Monterra's Deliciosa & Other Tales & (28 page)

Satoru looked lost. He felt trapped and bored.

Sean looked like Sean. Charming as ever, but he seemed like he needed a break.

Abdul looked hungry.

Ben was frankly curious.

~

After arriving, the guests all refreshed themselves with a swim. Didier had to pry Tomasi away from his concerned attendance to Lillian, who couldn't have drowned if weighted down by a Brinks safe.

Then the party began. Tomasi and Didier had decided to have it under the stars, so the table and chairs had all been dragged outside to the grass beside the beach.

Didier had spent days preparing the courses. Tomasi and the women had designed the decorations—all for visual splendour. Rifle-bird feathers, scentless bird-of-paradise flowers, wraithlike dried sponges and shells off all textures and colours.

Crisp white linen, crystal, coconut-wood tableware, stark white bone china and Irish-green banana-leaf crockery. All set off Didier's
meisterstück
—the dinner party of his life.

The wines were sufficient, but never a Didier preoccupation. The food—ah—that was something else.

"The main course is the main course" was greeted with "cryptic" by his curious guests, but that is indeed what it was—hand. But each guest's
main d'homme
was a different dish altogether. They could taste each other's, Didier had planned. This way, six different facets of this jewel of ingredients could shine.

All had to be marinated—one of the down-sides of male-only.

Didier had to make do with his tough meat, without that lovely female fat layer he could have done so much with. This he considered a challenge to his art.

Now, you might have thought the original cause for Didier's visits to Ben had been solved long ago. But Didier's inner self never fell for the outer self-expression crap. To him, those towers were just colourful, stupid-looking, impractical stacks of good food gone to waste down the fronts and gullets of stupid, faddy, rich folks.

Ben, on the other hand, related to those stacks. He had urged Didier on to greater and greater heights, and it was he—Ben—who added the finishing touch: the exploding part. Those micron-thin pralines that shattered in your face soon as touch them, meringues that splattered little white bits and blood-red
coulis
into the roots of your hair, and best—those spun-sugar nests that could shoot caramel splinters into your eyes, built up like beehives gone mad, like women's late eighteenth-century hairdos.

Didier had remembered Ben's angry stomach with its craving for magnesia tablets, and had cooked for him in the style of traditional Thanksgiving turkey, paper bag and all. Long slow oven, a touch of butter basting, just enough for succulent tenderness. Just a pinch of ginger, sage, thyme, and roasted Spanish paprika for the blush.

Ben took one look at his glowing, crispy-skinned, russet-coloured main course, stood it upright on his plate, and exploded. Lillian shoved her chair back to go to him. All but Didier thought he was having an angina-induced heart attack, but Ben held up his hand and smiled weakly, "I'm fine. Just an old complaint."

Lillian clearly enjoyed her tajine-inspired
main aux fruits
. She ate everything on her plates, and picked up each banana leaf and licked it clean. But she was most intrigued by the snakefruit accompaniment rakishly placed like a Christmas toy beside her plate.

"Where do these come from?" she asked as she peeled off a skin like a cocaine lord's boot leather.

"I grow it," Tomasi shyly answered from the shadows. He came forward two steps.

Lillian looked at him for the first time.

"Would you like to see my
aut'apo
?" he asked politely.

"What's that?" Lillian asked.

Didier broke in smoothly before Tomasi could ruin his chances with a hand-description of the foot-long fruit shaped like a giant ear of corn.

"It's his
monstera deliciosa
."

Lillian had longed to know this fruit, but had never seen one. A fruit that only fruit adventurers ever eat because if you eat it wrong, the little black specks hurt like cut glass. Eaten right, it is ambrosia.

"It's very big," said Tomasi, almost in a whisper.

"Could you show me after dinner?" she smiled.

Tomasi could only nod yes.

Satoru had eaten his hand one finger at a time, carefully nibbling around the knuckles, slowly chewing. He was clearly preoccupied.

Didier, always a considerate host to his friends, was concerned, but left Satoru alone.

