Dante's Inferno

by Philip Terry

  I’m sending a few of my apprentices that way

  To deliver the new menus – they can show you

  The way, they won’t mess you about again,

  Not after what I’ve said to them.’

  At that point Jamie began to call out

  Orders: ‘Right – Wings, Hogswash, over here,

  Itchy, Dogbreath, put those pans down, you’re

  Going with them. Mothballs, you’re in charge,

  Take them to the café, along with the menus,

  And don’t get lost. Curly, Frosty, Windbutt,

  Pisspants, Sniveller – take a box of menus each

  And careful you don’t drop them in the soup!’

  Worried, I turned to Berrigan, asking:

  ‘Can’t we go on our own? Surely you know

  The way? Don’t you see how they’re grinding

  Their teeth – I’m sure they’re up to something.’

  But Berrigan brushed my worries aside,

  Saying: ‘Let them grind away.

  They’re just doing it to frighten the students

  Cooking in the soup – it’s not our worry.’

  As they started off round the broth, each one

  Blew a raspberry, and Jamie signalled back in kind.

  CANTO XXII

  I have heard the bagpipes played at the Edinburgh

  Tattoo, I have heard the Orangemen blow their flutes

  On the twelfth of July, I have watched

  Military funerals roll by to the beat of

  A drum, I have heard the hunter’s horn sounded

  In Mahler’s First Symphony, a gong beat at

  Dinnertime, a buzzer ring when my pizza’s ready,

  But I never heard a fanfare quite as strange

  As the bugling of these Kitchen Devils.

  We moseyed along with the ten chefs by

  Our side, we were in bad company, but

  As the old saying has it: ‘With saints in

  The church, with boozers in the tavern.’

  As we went I kept my eyes glued to the

  Soup vat, to see what the deal was in this pit.

  As dolphins arch their backs leaping through the

  Waves in the Bay of Biscay, as they come out

  To greet the latest ferry from Portsmouth,

  So now and then, to ease the pain, some student

  Stuck in the broth poked his back above the surface,

  Then dived under again as quick as lightning.

  And as frogs sit with their muzzles poking out

  Round the edge of a pond or a ditch,

  So the students here gathered at the vat’s rim,

  But as Mothballs drew near they dunked their heads

  In the soup. One of them was a bit slower

  Than the rest, just as often one frog lingers

  A little longer at the pond’s edge, and I

  Saw – it still makes me sick thinking about it –

  Itchy, who was standing level with him,

  Stick his hook into his shoulder and yank

  Him out, turning him about in the air:

  He looked just like the Orford Merman.

  By this point I’d got their names by heart,

  For I’d listened carefully when they were picked,

  And listened carefully now as they called out.

  ‘Hey, Sniveller, dig your claws into his back

  And peel the skin off him!’ some of them shouted.

  And I: ‘Berrigan, if you can,

  Find out who that sucker is

  who has fallen into the hands

  of his adversaries.’

  Berrigan strode over to the side of the vat,

  Beneath where he dangled in the air,

  And asked him where he was from.

  ‘I was born,’ he replied proudly, ‘in Gosport, Hampshire,

  My father sent me to Alverstoke, I

  Graduated at Trinity Hall;

  Later, I became an MP, that’s where

  I learned my graft: perhaps you’ve heard about

  The pond feature I claimed for,

  That was my finest hour, a floating duck island,

  Worth nearly two grand.

  Now I pay my bills by boiling in this soup.’

  Then Dogbreath, who had two canines jutting

  Out from his mouth, like a fox,

  Let him feel how just one of them could rip the flesh:

  The duck had fallen into the hands of the foxes.

  Yet Mothballs grabbed him now in an armlock,

  Saying: ‘Hold off now, while I have him pinned.’

  Then turning to us, he added: ‘If you’ve

  Any more questions, you’d better ask them quick,

  Before the rest of the lads get stuck in.’

  And so Berrigan, my guide, asked: ‘Do you

  Know if there are any from Essex

  Simmering in there beside you?’

  ‘From Essex?’ he replied, ‘You’ve got more than

  Your fair share in here, I can tell you, you’re

  Top of the league tables for grafting.

  Just a moment ago, I was talking to

  One of them, I wish I was still with him now,

  Then I wouldn’t have these prongs to worry about.’

  Then Windbutt cried out: ‘OK, we’ve waited

  Long enough!” And with a meat hook he ripped

  Into the muscles round his upper arm,

  Tearing off a lump of flesh. Sniveller, too,

  Was keen to join in the fun, taking a swing

  At the MP’s legs, but now Mothballs

  Wheeled round, giving them the evils.

