The Chef, the Bird and the Blessing

by Andrew Sharp

  If the ape had been human, I would have believed it to have given me the eye of apprehension, even alarm, at Mr Bin’s misinformed persuasion. Mr Bin did not wish for success. I despaired for his unhappy wife and I found myself feeling sorry for the ape, which I believed was becoming insightful of Mr Bin’s errors. We stood mutely. I concluded that Mr Bin and I were perplexed by each other.

  The ape, I noted, had shown no aggression towards me on my return to see Mr Bin and in point of fact it was big-eyeing me, unblinking, but without malice. I had an imagining that the ape had somehow missed me, had missed a certain familiarity in its life. I was surprised to experience a certain tolerance towards the little creature. It was, after all, a living, sharing day to day life with Mr Bin and previously, however meddlesome, with myself. I surmised that all living beings are in a relationship with other livings, whether happy, accepting, or conflicting. Without such two-way relationing, they are not living. Without such they are just rocks or clouds. I could therefore understand the Freddy ape being sentimental on this occasion of my brief return. On the contrary, I did not understand Mr Bin.

  ‘Hey Mozzy.’ Mr Bin held out an open hand. ‘If you’re so worried about me walking on my own, why don’t you come out with me before you leave for your new job. Let’s try to find an akalat together.’

  ‘With regret, I cannot run around for you again.’ I did not want to be Mr Bin’s porter. I had my dignity.

  ‘That’s not what I’m …’ He dropped his hand. ‘It doesn’t matter broe.’

  We were soon to lose light and so I excused myself. I had fulfilled my final obligation to Mr Bin in delivering Mr Summerberg’s recording equipment. I wished him well of course, albeit without informing him that running from his lawful wife was truly recreant. I looked back once and saw him standing in his quiet pool of idleness, watching me leave him there in the sticks, he and the Freddy ape on his shoulder, with his hand stroking its tail.

  Despite all, as I weaved down the road, I asked myself whether as a considerate man, I should turn back even now and agree to go with Mr Bin to find the bird. My father used to say, The locust may fly away, but he leaves hardship behind. Was it a locust-like desertion to leave Mr Bin standing there without help to fulfil the old gentleman’s wish?

  But what was I thinking? How could I so easily forget? He had run away from a prosperous and ambitious future with his wife. An indisputable and regrettable fact. If you borrow the legs of a running man, you’ll go where he directs you. No, I should not follow Mr Bin’s legs along the paths that only vanished into the ghosting bush. I must utilise my own legs. When I was young, I had experienced what can befall if I let even so-called friends distract me from the path I had chosen.

  I reached the ravine and stepped off my transport because the road was as trenched as a ploughed field. At the lowest point of the ravine, I heard the sound of escaping steam. I recognised such as having emanated from the nostrils of a heavy beast. I rubber-necked in haste and saw a buffalo close by, armoured in mud from a nearby mudhole, hot saliva hanging from its jaw hair. The dim light and my meditative thoughts had made me blind to hazard. I had forgotten that I was close to nature that had not yet been tamed, the greatest impediment to mankind’s progress and the greatest danger. The buffalo was a lone male, the most disagreeable kind of personality. A toxic masculine, for sure. The surprise between us was exactly mutual. It stomped its heavy hooves and snorted. I mounted my bicycle and attempted to ride out of the ravine, but it was so steep that I could not retain my balance. I crick-necked back. The buffalo lowered its horned skull and started towards me. I turned my bicycle to face it and sent it on its way, spinning it down towards the buffalo steam-training towards me. I turned with due speed and sprinted up the road. When I looked again at the top, my breath somewhat hard to find, I saw the buffalo throw my bicycle into the air and then stamp on it, without regard to its utility. The wheels cockeyed and the frame snapped like a poppadum. The bell hooked on the buffalo’s horn and rang with desperation when the buffalo shook its head at me. My bicycle, I surmised, would not be repairable in the village, even in the Bicycle Repairs – Any Damage workshop.

