Irregular Verbs

by Irregular Verbs

  “Just listen,” Mienme said. “Your father can’t complain if you give all the best food to the royal mourning party—imagine what that jade token on the wall could do for business at his restaurant. So you can’t be blamed for just serving him simple food, and when you do that the mourners will stop coming, and the party will be over.”

  “You may be right,” he said slowly. He drew the token out from his belt pouch, ran his fingers over its cool, smooth surface. “Yes, of course. If we’re cooking for the Emperor’s uncle, he can’t complain if we give him nothing but rice and millet gruel. Even the Judge of Fate couldn’t complain.” He held the token up against the wall. “I must have done a very good deed in my last life to deserve you.”

  “In that case,” she said, grinning impishly, “come here and give me a kiss while you’re still all minty.”

  Sometimes he wondered if her parents knew their daughter at all.

  The next morning he was up at dawn, fishing carp out of the pond in the back garden. Once the fish were splashing in their wooden bucket he took his small knife and cut a half-dozen lilies from the surface of the pond to make into a sauce for the fish—fish fresh enough for the Emperor’s uncle. These were the last two items he needed for the day’s meals; after making sure the jade token was still in his belt pouch he went into the kitchen, put on his grocery basket, and went out into the front room. His father’s ghost was regaling two sleepy mourners with his adventures, while several more lay sprawled on sleeping mats around the room.

  “—of course, a pig that smart you don’t eat all at—nhoGao, do you have breakfast ready already?”

  “I can’t cook for you today, father, remember? I left a crabmeat and pork casserole in the oven, you can ask one of the mourners to get it out for you in a few hours, and I’ll send you dumplings for the afternoon.”

  “Of course, of course—I’d almost forgotten. You’ll do us proud at the palace, I’m sure—and what a story it’ll make, cooking for the Emperor’s uncle.” Despite his words he did not seem very happy, and Gao wondered if he was finally starting to fade. Crab and pork casserole was not exactly gruel, but it was not the food Doi Thiviei was used to, either. He felt a sudden pain in his chest, hoped that if his father were to depart today it would not be until after he got back to the restaurant.

  He had never been to the palace before. Despite the fact that it was at the centre of the city, few people ever received an invitation to go. Those who went without an invitation, hoping to poach the Emperor’s white deer, usually wound up as permanent guests—or came home over the course of several days, one piece at a time. As he reached the gate he could not help worrying that the whole thing had been a colossal hoax, that the guards would take his jade seal and his groceries and send him away. When he showed them the token, however, they stood to either side of the gate, and one was assigned to lead him to the palace kitchens.

  “How long ago did the noble official die?” Gao asked the soldier.

  “The man walked a few steps in silence before finally answering. “Yesterday afternoon,” he said. Like most soldiers he had a heavy provincial accent, which perhaps explained his reluctance to speak. “Didn’t you hear the bells?”

  “I’ve been busy,” Gao muttered. “Have you seen his ghost?”

  The soldier again kept silent for a few moments, then spoke, no expression crossing his face. “No. But I hear it is very pale. He was an old man, and sick for a long time.”

  Gao cursed inwardly. Except for short, violent deaths, long illnesses were the worst. They left a person glad to die, and not inclined to hang around too long afterward. He thanked the guard when they reached the kitchen and got to work unpacking his groceries. He had planned a light breakfast, fried wheat noodles sprinkled with sugar and black vinegar, in case the ghost was not too solid. Then he hoped that by lunch he would be able to serve the carp balls in lotus sauce and crisply fried eel to a more receptive audience.

  It was not to be. The Emperor’s uncle was vaporous, not interested in talking or even listening to the zither. The mourning party was somber, the guests mostly relatives and lower officials who were attending out of duty rather than friendship. They picked at the delicacies Gao served, leaving the rest for palace servants who could not believe their luck. The ghost, meanwhile, ate only a bite from each dish, pausing neither to smell nor taste any of them.

