once she had activated DiConti’s embarrassment syndrome. “My car or yours?” Notta asked, hoping to put him at ease.
“I’m sorry, but we’ll have to take yours,” he said. “My patrol car is strictly for business. And I don’t own a car of my own, not right now.”
“You walk to work?” she asked.
“No, I ride the bus. I’ve never needed a car in my off-hours.”
“Bothersome things, cars,” Notta said. “Mine is no great limo, but it gets me around.” She pointed to a gray Datsun across the street. “That’s my chariot, sir!”
She went to the passenger’s side, unlocked the door, and held it for DiConti. He got in and buckled his seat belt. Notta went round to the driver’s side and let herself in. She buckled up, and started the engine. “Where to?” she asked.
“Spaghetti still sound good?” DiConti asked.
“It sure does,” Notta said.
“Go right on Fourth Street,” DiConti directed, “then turn left on MacDougal Way. The restaurant’s on the right. There’s a parking lot on the far side of it.”
“What’s the name of it?”
“The Twisted Noodle. It’s got a picture painted on its sign of spaghetti twirled around a fork resting in a spoon.”
“That wasn’t here when I was in school.”
“No, it’s only been open about a year.” Notta continued to make small talk as she drove to the restaurant. DiConti, since he didn’t have to look directly at her, found it easy to respond with irrelevant bits of this and that. He began to relax and enjoy himself with Notta. She began to hope this date wouldn’t be too much work to get through.
The hostess at the Twisted Noodle seated them at a quiet table in one corner. The waitress, a woman in her middle years with iron-gray streaks in her black hair, took their orders. DiConti declined the wine, because he had to return to duty. He offered Notta the opportunity for wine. She declined, as she had to drive home.
The table had the expected red and white checkered cloth on it. Notta wondered if some factory in Italy turned the things out by the gross to supply Italian restaurants in the United States. She mentioned her thought to DiConti.
“No,” he said in all seriousness, turning up a corner of the cloth with a label on it. “They’re all made in China.”
“Perhaps the Italians make the turntables in the center of Chinese restaurant banquet tables,” Notta suggested.
“Perhaps,” DiConti said. He had a twinkle in his eye. “I think, though, the Italians make samovars for Russian tea rooms. The Germans make the turntables. The Russians make skillets for cooking German sausages.”
Notta laughed. DiConti actually made a joke. His thin face glowed with enjoyment. “I like your laughter,” he said. The waiter brought their large plates of spaghetti with marinara sauce. Notta twisted her spaghetti on her fork. She didn’t use the large spoon provided her. She never mastered using the spoon as well as the fork. DiConti used both with a masterful control. Notta managed, before she was through, to drop a few tiny red spots on her blouse. DiConti got nothing whatsoever on his uniform, not even the vanilla ice cream sundae with wine sauce.
As they ate their spaghetti, DiConti said, “Notta, do you remember our night at the prom?”
“Yes,” she said softly. She smiled a warm smile at him. “It was a very good night for me.” DiConti’s face flushed with pleasure.
“It was the best night I had in school,” DiConti said. “One of the best nights I ever had. I don’t know if I ever said thank you.”
“I don’t think I ever gave you a chance,” Notta said. “Even that far back, I was hell-bent on getting away from Las Tumbas and Mother to be on my own.”
“Do you want always to be on your own?” he asked, a bit tremulously.
“No, not always. Sometimes, yes. I need my space. But I hope someday to find a Mr. Right to spend my life with.”
“Maybe someday you will,” DiConti said, and fell silent. Notta took up the conversation again, commenting on such thrilling topics as the weather, the rising price of gasoline, and the like. Their conversation on the way back to the station was also about unimportant things. On San Danson Mountain, the unicorn with the unique horn sighed, shed its llama skin, screwed in its horn, and began to dance. It was not as lissome as once it was. Instead of a natural grace, it danced with a studied formality. Even unicorns encounter arthritis. Nonetheless, it danced in the fog-filtered starlight. In Las Tumbas Notta pulled her Datsun to the curb in front of the police station. DiConti looked at his watch. He had five minutes left. Through a tight throat he spoke.
“I’ve got to go back to work,” he said. “Can we get together again, soon?”
