The Chef, the Bird and the Blessing

by Andrew Sharp

  ‘I couldn’t be sure. I’ve never seen one. I don’t need to see it, just collect its song.’

  If Mr Summerberg did not know what a brackish akalat looked like and so could not deny the opinion of Miss Camlyn and myself, the bird could certainly be bone fide. What a fortuity! A brackish akalat! What an excitement for my guests and a noteworthy surprise for myself.

  We watched the bird doing nothing for a while and then Miss Camlyn said, ‘Well we never! It’s a bombshell a minute with Grandad.’

  We helped Mr Summerberg’s chicken weight back to the bed.

  Miss Camlyn turned to me and looked into my eyes. She placed a hand on my arm. ‘Mozzy, I’d no idea things were so pants for you here. I want to help.’

  ‘Please, I’d only like the opportunity to prove myself in a kitchen. I’m in joy when I’m cooking good food for guests.’

  ‘What if it were a brackish akalat, here in London,’ Mr Summerberg said to himself, ‘but it won’t sing. Haa, haa, haa.’

  Miss Camlyn thought-faced and said, ‘I have an idea, Mozzy. I don’t know … maybe. I’ll try. It’s not much but …’

  ‘An idea?’

  ‘Let me follow it up.’

  I assisted them to their car, the cold rain sponging my back, the sky a ragged grey fleece, the trucks making thunder on the road.

  Mr Summerberg said, ‘You must contact Ben, Mr Mlantushi. He must record the bird for me.’

  Miss Camlyn took the driving seat and said to me. ‘I’m worried about you. You’re all alone … apart from that little bird.’

  ‘He’s all I need.’ But in truth, I was so sad that Miss Camlyn and Mr Summerberg were leaving. They were almost like … what persons called friends.

  ‘Things are not turning out, yeah? It’s no shame to admit it.’

  ‘A turnabout is sure to come.’

  ‘I can put you in touch with my life coach if you want. Because you’re a sort of migrant, she’ll probably give you a free session.’

  ‘Thank you kindly, but no need. Life’s already coached me.’

  ‘Hmm, maybe. Look … I’ll do my best, but don’t raise your hopes.’

  ‘I assure you Miss Camlyn that my hopes are always high. It’s the correct way to live.’

  I footed to the library to email Mr Bin as per my pledge to Mr Summerberg. I wished also to check out the old man’s postulation that my sparrow was not a sparrow. I reckoned his eyesight to be failing. On my way I passed the pet shop. I saw that it was closed and looked in the window. The pets were gone. A child with a father also stopped.

  ‘I wanna hamster,’ said the boy, licking the glass.

  ‘You can’t. It’s closed down,’ said the father.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The shopkeeper was a naughty man.’

  ‘Naughty man?’

  ‘Very naughty. He was selling pets from the jungle without a licence.’

  ‘I wanna hamster,’ said the boy.

  They walked off out of ear reach.

  At the library internet I prioritised a short missive to Mr Bin although had doubts that Mr Bin would be booting his old computer to look for emails. He would have to fire the generator. He would not want its howling to smother the indigenous whisper of the bush.

  Dear Mr Bin,

  I hope life is treating you. I have entertained Mr Summerberg and Miss Camlyn here in London at my abode. They are enquiring after your progress in capturing the carol of the brackish akalat. Please let me know your advance in this matter as it will bring them great happiness. Mr Bin, I beg you, this should be considered urgently as Mr Summerberg is even older now. I ask this as your late chef employee for your favour.

  Sincerely,

  Savalamuratichimimozi Mlantushi

  (also known as Mozzy)

  I had fulfilled my promise. Responsibility now lay in the careless and unreliable hands of Mr Bin.

  I remained questioning of Mr Summerberg. I needed to be sure my bird was not a sparrow in order to narrow down to brackish akalat. Like a private detective, I searched sparrow on the Google. Straight away, it informed of two sparrows. The house sparrow and the tree sparrow. The portraits of such were not the bird in my cage. They were less dull, less brackish, more reddish, more black and white, more streaked. True, these sparrows were small like my bird, as Miss Camlyn had correctly informed us, but they were not my bird. Their expression was also less interested, less attentive, more off-hand and distracted. Further research indicated that there were many other sparrows, for examples the rock sparrow, the Somali sparrow, the Dead Sea sparrow, the parrot-billed sparrow, indeed more than twenty. I studied each. My bird was none of those. I could not find the ‘garden sparrow’ that the seller had referred to, but the Google was sure that there was no such. The most compelling persuasion against sparrow was this: sparrows dine on seeds. My bird was against seeds. It dined on insects. My bird was not a sparrow, for sure.

