The Chef, the Bird and the Blessing

by Andrew Sharp

  Dorothea was soon to point down a track to the house of the local chief which was constructed of brick and sported a shining roof of corrugated metal, which scorched the eye. Deployed outside was a saloon car, admittedly of a faded matt paint and needing the inflation of its tyres to move. It was a promising start to the Growth Point, said Dorothea. The chief’s prospective wealth would surely leak down. Furthermore, we noted a sign to the Divine Prosperity Assembly, Ordained Leader: Pastor Cain. Looking to the end of the track, we saw an open-walled assembly building with a new tin roof and behind that a house, its walls the only white surface in the village and its doors and window frames a deep gloss purple. It was hatted by an enormous, gleaming satellite dish. Dorothea said she would waste no time in becoming baptised in the Divine Prosperity Assembly.

  With our savings from my working at Tom Mbolo Overnight Motel (Cash Only), and the cash Dorothea raised from selling the fake-stone jewellery given to her by her sugar daddies of previous mention, I rented the only other brick building in the village and opened Mlantushi Kitchen. The City’s First Restaurant. I dreamt that one day, in the not-too-far future, tourists might come to the great city of Romaji and be taken by tour guides to see the original city restaurant, admittedly small and quaint amongst the skyscrapers.

  I served city cuisine, of course, notwithstanding the difficulty of purchasing and transporting in fresh high-end produce, Dorothea took care of the accounts and served although she was soon to discover that this was not a full-time occupation.

  ‘Is this what Madonna eats?’ asked the villagers. ‘How does this compare with a feast at a MacDonald’s?’ ‘Please translate for me. What is the meaning of this spiced blackened poussin with aubergine raita and whole-wheat puffs?’

  Ready cash was short in the village and there was no bank, so the villagers paid me in local-grown —but starving— sweet potatoes, thin-muscled chickens and with labouring services to build our small house.

  So we lived thus but our financial ends did not meet and the villagers’ palates were not attuned to such fine food. They came once only to test my menu, maybe just a starter of, say, sesame-crusted tuna with horseradish mousse before quitting to buy a roasted maize cob or smoked mice on sticks, or roasted caterpillars from a vendor with a brazier on the side of the road.

  This did not crack me, of course. I noted that safari vehicles sped through the village on their way to the National Park. The tourists shot pictures of the village and us, its resident herd, as they passed, sitting high above us on the rear seat of their open cruisers in their safari outfittings, the ladies wearing hats by Tilly and sun glasses by Dolce & Gabbana, the men in Hemmingway safari suits with many pockets for wallets and smart devices. Sometimes they halted to purchase a giraffe carved from firewood or to finger a weaved basket of perishable straw before hastening away from the jostling, shouting vendors.

  In high hopes of attracting new custom, I constructed a new board by the road saying Mlantushi Kitchen, Finest International Cuisine. I posted a blackboard advertising such menu items as, Guinea fowl (legal) with a ballotine of leg, madeira jus, baby leeks, creamed mashed potato, and summer truffle. But the tourists never stopped to book in, preferring their safari venues where they were not surrounded by thatched huts, pooping chickens and staring children.

  This was a problematic interval on my path to success which tested Dorothea’s faith and my fortitude although there were auspicious indications of the birth of the city. The ants still occupied their skyscraper in the centre of the village but a billboard, big as a cloud but a lime-green, was erected over it, advertising Zapp mobile phones. Creamy-skinned lovers on the billboard conversed with each other with glad smiles. The Home of Concrete hardware store promised to kick-start the very foundations of the city. A bar opened, benefitting from Outsized Stereo Speakers. There was no clinic as yet, but a healer sold remedies such as Congo Dust and Tyson Manhood Enlarger from a room behind the bar. A lender materialised to oil the wheels of business. Trust Me Loan Holdings, No Loan Too Small. Although there was still no fuel station for the two cars in the village (the chief’s and Pastor Cain’s), a deep hole was dug in the ground in expectation of a fuel tank and a sign reassured the villagers: Fuel station! Coming soon!! Do not despair!!!