  When they’d laid off, Berrigan, my guide,

  Began to question the wretch, who still gazed

  At his fresh wound. ‘Who’s the one from Essex,’

  He asked, ‘that you left behind in the soup?’

  ‘Tucker,’ he said, ‘a vicar from Basildon,

  Bent as a ten-bob note – he took bribes from

  Inmates at Wormwood Scrubs to put in

  A good word for them. He hangs out with

  The Professor, a retired maths don at

  The university, notorious

  For fiddling his research expenses.

  Go away! Look how he’s licking his lips!

  I could tell you more, but I’m scared that one’s

  About to take a slice out of me.’

  But then Mothballs rounded on Curly, whose

  Wild eyes showed he was about to strike,

  And shouted: ‘Hands off, you old soup stirrer!’

  ‘If you want to see some Essex boys,’

  The frightened shade resumed,

  ‘I can call some over,

  But the Kitchen Devils will have to back off

  Or they’ll be afraid to surface –

  All I need do is whistle,

  That’s our signal when the coast is clear.’

  Pisspants let out a loud laugh and shook his head:

  ‘We’re not going to fall for that old chestnut, mate,’

  He said, ‘we weren’t born yesterday.’

  ‘So you don’t fancy some Essex rump, then?’

  Said the MP. ‘Enough,’ chipped in Wings,

  Who couldn’t resist the challenge.

  ‘Call them up! But if you make a run for it,

  Be warned, I’ll not come after you on legs,

  But flying through the air with this meat hook!’

  The Kitchen Devils all stood back from the

  Vat, jumping down from the rim,

  And the first to do so was Pisspants,

  Who had been so against it

  from the start.

  The MP’s sense of timing didn’t let him down –

  He leapt

  and was gone.

  The Kitchen Devils were all pissed off,

  None more so than Wings

  Who’d given the MP the nod,

  ‘Just you wa
it, you wanker,’ he cried,

  ‘I’m coming for you!’ And at that he flew

  Off and dive-bombed the soup

  Swinging his hook into its depths,

  But there was nothing doing –

  The minister had vanished in the brew.

  Wings was now stuck in the vat himself

  Yelling out for help. Frosty, who was nearest,

  Just laughed, and rather than offer him a hand,

  Poked him under with his prong, calling:

  ‘Come and get it! Deep-fried Devil!’

  But Wings was in no mood for joking,

  And with a yank on the fork had his

  Companion in the soup beside him.

  They began to wrestle with each other

  Digging their claws into the flesh,

  But quickly the heat made them separate,

  ‘Help!’ they cried, ‘We’re burning!’

  To put an end to the sorry mess

  Mothballs sent a party to the rescue:

  They flew over the soup

  Stretching their forks and their ladles out to

  The simmering chefs, who were already

  Scalded within the crust.

  We slipped off while they were still at it.

  CANTO XXIII

  Silent, apart, and without escort

  We went on, the one before, the other

  After, as haiku writers on a long journey.

  I was trying to explain to Ted how the whole thing

  Reminded me of a fable of Aesop’s,

  The one where a frog offers to take a mouse

  Over a river, but ends up drowning it,

  Finally getting eaten itself, by a

  Passing kite – the more I talked the less

  Convinced he looked – when, one thought leading to

  Another, as sometimes happens,

  The whole thing suddenly came clear to me:

  ‘It’s not like what we just saw, it’s like us:

  You’re the frog, I’m the mouse, the Kitchen Devils

  Are the hawk: to put it bluntly,

  We’re in danger, because after what we

  Made them do, and everything that happened,

  They’re going to be pretty pissed off with us!’

  I was so frightened I kept glancing back

  Over my shoulder; but now Berrigan

  Looked more convinced: ‘I get your drift,’ he said,

  ‘We’d better split.’ Berrigan had scarcely finished

  Outlining his plan when I heard them coming,

  Wings spread, intent on catching us.

  He grabbed me by the arm instinctively,

  Like a mother waking to the sound of a smoke alarm

  Who pulls her son close to her and runs

  Without even a thought of getting dressed,

  And we dashed out through the café, leaving behind us

  A trail of upturned tables and spilt cappuccinos.

  No sooner were we outside than Berrigan

  Turned to me, saying: ‘Hold on!’

  Then we both leapt down the scree

  We had descended once before,

  This time sliding down on our backsides

  Like kids on a hill walk when the snow comes down.