“Very soon,” Notta said. Notta leaned over and kissed DiConti full on the mouth. He responded, and soon his arms were around her and her arms were around him. At last he broke off the kiss, his brown eyes fastened on Notta’s blue ones.
“We’ll make arrangements,” DiConti said. He opened the car door. The unicorn with the unique horn danced faster, despite its aching joints. His captain had stuck his head out the door. DiConti waved at him. “I’ve got to go now.”
“Bye,” Notta said as DiConti shut the door. She watched him walk in, tears and joy glittering in her blue eyes. On San Danson Mountain, the unicorn with the unique horn brought its last pirouette to a full close, and sank to its knees. She panted heavily. Only after some time did she muster energy to unscrew her horn and get back in her llama suit.
Someone’s Knocking at the Door
Ben knocked on the Swami’s door. From inside the cottage he heard a rasping voice cry, “Someone’s knocking at the door! Someone’s knocking at the door!” Then he heard footsteps and the Swami opened the door. He wore his customary overalls and blue chambray shirt. His starched white apron, incongruously trimmed with pink rickrack, stretched over his ovoid body. The sash it sported was also pink.
“Hello there,” he said to Ben. “I’m so glad you could come.” He stood aside so Ben could enter the cottage. The rasping voice cried out again, “Someone’s knocking at the door!” It was a large green parrot who spoke.
“Don’t mind Charles Algernon Burnswine,” Malcolm said. “I’m just parrot sitting him for a friend. It’s a damned nuisance, but somebody’s got to take care of it.”
“See how the mainsail flops,” Charles Algernon said, apropos of nothing. Ben handed Malcolm the bottle of White Merlot he had brought as a host gift.
“Thank you,” the Swami said. “This is good stuff. You’re the first to get here. The others should be here soon.” Ben hoped Dickon was one of the other guests.
Ben looked around the room while the Swami took the wine to the kitchen. Several beanbag chairs sat against the walls. At one end, a simple table, made from a door laid across two sawhorses, sported five place settings defined by blue mats set against the polished wood. Six pieces of silver flatware flanked each simple white eight-sided plate. A water goblet and three wine glasses stood at attention at the top of each place setting.
Ben wondered what use one would make of three forks of three different sizes. Then he noticed a very small fork next to a knife and soupspoon combination. This fork further awed him. Graceful blue napkins, folded to represent birds, rested on each plate.
As he was contemplating this formal setting, someone else rapped on the door. Charles Algernon cried out “Someone’s knocking at the door!” several times. The Swami hastened to the door to admit Mae Ling. When he spied her, Charles Algernon screeched “Pretty boy! Pretty boy!” and peered around the room, perhaps to see how many people present recognized his cleverness.
“Ah, Swami,” Mae said. “Still got the noisy guest, I see.”
The Swami sighed. “Yes,” he said. He closed the door. A chill breeze had begun blowing off the cove. “As you heard, he still can’t tell the girls from the boys.”
“Hello, Mr. Soul,” Mae
Ling said. “Your note about my book was most kind.”
“It was an interesting book,” Ben said. “I learned from it.”
“One day I shall have to lend you more of my books,” she said. “So few adults can truly appreciate children’s literature.”
Ben blushed. “I’m a child at heart,” he said.
“Most of us are,” the Swami chimed in, “but we’re afraid to admit it, even to ourselves.”
Charles Algernon screeched again, “Someone’s knocking at the door!” The knock followed his screech. The Swami opened the door and greeted Malcolm Drye, dapper as always, and Dr. Chester Field.
“Juan is indisposed tonight,” Dr. Field said as he shed his coat.
“Yes,” the Swami said. “Willy told me when he came in. We didn’t set a place for him. We’ll send a ‘care package’ back with you.”
“Thank you,” Dr. Field said.
“Delightful smells from the kitchen,” Malcolm Drye said. His eyes twinkled. “Good evening, Mae,” he said, and bowed a slight bow. She returned a nod that implied a curtsy.
“And good evening to you, also, Mr. Soul,” he said.
“Please call me Ben,” Ben said.
The Swami rubbed his hands together. “Would anyone like an apéritif? I have cream sherry, and an apricot liqueur.” Ben accepted an apricot liqueur. The others selected a cream sherry. The Swami put in their requests, and soon Willy Waugh, clad, as usual, in only white briefs, brought their drinks.
