The Chef, the Bird and the Blessing

by Andrew Sharp

  ‘Are you there, Mr Tushi?’

  ‘You are Miss Camlyn’s mother?’

  ‘Biologically, yes.’

  My heart started kicking like a zebra, but I held the phone firm. I had to keep a sober head. What if Mrs Camlyn believed that I was not truly ambitious?

  ‘I’m seeking the head chef’s position—’

  ‘You’ll have a key position, believe me. We’ll even pay your air ticket and accommodation. Now look, my man Tushi, I’m stopping you right there because you need to attend to your domestic emergency —was that a cat?— and because I’ve got to fly. My chauffeur —sometimes known as my fella if he’s performing well— is dangling the Aston’s keys. I’m opening a fab outlet in Boston. I’ve set everything in train for you. My PA’ll contact you soon. Taraa.’ She was gone.

  She had not given me the chance to pretend to indicate a balanced consideration of her benevolent offer.

  I dropped myself onto the fulsome thigh of our pink sofa beside Dorothea. Like her, I had been knocked down by the wonderous call from Mrs Zeto Camlyn; she so decisive, so crisp, so business-like, so praiseworthy. Yes, my father was correct. A patient man will eat ripe fruit. What of Mrs Camlyn’s daughter, Miss Camlyn? I had misjudged her. She was not like previous guests. She had remembered my name. She had done as she had promised. I could not breathe for restrained excitement. I had a diversionary thought as I came to full belief in the authenticity of the phone call, that the pink sofa would now remain in our own possession.

  I then became aware of the russet brick on our table. Had I not received a major blessing? Was it not a miracle? I did not believe in such superstitions, but I found myself offering the brick a little nod just in case it was implicated in some way in this blessing. It would have been impolite not to.

  Cautiously at first, and then throwing circumspection away without restraint, I allowed my fancy to clothe me in the finest, whitest chef’s toque and apron. Miss Camlyn’s mother would need a head chef for the new restaurant in Boston. She had already offered me the key position. I arranged walnuts and dried cherries on a frisée and apple salad. I embellished the salad with blue starflowers. My hard work and self-mastery had been rewarded and my ambition justified. I ringed the plate of frisée and apple salad with a decorative sprinkling of crispy kale.

  Dorothea resurrected from her holy collapse. I confirmed to her the satisfactory news. She powered to her feet, clapped her hands and ululated. ‘Pastor Cain be praised! What a great leader! I’m not at all surprised! It was prophesied to me in so many words last Sunday at the Assembly.’

  She flew to the brick, knelt on the floor and bowed her head. Then she upped and came with open arms to embrace me.

  ‘We are truly blessed, dear husband. You’ll send me your remunerations and I’ll find a plot of land for our new house.’ She released me to dance. ‘We’ll have electric gates … silent ones. A drive paved with Italian marble. Our sofa will have the space it deserves. Oh husband, the whole village will see how we’re blessed. We’ll be an inspiration to them. Did I not tell you? A thousand-fold!’

  How could I mention the matter of our empty bank account to my dear wife under such transformational circumstances? Why rub flint against stone? In any case, it was of no consequence now. My dollar remunerations would soon reverse matters. Dorothea’s belief in blessings had been rewarded, so she would not be persuaded against the down payments she had made. Ditto, my belief in the benefits of holding firm to my progressive ambition. We would remain in harmonic marital, both strong in our respective convictions, both rejoicing in the success of the other.

  Dorothea came back to me and pecked me on my lips and said, ‘Now, Sava, we’ll have a baby. You always said that when you’d achieved your goal, we’d have children.’

  Too fast, too fast for me. ‘We should certainly give it consideration,’ I said.

  She pulled back. ‘Not now, surely? Not again? What is there to consider, dear husband?’

  I could not speak out exactly what was to be considered. Dorothea was correct in reminding me of my previous promissory words, but a hook tethered me, prevented me from enthusing for babies just yet. Maybe the hook was a fear of a distraction whilst pursuing my noble dream of high service to diners, or maybe a fear for Dorothea’s mortal life if illness befell her in the gestational. I could not verbalise these as Dorothea would rightly laugh them away, and I could indeed dismiss such excuses myself, but sometimes a brain hook snags firm even though it does not have a name or a logic.

