The Chef, the Bird and the Blessing

by Andrew Sharp

  A clerk filled the glass of water on the Justice’s table and then the Justice came in again with her officers. We stood and then sat, Mr Bin with a certain stiffness which made him seem aged although his lack of agility related, I suspected, to his shackles and cramped quarters in jail. I found myself respecting his fortitude, his refusal to panic and rage. I was in pain to think of his likely fate. Was this an ordinary human concern for the fate of another, or was it the sorrow of seeing a friend wronged?

  The Justice took a sip of water. The public were still, but Mr Bambatiwe tore off a piece of chapati from inside one of his greasy paper bags and chewed it unhurriedly. He had surely seen before the inevitable course of such cases in court. I found Dorothea’s hand in mine.

  ‘I’ve listened to the evidence set out before me by both the prosecution and the defence. I’ve come to my judgement.’

  The public held their breath as she paused to take a sip of water.

  ‘It’s not disputed that Mr Du Plessis pursued the defendant in his vehicle. Both the defence and the prosecution agree on this. The court has been asked to make a judgement as to whether the accused deliberately ran down the defendant, intent on murder.’

  A public member hit his palm against the metal rail in front of his bench as if enacting the terrible impact of metal on a soft body. The justice looked up and scowled, a snail trail of perspiration down her cheek. A clerk stared down the public member.

  ‘Here’s my verdict.’

  She looked down at her papers whilst reaching again for her glass of water. ‘Robert Benjamin Du Plessis, I find you guilty.’

  The Justice calmly lifted her glass and drank thirstily. She showed, of course, no emotion, no sympathy. The law must only be the law; it cannot be a hanky. I gasped. Dorothea’s grip tightened on my hand. Mr Bin bowed his head. Mr Vupuma clapped and skipped with ease from his chair to shake hands with the prosecutor and his witness. His crutches clattered to the floor. Mr Bambatiwe continued to chew his chapati, his head resting nonchalant on the doughnut of his neck.

  The Justice slammed down her glass. ‘Sit!’ she ordered. She wiped her whole face with her silky handkerchief. ‘I have a flu. I should be in bed. I’ve not finished. Guilty of careless driving.’

  The public and injured party hushed in an instant. The tock of the clock failed to sound.

  ‘I find Mr Du Plessis guilty of careless driving. I find Mr Du Plessis not guilty of attempted murder.’

  She took another justified gulp of her water.

  ‘I therefore fine the defendant one hundred. The court is concluded.’ She collected her papers and stood quickly, blowing out her lips. We all stood and inclined our respectful and dumbfounded heads. She departed with her robes of justice and mercy flowing around her; a majestic, beautiful, solemn, gracious and lofty sight.

  I went to Mr Bin. He turned to Mr Bambatiwe and asked, ‘I’m free?’

  ‘Unbelievable! Astonishing!’ he said with his mouth full again. ‘You’re a lucky man to have such a persuasive defence team.’

  Still Mr Bin looked about with a waiting-face.

  ‘Mr Bin,’ I said. ‘You’re free!’

  ‘I’m free … yes … I’m free,’ he said to himself and then smiled. He stood and shook my hand and went to shake with Dorothea, his chain complaining on the floor.

  On the bus back to the village we sat together, Mr Bin, Dorothea and me. We said little, our thoughts balancing on many contemplations, celebrations, hopes and apprehensions. Mr Bin requested to sit by the window and could not drink enough of the dull scenery of endless scrub and vacant sky, although way ahead, far away, a rain cloud was pushing up like a small grey mushroom. Was the thirst of the land soon to be quenched?

  Near to Romaji, I said to Mr Bin, ‘I’ve even better news than your freedom. I’ve brought from London a brackish akalat. From a pet retail selling exotics. I’d like to release it into the National Park.’

  ‘You’re kidding, Mozzy! Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure it’s a brackish akalat?’

  ‘I’m so sure. It was confirmed by the Google. It’s not a sparrow.’

  He looked at me, hope and disbelief crossing his face like light and shadow on a breezy day.

  ‘I’d like to enact said release with you.’