  I searched for ‘brackish akalat’. Said bird was known to the Google as without hesitation it showed me a page. Said page presented only one photo, surely taken accidentally by an amateur pointing at something else as the focus was off, but I could see a small bird with round black eyes, a small beak, a brackish-brown back and greyish underparts. It had the same attentive expression as my bird and was just as non-judgmental, but I had to admit that it was not an exacting match. My bird was duller in colouration, legs not as orange, beak perhaps a little thinner. Despite such, there was certainly a strong resemblance and no doubt each akalat would have its own family features depending on its parents.

  The brackish akalat (Sheppardia eximius) is a species of bird in the family Muscicapidae. It is found in equatorial and southern Africa. Its natural habitat is dry forests and scrubland. It is threatened by habitat loss.

  Et cetera.

  I checked on the diet of the brackish akalat. Insects!

  I was disappointed with the pet shop owner, that he had misinformed me, perhaps with deliberation. The police were no doubt already investigating his falsifications. I would try to find the court judgement. It would no doubt result in him being caged. Rightly.

  I paged to find further on the brackish akalat. Some academic named Gershenwald et al had troubled to research it. I learnt that the song is described as melodious. I did not know how Gershenwald et al could know that. To my knowledge it had not yet been heard by any except possibly Mr Bin and —there being no recording— no one could confirm Gershenwald et al’s claim. At the end of the page there was reporting of folklore from Carter5 (1931). I did not trouble to read the superstitions of the past.

  I returned to the guesthouse and my bird in contemplative mood. I sat and studied the bird in a scholarly mindset as if I was Gershenwald et al. No, it was not a sparrow. I compared the remembered photo of the akalat with my bird. Yes, no one could deny that there was a similarity, particularly the attentive, even expectant, expression. I could only conclude that it was the brackish akalat. The retailer had been selling exotics. What could be more exotic than a brackish akalat? I felt a certain excitement. A brackish akalat, here in London! Here in my possession! I had to resist baked-loaf-of-blessing thoughts and a flirting with belief in supernatural causalities.

  ‘I’m sorry, I mistook you,’ I said to my bird.

  It said nothing in reply of course although I sincerely wished it to speak. In truth I felt it needed to explain itself as to how it had found me, a living from the same country, also far from home. It was a living that knew the same sunny skies and dry timbered land as myself. Of course, it could not speak, but why not sing? Yes, I wished it to sing.

  ‘Where is your melodious voice?’ I spoke politely but sternly. ‘I’ve fed you well. I’ve tried every insect menu to encourage your happiness. It’s been exacting labour searching for your favourite dish in the cold park by night. I’ve spent my food money on you. I’m asking a s
mall thing of you. Just one song.’

  It remained dumb. During this hurtful silence, I had a curious pop-up thought. I remembered how my father had been silent after his brain stroke. The doctor had diagnosed aphasic. I had in truth willed my father to speak again, feeding him well in the hope that this would somehow loosen his tongue. I had prepared the best dishes to please him, to coax his voice in appreciation of my efforts, but he had remained dumb until the soil of the grave filled his mouth and he could never speak again, excepting in my remembrance of course. No matter how well I cooked for him and cared for him he had said nothing. That bird somehow reminded me of my father. It was silent like him, despite my supreme efforts.

  Chapter 15

  At last I received a call on tartan-woolled landlady’s phone (to her displeasure) to request my attendance at the Party Places headquarters again. ‘We’re all ready now, Chef Tushi,’ said Mrs Brenda. ‘It’s going to be so exciting.’