  I cognised that I needed more appreciative clients than the villagers and should move myself into the correct environment. I wanted clients with perceptive palates. I sent for a reference from Mr Mbolo. He was kind enough to write, ‘Mr Mlantushi was a hard worker and he can cook expatriate-style food.’

  With such a first-class testimonial, I applied for a chef’s position in the safari hotels around the National Park. They all declared, ‘Sorry, there are hundreds of kitchen cooks looking for work.’

  Our savings leaked and my career was stalled. A bold letter appeared in the National Reporter calling into question where the development money had gone for the growth of the city. I concluded that to fulfil my noble vocation we must leave Romaji and move to an established metropolis. The village would not modernise in my lifetime. We could not wait so long.

  ‘Patience, dear husband,’ said Dorothea, ‘don’t you see? The chief has new tyres on his car. Pastor Cain is staking out a perimeter wall for his new house. He’s even planning electric gates. It’s a sign.’ She would not consent to move from Romaji until she had received a prophecy at the Assembly.

  We terminated our rent of Mlantushi Kitchen and became farmers, waiting for the President’s promised city to take root. We grew and vended sweet potatoes, tomatoes and groundnuts. Then, on an unfortunate night, elephants from the National Park raided our smallholding and feasted greedily on our crop. We had grown too tasty a menu for them. When I remonstrated with the National Parks officers at their charges’ behaviour, they were unsympathetic, disputing my suggestion that they enact a humane cull, citing the requirement for tourist revenue.

  One evening Dorothea returned from the Assembly in beatific excitement. ‘We’re blessed! I’ve received a word … no, a prophecy! You’ll be offered a chef position shortly. We just have to have faith.’

  The very next day I saw a tall visitor in the village leaning into the open bonnet of his grazed and cratered vehicle. Steam fumed from the engine whilst he attempted a repair with a screwdriver and a spanner. He had a three-day stubble, his shorts were netted with creases and he wore derelict flip-flops. I felt sorry for him, for his poverty.

  ‘Excuse me, would you like help?’ I asked.

  He dropped the bonnet and threw the tools through the window of the vehicle. The smouldering engine had fixed itself. He wiped his hands on a cloth and turned to me. ‘Help? Sure … do you know any oke who can sweep and … um … prepare snacks?’

  ‘In what profession are you working?’

  ‘I’m going to run bird watching safaris.’ He told me had rented an ex-game warden’s house from the colonial era on the edge of the National Park. ‘I need domestic assistance. Are you available?’

  ‘Sorry, I can’t help. I’m in actuality a chef, but I could enquire in the village for you.’

  ‘A chef? I don’t mind. You can start straight away.’

  Thus, I joined Mr Bin as his head chef, serving his guests international cuisine of the highest standard, making their safaris most memorable and worthwhile.

  Dorothea said to me, ‘See, prophecy is fulfilled and faith is rewarded.’ I had noticed that, on unpredictable and sometimes fortuitous occasions, this was indeed the case. I did not complain.

  Chapter 7

  Dorothea stirred again beside me, no doubt dreaming of fancy porticos and decorative cornices. I consulted my LCD. It indicated five hours. Perhaps I had slept. Then in the quiet, I heard my father say, If you have not yet arrived at your destination, keep walking, the destination is still ahead.

  So true, there was no benefit in slothful ruminations, I needed to keep footing. The destination was still ahead. It was a ne
w day, a day of opportunity. My stomach was rested. I departed our marital bed in a clandestine manner so as not to wake Dorothea and attired myself in my wedding suit. I found my suit had somehow grown from the occasion of our wedding, becoming spacious. It would perhaps make me appear a man with a potentiality. My wedding shoes remained well polished of course to the extent of gleaming in the dark. As I exited the house, I passed the blessed brick on the table but did not nod to it. It remained in a dull and unitary state.

