Dream Paris (27 page)

“Risk your life to impress this crowd?” I said.

The young woman spoke up. “And what would you risk your life for?”

“My family. My friends.”

“Your country?” she laughed.

“Certainly not.”

“How about your honour?” said the young man. “Stay with us and prove yourself a true gourmand.”

Everyone was staring. The ranked rows of silent spectators, the other diners, even the serving staff had paused, silver dishes in their hands.

The maître d’hôtel stepped forwards and spoke to the audience.

“
Il semble que notre petit espion ait eu des regrets.
”

“What’s that?” I said. “What did he say about the little spy? What did he say about me?”

“He insulted you,” said the Count. “Will you let that pass by?”

“Why not? He’s a waiter in an abattoir. Why should I care for his opinion?”

“Spoken like a true aristocrat,” declared the young man. “Not a popular point of view in this city of Revolution.”

That gave me pause.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to belittle anyone. But why should I remain here?”

All the diners at the table spoke the answer at the same time.

“Respect.”

I looked around at the faces of the other diners, and suddenly I recognised something there. Something familiar, something that we all shared. That sense of raging against the emptiness inside, that feeling of the meaningless of it all, that terror of the emptiness that we all knew lay beyond the edge of things. That futility which we did our best to hide from our vision, that we blocked with work and activity and duty, anything to forget that it was there.

And that’s how I found myself sitting back down at the table, the spectators applauding. One by one the diners nodded to me and I knew I’d been accepted. At that time it was the most important thing in the Dream World to me.

The waiters approached once more. I could smell the next course even before the platters were uncovered. Rotten meat. The stench after the silver covers were whisked away was appalling.

No one could criticise the presentation though. Two cubes of greenish grey meat lay on a swirl of yellow sauce, a little cold bean salad piled on the side. All of the food was fresh but the meat.

“Not fair, I think,” said the Count. “Carrionman will have no problem eating this.”

“It’s the salad I’ll have trouble with,” said the big feathery bird man, a single piece of lettuce speared on his fork.

“Allow me,” said the Count, taking the lettuce and eating it.

The crowd applauded politely as the young woman deftly speared the two cubes of meat with her fork, popped them in her mouth and swallowed. She immediately turned and vomited into the bucket held up beside her by a waiter. A second waiter handed her a napkin and she dabbed her mouth clean.

“That’s the way to do it,” said the Count, spearing a piece of meat.

I looked at the meat before me. The situation was ridiculous. And yet, they were such two small pieces of meat. And I knew I was going to survive to meet my mother… It was in my fortune. But what if I were to meet her with a belly split open by food poisoning?

“All you have to do is swallow it,” said the Count. He chewed, swallowed, and vomited.

Everyone was waiting for me. Everyone had eaten those cubes and vomited, they were all now rinsing the taste from their mouths with Geordie Pope wine whilst waiting for me to do the same.

I looked at the meat, patterned in an oily rainbow of green. Mix it in the sauce and the salad. Gulp it down. I was doing it before I had time to think of it. Chewing, gagging, swallowing. It was still in my mouth. The taste! I was going to throw up. No, not yet! I swallowed, felt the meat slipping down, felt the rising wave of vomit, managed to turn and throw up into the waiting bucket. The Count was there, helping me back to my seat, handing me the glass of wine. I swilled it around my mouth. It tasted good! It actually tasted good! Someone had actually managed to select a wine that complimented the taste of vomit! What sort of sick place was this?

The crowd applauded.

“Well done,” said the Count. “I knew you could do it.”

“I’m not doing it again,” I said. “This is ridiculous. I’m going.”

I made to get up and a china hand placed itself over mine.

“Don’t go yet, Anna. Surely you can stay a little longer?”

I turned and gazed into the painted blue eyes of Kaolin.

T
HE WAITERS AND
the maître d’hôtel moved us all around the table just enough to set a place for Kaolin right next me. She took her seat; at her side, a glass painted as if filled with wine. The Count gazed at her with a look of utter hatred, his scar throbbing as if he might challenge her to a duel at any moment. Kaolin kept her pretty face fixed on me.