  They sent aforementioned Jordon, dressed-down driver, to pick me. Of course, I had grave reservations and apprehensions concerning what this ‘so exciting’ occasion might be, but I was inclined to believe that Mrs Camlyn, the famous restaurateur who had invited me and paid for me to travel to London, had a confidential agenda that would be revealed at just the correct time. Chief executives must stay one step ahead of their employees, surprising them with the grand and ingenious plan just when they think all is lost and that there is no way forward. In that way, they justify their superior remunerations and receive the awed adulation of their staff. I had full confidence in Mrs Camlyn.

  Mrs Brenda welcomed me in a new hair of a soft blue variety and a Sunday-best pink jacket and skirt with parrot broach on her mother bosom.

  ‘Mr Tushi, you look so cute and lovely in the poster. I’ve been longing to show you, but Dave said we should wait until today.’

  ‘What is today?’

  ‘The marketing launch with the press! They’re all ready next door. But first, here it is.’

  She took me to a table. There I was on a poster in the fanciful dress, my cheeks chubbed like a fat rabbit, my eyes sparkling and my lips smiling. Yes, I had to concur with the photographer, I was a natural.

  The poster stated CELEBRITY SAFARI CHEF Can Tushi says, ‘PARTY PLACES will make you roar. I would serve nothing less in AFRICA.’

  Mr Dave joined us with much excited breathing and collar sweat.

  ‘Just gorgeous!’ said Mrs Brenda.

  ‘Totally authentic,’ said Mr Dave.

  ‘My name’s not correct.’

  ‘We made a small adjustment,’ said Mr Dave. ‘Man Tushi is very gender specific and has colonial era connotations —Man Friday and such— so we’ve adjusted your first name a little. Only one letter change so I felt it hardly worth mentioning.’

  He flatted a paper on the table and placed a pen.

  ‘What’s this?’ I said.

  ‘It’s a release form for your picture in our promotional. Should have got you to sign when we took the photo, but it’s just a formality.’

  I observed again my portrait. It was a high temptation to forget my calling, to embrace celebrity status, be a trending personality. Such opportunity for personages of my heritage was rare. I would become the internationally known face of Party Places, Safari. The celebrated safari chef for kids. But I would be the chef who did not cook. The chef who just had to look cute and bunny-faced, through no merit apart from being spotlighted as from AFRICA. The chef who had given up on his ambition, like the teacher in the park.

  ‘With respect, I cannot sign.’

  Mr Dave tapped the designated place on the page for my signature whilst nodding to a gentleman at the door, indicating that we would be ready shortly to go through and meet the press.

  ‘I was mistaken,’ I said. ‘I’m looking for a chef position in a restaurant of good standing.’

  Mr Dave laughed. ‘Instead you’re going to be a superstar! What could be better than that? By the way we’ve printed out an extra poster. A souvenir for you.’

  ‘I’ll go and get it for you right now,’ said Brenda.

  ‘No thank you. Party clowning’s not my profession. I have a dream that’s certain. I’m unable to ink your document.’

  Mr Dave held the tongue of his tie that protruded from his belt and lost vocalisation.

  ‘Ah, you’re shy, aren’t you darling,’ said Brenda. She put a mother-hand on my arm and turned to Mr Dave. ‘It’s daunting, his face out in public, being recognised everywhere, meeting the press. It’s just understandable nerves.’

  Mr Dave nodded in all insincerity. ‘Mr Toothy, I totally understand. It’s actually no big deal. You’ll be fronting our Facebook newsfeed for a day or two, the adverts will be up for a week, the mailshot a one off, then you’ll be over and done. Totally forgotten. Does that reassure you?’

  ‘I’m thanking you, but I’m saying that I’m needing to excuse myself.’

  ‘Are you worried about meeting the press?’ said Mr Dave. ‘All you have to do is mention your safari chefing in Africa, the cooking you do out there surrounded by lions and tigers eager to snatch the steak.’ He ha-ha’d in a nerveful manner. ‘Perhaps you’ve a sweet story or two to tell them about the cuddly creatures you’ve met so the kids will want to meet you and hear more. Don’t forget, you’re our genuine article!’

  ‘I thank you again.’ I turned to go.

  ‘Mr Toothy, don’t let us down.’ He bulge-eyed and pulled his tie out from his belt and waved it at me as if swatting me. ‘You’ve cost us. We’ve flown you here. We’ve put you up in a guest house. You’ll not find another chef who wouldn’t have paid us for this sort of publicity.’

