The Chef, the Bird and the Blessing

by Andrew Sharp

  ‘You’re kidding! What happened? You’re the one who keeps it all together for him.’

  I had no wish to bad-mouth Mr Bin by telling her that I had dismissed him for his reprehensible conduct. ‘There’s a lack of customers for Mr Bin.’

  ‘I’m not surprised if he no-shows like this.’ She rubber-lipped again.

  We were now on the edge of separation. Miss Camlyn was not aware that for a short time the fulfilment of our dreams had been, in certain respects, dependent on each other’s. Now we were both waking to discover our hope was a false vision. We had reached for it eagerly, but when we opened our hands we found there was nothing in our palms.

  Miss Camlyn stood up. I saw then, almost too late, that she was no longer a client of my employer as I no longer had an employer, so I felt a certain freedom to ask her the question that I had not been so free to ask when she was a guest.

  ‘Miss Camlyn, may I be so forward and audacious as to ask you a favour.’

  She laughed. ‘Mozzy, you’re too proper, too toadying! Just ask away.’

  ‘Would you mention me to your mother? I’m looking to apply for a chef’s position in your mother’s top-flight restaurants.’

  ‘Top flight? Huh! Mozzy, you’re too good for her. Far too good for her.’

  ‘Thank you kindly but —even if that’s the case— I’d like the opportunity to prove that I’m far too good for her.’

  ‘I don’t …’ She saw my imploring look. ‘Of course, Mozzy, if you really want me to. I’ll try to speak to her as soon as I get back. Try is the word. She’s usually too busy to listen to silly little Chantella.’

  ‘You’re most kind.’ No impala leapt in my heart at her commitment, maybe a small rabbit, but as my father used to say, Not all who ask for the impossible are refused.

  ‘I better get back to Grandad now. Then its ball bearings, here I come! See ya sometime Mozzy. Awesome day yesterday. I’ll never forget it.’ Her countenance became becomingly grieved again. ‘If you see Ben, tell him I waited and waited.’ She stepped away into the hotel, but just before she disappeared she turned and said, ‘If you see Freddy, say bye for me. I love him.’

  Chapter 8

  When I arrived back at our abode, I was somewhat relieved to find that Dorothea was out on charitable work with her sisters from the Assembly. I reposed on our pink sofa and studied the brick on the table. Maybe if I could believe just a little. Maybe if the brick proved itself first with a small miracle such as a local chef position, then I would nod to it. But then, with such evidence, it would not be a testing of faith. And if not tested, how could it be called faith? There seemed no exit to such a conundrum. But I was of the opinion that Dorothea’s belief was not a question of degree of strength, of conviction on a scale somewhere between a wriggling tadpole and a charging bull elephant; it was either present or not. It was not set about with maybes and misgivings. But, in truth, if the brick were to gift a major blessing, I did not care for a palace in the village close to the untillable wilderness and its crawlies, far away from a big city.

  I saw that I had become somewhat weak in my thinking, dallying with speculations on the brick’s supernatural powers. I was only trying to understand my good wife, to make an attempt on her point of view.

  I was of course avoiding a dependence on Miss Camlyn fulfilling her promise of presenting me to her mother. In my experience, when our guests returned to their home nation, they slipped us from their memory. They soon forgot our hopes and privations. Their tears fell freely whilst saying goodbye, they promised a letter of commendation, or —most perplexing— to send a goat to Africa, or to email a photograph of our happy time together. But no, they only remembered the birds and the little ape, and showed their friends the portraits of such. They ate my food but forgot my name.

  When Dorothea came home, she was surprised to see me there instead of at my duties. I had never missed a day of work before. I declared to her the termination of my employment although spared her its voluntary nature.

  ‘It must be ordained,’ she said.

  ‘Mr Bin’s personal and business life is in disorder,’ I said, as a matter of fact.

  ‘I’ll pray for him. What he needs are friends. Better still, why doesn’t he find a wife in the village? There are many good girls at the assembly.’ She pulled a ripe mango from her shopping basket. ‘Look, hallelujah! We’ve fruit for breakfast. Let’s enjoy.’ She went to cut it in the kitchen.