  ‘You bet, Mozzy.’ He was quiet again. ‘A brackish akalat! Seems impossible. Two miraculous happenings on one day? Let’s do it. I’ll drop by.’

  Back at our breeze block abode, I thanked Dorothea for standing up in court, for helping me to defend Mr Bin against such mendacious accusations. It seemed that even a discordant couple like ourselves could adjourn their quarrel for a necessary co-operation. Dorothea acknowledged and then was quiet. There were no dancing eyes, ululating, joying, singing. She was hurting, yes, but maybe she was also waiting. Waiting for something, perhaps even something from me, some words from me that I thought might be available somewhere, but I did not know what those words were or how to find them. I believed that she did not want to hear any more ‘beloved wife’, ‘dear wife’ and such. True, we had achieved together to free Mr Bin, but that was a side show between us. I had big faults; she had said. Maybe I needed to find those faults and fix them, but what if they were my dutiful nature or my need to cook? Maybe I was too short. What if they were something I could not alter?

  Chapter 21

  I fell asleep to the sound of faint thunder and woke briefly to the sporadic rap of rain on the roof. As was my recent custom, I was bedded on the floor where the sofa used to sit. The room had taken an eager breath of cool air so that I had to draw a blanket over me.

  The next morning, up early, I footed out insect-hunting with my net, happy to sniff the rising scent of damp grasses and to see spider webs silvery with rain drops. Just beyond the village, where the land still reminisced of the wild, there was a plentiful harvest of organic produce. The insects were dizzy with excitement that it had rained. Indeed, a blind swing of the net could score. I let free the beetles —too hard and indigestible; the grasshoppers —too strong and sudden; the bees —too risky to hold by their wings; the stink bugs —of course. Flimsy-winged bugs with fat abdomens were the delicacy, sweet to the tongue of my bird no doubt, although it preferred to gobble quick. The best were the ants that fly. I also fried those for Dorothea and myself. A traditional snack. And we had no cash.

  Out there in the scrub, I did not risk uncomfortable encounters with employed or nosey people. ‘There’s a rumour that you’ve had to sell your pink sofa.’ ‘I heard a gossip. Whilst you were overseas your wife attended long private prayer vigils with Pastor Cain!’

  After all, I was now self-employed and it required my full attention. Although it was not strictly chefing, it was not dancing for tourists. I also hoped my solitude would gift a special discernment, which would lead me to pleasing Dorothea. I hoped in vain.

  I returned home with a pot full of juicy bugs. No more dry bugs for my bird. Dorothea was watching a soap on TV, sitting lifeless with her chin on her hands, uncomfortable on one of our two wooden chairs. She did not acknowledge me, did not ‘dear husband’ me. Only the bird followed my every move. Only the bird trusted me now.

  My phone rang.

  A wrong number, surely. I was inclined not to answer, but that would have been discourteous to the caller. Dorothea muted the soap with a reluctant finger.

  ‘Mr Mlantushi?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘This is James Fairbrother, owner of Plume de Paon. I hope you enjoyed your evening in my kitchen.’

  What was this? Surely a prankster in bad taste? Ripping the scab off my wound. The last time I had answered the phone, it was that hoaxer Mrs Zeto Camlyn. I terminated him and I went to my bird. Dorothea unmuted her soap.

  ‘Here’s your dinner, little bird. Tweet, tweet, please. Won’t you sing for me?’ It was happy to snatch a green-winged insect from my fingers between t
he bars. Watching and waiting on it, I became uncertain on my conjecture on its provenance. I had enthused that it was the brackish bird, but every ardour of mine had proved false, had it not? Its provenance hung by the frayed thread of my belief. Mr Bin would know. I hoped I was not to let him down.

  The phone rang again. Such a cruel caller.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘We got cut off. This is James Fairbrother, owner of Plume de Paon. You helped in my kitchen.’

  Something made me doubt my previous conjecture. He sounded like a mature caller, no giggling in the background from fellow conspirators.

  I spoke polite, but guarded. ‘An honour, of course.’

  Dorothea blew displeasure and muted the TV again.

  ‘I understand you helped us out when our head chef became incapacitated.’

  ‘I apologise. Too forward of me.’