  ‘In that case I’m pleased to hear, knowing you’ll find it easy to find another. I don’t wish to inconvenience you. There are indeed hundreds of chefs in my country bicycling around looking for any work, but for myself I’m seeking bright prospects and masterful achievement at the top end.’

  ‘Get Mrs Camlyn,’ said Mr Dave to Mrs Brenda.

  That stopped me. I was at last to meet Mrs Camlyn. Her very self! The praiseworthy Mrs Camlyn, the talented and productive owner of international restaurants of world renown, the exacting employer who only accepted the highest culinary creations in her kitchens. Surely, she would reprimand Mr Dave for misunderstanding her intentions over my employment. I was going to be rescued from Party Places, to escape the Dave Division. I would surely be on a jet to Boston that very night.

  The door swung open. Out came a purpose-thighed lady, crew haired, powerly suited in black and violet, shoes matching, a heavy silver horseshoe bracelet on her wrist and silver horseshoe pendant on her necklace.

  Mrs Brenda followed with hasty little steps. She mouthed, ‘Mrs Camlyn!’

  Miss Camlyn’s famous mother. Mrs Zeto Camlyn! Yes, her very self! To rescue me. My heart was prancing in my chest.

  But for how long did I feel lucky? Not so long. She did not see me or greet me but nodded impatiently as Mr Dave explained my objection. She was like her daughter only in one respect: she had bluish eyes, but then I saw that they were flecked with sulphur and black granite.

  She said, ‘— !’ Then, ‘Forget it! It was only because my silly daughter pressured me … her childish enthusiasms. Told her it wouldn’t work. I’m right, as ever.’ She spiralled her eyes. ‘She never listens.’

  ‘The press?’ said Mr Dave, pulling so hard on his long red tie that I worried for suicidal strangulation.

  ‘Pff, I can handle the press.’ She touched her horseshoe pendant, swung around and made for the door.

  ‘Mrs Camlyn!’ I called out in desperado urgency.

  She pivoted back, but she did not meet my eyes although they must have bugled imploring. ‘David … sort your tie. It’s becoming an embarrassment.’

  She exited, the door banging closed like a gunshot —directed at myself.r />
  ‘That’s it then,’ said Mr Dave, dropping his tie as if he had accidentally picked up a serpent. He stared at the door.

  ‘Oh dear … mercy me,’ said Mrs Brenda, and a sad hand went out to touch my chubbed cheek on the poster.

  I too stood stupefied, acclimatising to the new situational and in mourning for the praiseworthy Mrs Camlyn of my expectations and dreams. She had changed. How could that be? What had happened to her? She was a backslider. She had about-faced. She had mutated.

  Mr Dave moved all of a sudden, ushering me with inconsiderate curtness, not even permitting me to bid farewell and apologise to the disappointed maternal.

  ‘You’ll have to make your own way back. We can’t waste any more money on you for obvious reasons.’

  At the glass door to the street, I attempted to shake his ox-tongue hand again, but he turned and left me without a farewell.

  Notwithstanding the aforementioned embarrassment and the unmasking of the duplicitous Mrs Camlyn, I spoke proudly to my akalat when I got home. ‘I’ve kept faith. I’ve kept belief. One day I’ll be a chef in a high end. No evidence will persuade me otherwise.’

  It agreed.

  ‘We must look out for the next available opportunity. It’ll surely come. Tomorrow will always be better than today.’

  It agreed.

  ‘By the way, I’m sorry I’ve been calling you sparrow. It wasn’t your name. I can appreciate how grieved you felt at this misnaming, believe me.’

  It accepted my apologies.

  That very evening, after I had fed my akalat, Miss Camlyn called me. ‘This is the last time,’ said tartan-woolled lady.

  ‘Mozzy, my mother just rung me and told me what happened today. I’m so sorry.’ She sniffed down the line. I surmised she was upset. ‘Mummy blamed me.’

  I reassured her that the Party Places posting was a misunderstanding, that I had retained my dignity, and she was not to give it another thought of any kind, especially the sad kind.