  ‘Dear wife,’ I called to her, ‘whilst I have a temporary gap in my employment, we’ll not be able to pay for the brick … the love offering.’

  She sing-songed back to me, ‘Dear husband, do not, do not, do not fear. This is a true test of faith. I expected it. It’s to prove our faith. It’s only when we lose all hope, when we have nothing more to give, that we become open to the full blessing. Pastor Cain preaches that it’s first necessary to reach rock bottom.’

  I was of the opinion that in this respect he aided his followers to reach the basement department by clearing out their savings, but of course I refrained from any disrespectful vocalisation.

  Dorothea came back from the kitchen, wiping her juiced fingers on a towel. ‘How about this? Why don’t you forget about being a head chef far away?’

  Did I hear right? Forget my destination? My destiny?

  ‘Think differently.’ She returned to the kitchen.

  My heart tumbled heavily into my stomach. Dorothea had never questioned my vocation before. I did not cook for amusement, as if it were a trifling hobby decorating the necessary feeding of mouths. It was a feat, an enterprise, a high-minded commission. My calling to chef, surely, was a duty and a noble endeavour as sacred as her gospel.

  Dorothea came back, the cut mango on plates. ‘Be realistic,’ she said. ‘Don’t live a fantasy. There are no prospects in cooking. In any case, mana is given from heaven, not cooked up in a kitchen. Your aspirations are too narrow. You’re too inflexible. Heaven’s planning something else for you.’

  If Dorothea, my good wife, did not support me in my grand objective, what would become of us? Would we not lose the wedded bliss? I did not question in any manifest way her unfailing belief in prophesy and blessings and had always expected her to do likewise for my pragmatic ambition and reasoned career path.

  ‘Dear husband, the village is growing. Have you seen the new bank? Look for something else. There are many opportunities.’ She eyed me with playful and affectionate indications and said, ‘What about the dance troupe that displays for the tourists at the hotel? You could learn to dance in a crested crane costume.’

  Despite Dorothea’s attempted jocularity, I considered this an unfortunate suggestion. I could not speak.

  She came and tendered my shoulders with her warm hands. ‘I’m teasing you! There are better jobs. Worthwhile jobs. You should relax. Have my prayers ever failed? And we have the solid foundation of the brick of faith.’ She turned to admire it, to gain satisfaction from its steadfast six-faced presence.

  In the past I had been presumptuous of Dorothea’s support. Indeed, she had assisted me when I had opened Mlantushi Kitchen, The City’s First Restaurant. I saw how dependent I had been on the tacitful sufferance of my wife. Whilst she had been in unity of hope with me, I could live in fantastical expectation. I could be bravo. She had never opposed my ambition. Now, I feared, she had lost understanding of all that made her husband himself. She had lost the knowledge that I was born to be a head chef, no man more, no man less. If I was not a head chef, I would be someone else, I would no longer be Savalamuratichimimozi Mlantushi, or even Sava. She would have a second husband; she would be widowed from the first. She would not know Sava anymore. I had no idea who I would be and if I could live as that unknown individual.

  I joined Dorothea at the table in a troubled disposition to partake of the mango, but Dorothea was in merry spirits, fast-speaking of the thousand-fold blessings c
oming our way, of the hopeful new members at the Assembly, of the success of the More Blessings Campaign, of Pastor Cain’s splendid silver Mercedes with cruise and climate controls, even Lane Keeping Assist, which waited for a tar road with marked lanes.

  ‘With the promised Blessings we should start a family now, no?’

  She had caught me by surprise. I dabbed my lips of mango juice. Of course, we both wanted a child, but I had always wished to wait until I was secure in my career, to have achieved further, to be certain of raising our progeny in a desirable postal with top schools so that they could comport in blazers and school-crested ties. They would then follow their father into success in their respective professions having limitless ambitions such as to play for Man U, become international diplomats at the UN, or MD heart specialists. They would better myself.

  ‘Certainly, it’s a matter for careful consideration.’