Finally, Satoru picked up the remains of his hand and held it up. It looked like a crazy Olympic torch.

"Can you imagine what I could charge for these?" he muttered to no one in particular.

Every eye gazed at him, until Didier emitted a breath of a little giggle.

Abdul was surprised how much he enjoyed the meat. Didier had gilded his, medieval-feast style. It was only lightly spiced, so that Abdul could savour the true flavour. It tasted a bit coconutty, with a hint of the sea. But he would have preferred it corn-fed like Didier's pigs.
You just can't get top-quality meat
, he ruminated
. At least there are no drugs in the meat; but what did Didier say these people mostly eat—bully beef and rice? And
, Abdul worried—
feeding beef to this meat—BSE?
He would have preferred totally organic. Vegetarian. A Hindi would be good, but maybe spice-tainted.

He was picking his teeth when Sean leaned back in his chair.

"You say, Didier, that all these folks
agreed
to this?"

"Of course," a mellow Didier responded, warmed by his favourite food and this rare companionship. "I have the certificates for each one. You're sucking on the knuckle of Dogabe Cyril Dunphy Ilaiva, a very happy man. A verry nice person, too (Didier wished he could drop the accent, but he couldn't ever again, even with this company).

"Nice people, too, eh?" mused Sean aloud. A smile played on his cherubic little lips. "Would a sinner taste as sweet?" His eyes dropped from the stars above to the eyes of Abdul across the table. Their eyes locked.

They were a match made for each other—a match made in their respective countries.

Abdul spoke first. "You can always find a thief when you want one."

Sean added, "And a traitor."

~

Over the next couple of days, the guests ate well but less extravagantly. Didier, Tomasi, and Lillian made an inspired curry for Thursday night, and on Friday, the villagers prepared an enormous
fingi
.

Didier had been, for the most part, somewhat disappointed in retrospect with his dinner party. He could tell—his guests, except maybe for Lillian, had not really appreciated his art. Ben was in need of professional help. Whatever it was that turned on Ben, they didn't share it. Satoru seemed sad and shrunken. Abdul admitted to Didier that he still liked pork best. And Sean and Abdul were almost rude in their new-found camaraderie.

When the boat came to take his guests away, Satoru boarded grimly. He looked tall (for him) again, but self-contained. Sean and Abdul chattered and bubbled with a private in-joke language they'd evolved between themselves. Ben hugged Didier in a spontaneous effusion of "the best evening I've ever had." Didier smiled professionally back. Lillian boarded carrying an enormous
monstera
and the heart of Tomasi, which she thought about with only half-amusement.

Hands were waved. Eventually the horizon swallowed the little blue speck.

~

Tomasi was in love and moped like a wet cat, but for everyone else, life was busy these days. There was Didier's Friday cooking class, attended eagerly by all the women, followed by the Friday night all-Sufisi dinner, held in Didier's kitchen, attended eagerly by everyone.

In return for cooking lessons, Didier was given basket-weaving classes. Basket-weaving had sunk to a low point by the time Didier had arrived, but he was such an enthusiastic learner that soon there was a new enthusiasm for that on the island, too.

These days, not only did the women get their Iced VoVos, but since the home cooking had improved so much, little presents of toilet water appeared, new flowered
fulus
, and two surprise pregnancies.

Little businesses now sprang up with no warning. Choku Pu'atoi's wife, Amelia, and Krishchin's wife, Eva, set up a bakery. They first asked if Didier minded if they used his secret
pain d'épice
recipe to make and sell little cakes to the
Venture
. They were planning to build an oven behind Choku's house. "Why don't you use the oven in the great kitchen?" Didier asked, highly tickled.

It was agreed that they would rent the kitchen from Didier while they made their cakes. That only seemed fair. And then and there, the Pan de Peace Cake Company began its busy little business.

Pilu, the compulsive self-whittler, took to wood, holding a knife in one hand, and a piece of wood with his feet. Although he regularly suffered toe slashes, his work became popular in Paulotown's tourist shops for its highly original style.