  I had to say some words of sense to my patient and hopeful wife. ‘I should be here when we have a baby, to help look after it. One knee doesn’t bring up a child. What if I’m in Boston? How will you manage on your own?’

  ‘What a modern man you suddenly are, Sava! No other man in the village would be volunteering for baby care. All would be pleased to be on another continent.’

  ‘Maybe we try at my first vacation.’

  We left the issue hanging there or rather I should say that it was Dorothea that let it hang as it was her normal habit to conclude, enthuse, and then joy on, but from that evening I was cognisant that she might be displeased with her husband’s position in the procreational department of our marriage. True, she joyed over the prosperity, which would soon be ours, but she danced less around me and did not full eye me. Was a little fire smouldering between us? Had I accidentally rubbed flint against stone?

  I proudly arranged an overdraft at the bank. Cashier number three, Monica, was wide-eyed and I think deeply jealous to hear of my appointment. She might be in the glass and chrome palace of the bank with its cooled air and haughty clerks, but just outside the door there remained the stub of the anthill, stalls constructed of chicken wire, sacks and iron sheeting, and young boys still sold mice roasted on sticks. Tails, feet and all. I told her of the shining kitchens and sophisticated diners in the black-tie-and-tails-only gala restaurants of the megacities. My clientele, I told her, would know their pate en croute from their gratin dauphinoise. I could tell that she herself did not.

  At the lime-green Zapp mobile phone kiosk in the village I bought credit in order to study new recipes on the Google and acquaint myself with the particular likes and etiquettes of Americans such as whether they preferred grain or grass-fed beef, their favourite whisky and even which hand they utilised for their table forks. A chef must read widely around their craft.

  Dorothea was delighted to be held up by Pastor Cain in the Assembly as an example of the fruits of great faith.

  ‘Our sister here is a true disciple. And what is her reward? Overwhelming blessings! She had nothing: a lowly cook for a husband, little money, a cramped and simple house with no space for her furniture, but now, dear sisters, dear brethren, her faith has brought her divine wealth.’

  Many people stampeded forward to the front of the Assembly to pledge love offerings and so to receive consecrated bricks. There were injuries in the crush, but nothing mutilating. Dorothea was like a testimonial witness on Sanctified Success. No one refused her More Blessings Campaign leaflets.

  Myself, I was most grateful to Miss Camlyn and her mother rather than to the village brick, but I was discrete in this opinion, especially to the brick, which I raised a discrete hand to when I passed. Why risk upsetting it?

  Whilst studying for my climactic employment, I heard a knock on the door and found Mr Makata standing forwardly there in a kitenge-style loose yellow shirt, boldly patterned around the neck and sleeves. He welcomed himself in and dropped a large cloth bag at my feet.

  ‘Greetings, Mr Mlantushi, I’ve come to inspect the goods.’

  ‘What goods?’

  ‘The pink sofa. I’m ready to reaffirm my offer.’ He passed me and stood in front of said sofa. ‘Hmm, it’s smaller than I remembered.’ He sat down on it. ‘Shame, I believe a spring is broken. The policeman who visits you for your cakes is heavy, no?’ He close-eyed the
leather. ‘There are imperfections in the piping and it’s a brighter shade of pink than I’d like.’ He sorrowed. ‘It’s not as promised.’

  When I did not reply, he said, ‘So I can’t offer much but … for a man of your unemployed status … it’ll be gratefully received. He stroked the sofa with a covert hand and then stood and tried to lift an end.

  ‘I thank you for your interest, but I’m not selling. I do not need—’

  ‘Hmm … I’ll need some strong men to carry it away.’

  ‘I’m not selling.’ I indicated that I was about to usher him to the door. ‘I have a—’

  ‘Very well … you drive a hard bargain. I can reluctantly offer you a little more than it’s worth.’ Mr Makata saw my eyes were on the cloth bag that he had dropped in the doorway. ‘That’s from a client of your ex-employer. The granddaughter of an old, old man. She wanted it delivered to the guide. There’s a note inside.’