  ‘But Sava, we don’t have to carefully consider. What’s there even to carelessly consider? Even before we’re gifted the promised Blessing, we have a house, you’ll find a job, I have the time to look after a baby. If we don’t hurry up, they’ll be praying at the assembly for my fertility. The most sanctified members will be saying I’m barren because of hidden sin … or even demon possession. They’ll blame me, not you, the man.’

  ‘Let me find a new posting first,’ I said, without enthusing.

  Dorothea took that as an imminent certainty and talked of commissioning the village carpenter to build a cot of ironwood with rocking feet and talked of knitting soft blankets and tiny baby boots.

  After Dorothea had joyed out on her charitable work, I washed the dishes and tidied. Dorothea had little interest in household chores herself, they being merely ‘of this sinful world’ and not directly furthering the gospel of the Assembly. I turned on the TV and switched from Sanctified Success to MasterChef. The hotshot judges declared that they were looking for ‘an exceptional chef’, they were looking for ‘an inspirational master of the art’. They were looking for myself! But I was far away, up a long dirt track in a far continent. The contestants boasted of their passion, they were going to ‘cook their hearts out’, they would be ‘gutted’ if they lost. Quite so. The judges commended, ‘That’s buttery and almondy, and it’s got that subtle hint of green tea’, ‘Your langoustines are tender, but they still have a bounce to them,’ and such. I could only imagine what they would say about my Roast Eland with Gooseberry Sauce. ‘A subtle and genius fusion of African and European flavours. Mouth-wateringly delicious.’

  Indeed, I saw that there was nothing the contestants had prepared that I had not exceeded for my guests. Admittedly the squid ink black pasta tagliatelle with a prosecco and crab sauce topped with calamari would have challenged Mr Bin’s financial resource and supply chain reach, but not in any way my facility. No, I could not deviate in my ethic, whatever my good wife’s proposition. I would not dance for tourists.

  I stood, rising to my full one-decimal-six-eight metres, and checked that I appeared presentable for interview. I picked a grass seed off my trousers —the wild was even trying to infest my special longs. I would purpose into the village. The idle life was not in my nature. I needed to put myself out and about. Maybe I would meet another Mr Bin of a more professional type looking for a head chef. Nothing would progress if I stayed on the pink sofa waiting for the extortionate brick to bless us.

  Chapter 9

  The village, I saw with a certain wonderment, had advanced since I had last cared to take a look. The main track through the village was basted with tar and specialist vendors had set up thatched stalls along the road, hanging their goods like butcher’s meat from rails: pink, brown, white and red trousers of varietal length on the rail of one, handbags of the lustrous kind on another, then shoes suspended from their laces. Maybe pre-utilised in the USA, but clean, and tempting for their branding, at the least. Indeed, certain similarities had developed between the village and my childhood town. Plentiful litter and dust, for example. I even experienced boys playing football in the side-tracks, their limbs smacking against one another. A crow’s feet scratched a metal roof, which had replaced thatch. The large timber that the chickens and children used to peck and play under had been cut down to tidy and beautify the village and the tall anthill, which had monumented the centre of the village, was now just a grass-haired stub. The ants and their mud skyscraper were extinct. The aboriginal condition of the village was vanishing. It was, in point of fact, heartening to see such progress. Perhaps there would indeed be chef opportunities forthcoming.

  I passed the street vendors and patrolled further, noting the mix of modern and primitive retailers. Be Bold Investments, General Stores – Authorised Super Dealer, sacks of charcoal, Splendid Beauty Salon, Bicycle Repairs – Any Damage and the previous location of Mlantushi Kitchen, now Shocker Auto Parts (proposed premise). I passed Infestation Control (termites, bats and rats) and Everyone has Problems Gentlemen Outfitters, and then a side road signed to the Full Prosperity Hall and to the Divine Health Mission. I was soon on the other outskirt of the village. Beyond, was the high purple and white wall of Pastor Cain’s palace topped by glass shards, behind that a satellite dish as big as the ear of God, listening in to the manias of the world.

  At the end of the tar, I stopped footing. There had been no offered chef opportunity. I had exposed myself to opportunity, even surreptitiously allowed myself a small leeway over type of employment that I would temporarily accept, but to no avail. I would not be so discourteous as to say so to Dorothea, but if the holy brick was to gift blessings it had bungled its chance to prove it.