The men who, with Tomasi, made the table and chairs, began a furniture business, again, selling their wares through the
Venture
.

But there were stirrings in the village. Choku and Krishchin were miserable. Their wives now brought in money and bought them treats, but they were gone so much. Both men were used to having the women at their fingersnap all the time, and they were lonely. Also, they wanted more. And, like another chum, Baby, they were jealous of the retirees. Of course, the three men's lives were much better than before Didier had arrived, and the retirees shared their fortunes, food, and happiness more than people would have in, say, a suburban neighbourhood in Australia, if someone there had won the Pools.

But still, they were jealous. They wanted pay-outs, too. Also, they were now getting nagged to work in the village garden. Baby, the bravest of the three, decided to act first, without telling his disgruntled friends. The next time Dr. T. came, Baby chopped off his left foot with Jimmo's giant meat cleaver. Then he dragged himself to Flora's hospital, knowing he'd get the best of care.

He did, but Flora, and then Krishchin, Choku, and then the whole village were furious at him. How dare he try to get out of work that way. The men who sold their hands worried,
What if a foot's worth more?

Still, no one could let the foot go to waste, so it was voted by the village (mostly to teach Baby a lesson) that if Didier wanted, he could have the foot for half price.

Didier was delighted. He
had
wondered. Although, like the rest of the islanders' feet, this one had almost never worn shoes. Still, it was infinitely preferable to your typical soft athlete's-foot and corn-ridden shoe-wearer's foot.

He deliberated for two days before deciding on the method—slow baked ox cheek style.

It had an agreeable texture. He was reminded of
osso bucco
. The best parts were the little toe and the ball of the foot.

The heel was just too tough. Didier caught a maddening shred between two capped molars. He worried at it all evening before finally pulling it free. It was sturdy as ship's cord.

No more feet, he announced the next day.

The glory days of new retirees and hand dinners were coming to a close. Only two more hand repasts were booked, with no more coming. Didier was a happy man, though. He'd experienced highs few men have a chance to attain. They would end soon but the memories would live on in his tastebuds for the rest of his life.

~

Meanwhile, Choku and Krishchin seethed. They wanted to retire, too, but didn't want to suffer for it. One night, they stole Detenamo's old boat, and took it to Paurotown and got drunk in the bar facing the docks. On their fourth beer each, when almost plastered, they were pulled aside by the boat captain of the
Venture
.

"What's this I hear about all the blokes with no hands on Sufisi?"

Choku's beer slopped in his glass.

He was terrified of spilling the beans. He knew the threat uttered against traitors would be carried out.

"Lucky for Tenuat Lenuru that he got out. He's such a worm," the drunk captain careened. "You Sufisians too much man for me."

"Tenuat Lenuru?" Choku repeated. He didn't have to add,
the man who stole everyone's money
to get Krishchin to sober up. They were both fully alert now.

"Where?" Krishchin sneered disinterestedly, while Choku looked quietly on.

"Down in Bougan Street—usually in here drunk on Friday nights, but ..." gabbled the captain (he must have been pickled), "don't tell him I tole you. Now what's this hand thing?"

"A much-man thing—you know, like tattoos," the two men giggled drunkenly, "but we're too scared to do it."

~

They went back on Detenamo's boat that night—very sober. The next night, painted ferociously with purple ink from violet moonshells, they broke into Lenuru's house.

A terrified Tenuat Lenuru tried to hide under his bed, but was dragged out, gagged, and carried out by a panting Choku, while Krishchin looked everywhere for the money. There was nothing much to be found.

They had expected that. But their fortunes were made.

As they motored the boat home, they discussed their plan. They decided to leave the heavy work to the morning, but the impatience of both meant that the best part couldn't wait.

It was hardly light when they banged on Didier's door.

He answered it himself, still rubbing his eyes.

Choku and Krishchin judged Krishchin to be the most eloquent speaker, so it was he who announced, "Misser Didiyae! We brought you head!"

~

For those of you curious about its preparation, first remove dentures, then wipe inside mouth cavity with salt ...