“I think you know more than you pretend, little spy,” she said.

“I know a lot of things,” I said. “But I never pretend to know less than I do. I’m not ashamed to be clever.”

“Nor am I. I don’t believe you’ll gain as much advantage from this meal as you might ’ope, pretty Anna. Not enough to influence events.”

I had no idea what she was talking about. I wasn’t going to let her know that.

“All I want to do is find my mother.”

“So you keep saying. And clever of you to be so direct about it. You ’ad us fooled, pretty Anna. Even so, that doesn’t mean we can’t still work together.”

“I thought we already were working together!”

“And so we are. ’Owever, the information that your friend revealed this afternoon – the fact that your mother is already in contact with you – that alters things.”

My mother was already in contact with me? I suppose she was, after a fashion. But I wondered if Kaolin suspected there was more to it than a few notes. What was her interest? I resolved to say nothing and to listen.

“Pretty Anna, I want you to tell your mother that the
Banca di Primavera
is still interested in supporting ’er. We may yet come to a mutually beneficial arrangement. Ah! And now the next course arrives!”

And sure enough, two waiters were approaching carrying a large dish between them. The crowd went silent. Ominously so.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, peering at the dish as it was laid on the table. I saw a large blue fish patterned with turquoise patches resting on the plate, yellow eyes staring out with a faintly surprised expression.

“Dream Fugu,” said the Count. “Parts of this fish are poisonous.”

Was that silver sheen to the flesh evidence of poison? I found I’d covered my mouth with my hand.

“We’ll avoid those parts.”

“You don’t understand, Fräulein Sinfield. The fish must be eaten. All of it.” He gazed at me. “Perhaps you now wish to leave the table?”

“Do you?”

“Certainly not.” He smiled, enigmatically. Like I was missing the point. Like this wasn’t as dangerous as it appeared. As if there were a way. Somebody hissed my name.

“
Anna!
”

Francis had left his seat and had come to stand behind me, just beyond the red rope.

“What’s the matter?”

“Albert says the fish is poisonous.”

“Only parts of it!”

“Do you know which parts?”

“No.”

“Then why are you still sitting there? You can leave at any time!”

I knew that. I also knew that I was going to live through this meal. I was going to see my mother. I wasn’t as frightened as I might be.

I was still frightened. My hand was over my mouth again.

I looked around the table. Everyone was watching me, waiting to see if I would leave.

“I’m not scared,” I lied.

“No, you’re bloody stupid,” snapped Francis.

I turned my back on him. The blue fish was in front of me, its body tall and narrow, one yellow eye looking directly at me.

“Serve the fish!” I said.

“
Et bon
!” said the maître d’hôtel. “All of the fish must be consumed. I will be on ’and to ensure that everyone takes an equal portion. And so, let the meal begin.”

At that point my courage almost failed me. The enormity of what I was doing came crashing down upon me. I was risking me life over nothing.

“Well,” said Kaolin, “If you must continue, than I shall wish you good luck.”

“Thank you,” I said, without thinking.

The Count handed me a knife and fork.

“Ladies first,” he said.

I glared at him, but he leaned in closer and spoke in reasonable tones.

“Anna, I’m trying to help you.”

“Why?”

“This contest is a test of courage, not a fight to the death.”

I looked at the scars on his face. What he said made sense.

“The dangerous portions are in the liver and ovaries,” he said. “The skin and flesh are perfectly safe. The outer part of the fish is delicious.”

I’d known it. I’d known there was a trick to this. Stick to the safe parts. I smiled.

“You are too kind, Count. But I must insist. You go first…”

T
HE FISH DIDN’T
taste that bad. Actually, I suspect it would have tasted excellent, if I hadn’t been so scared. We ate our way through the fins and the skin. Once that had gone, a white suited chef stepped forwards and expertly filleted the fish, peeling the sharp skeleton from the flesh and laying it to one side.

“Do we have to eat the bones?” I asked.

“In an omelette. I will fry the bones soft.”