  I wasted no time to fast-pace along the unfenced and unlit road. I was being ejected without dignity from the wilderness, chased out, just as I had myself chased crawlies from my kitchen at Mr Bin’s. Fair enough. Each should keep to their place: beasts in their wilds, humankind in their cities. This was no place for me. The National Park had tried to kill me. I pined to see the kerosene lights of the village, to know that I was surrounded again by even a feeble orange glow of civility, to leave the perils of the tangled forests behind me. I desired more than ever to participate in humanity’s technological and civilising achievements. Boston, USA, would be such a place.

  The annihilation of my bicycle, which had grieved me earlier, could not, in all seriousness, be mourned. My bicycle belonged to a transitional phase of my life, a developmental phase. No one should accept a life without modern transport. To ride a bicycle when cars were existent was like bare-footing when branded trainers were available. Truly primitive.

  Mr Bin and I had embarked on roads of opposing directions. He to the stone age past, myself to the enterprising future. I wished to be a full-immersion member of the Anthropocene; the tidy, plastic-convenient, planned, sanitised, electrified epoch which Mr Bin decried. The lights of the village beaconed, a safe sanctuary ahead, and I left my futile dutiful burden for Mr Bin’s correction behind me. At last I had as good as a privileged passport. I was not like those who had to foot north and passage a sea to reach their aspiration. My dream had been served me and I was on my way.

  Chapter 12

  In arrivals, London Heathrow, I advanced along the rank of chauffeurs holding up the names of inflowing executives and professionals such as myself. ‘Mr Avalon’, ‘Amanda Kenny’, ‘Jack’ and more. I nodded in greeting to all in turn and shook hands with one, causing provisional confusion, as I was not his named. My courtesy was misapprehended. At the end of the line I saw the designation Mr Man Tushi, held up by a chauffeur who was discordantly dressed-down in a brown fake-leather jacket, jeans and pointed tan shoes with scuffed tips. It was, I conceded, excusable that he was not in uniform, it being evening and therefore out-of-hours.

  ‘I believe that I’m he whom you’re seeking,’ I said to my chauffeur.

  ‘Say?’ He turned his ear down my way. ‘Ah, got it. Learn your English from Mr Shakespeare, did you?’

  ‘We’re not acquainted. At school I had Miss Nyanda.’

  He heavy-blinked. ‘I’m Jordan. Can I call you Man?’

  ‘Of course. Call me any name you please.’

  ‘Is this your only bag?’

  ‘I’m carrying only my dreams. They’re packed in here.’ I tapped my head. ‘They weigh much.’

  He portered my compactful case and I followed him through the sparkling concourse past high shining metal columns (just as expected) towards the automatic glass doors of the exit, approving the vendors of car hires and moneys all professionally attired in navy, white and black and most able in customer service. If only Dorothea could have seen me. In actuality in London, part way on my journey of destiny to Boston, USA. I took humble pleasure to think of the distance that I had travelled from that day when Dorothea and I, dusty but wet thighed, had stumbled off the bus when we arrived in Romaji. Back then there was no one to salute us with our names. We were uncelebrated immigrants to Romaji. In London, on the contrary, I was awaited and my name known. Even if it was not strictly my own.

  Chauffeur Jordon was a man of private opinions who had no need to jaw to passage the journey. In the car he listened to the hectic shout-chatting of London Radio whilst I reposed back in VIP comfort and valued the ride. What a ride! Bright and prismatic lights illuminated the great city, even causing the milky orb of sky above us to glow benevolently. Colours of a firework nature fizzed in the rain. The headlights an
d taillights of the transportation numbered in the thousands. Dazzling red, orange and green traffic signals enforced a stop and go along our route according, no doubt, to a disciplined system. Every road had a tent of street lighting for our safety and visibility. It was so beautiful a sight, even exceeding my expectations.

  We passed a park highwayed by smooth tar paths, shining in the gentle wet of that March month. Timber had been planted at exact spaces along said paths and the paths themselves were street-lighted. No one would surprise-encounter danger as they traversed along such a route on their way to work with their thoughts on important business. I noted the signs instructing the tidying away of dog poops and the designated litter bins. No one was hacking firewood off the trees with axes or suffering stones and pricks under their feet. The cities founding anthill had surely been wiped many years before. In truth, everything met my approval, everything had been designed to ease the lives of persons.