  What to do? A bus tipped out dusty but wet-thighed passengers and revved its sooty engine to prevent stalling. I would journey on the bus again and find chef work in the capital. It was a dauntless place of rampaging growth, thick, hooting traffic and aspirational energy even if it was not quite the coveted and progressive West or the audacious cities of metal and glass of the rising East. I would admit to such a transit post on my path to the summit. I could commute monthly or Dorothea could join me after a suitable prophecy and there would surely be another Divine Prosperity Assembly or equivalent to join in a city swarming with thousands of hopefuls.

  I determined to buy a ticket for the next day’s passage, but I had not enough cash for purchase and so I entered the bank to draw from our account. It was the only state-of-the-art location in that place, dropped like a new-minted coin in the dust of the village and backed by an expensively quiet generator. What a foretaste of life success. In the bank I could even imagine myself as in the centre of a fine city. The sounds inside were of hushed refinement: the clicks of polished, leather-soled shoes on the flecked tile floor and the tip-taps of varnished fingernails on computer keyboards. Chilled and filtered air cooled and soothed my brow. A hint of ladies’ perfume suggested aspiring clientele. Moulded electric-blue chairs perimetered the room and the customers were ordered into line by matching blue tapes on posts of chromium. A sign requested customers to respect the privacy of other customers at the glass windows of the counters. No sharing in the public sphere of what should be private. It was much to my liking. The cashiers displayed white and blue badges announcing their names: Monica, Sylvestina, Goodyear and such.

  Cashier number one, Sylvestina, gave me a black ball pen and directed me to an application form to withdraw cash, which I duly completed in seven-minutes-thirty in capitals, as requested. I returned to her. After entering the pertinent details in a computer, she stamped it and returned it to myself to take to cashier two at the next window, who gave me a form to confirm the exacting verification of my identity —my wife’s mother’s place of birth— and authorisation for the bank to store additional credentials. I annotated all with infinite diligence and then took said form to cashier three, named Monica, at the last window, whose accent informed that she was proudly from the capital city. Her hair was braided in a cornrow style, just as Dorothea used to, and sh
e wore big hoop gold earrings and precisely applied lipstick of a pomegranate colour. Yes, city ladies were bringing fashion to the village. She transported said properly completed paperworks to cashier four at the back of the room. Cashier four entered my particulars on his computer. It was pleasing to see attention to correct procedures. Cashier three asked me to repose on a blue seat and to wait. I complied with pleasure. I could see how my father had taken pride in his employment at the bank. It was a profession of integrity and exactitude, of service to customers. The moto of the bank was ‘Happy to Help’. Exactly my own sentiments towards customer service, although I would append ‘Exceedingly’ before ‘Happy’, or even ‘Deeply’.

  I waited respectfully for three-minutes-ten by the punctual electronic clock on the wall and then cashier Monica called me from her window.

  ‘Mr Mlantushi?’

  ‘That is myself.’ I reached Monica’s window.

  ‘The bank can’t let you withdraw cash.’

  ‘Ah, I must have errored on the paperwork. I can repeat. It’s my wife who normally transacts. I’m a little out of practice in the withdrawal methodology.’

  ‘Your paperwork’s correct. There’s no money in your account. It’s overdrawn by nearly three hundred. You’re incurring interest.’

  I leant forward towards the glass screen that separated our respective places. I said discretely so as not to embarrass her, ‘Are you looking at the correct account? If so, may I respectfully suggest that my money’s been stolen?’

  ‘This is the National Bank,’ announced Monica loudly, as if I was causing offence. The queue at cashier one turned my way. Monica smiled at me in a side manner as if I was an uneducated domestic servant. ‘Your money’s secure with us. With respect … with great respect, Mr Mlantushi … your expenses must have exceeded your income.’

  I was pleased to correct her mistake. ‘That’s not possible.’ I was aware of the attention of the gentlemen and ladies in the queue, so I announced for all to hear, ‘As the son of a late assistant bank clerk, I’m cognisant of financial discipline and fiscal rules.’ The queue smiled at Monica’s error.