  I inspected the contents and found Mr Summerberg’s recording equipment, the very ones I had carried for him. Mr Summerberg was enacting a desperado attempt on the akalat.

  I read the note.

  Dear Ben, Me and Grandad would appreciate it if you could record the bird for us when you next hear it. Grandad can’t stop going on about it. Ella x

  PS I waited for you!

  ‘As you know, I’m no longer in Mr Bin’s employment,’ I said. ‘I do not pedal myself there anymore.’

  ‘As you can see, I’m rushed off my feet,’ said Mr Makata, ‘it’s time to print new menus. I’m sure you’ll find a way.’ He turned to covet the pink sofa again. ‘I’ll leave you to think on my offer. My time-limited offer. Call me without delay.’

  He came and lifted my hand to shake it, pressed his sunglasses to his eyes, and then strut-legged off.

  Mr Makata had left me under an obligation in no way of my choosing, but I had always fulfilled my obligations. I would have to venture out once more to Mr Bin’s residence. In a way, I was happy that this onus was upon me so that I could see Mr Bin just once more. I should inform Mr Bin of my fantastical news and hope that he would share the pleasure. I hoped that he would see that he had been unknowingly instrumental in my success. I would never have met Miss Camlyn if I had not been working in Mr Bin’s business. It was only a shame that there had never been any chance of tying their love knot.

  Chapter 11

  I had misplaced the memory of how far over that stony ground I had to pedal in order to reach Mr Bin’s residence. Every rut I negotiated, and the grey shapes behind the bushes, caused me to be thankful that I was soon to be out of there. I arrived at eleven fifty-nine hours and saw Mr Bin’s vehicle under its tree, indicating that he might be present on his property. I expected him to be asleep in his bedchamber, given that I was no longer available to wake him.

  The front door was open and I called out politely. After waiting a courteous time, I entered the house and knocked with propriety on his bedroom door. No answer. I called out again with a raised but well-mannered voice in keeping with my status as an uninvited guest in his house. Passing the kitchen door on my return to the veranda, I took the opportunity to inspect my previous place of employment. A sad sight indeed. The Caterpillar cat was consuming oats spilt on the preparation surfaces. It plunged through the open window on seeing me. A drift of dirt from paws and boots eddied the red floor. It no longer gleamed. I was further affronted by an unwashed bowl and spoon on the draining board. An apron had been used as a drying cloth and discarded in a crumple. I stood in mournful silence. Within days of my departure from Mr Bin’s employment all the advancement that I had introduced to his residence had been cast aside. Truly, it was as if I had never worked there. I had wasted all that time: the scrubbing down after him, ironing his shorts, chasing his pets from the kitchen. Mr Bin would not change. I remembered the embarrassment I felt for guests concerning his decrepit premises. I comforted myself: my new kitchen in Boston, USA, could never have such a sorrowful end.

  I perimetered the house, calling Mr Bin’s name to no effect. It would be impertinent to sit down on a guest chair on the veranda without an invitation from Mr Bin, so I positioned myself on a small wooden bench in the garden with my back resting on the trunk of a timber and waited in quietude. I speculated that Mr Bin had walked out into the bush and would not return. He feared that his wife would find him, even at his remote residence. Had he been consumed by a predator and so had successfully concluded his quest for solitude by passing himself from all company? But such theories could not be dwelt upon with any benefits, so I closed my eyes and turned my thoughts to the dishes that I had served there. Parmesan and black mustard seed wafers; pork bafat with okra pachadi and rice bread; salmon en papillote with braised fennel and creamy caper sauce. I remembered the contented faces of the guests as they hungrily ate under the branches of the big timber. I saw the ablation of their disappointment if they had not found the fowl that they sought. So many satisfied diners.

  I believe I slumbered because when I opened my eyes again, I found Mr Bin standing over me. I jumped to my feet. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Bin. How relieving to see you. I’ve been waiting most patiently for your return.’

  ‘Never caught you dossing before, Mozzy!’ He grinned. The ape came bounce-footing from under the roof of the veranda and leapt, landing on Mr Bin’s head. Mr Bin straggled its tail around his neck. ‘Seeing you again is making me nostalgic. What brings you?’