Literary Titan, Asher E. (huh?) Treat

The greatest story ever told was penned by a man who not only never won a literary prize, but who would not have been invited to dinner anywhere it counts.

To be sure you have never read it, unless you also fall into the category of people whom other people think of rather like pet skunks.

For I am sure Asher E. Treat was a rotten dinner guest, and never occupied himself with who slandered whom or who was cheating on ... and he probably knew not a single Hemingway anecdote.

But with the certainty of a fanatic and the purity of rainwater in the Himalayas, he wrote,
"At whatever point one picks up the story of the moth ear mite, he is almost sure to be fascinated by what he sees."

And he proceeds to tell you all about it, leaving no milestone unturned in the tumultuous life of a creature that you host in the thousands in each ear, with the society in your left and your right being as alien as you would feel wandering in a strange land where everyone was busy and you could not understand one word.

Not only does Mr. Treat go into minutiae about minutiae. He makes the saga into a page-turner with an exactitude of word and attention to detail that is poetic, even about even more unpromising subjects than his protagonist:

~

The fecal matter is hygroscopic, swelling and softening in moist air, reversibly shrinking, darkening, and hardening when the atmosphere is dry. One wonders how this affects the microclimate of the colony ...

~

And by gum, one does wonder! What makes his writing so compelling? Partly his enthusiasm and certainty that we will fall under the spell, too. But bores often think themselves fascinators. Treat's charm wells from his complete honesty of reporting. We know there is no spin or set of preconceived notions packaged neatly as a report of scientific "findings."

No—here is science as it once was, and always still is amongst the great. The science of the initially clueless, with a mind open to surprises, hungry for revelations though not willing to invent them, not for any reason. Dedication such as is only practiced amongst those whose back is bent, both figuratively, and in his case I am sure, literally, though most likely, he never noticed it. No more than a prospector who can't stop panning.

The clincher to the charm of his story, and his science, is the fact that his subjects are not objects. He has an unembarrassed passionate relationship with these tiny subjects. He loves them and clutches them to his curiosity as an old prospector does that gold nugget he will never sell. And so as he learns, he reveals, with the skill of Poe.

~

Since the previous summer I had been examining the ears of almost every kind of tympanate moth that came to my collecting light. On the night of 5 July, 1952, I found a 'volunteer' that had somehow got into the attic of the country house where we spent our summers; it was flying about the lamp on my laboratory table. I had finished work for the night but couldn't resist the temptation to inspect the ears of one more moth.

~

It is rare to find writing that contains information that you know you didn't know, but which also has the ability to make you laugh, and cry. But the beauty of a dedicated life of unprejudiced inquiry combined with a never-to-be-dulled brilliance of aha! (as they say in haiku) about the natural world, makes the life of Mr. Treat nothing less than that of a prospector who becomes a wealthy man. But he is a philanthropist here, because in writing his great story, we can share his wealth.

For us, the readers, his tale is nothing less than unforgettable, for it is his humility that finally does what only the greatest literature can. When you least expect it, the words reach out from the depths of his story, and clutch your heart with a truth so profound, it's simple:

~

The magic of the microscope is not that it makes little creatures larger, but that it makes a large one smaller. We are too big for our world. The microscope takes us down from our proud and lonely immensity and makes us, for a time, fellow citizens with the great majority of living things. It lets us share with them the strange and beautiful world where a meter amounts to a mile and yesterday was years ago. Let us shrink to the height of a moth ear mite...

~

So there we have it. Plot, motivation, drama, an open mind endlessly discovering and revealing surprises—and an author being true to truth, and himself. What else could be more the essence of greatness in science, literature, and ... come to think of it, life itself?

~

Book hunt:

Mites of Moths and Butterflies
, by Asher E. Treat, Cornell University Press, 1975

The quotes above are excerpted from this book, as the chapter entitled "An Earful of Mites" in
Insect Lives: Stories of Mystery and Romance from a Hidden World
, edited by Erich Hoyt and Ted Schultz, John Wiley & Sons, 1999.