  ‘Far from it. Let me explain. One of our customers that evening was a well-known food and restaurant critic. His review has recently been published in The Times. Bear with me as I read it to you.

  ‘One really has to arrive for an evening at Plume de Peon on an Anglo-Norman trotter dressed as a Tudor Lord or Lady in doublet and hose, kirtle and gown, such is its nostalgia for the long gone past and its uncompromisingly meaty tastes, rough-stone floors, log fires and pre-renaissance art on oak-clad walls. There was a time when I ranked it as one of the top ten restaurants in the capital, elevating unfashionable dishes of venison, mutton and pork to royal status, serving rich and succulent English banquets, which gloriously bucked every contemporary trend. It was the place to impress ambassadors and oligarchs, to fatten up investors when sealing a multimillion-pound deal in wharf-side property.

  There was a time but, like the Tudors, that time is long gone. Plume de Paon is now sliding down my rankings on its own goose fat. I believe the hake and haddock soup had been ladled from the bilges of a rotting medieval galleon. I found in its thick murky depths a sediment of rubbery fish parts. Was my fork grabbed by a crab? I sent it back to be slopped out into a gutter. What of the main? I ordered rack of lamb but was served thickly larded burnt timber from a mast of the same galleon. I returned it to be exhibited in an archaeological museum. I feared for what they would offer in its place. A glutinous pastry pie stuffed with partially plucked blackbirds perhaps.

  But no! Holy Katherine of Aragon! No! I was served a dish so sublime they dared not list it on the menu because no words could do it justice, not even as penned by your eminent restaurant critic.’

  ‘Are you still with me?’

  ‘I’m here.’

  ‘Mr Mlantushi, he’s referring to the dish you made. Let me read more. I’m sure that Henry VIII never tasted such a dish. His cooks would not have had the swagger, the science, the artistry. If they had, he would have been in better moods. It might have changed the course of history. Somewhere deep in the doughy bowels of Plume de Peon’s kitchen, a chef has poured away the muddy gravy, buried the pig trotters and re-imagined English food.’

  ‘Are you still with me?’

  ‘I’m here.’

  ‘I’ll skip forward. Then there was the desert. By the same chef, I was told with an incomprehensible apology by the maître. Heavenly choirs! Hallelujah chorus! A sensory adventure, bordering on the erotic.’

  ‘My desert? I thought it was binned.’

  ‘It went out in the end after the head chef was overwhelmed again by his migraine.’

  ‘I’m so pleased to hear all this. Thank you for informing me.’

  ‘He wasn’t the only one. Other diners commented as well.’

  ‘So pleased.’ I experienced a warm professional pride that had been hard to find of late although it was rightly tempered by the thought that I was somehow confabulating the call.

  ‘You could help turn us around, Mr Mlantushi. You could give us the missing ingredient, so to speak. We’ve been far too conservative. Too reliant on nostalgia for something, which only ghosts are nostalgic for. We have to change.’

  ‘Thank you for letting me know. I’m delighted I was able to help.’

  ‘Come and work in my kitchen, Mr Mlantushi. If you make the grade, you could go far.’

  Of course, I was startled to hear this but at the same time I was cognisant of the false hopes and fantasies of my inclinations. I feared the same, that I was in illusion again.

  ‘Is that of interest, Mr Mlantushi?’

  ‘Forgive me … it’s of top interest to me. I thank you. Is this for real?’ I was still fearful that the caller would laugh, all hysterical, and cut me off. ‘I’ll be a paid chef in your kitchen?’

  ‘You’ll be a probationary chef on a probationary wage to start with, but if you can prove yourself then you’ll be given a secure and attractive contract.’

  Still, I had mistrust and doubts. Had I not misheard on a previous occasion? Had I not concocted? But I had to concede that there was something altered here. Mr Fairbrother’s words were exact. They were his own words, not my fancy. Probationary but waged chef. I was not fooling myself.

  ‘Unfortunately, I’m currently back at home.’

  ‘We’ll get you over here with a travel grant and work permit and so on.’

  I was a man of little faith and was hesitant to speak.

  ‘Let me know what you decide, Mr Mlantushi. I know it’s a big decision. Ring me as soon as you can.’