  My bicycle carried me away, but not down the elephant-infested road and across the perilous ravine towards Mr Bin’s residence. Those days were now to be only a bad memory. I cycled to the hotel of our late guests, arriving at five thirty-three hours as the new auspicious day declared itself. I concealed my bicycle behind a bush. The guests at the hotel would not wish to be reminded that such common transportation existed, preferring to think only of their life of safari cruisers and fast jets.

  I could hear the cooks preparing the breakfast for the guests and so I knocked on the kitchen door at the side of the hotel and asked to see the head chef, Mr Makata. I was advised to wait outside his office. Mr Makata arrived seven minutes later than the promised five, but this gave me time to anticipate my interview, practicing the recitation of my strengths and refuting weaknesses, of course. I had endeavoured to slay any feeble tendencies in myself after my father’s death.

  Mr Makata was face down, thumbing his smartphone, shuffling along in sandals and wearing an open-neck topaz and blue shirt with bright yellow buttons. He had cool-guy sunglasses pushed up onto his head.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said.

  ‘Ugh, the signal’s poor. Ugh!’ He glanced up to see me standing to the side of his door. ‘Ah, Mr Mlantushi. Blessings on your day and your wife.’

  ‘May those blessings be your blessings,’ I replied, to custom.

  His phone vibrated. ‘GOAL!’ he shouted, high-fiving the air. ‘Powers have scored against Tobago.’ He went to push open his door, his eyes fixated to the screen.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said.

  ‘Did you wish to see me? As you can tell, I’m fully occupied, but come into my office.’

  ‘I’d be indebted.’

  I took the chair in front of his desk beneath the framed icon of the President, but Mr Makata tunnelled under his side of the desk and then I heard his computer whir up. He appeared again with a spider web on his hair and sunglasses like a religious cap. ‘It takes a long time to boot, so I can spare you this booting-time.’

  ‘I’ll therefore not procrastinate. Thank you for offering to interview me. I’ll deliver my CV as soon as required.’

  Mr Makata rapped a finger on his phone.

  ‘I’d like to apply—’

  Mr Makata’s phone vibrated again. ‘ANOTHER GOAL! This is unbelievable! We’ll make the semi-finals, for sure.’

  ‘I’d like to apply for a position as a chef in your kitchen.’

  He laughed as loud as a hooting goose, still eyelashed to his phone. ‘My daughter’s sent a text to ask if I know that Powers have scored two goals in two minutes. Of course I do!’ He looked at me. ‘Uh? What? A position as a chef? Why would that be? You work for that Ben safari guide … do you not? If I was you, I’d stay with him.’ He inputted on his phone. ‘He must pay you well. You have a fine sofa. The guests tell me they’re happy with your picnics. They cancel their dinner here in the hotel after they’ve gorged themselves on your snacks. Have you seen this video?’

  He lifted his phone and I saw a footballer shooting a goal. ‘That was Macheke last year. He’s the one who’s just scored for Powers.’

  ‘I’ve left him for a higher post, such as in your esteemed kitchen.’

  ‘Look at this,’ he said. ‘This is the best. The goal keeper’s so upset afterwards. He’s weeping! Look, he’s holding his head so it won’t shake off from his sobbing. So funny. Uh? You must have been fired. Did you steal from him?’

  Mr Makata had shown himself to be infected with colonial thinking. In such thinking, every domestic employee steals from his employer. I did not wish to encourage gossip against Mr Bin by exposing his personal life to third parties. Courtesy should not have a sell-by-date. I held my head up in remonstration and said, ‘Someone was fired, but it was not me.’

  ‘Beautiful, beautiful. My daughter’s daughter.’ Mr Makata held up his phone to show a picture of an ordinary baby. ‘Life’s as hard as bricks, is it not? You are not disrespected in the village … even if you stole from him. Even if your wife is not yet with children. But we have no vacancy here. Not even for a picnic sandwich cutter. Don’t you know that there are hundreds of domestic cooks looking for employment?’

  I nodded that this information was well known to me. I sat in hope that he would reconsider, but he was not a cousin of mine or from my clan and so no doubt felt no rightful family responsibility towards me.