  My transit hotel, named Lochview Guesthouse, was presented in the fine and historical style of the thousands of London houses that we had passed on the way. It close-fronted the Grand Circular Road which perimeters the city and a low brick wall separated it from the pavement. There was no need of course for breeze block or euphorbia protection from hungry or fiendish creatures. Someone had placed a sofa with flower patterning on said pavement, perhaps for observational purposes on the unending migration of people about their business. There was a little litter for sure, but it was of a superior and upmarket kind, such as cups from an international cafe chain and plastic bags from exclusive outlets. No doubt.

  Chauffeur Jordan said, ‘Get a night’s kip. I’ll be back at ten in the morning to take you to the office.’ He tipped his forehead at me, a sign of respect in the native culture.

  The lady receptionist, of senior years, was dimly dressed in a skirt of brownish wool and a dark-green tartan-pattern jacket in the style of the papered walls. Her face was somewhat squeezed and pale and was purged of sycophantic expression to the guest, nor did she waste time on nosy questions.

  ‘Let me be understood, Mr Tooshy. No smoking, no music, no dogs, no cats, no cooking, no women overnight. Any breaking of the rules and yer’ll be oen yer bike. Stolen linen or sink plugs will be charged. The basin in yer room is not a urinal. Sleep under the duvet, not in it. A toilet and a shower are off the landing. There’s a meter if yer want hot water. If yer lose yer key, it’s twenty poonds to replace it. Yer room is upstairs on the right. Sign here.’

  ‘I thank you most kindly,’ I said. Everything she had instructed was for my comfort and to my satisfaction. Rules and order were to be welcomed.

  My room was accessed via stairs of a mountain incline and perhaps in need of supplementary lighting but, in fairness, I was glad to be out of the lights of the dazzling city and was ready to sleep after the exhilaration of my travel and my relentless anticipation.

  I laid my compactful case on the end of the bed so that I did not have the minor inconvenience of climbing over it to reach the neat washbasin beyond the bed. I discovered two coat hangers in the cupboard behind the door which was exactly sufficient for my wardrobe, namely my matrimonial suit and one pair of dress-down trousers and a white shirt. The window above the basin grandstanded the Grand Circular Road and I saw that it opened by means of a pulley and a rope. A nostalgic feature perhaps. I could only note one omission. There was no iron.

  I washed in the shower chamber off the landing but first thought the water burning hot before comprehending that the paining sensation was due to the opposite, namely freezing to the degree of a showering of ice. I had heard of this custom of cold dipping in northern countries and found the report was true: that you felt good and invigorated when you had towelled afterwards.

  The hollow of my mattress made for a comfortable repose and I lay listening to the hurry of the cars that passed below the window, their drivers and passengers impatient, no doubt, to achieve important ends. I thought how none of those travellers in their cars were concerned about encountering a buffalo on the road on their way to and from work. None need be concerned at being chased at peril of their life and having their transport smashed by a beast. No, all were purposefully fulfilling their ambitions. Reduction in the difficulties of living and safety from predators were the undoubtful benefits of civilised society. I slept well, dreaming of cooking for discerning and deserving diners. My first night in a city in the progressive and comfortable West.

  My Casio timepiece was in need of battery replacement, but I woke before dawn as was my custom. The thunder of the traffic was even greater than the previous evening. I let myself slumber somewhat, waiting for sunrise. Later, I noted a lighting of the curtain, indicating dawn approaching. I allowed myself a little more rest to prepare myself for the next phase of my journey. I guessed I would be on a flight to Boston that evening and wished to be well rested. When I noticed a prick of light on the wall, I left my bed and drew the curtain to see the sun just above the horizon.

  I heard a knock on the door. ‘Mr Tooshy? Your taxi’s here. Close the door when you go out and don’t forget yer key.’

  I had not anticipated how low the sun would be in the north countries in March at nine fifty-five hours. My novelty mistake.