  ‘Yes, I will,’ I said, hardly moving in case it somehow broke the moment and I found myself waking from an absurd dream.

  Dorothea had stood up. She was looking steady at me, perhaps even pensive.

  Then it arrived on me: my lifelong ambition was to be realised. The time of success had come after I had reached rock bottom. I had discovered that there was a floor to the abyss in which lost souls fell. Now I would climb out.

  ‘Mr Fairbrother, I’ve decided. I’d like to accept your kind job offer. I’ll not let you down.’

  There was no reply.

  ‘Hello?’

  I had let him ring off, but no matter, I would borrow credit from Trust Me Loan Holdings, No Loan Too Small, and call back.

  In truth, my doubts flew out the window like a thrown brick. I experienced an unruly desire to jump, to hallelujah, to run in the road, to beat drums, to roast a celebratory hog … but of course I retained dignity. I told my dear wife, Dorothea, although I believe she had heard most and had waited, still and quiet.

  She came to me and placed a congratulatory hand against my arm. ‘You’ve proven yourself, Sava. It’s something you can always be proud of.’

  My superlative triumph would surely bring us harmony again. If my big fault was not achieving, then all would be well again. Had she not just said that she was proud of me? She would soon hosannah, even ululate. I moved to kiss her, such was my joy, but she stepped back. ‘Are you going to take it?’

  ‘To take it?’ What was she asking? How could I not accept? The vapour of hope had become a waterfall of blessing. Not blessing: BLESSING! The perpetual promise of tomorrow had become a fulfilment today. She could plan again for marble and Mercedes. Why did she question? I looked at her for an answer, but her eyes did not meet mine and held unknown things to me.

  She said, ‘We’re changed, no?’

  We were not as cocky, for sure. We had knowledge that failure was possible, or at least that success could be long postponed. My head was no longer a beehive of fanciful inventions. But by a chance, no, by work and striving, I had regained my proper destiny. I had made my own lucky. A better tomorrow had arrived just as I had always believed. That saying was true: No matter how long the night, the dawn will break. Yes, the destination had been there all along. I needed to verbalise such to Dorothea, to remind her that I was Chef Mlantushi, what I had always been. A name that would soon be reverenced by Barstows everywhere, but as I formulated to speak there was a knock on the door. I opened a
nd found Mr Bin standing there.

  Chapter 22

  ‘It’s time to release your bird … um … akalat, Mozzy.’

  ‘Now? I have some important business to finish.’

  ‘Right now. What could be more important than giving a bird its freedom? I’m passing by. You said let’s do it.’

  He greeted Dorothea and she polited but did not give him one of her More Blessings Campaign leaflets, which she had previously pressed on guests.

  He said to her, ‘Before I forget … Officer Bambatiwe wants you to attend the police station. To give a statement on what you said at my trial. About Vupuma and the preacher. Pastor Cain?’

  Dorothea nodded and her cheeks tightened. A thief who injures a bee whilst stealing honey, incites the whole hive to sting him.

  ‘Bambatiwe says he wants to make his name with the apprehension of a criminal who ends up being successfully prosecuted, so that he can get a promotion to the capital. He says I was a disappointment. And when you go to give your statement … he wants you to bring him one of Mozzy’s cakes.’

  She flicked a little smile.

  I thought also of Cain’s accomplice, Mr Makata, of his bicycle logistics —but this was my bird’s moment and I was impatient. I moved the cage to the edge of the table and stepped back. I held myself still. Mr Bin knelt and looked hard, he looked long. He said nothing. His face did not joy. All sudden, I lost all confidence on the bird’s designation. He turned the cage. He looked from high, he looked from low. I had confabulated again. Mr Bin had an encyclopaedia of birds in his head. Of the thousands in his encyclopaedia, why would this be the brackish item? The rare one. I was no bird spotter. I only had the poor focus picture on the Google to rely on. Mr Bin was surely the foremost expert —the only one in the world apart from Gershenwald et al who could identify such a bird. I awaited his judgement with a stopped heart.

  He stood up. He said nothing. My heart prepared to fall. Another fiction.