  ‘The reason I’ve journeyed to your residence again,’ I explained, ‘is that I’ve brought Mr Summerberg’s recording equipment and a missive from the Miss Camlyn.’ I indicated the cloth bag. ‘I believe that he left it so that you can record the bird for him. Before he passes.’

  ‘The akalat or Mr Summerberg? I’ve been out looking for the akalat today. Walked and walked. Nothing.’ Mr Bin stroked the ape’s tail and did not bend to read the note from Miss Camlyn.

  ‘I’m pleased you weren’t predated. You should be careful.’

  ‘I found nets put up by poachers to catch birds, the —.’ The ape ducked down behind his head.

  I somehow straight away thought of Mr Makata’s business. Poachers or organic produce harvesters? Should I tell Mr Bin about Mr Makata? I could see that from Mr Bin’s point of view the loss of the birds that laid the tourist eggs would be regrettable although I think he cried more for the birds than the tourists. But I had assured Mr Makata of my diligence on the principle of confidentiality.

  ‘Um … Mozzy, there’s no chance of you coming back to work with me again, is there?’

  I had not in all my contemplations anticipated such. I had dismissed him as my employer, but he appeared to be without shame, boldly asking for his position back.

  I comported myself and answered diplomatically. ‘I’m of course listening to your petition. Might I ask you why you ask me now … when you have no guests?’

  ‘A heap of booking requests. More than ever before.’ He puzzle-faced.

  Even if he had been a most respected employer, I would not have reconsidered. I had received my dream posting. No one would refuse such an opportunity to leave the bush and embrace a high-status role with accompanying professional benefits. Ever since my father died, I had worked all hours for this destiny. It was the uttermost accomplishment of my ambitions and would lead to sensational fulfilment. I wanted an efficient and exacting employer such as Miss Camlyn’s mother under whose service I would thrive. In any case, Mr Bin could easily find another employee to satisfy his lowest standards. As everyone indicated, there were hundreds of domestic cooks looking for work. In no time he would believe himself to have replaced me.

  ‘I thank you kindly,’ I said, ‘but I’ve taken an important opportunity. I’m going to Boston, USA.’

  When I announced such, I could hardly trust my own words, that it was truly true. I visioned skyscrapers copper-glowing in a bright sunrise. I saw sidewalks sparkling with mica, laid by profes
sionals with setsquares and spirit levels on ground that had no swells and ruts. I saw traffic lights synchronised to schedule, everything disciplined to a pleasing degree. I saw determined people walking fast, achieving much, like myself; even placing their litter in designated bins. Custard-yellow taxis purposed by, taking VIP customers to restaurants serving international cuisines.

  Mr Bin stared out at the thorns, thickets and stones of the dry badlands. ‘I’m disappointed of course, but glad you’re pleased with your new job. I guess it’s all for the best.’

  With a bold urge, I asked, ‘Aren’t you going to leave this decayed house and tend to your personal matters?’

  ‘Personal matters? I’ve escaped them.’

  I could not resist a negative inclination of my brow.

  ‘Thing is, Mozzy, the bush asks nothing impossible of me. I don’t have to try to be someone I’m not. It doesn’t judge me.’

  He stroked the ape’s tail. The tail of his only friend.

  ‘I don’t walk into the bush to find myself … like some would say. The opposite. I go out there to lose myself. To forget Robert Benjamin Du Plessis. To forget all that yellow jelly stuff.’ Mr Bin spoke as if his only audience was himself. That he was neither speaking to his ape or myself. ‘When I’m out there …’ He had a searching look in his eyes as if trying to find expression for some soul-deep feeling. Then he shrugged. ‘Birds and buck don’t dwell on the past. Don’t blub about it.’ He saw me again. ‘Forget all that stuff about mindfulness, psychoanalysis, meditation, matins … whatever. Try the wild. Every oke should get into it.’

  While Mr Bin was eulogising the wasteland and philosophising his life, I was thinking on how to assist my ex-employer. I was a decent man.

  ‘What about looking for opportunities to improve yourself? Perhaps you could teach birds in a high education establishment to do something for the advance of civilisation.’

  ‘Civilisation!’ He snorted. ‘I don’t care a monkey’s for civilisation.’