.

  History records that he invented instant noodles in 1958. The previous winter he had seen crowds in Osaka queuing for ramen cooked in boiling water. Vegetables were added to each portion, then a sauce. It took forever; the crowds froze. Ando saw a need, had an epiphany. His diaries—the translation may be faulty in places—reveal how he set to work, conducted experiments with palm oil and chicken soup for over a year in the shed of his Osaka home, eventually hit on one of mankind’s greatest inventions, and later came up with the ingenious idea of a styrofoam cup.

  February 18, 1957. A long winter, and the post-war economy is bad. The people are poor and hungry. Progress is as slow as queuing for a meal of ramen. My heart is heavy. I am stirred to write haiku.

  Sunlight on cedar

  Bear in woods.

  Quick cheese snack

  Preferably, cheddar.

  Not bad. But poetry makes nothing happen. I think of the crowds waiting in line for their ramen. An idea forms. I sit in my shed, close the door, and boil a pot.

  February 19. The pot has not yet come to boil.

  February 20. Why does a watched pot never boil?

  February 21. An idea forms. I pour water into the pot. It boils. Good. I add noodles. Then vegetables, and a sauce. The shed is warm. I put up a sign on the door advertising ramen meals.

  March 4, 1957. Business is slow. There is only room in this shed for one customer at a time. Usually it is poor old Mr Waranoko, who sits and talks for many hours, and refuses to leave.

  June 17. As poor old Mr Waranoko sits and talks for many hours, I am stirred to violence. I take a coffee bean and pulverise it. An idea forms. I sweep the coffee powder into a cup of boiling water. I stir in milk, no sugar, and drink. Interesting. I make a cup for poor old Mr Waronoko but he spits it out. ‘Tastes like muck,’ he says. ‘No one in their right mind would drink this.’ He storms out the door, muttering that he has an appointment with a Mr Nescafé.

  July 11. The café is ruined. Even poor old Mr Waronoko no longer visits. But I feel as though my coffee experiment had something going for it. An idea forms.

  July 12. I boil the noodles, add milk, no sugar, and drink. I mark the experiment down as a failure.

  August 31. I flash-fry eight strands of noodles cut into 40centimetre lengths in palm oil, and allow to dry. The noodles settle into the shape of a small, dry brick. Interesting.

  September 5. I brick a new shed with noodles.

  October 21. The building industry marks my noodle-brick experiment down as a failure. Oh well. I was put on Earth to feed the world, not house it.

  October 30. My noodle bricks are quick to boil, but lack flavour. I spray the noodles with chicken soup from a watering can. Interesting.

  November 3. I add salt.

  November 4. And pepper.

  December 15. I return from chemical weapons factories in Tokyo with monosodium glutamate. Very interesting.

  January 24, 1958. I seal the chicken ramen noodle bricks in plastic. They sell like hot cakes.

  September 13. Nobody wants hot cakes. Everyone wants my instant noodles. I am honoured by a visit from a Mr Maggi.

  June 20, 1969. Business continues to boom. I am one of the richest men in Japan. But the instant noodles are still not instant enough. The problem is the bowl. The bowl is the middle-man. An idea forms. I return from chemical weapons factories in Nevada with crates of styrofoam.

  February 18, 1971. I have perfected the instant noodle meal. For the first time in many years, I am stirred to write haiku.

  Peel off lid.

  Pour boiling water.

  Steep for three minutes.

  Stir well, and serve.

  [February 18]

  The Watched

  Auckland Zoo is recruiting animal watch volunteers to observe animals on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, 10 a.m. to 3 p.m. Must be reliable, conscientious and willing to stand for long hours. —Community notice

  Monday 10 a.m.

  This is fun. I am stationed in the kiwi and tuatara house. It’s dark and cool. I have been given instructions to observe the tuatara. />
  Monday 11 a.m.

  The tuatara hasn’t moved much.

  Monday 12 p.m.

  The tuatara hasn’t moved much.

  Monday 1 p.m.

  The tuatara hasn’t moved much.

  Monday 2 p.m.

  The tuatara hasn’t moved much.

  Monday 3 p.m.

  The tuatara didn’t seem to move an inch but if it had I would have observed it. I feel I have conducted worthwhile scientific research. Roll on Wednesday!

  Wednesday 10 a.m.

  This is fun. It’s a lovely sunny day, and I have been given instructions to observe the hippo.

  Wednesday 11 a.m.

  That hippo sure can eat.

  Wednesday 12 p.m.

  I’m hungry.

  Wednesday 1 p.m.

  That hippo sleeps a lot.

  Wednesday 2 p.m.

  I’m tired.

  Wednesday 3 p.m.

  Imagine chatting to a cheetah. What a neat achievement that would be! The hippo didn’t say much, though.

  Friday 10 a.m.

  This is fun. I’m stationed in the aviary, and have been given instructions to observe the laughing kookaburra.

  Friday 11 a.m.

  What’s so funny?

  Friday 12 p.m.

  Yeah. Hilarious.

  Friday 1 p.m.

  Shut. Your. Goddamned. Trap.

  Friday 2 p.m.

  This’ll wipe the smile off your face, buster.

  Friday 3 p.m.

  That bird hasn’t moved much for a while.

  Monday 10 a.m.

  This is fun. I’m stationed outside the tortoise enclosure and have been given instructions to observe the Galápagos tortoise.