  By mid-afternoon Gao was getting nervous. He had not managed to keep the Emperor’s uncle from fading at all, knew that the official who had hired him would not be pleased. If he could have managed even two or three days things would have been all right, but if he could only make the royal ghost stay a day and a night it would look like an insult. He wished Mienme was there to help him.

  Finally he resolved there was only one thing he could do: make the most elaborate, most spectacular dish he could, so that he would not be faulted for lack of effort. He settled on a recipe one of his brothers had found in a small village on the southern coast, mau anh dem—Yellow Lantern Fish. He sent a runner to the fish market for the freshest yellowfish he could find, telling him to look for clear eyes and a smell of seaweed. When the boy returned he began to carefully cut and notch the scaled, gutted fish and boil a deep pot of oil on a portable burner.

  Minutes before dinner was due he ordered the burner be carried into the room where the mourning party was taking place, followed behind carrying the fish himself. Though he could not look at the faces of any of the guests he could tell few if any of them wanted to be there. The most enthusiastic of them, if not the wisest, were using this as an opportunity to get drunk. Even the zither player sounded almost as though he was singing in his sleep. At the middle of it all was the ghost, silent and uninterested in what was going on around him.

  Gao had the burner and pot of oil placed in front of the royal ghost, waited a few minutes while the oil returned to the proper temperature. Then, with enough of a flourish to make sure all eyes were on him, he dropped the fish into the oil. In seconds it blossomed out like a paper lantern, its flesh turning golden and crispy. It was a dish designed to impress even the most jaded crowd, and it did not fail him: the guests pressed forward to get a better look and eagerly handed him their plates. Before the first bite was taken, however, Gao knew he had failed. Unlike the guests the Emperor’s uncle was still withdrawn, uninterested, not bothering to eat or even smell the fish.

  My life is over, Gao thought as he walked home. If the Emperor’s uncle had faded away by morning he would be blamed, and that was sure to kill business if it did not kill him. Just then he realized that in all of his worry about the Emperor’s uncle he had forgotten to send the lunch dumplings he had made for his father’s mourning party. Without food the party was sure to have broken up by now, his father likely faded away. He suddenly regretted not listening to any of the stories his father had told over the last few weeks, too busy cooking and worrying about the restaurant. He had heard them all a dozen or more times, but now might never get a chance to hear them again.

  When he neared the restaurant, however, he saw lights inside and heard voices. Creeping into the front dining room he saw his father still holding court before a half-dozen mourners, the room strewn with empty bowls and teacups.

  “NhoGao, is that you?” his father asked, spotting him as he tried to slink past into the kitchen. “How did it go at the palace?”

  Gao shook his head slowly. “I am sorry I was not able to send you the food I made for the day,” he said. “I was busy with—”

  “Don’t worry about us—we don’t need food to keep the party going. Besides, I know where you hide the pig knuckles. Now, where was I . . . ?”

  Watching his father, more solid than ever, Gao wondered what it was he had done so wrong at the palace and so right here. He had made dishes for the Emperor’s uncle that were twice as elaborate as anything he had ever made at the restaurant, but had left the royal ghost cold. His father, meanwhile, looked lik
ely to remain among the living indefinitely on a diet of pig’s knuckles. I must be missing something, he thought. If only Mienme were here to help me think. She would say, if it’s not the food—

  “Father, can you come with me for a few minutes?” he asked suddenly, interrupting his father in the middle of the story of the seo nuc game he had played against a beggar who had turned out to be an exiled general.

  “I suppose,” his father said, puzzled. “I can finish this story later. Where are we going?”

  Without pausing to answer his father’s questions Gao rushed back to the palace, flashing the jade token to the puzzled guard. The mourning party was down to just a few diehards, likely trying to win points with the Emperor. The royal ghost was hardly visible, a thin grey mist barely recognizable as once having been human.

  “Please excuse me, noble officials,” Gao said, dropping to the floor and bowing low. “I forgot the most important part of the mourning party.”

  A few seconds of silence passed as the guests watched him curiously, wondering what he was going to produce that might top the Yellow Lantern Fish. Finally his father said, “What a glum group. Reminds me of my father the day our prize rooster died, the one who would crow every time a rich customer was coming—” The guests looked at the chatty ghost in amazement, but Gao’s father made straight for the Emperor’s uncle. “Did he try to feed you that Temple Style Duck? I only ask because you’re looking a little thin. The first time I met one of those Southerners I thought they were crazy, won’t eat meat, won’t eat fowl, not even fish. But I met one who was a wizard with rice—learned a few tricks from him . . .”

  By the time dawn came Doi Thiviei and the Emperor’s uncle were chatting like old friends. The royal ghost was looking much more substantial and even accepted one of the sesame balls with hot lotus paste Gao had made for breakfast.

  “Gao, I think I’ll stay here a while,” his father said. “I hope it won’t disappoint my mourners, but I’ve gotten a little tired of hearing my own voice. Take good care of my restaurant, will you?”

  “Of course,” Gao answered, ladling out the clear soup he had made from chicken stock and the last of the qinshon leaves.

  “And I suppose you’ll be marrying that Southerner girl and changing the name your mother and I gave you. I know you’ve never liked it, though it’s a good story how you got it.”

  Gao frowned. “I always thought it was because—well, my face—and I always had to make it for the customers who couldn’t afford anything else.”

  “No, no,” his father said. “It wasn’t like that at all. You see, when I first met your mother—but I suppose you don’t have time to hear this story.”

  Gao sat down and took a sip of the soup, enjoying the fragile flavour of the qinshon. He only allowed himself one bowl a year, to be sure he would appreciate it. “I have plenty of time, father,” he said. “Only please, let me go get Mienme so she can hear it as well. We will both need to know this story so we can tell it to our children.”

  It turned out his father had lots of stories he had never told; or maybe Gao had just never heard them before.

  LAGOS

  Safrat liked being a vacuum cleaner. Of all the jobs she might be given, it was her favourite: she liked to see in the rich peoples’ homes, even if her point of view was only three inches off the ground. It was light work, too, not like digging earth or handling barrels of toxic waste. That shouldn’t have made a difference but it did, at the end of the day when the motor-muscles she didn’t have ached beyond words.

  The amber warning lit up: only half an hour left in her shift. She switched to light suction and began moving more swiftly around the floor, scanning for any spots she might have missed or where dust might have settled since she started. The foreman, Adegoke, had said that a house could never be clean enough for the rich people. If they were not satisfied then there would be no more demand for workers from Lagos, and the telepresence booths the government had built with World Bank money would sit idle. It was up to workers like her, he had said, to do a good enough job that even the rich white people would be satisfied.

  She had just finished her inspection when the red warning lit, and she started to disengage from the vacuum and return to full wakefulness. You could not work the machines, even the very simple ones like vacuum cleaners, when you were entirely awake: you shuddered and jolted and made stupid mistakes, as if you were thinking about every step while you walked. Many of the workers drank palm wine or smoked India hemp before their shifts to get into the proper state of mind, but Safrat found it came naturally to her if she chose one simple task to start with and did it slowly and rhythmically. Like the others, though, she was always muzzy after a shift, and she was glad her brother Paul was able to meet her and guide her home.

  It was only five months they had been in Lagos. The city was for the ambitious, and neither of them was that: they had been happy to tend battery trees in the country, up north of Ilorin, until the state energy company had chosen their village as the site of the new transmission station. After that there was no choice for either of them but to go to the city like all the rest, try to find a relation who would help with a job and a place to live. They had found a cousin, an oga named Tinubu, who had quickly gotten Safrat the telepresence job—they preferred to hire women for some reason—but could only find casual work for Paul, hustling and running for him. This meant that while Safrat gave Tinubu only a quarter of her salary, Paul had to give half of whatever he made since he could not be relied on to bring in anything at all.

  Now Paul led Safrat back to their home, past the market crowded with stalls with sheet-metal roofs, where medicines, bicycle parts and DVDs were sold; the sound of the hawkers and the car horns came to her like distant music, barely penetrating the haze that surrounded her. It would take them more than an hour to get back to Isale Eko on foot, but that was all right. They paid only for night rights in their room, and if they got there before nine o’clock they would have to wait around outside the building. Instead they stopped for a meal of fufu and groundnuts and then arrived just as the people who slept there during the day were leaving, found the mattresses still warm on the floor.

  In the morning Safrat rose, picked up the two plastic buckets that sat at the foot of her mattress and went to the borehole to buy water. As she did she passed one of the sleeping alleys, where plastic sheets were laid on the ground as beds: she and Paul had slept in one of those when they first arrived, and it was only Tinubu and the job he had found for her that had brought them indoors. Water from the borehole was trickling down the alley, creeping over the plastic sheets, but one of the people there still slept anyway.

  She paid twenty naira to fill both buckets, waiting for a long time behind a woman with a foot-washing business who was filling ten, loading each one onto a pushcart; then she carefully trudged back to the apartment building, willing herself to ignore the calls of the touts and hawkers that offered her cell phones, watches, anything. The wind was blowing from the east, bringing sawdust from the great mills on the mainland, and by the time she got back she was coughing white phlegm.

  “How did you sleep?” Paul asked as she joined him on the stoop. He was holding two wooden bowls full of fufu, handed one to her.

  “I never remember,” Safrat said. “Why do you ask?”

  “You were talking,” he said. “In English.”

  Safrat frowned. Both of them spoke English well enough to get by in Lagos, but their first language was Yoruba. She didn’t suppose she had ever thought in English, never mind dreaming in it. “What did I say?”

  Paul shrugged. He was concentrating on pouring the water she had bought into the dozen or so clear plastic bottles he had collected, which he would then strap on his back under a vest of cargo netting: a few hours in the sun would kill off whatever evils lurked within. “I didn’t follow it,” he said, not taking his eyes off the bottle’s mouth. “Something about a vacation, I t
hink.”

  She put down her bowl and laughed. “A vacation in English,” she said. “That sounds good.”

  He laughed too, though he did not look up. “I’ll bring you water at two, unless Tinubu has a job for me.”

  Safrat nodded. “Thank you,” she said, then stood and patted him on the shoulder, careful not to disrupt his concentration. It was hot already, and by the time she got to the telepresence station she wished she had brought one of Paul’s water bottles. On a day like today, though, each bottle might bring three times what it had cost.

  The other women were starting to arrive, either on foot like her or by the rattling danfo. They were all early: without a watch—one that worked, and kept working, which was not something to be found in Lagos—it was the only way to be sure of being on time. That was something the rich white people who had built the booths insisted on.

  “Smoke?” one of the other workers asked, an Ibo girl named Janet. She held out a rolled cigarette, double-stuffed with tobacco and India hemp.

  Safrat held up her hand in polite refusal, but a moment later changed her mind and accepted it. The taste was bitter and harsh as she drew in the smoke, and she felt light-headed; she did not much like the effect that smoking had on her, but today she felt a need to join in the morning rituals of the other women.

  “My husband says I was keeping him up all night,” said one of them, a Lagos-born woman everyone called Victoria; she was careful to note, in every conversation, that she and her husband lived on Victoria Island. She took a swig from a plastic milk jug full of palm wine, passed it to the woman next to her.

  “Were you talking?” Safrat asked.

  Victoria’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Among the workers there were lines rarely crossed. There were those who came by foot and those who came by danfo, and Safrat came by foot; there were those who drank palm wine and those who smoked India hemp, and on most days Safrat did neither. “Why do you ask?” Victoria said.