  ‘Now, as you can see, I’m rushed off my feet. The computer’s fully booted and today I need to print off the menus for the next three days. We always repeat the same as no guests stay for longer than this trinity of time on account of their safari schedules.’ His phone demanded his attention again, but he said, ‘If a vacancy arises in the kitchen then I’ll inform you. At certain times a potato scrubber’s needed.’

  I thanked him kindly and stood to leave.

  Mr Makata held up his hand, restraining my departure. ‘I suggest you sell your sofa to make ends meet. How much do you want for it? It’s no longer new. The whole village has bounced on it. The price should reflect that.’

  I promised to remember his honestly spoken request and left his office. I transited through the kitchen and noted that the floor required polish, the draining boards were stained with dishwater, ants ran up a worktop leg and the aprons of the cooks were spoiled. Tea towels straggled from their shoulders. What was more, their apron strings were loose and dangling. There were no true chefs in that kitchen.

  I crossed the forecourt of the hotel to the bush, which had hidden my bicycle, thinking I had to keep footing, if not cycling. But VIP Miss Camlyn herself was present in front of the hotel sitting on the steps. She was outfitted in green and yellow and wore a black bean necklace. Maybe she was attempting the colours of the bush to be more natural, more animal, for Mr Bin, but it was no camouflage, the green too bright lime and vivid, the yellow too stand-out canary.

  ‘Miss Camlyn, why are you on those hard steps? I’m sure the hotel has padded chairs for guests.’

  ‘I’m waiting for Ben. He agreed. He’s over half an hour late.’ She hugged her knees. ‘But Mozzy, what are you doing here?’

  ‘I have … business.’

  ‘So where’s Ben this morning?’

  ‘He has a personal matter to attend to.’

  ‘You mean that woman last night?’

  I indicated affirmative.

  She grin-faced me. ‘I told Personal Matter and her dandy to — off and they did. They checked out.’

  ‘I see … I’m sorry that Mr Bin has dropped his appointment with you. He was not expecting you to be here after … Personal Matter showed herself.’

  ‘I don’t see why. He promised.’ Her lips somewhat rubber-ducked. ‘What did I say to you yesterday? I wanted something more?’ She threw a resigned up-glance. ‘Wishful thinking. A silly dream.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Miss Camlyn. I wished you only the best.’

  She sniffed, although in a mild way, then she stiffened herself and said, ‘Anyway … Grandad’s not that well this morning. I’m taking him home. Even so … Ben should’ve come.’ She frowned and twisted a strand of her hair. ‘I think I like him a little less.’

  ‘I hope Mr Summerberg resurrects.’

  ‘Trouble is, Grandad says Ben knows a humongous amount. If there was any chance of finding the aky-birdy then Ben’s the only one to do it. Now it’s too late. Although … thing is … I’m
sort of pleased we’ve got to go, because Grandad won’t have anything to live for anymore if we’d recorded it. He says he can’t die until he’s done it. He’s never been like this on any of his other quests.’

  ‘My father used to say, Only the man in the coffin is free from need.’

  ‘Wow, I wish I’d met your father. Even though his only religion was football. But what did Ben mean when he said that the bird can only be heard by some people? It’s making me desperate to hear it. And there’s something Grandad knows about its song … but he won’t tell me.’

  ‘At times Mr Bin has backward ideas. Stone-age-like people used to live in the park … hunting and living a primitive life without fine dining and television. They made up all manner of stuff.’

  ‘What sort of stuff?’

  ‘I don’t have that interest, only Mr Bin. He doesn’t appreciate contemporary life. He has no lustings for jacuzzis and leaf blowers.’

  Miss Camlyn sighed. ‘Ben’s so different. If only …’

  ‘I would of course be happy to let Mr Bin know of your circumstance,’ I said, ‘of you waiting here in vain for him like a Juliet, but it’s not situationally feasible. I’m no longer in Mr Bin’s employ. I’m here this morning to seek employment in the hotel.’