The flesh was orangey pink and tasted a little like trout. Now the crowd were clapping and stamping and calling out advice on which parts to eat and which to avoid.

“Ignore them,” said the Count, greasy flecks of fish around his mouth. “The flesh is safe.”

To one side, a waiter marked percentages consumed on a blackboard, and no one proceeded to the next portion until the percentages were level. I chewed away, washing down each mouthful with a rather excellent white wine. At one point I felt my tongue going numb, I felt the sweat pricking at my forehead, but the feeling quickly passed. I wondered if it was nerves, or a mild case of poisoning.

The amount of fish was diminishing. Now the flesh had almost gone and all that remained on the plate was the internal organs, the intestines, the eyes. The noise of the crowd slowly faded until we were sitting in silence, waiting for the young woman in yellow and silver to finish a last mouthful of fish, to dab her mouth. And then she was still, her eyes gazing at nothing… the crowd caught its breath. Could this be it? The first fatality?

But no. She drank some wine, raised her glass in triumphant acknowledgement of the huge cheer.

The maître d’hôtel stepped forward, and the crowd was immediately silent. This was it. I could see the fear, the uncertainty in everyone’s face. I saw the glassy look in the Count’s eyes. He felt it too. The fear.

The maître d’hôtel spoke.

“And now for the offal…”

I eyed the remaining organs along with the rest of the diners. Liver green and placenta blue. What were we waiting for? All the other diners were looking at the big bird man. Carrionman reached out with a fork.

“The liver,” he said, spearing a wobbly green shape. “Poisonous to you, but it won’t harm me. The remainder will be okay.”

The diners relaxed, and now I understood. Now I got it. The Count saw that I understood.

“It’s all about establishing trust, Fräulein Sinfield. At this moment, who else can you trust in all of Dream Paris but your fellow diners?”

We could only get through this together.

“Why do you want me to trust you?”

“Why do I want to trust
you
, Anna?”

“Why indeed, Count?” said Kaolin.

The Count turned towards the china doll.

“Somebody stole the designs for our Integer Bomb, Kaolin.”

“So the Prussians ’ave said on more than one occasion, Count. The theft ’as nothing to do with the
Banca di Primavera
.”

“Take an eye,” said the Count to me. “They’re unpleasant, but not poisonous.”

I ate an eye without hesitation. Salty jelly in my throat. The waiter scribbled on the chalk board, he raised a finger.

“
Encore, mademoiselle.
One eye is not enough!”

But one egg is
, I thought.

Around the table, the rest of the diners selected their portion and ate. They looked at each other as they did so, that sense of camaraderie. The fish course was almost at an end, we began to smile… The crowd began to applaud, louder and louder.

The maître d’hôtel raised his hands.

“
I think, messieurs-dames, I think that Carrionman ’as saved the table…
”

There was a roar of applause for Carrionman, who raised a glass in modest acknowledgement. The Count stood up and raised his glass to the big bird man. And now the rest of the table were doing the same. I pushed my way to my feet, a feeling of relief washing over me. I’d done it! I was still here! We were all here!

The feeling of elation died away with the applause of the crowd. Because it was becoming apparent that something was wrong. The young woman in the beautiful yellow and silver striped dress paused half out of her seat, her glass held up in her hand. The young man with the pointed beard turned to her, made to ask her what was wrong. She hadn’t moved. She still didn’t move, her face frozen half way to fear.

“Arlette!” he called. “Arlette!
Non
!”

“Paralysis,” whispered the Count as two of the waiters hurried forward and took her by the arms. “Death by paralysis. The offal cannot have been divided properly.”

“Just bad luck,” said Kaolin.

“
Arlette
!” The young man had pushed the waiters away. He was shaking the young woman’s elbow frantically. Her whole body rocked with the movement.

“That’s it,” I said. “I’m out.”

I could see Francis moving towards me, pushing his way through the red rope barriers, Albert following him. And then he saw the ripple of movement and, like the rest of the crowd, he turned and looked down the aisle of the abattoir, down towards the great doors at the end that had now slid open. Something was approaching. The waiters were hurrying away in the opposite direction, hurrying to get away from them.