  Chauffeur Jordon, still down-dressed to my disappointment, dropped me at a headquarters in the city. I passed through plate glass doors to a reception furnished in executive-black and polished timber. I had become like Monica at the bank in Romaji, I was on the inside of the glass of modernity —only better, as for me there was no anthill outside or boys selling recycled shoes.

  A motherly lady with a cushion-soft face and figure welcomed me warmly.

  ‘Mrs Camlyn, I’m enchanted to meet you.’ I spoke with a certain over-eager. ‘I’ve been fantasising this occasion.’

  ‘Ooh, I’m not Mrs Camlyn. I wish! I’m Brenda. I’m only a colleague. That’s what they call us. But I’m awed to meet you. A real safari chef!’

  ‘A chef who apprenticed in a tourist establishment, true.’ I could not deny my ignoble beginnings but did not wish to be characterised by such past, to be labelled as a camp cook from the bush who had never seen a double oven or a blast freezer.

  ‘Let’s hop along straight away. The photographer will be here any moment.’

  ‘The photographer?’

  ‘For the promotional. You’re going to be recognised all over Britain. Quite a celebrity!’

  I had read that many head chef’s had celebrity status, their faces front-paging magazines or on Facebooks and Twitters, pursued by millions of adulating stalkers. I was not seeking such for myself. I did not approve of a look-at-me vocation, my face more famous than my dishes. But if this promotional was a necessity for a head chef position, I would accept with all humility.

  Mrs Brenda took me through to a dazzle-white room statued with chrome technical equipment of the lighting variety. In that finely engineered bright space, I felt yet again the thrill of my posting. The environments were going to be conducive to excellence. There would be no ants, pets, peeling ceilings, cracked floors or bare-foot employer.

  ‘There you are now, my darling, pop into the booth over there and change into your uniform. There are three sizes to try on.’

  I was at last to take the vestments of my calling, to become an archbishop of the culinary catechism dressed in holy whites and a high toque. As such, I would cook for my diners the most sublime creations, the divine summit of my skills. I saw myself in the promotional in my finery, arms folded in confident and relaxed but quietly dynamic pose, professional and reliable hands on show, countenance set to convey that of a man knowing himself to be greatly respected, but knowing himself not to be haughty, indeed approachable and not affected with pride, however justified.

  In the booth I found three pegs with clothing hanging from each, namely a green flop-brimmed hat, a Swahili-style collarless shirt patterned with leaves, red flower blooms and
birds with banana beaks. I took note of the green shorts with matching long socks. I looked in vain for my chef’s uniform.

  I exited the booth and said to Mrs Brenda, ‘My regrets … I cannot find my uniform.’

  ‘This is your uniform, my pet. Right here.’ She indicated the jungle-themed attire. ‘It’s fun and sunny, don’t you think? You can wear it with pride.’

  ‘Do I not wear white? A head chef wears white, properly ironed.’

  ‘I guess a head chef would. Hurry please my love, the photographer’s arrived and he hasn’t got a lot of time.’

  Unless I was mistaken, something was mistaken, unless there was a trending fashion for top chefs, which I was unaware of, and certainly did not approve of.

  I tried on said party clothing and came out with the one least tight and least loose. It was the first time I had worn shorts since I was a child. I had a disturbing presentiment that I was to be asked to dance for the photographer. To prance moves of primitive culture for party entertainment. Was I being pranked?

  Mrs Brenda placed a yellow sash around my neck and shoulder, patting it flat with her mother hands, and stepped back.

  ‘Perfect! So Safari Cubs!’

  Said sash was designated ‘On safari, grrrr!’ All was highly irregular.

  The photographer had black eyebrows but bleached hair or maybe painted eyebrows and blonde hair. He said, ‘Sit on the stool. Turn slightly. Look towards me. Look into the lens. Make your eyes sparkle. Smile. Make your cheeks like a bunny.’

  I complied to the most of my understanding, but I was bewildered and disturbed of mind. Events were not to my expectations. Had I been chauffeured to the wrong location? Was I mistaken for some other? When would I travel on to the USA?

  ‘Good job. You’re a natural.’ The blanched photographer disconnected his camera from his tripod, concurred with Mrs Brenda and left.