  We landed with a bump in the underground

  Car park, next to a door marked CAST ONLY.

  As we looked back up the slope we could see

  The Kitchen Devils waving their prongs,

  But they didn’t dare follow us,

  We were out of their jurisdiction.

  Within we found a painted crowd, who walked

  Round at a snail’s pace on a raised stage,

  Weeping, their look worn-out.

  They wore huge cloaks which, on the outside, shone like

  Gold, like something you might see on a catwalk,

  But inside they were of lead, so heavy

  That by comparison a suit of armour

  Would have seemed as flimsy as a shellsuit.

  At first I thought we had interrupted

  The rehearsals for some Beckett play,

  And I turned to Berrigan and said:

  ‘Is it some new interpretation of Quad?’

  But Berrigan, my guide, motioned with his head,

  As though to say ‘If only…’, then added:

  ‘See if there’s anyone you recognise.’

  I looked up at them from where I stood in

  The pit as they trudged slowly by,

  Then one of their number, who saw me gazing,

  Called out: ‘You, who seem to move so freely

  In the dark air, perhaps you have come

  To be fitted with a cloak?’

  Berrigan told me to stay still, and as I

  Continued to gaze on the gilded shades

  I saw two who showed by their look

  Great eagerness to be with me,

  But their heavy load held them back.

  When at last they drew up alongside us

  They looked at me for a long time

  Without uttering a word, then they turned to

  One another and said between them:

  ‘By the way he moves his throat, I’d say

  This one was alive; and if they are dead

  By what right do they go without the heavy stole?’

  Then they said to me: ‘Breather, for that is

  What you seem to be, welcome to the Hedge School

  Of the hypocrites. Tell us who you are?’

  And I to them: ‘On the slimy banks of

  The Lagan I was born and grew up in that

  Strife-torn city, and I am in the body

  That I always had. But tell me, who are you

  Who distil such sorrow as I see running

  Down your cheeks? And what punishment is it

  That shines so brightly on your backs?’

  And one of them replied to me: ‘Our gilded cloaks

  Are lined with lead so thick that it makes us

  Creak as we walk. We are from the ranks of

  Hypocritical academics, who did not practise

  What we preached: my name was Jeremy,

  I was a well-known Marxist historian

  Who sent my son to a fee-paying school

  To give him a head start; my friend here was

  Once a famous theorist, a translator

  Of Derrida, espousing radical politics,

  Who treated all she met with scorn.’

  ‘I know your type…’ I began, but said no more,

  For now my eyes fell on one crucified

  On the stage with three stakes driven into the ground,

  And when he caught sight of me he writhed all over,

  Blowing into his beard with sighs,

  And Jeremy, who witnessed this, said:

  ‘That impaled figure you see stretched out

  In pain is the man who advised the VC

  To raise the fees to £9,000 a year.

  Naked, he lies stretched out across our path,

  As you can see, and as we pass over him,

  He must feel the weight of our heavy cloaks.’

  I saw Berrigan staring contemptuously

  At this forlorn figure, stretched out on the stage,

  The one who had raised fees now unable to raise a hand.

  Afterwards, Berrigan addressed the

  Historian: ‘Tell me, buddy,’ he said,

  ‘Is there any way out of this place

  That doesn’t go through the café?

  We had a bit of a disagreement

  With some of the catering students.’

  ‘I can show you out through the green room,

  If you like,’ the Marxist replied,

  ‘From there you should be able to scramble

  Up to Square 5, from where it’s a short walk

  To the next pit. It would be impossible

  Wearing these heavy cloaks, but you two,

  Who are light on your feet, s
hould make it.’

  At the thought of the climb Berrigan looked

  Peeved, and let out an exaggerated sigh.

  We left the Hedge School behind with heavy footsteps.

  CANTO XXIV

  In that part of the youthful year, when the

  Hoarfrost copies his white sister’s imprint

  On soil, image that soon fades,

  The farmer, down on hay, looks out over his

  Fields, and curses; but after a power shower,

  When he looks out again, he sees the grass is green

  And with a spring in his step he heads to the 4x4;

  Just so, Berrigan made me lose heart

  When I heard him sighing, but just as quick

  He whipped out the plaster to heal my wound;

  For when we reached the foot of the mountain

  Of rubble he smiled and threw me a rope.

  With this I clipped myself to him, then we

  Began the ascent, moving carefully from

  One slab to the next, Berrigan in front,

  Me behind; pulling me towards the top

  Of a great splinter of concrete, he said: