Chop Chop (25 page)

More often, however, his letters are brief affairs, at odds with the garrulous man I know. The conditions of prison he describes in plain, unemotional prose. Only the food raises his passions; he complains it is consistently overcooked and underseasoned. How fucking difficult is it to grill a burger, he often wonders. I struggle to reply to these letters, for they are weighted with such different concerns from mine. I want to talk about his survival, his wrongful imprisonment, his chances of acquittal. But on these matters Ramilov cannot be drawn. He wants to talk about the burgers. This is what means something in his world.

He will talk, however, about the book. I have sent him all but the last four chapters, up to just before The Fat's Man's last supper, and Ramilov has been very encouraging in his response, much more so than that philistine Racist Dave. He says, knowing it will infuriate me, that it is almost as good as Tod Brightman's latest book, which he has read in prison. He has a few quibbles, however: he says he never changed for love, he thinks there is not enough about Dibden being shit (there is almost a whole chapter) and he reminds me of my promise. I have been working up to sending him the final chapters. As yet, I have not stumped up the courage. Like I said, I don't condone what he did, but I can't forget that he saved me either.

In his most recent letter, Ramilov includes a list of collective nouns that he thinks are relevant to the story. He asks that I find space for them somewhere, as his contribution to the book. He expects some readers to have the same response to them that Nora had, O'Reillys' cross-eyed landlady, but hopes there might be others
more interested than she was. Though I have added them to the glossary earlier on, if I can do nothing else for Ramilov, I would like to repeat them here:

A Band of Men

An Ogle of Waitresses

A Wince of Lobsters

A Tirade of Chefs

It is a Skein of Geese in flight, a Gaggle of Geese on water.

A Buzz of Barflies

A Blarney of Bartenders

A Skulk of Foxes

A Peep of Poultry

A Business of Flies

An Unholiness of Ortolans

A Slaver of Gluttons

A Snarl of Tigers

A Fighting of Beggars

A Colony of Ants

A Horror of Apes

In honor of my friend, I would also like to add a few of my own:

An Embarrassment of Wasps

A Snipe of Grandmothers

A Flail of Golfers

A Depreciation of Cul-de-Sacs

A Conspiracy of Cornflakes

A Frustration of Fathers

A Concern of Mothers

A Bowlful of Blame

A Quandary of Morals

A Singularity of Quiet Dark-Eyed Girls

So it seems this story will end as it began, with dubious nouns of assemblage and Ramilov imprisoned. An obese tyrant is still angry with us. We remain overworked and underpaid. The dinner rush is no easier. Sunlight remains a stranger. Beneath my window, One-Eyed Bruce still crooks a finger in my direction and offers up patois curses. My father is once again an unsavory, beguiling memory. The moth-eaten fox continues to snarl above the bar. Almost nothing has changed.

Almost nothing, but not quite. The supper club of the wicked is destroyed, while the restaurant of the upright flourishes. Our lawyer with the greasy tie says the detectives working on the case have provided more information on the shadowy Fat Man. In a previous and slimmer life he was a superintendent on the force, until he was thrown off it for attempting to extort money from a corrupt official. It seems when he left he took dirt on half the city, and kept a network of police contacts who passed him confidential records. The investigating team made a number of interesting finds at The Fat Man's home, the lawyer says. Names you wouldn't believe, involved in acts you couldn't imagine. The dinners he forced upon Bob and others in his debt were just one aspect of the man's terrible appetites, a demonstration of his power. He made us all complicit in these sadistic acts, and I am sure that was part of the fun for him. Records of other pastimes were also found, linking him to gambling, money laundering, narcotics, and animal trafficking. Pretty damning stuff, according to the greasy scales of justice. He shall not be missed.

What else has changed, besides The Fat Man's circumstances? There are the greater freedoms of the kitchen without Bob, and my
new responsibilities in front of the stove. There are Harmony's smiles, and who knows where they may lead. Also, to celebrate a sudden decline in competition, Mr. Michael is now offering delicacies half price for a limited time only.

And there was the morning, as I sorted the deliveries in the yard, when a knock sounded at the gate. I remember thinking the morning light was roseate, so Dave must have been off that day. I thought maybe it was Ramilov out there, a foolish hope, and I opened it a little quicker than normal with a joke on my tongue. But it wasn't him. Instead it was a young guy, a kid really, standing there, looking up at me.

“Is this the kitchen entrance?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I'm here for the commis post,” he said.

This was the first I'd heard about it. For a terrible moment I thought I had been replaced, that Dave had employed someone else without bothering to mention that he was getting rid of me. Then I realized this was not the way things were done. Even weaselly Bob had the courtesy to fire someone face-to-face. I looked at the boy in front of me, as green as I had been when I arrived, what seemed like such a long time ago. I was not being replaced. I was being promoted.

“Oh,” I said. “You better come in.”

He dawdled on the threshold, uncertain. He looked at the dark rings under my eyes and my blotchy fryer skin, the scars across my arms and the greasy forelock poking out from beneath my chef's hat. I saw him studying The Mark of Bob on the back of my right hand and the innumerable other cuts and burns that kept it company. I looked down with him and realized, with some surprise, that they were impressively fucked-up hands. His own hands were lilac white, practically perfect in every way. I noticed that he tried to
hide them from my gaze. We stood on different sides of time, he and I, in different worlds. He still breathed air; in my nostrils there was only smoke. I knew he was wondering if this was right for him. . . .

To be the lowest of all creatures. To see the seasons from a square of yard.

No one has been known to return from Hades.

Was this what he really wanted?

Feast and famine. Faith and heartache. Love and violence. Dark mornings and late finishes. Savage acts and smart apologies. Death or glory every night. Those heads once squealing in your hands.

So we slave the best years of our lives: a family of strangers, a business of flies. Our works consumed and soon forgotten. Our names chased away like clouds. Our dreams burned up, at last, in brilliant blazing heat.

“Well, come on,” I said. “Chop chop.”