“Dinner will commence in fifteen minutes,” Willy said. They all sipped at their drinks. For a moment, everyone stared at the floor, uncertain how to begin the conversation.
Mae Ling broke the silence. “Mr. Soul, Ben, what was your work before you retired?”
“I was a software analyst,” Ben said.
“What is a software analyst?” Malcolm asked.
“Charley wants a cracker,” the parrot interjected. The five people in the room turned as one to regard the green bird. Its glittering eye fixed on them.
Ben was glad of the brief distraction. He’d always had trouble describing his work in terms that non-computer people understood easily. “I reviewed programs for efficiency of design,” he said, “and for other qualities, such as ease of maintenance. I also developed test plans to verify they did what they were supposed to do.”
Mae Ling nodded, as if she understood. Malcolm, the Swami, and Dr. Field looked vacant. Ben wondered whether to elaborate, and decided against it. In his experience, most his own age considered computers some sort of dark magic. He changed the subject. “Mae,” he said, “how did you come to write children’s books?”
“I needed money. A friend of mine suggested I talk with her agent. The agent urged me to try writing for children as a place to start. I’ve been rather successful at it.” Mae smiled; her eyes sparkled. The light in the room danced along the gray threads in her black hair.
Willy Waugh appeared at the kitchen door. “Dinner’s ready,” he announced. The Swami indicated the place cards at each sitting. Ben found his place, next to Mae Ling and across from Dr. Field. Malcolm sat opposite to Mae, and the Swami sat at the head of the table.
The Swami said, “Those who want to pray, or meditate, go ahead.” He bowed his head. Ben had no prayer to say, and simply kept silent for the sake of the others.
When the Swami raised his head, Willy carried a steaming tureen and five soup plates into the room. A savory smell of onion and beef rose from the tureen. Willy swiftly ladled soup into the soup plates and served them, beginning with Mae. A hearty merlot accompanied the soup. The fish course was halibut grilled and served on a light curry sauce. A gewürztraminer nicely completed it. A lime sorbet came next, to clear their palates. It was cool and delicious. Ben wondered why the feast was so elaborate. The Village seemed rather far removed from the City gourmets.
The main course was medallions of pork with shiitake mushrooms in a white sauce lightly seasoned with roasted garlic and coriander. For this course, Willy poured a white zinfandel. Ben was feeling very full.
A salad followed; it was a simple sampling of lettuces caressed by wine vinegar and lemon vinaigrette suffused with marjoram. A single cherry tomato, very sweet, garnished the plate.
Dessert was a cheese and fruit plate. Willy had combined thin slices of cheddar with well-marbled Stilton on tart apple rings. To accompany it, he served a rich Australian ruby port in small glasses with a stem molded in. The Swami called the glasses port pipes.
Ben listened quietly to the dinner conversation. Much of it discussed topics about which he knew little, or had little opinion. Malcolm went on at some length about his African violets. He ended an extended monologue with “The wee plants have been the saving of my sanity.” Ben thought to himself that the violets might be a symptom of mental imbalance.
Mae recapitulated her tour in Europe. “I was only in Northern Europe, this time. Denmark, Sweden, and Finland, primarily. Denmark sparkles, of course, just like the Tivoli Gardens. And the amber jewelry is truly lovely. Sweden is less inclined to cater to the tourist. I so often find it true, that Socialist societies have a poor notion of personal services. Finland is an exception. It’s so much like being in one large neighborhood.”
Ben opened his mouth to comment on his travels with Len in Communist and Capitalist Asia, but Dr. Field spoke up first. “Personal service is poorly understood in much of the world. Where it is still honored as a fine tradition, as in Britain, among the butlers, it is a glorious thing. We, in America, are too well-schooled in ‘serve-yourself’ customs to rightly appreciate personal service.”
The Swami suggested they repair to the cluster of beanbag chairs after their port and cheese. Conversation stilled as they let their meals digest. Willy served them coffee in informal mugs. For Ben he had made tea. Ben wished again that Dickon had come. Time enough later, he consoled himself, to get better acquainted with him. Malcolm and Dr. Field left first, followed quickly by Mae Ling. Ben prepared to go, but the Swami stayed him.
“Ben,” the Swami said, “I’ve got something to show you.” He smiled, and took Ben’s elbow. “Come with me,” the Swami said, and drew him toward a room that corresponded to the smaller bedroom in Ben’s cottage. Ben was reviewing polite refusals to sexual advances as the Swami led him into the room. It proved to be a shrine instead. Squat candles burned with small, soft flames before three clay statues.
“These are the Boddhisattvas,” the Swami said. “Please, touch them, and tell me what you feel.” Ben went to the altar and touched the statues, each in turn, from the right to the left. He only felt the warmth of the candles.
“I only feel the candle flames,” he said. The Swami sighed.
“I had hoped for something else,” the Swami said. There is a power in these artifacts, but none of us can tap it, not even La Señora. Since you saw the unicorn so easily at Midsummer’s Night, I had hoped...” He fell silent. He shrugged his shoulders.
“Ah, well,” he said. “Thank you for trying.” He led Ben toward the living room. Willy had cleared away all the dishes, stowed the door and sawhorses somewhere, and appeared in the doorway to the kitchen with a dishtowel in his hands.
“Will there be anything else, Swami?” Willy asked.
“No, that’s all. You found your money?”
“Yes, thank you. You are most generous.”
“Good night, Willy.” Willy went into the kitchen. Ben heard the door close.
“I must be going, too,” Ben said. “Thank you for a superb dinner, and a most interesting evening.”
“You’re most welcome, Ben. We’re all glad you’ve joined the Village.
Charles Algernon Burnswine squawked under the cover. “Sayonara, Sucker!” he said.
“Good night, bird,” Ben called over his shoulder, and walked home through the gathering fog. The evening had convinced him that the people of San Danson knew how to eat wel
l. That they also had some tie-in to another plane of existence confused him, but their general conviviality pleased him.
Violet Incident
Ben and Butter went out walking in the August sun. The fog that usually came ashore in the late afternoon had stayed out to sea for several days under the brute force of an offshore wind from the desert interior. It was hot, and Ben and Butter both walked sedately along the path. Most of the Villagers were inside their cottages, where it was cooler. Only Malcolm Drye was out, pouring some liquid on his dahlias. Ben stopped to admire the flowers.
“Beautiful flowers,” he called out to Malcolm, who was facing the house.
“Oh, hello dear boy,” Malcolm said. He stood upright, a bright red plastic watering can in his hand. He wore a great apron, made of what Ben took to be white canvas, over his customary dapper suit. A few smudges of dirt told Ben Malcolm had been at his gardening for some time. Clear plastic covers protected Malcolm’s patent leather shoes from the damp and dirt.
“What kind are they?” Ben asked, gesturing at the flowers.
“Dahlias,” Malcolm said. “This climate is a bit cool for the best blooms, but they do flourish modestly here.” Malcolm set the watering can on the ground next to the dahlia bed. “Next month they will be at their peak. Do pass by then, dear boy, and look them over.”
“We will,” Ben said.
“I had bigger dahlias, and many more of them, when I lived in the City,” Malcolm said. He came toward the fence; Ben surmised they were in for a bit of a chat. “When I came here, I gave up dahlia breeding for African Violets.” He waved toward his window. “I’ve quite a collection of those, now.” Ben was amazed that Malcolm’s brow displayed a certain moistness; perspiration didn’t seem to be Malcolm’s style.
“Saintpaulia ionantha is a most satisfactory houseplant,” Malcolm said. “Its propagation is simple, its colors vibrant and varied, and its care not too burdensome. Do you raise plants, Ben?”
“No, not indoors. I used to raise a lot of vegetables, but that was a long time ago.”
“Vegetables have their place. It’s difficult to grow most edibles this close to the sea. The exceptions, of course, are the cruciferous vegetables.”
“I haven’t tried growing anything here,” Ben said. “I’ve been busy with a lot of other things.”
Malcolm extracted a white handkerchief from a pocket of his apron. It was plain linen, not monogrammed or trimmed with lace. Very obviously, this was Malcolm’s working handkerchief, because he dabbed with it at the moisture on his brow.
“Warm today,” Ben said. “Don’t know how long it will be before this weather breaks.”
“Not long, I hope,” Malcolm said. “We ordinarily get this kind of heat only in September and October, perhaps one or two days in May. We aren’t acclimated to it as well as the people inland are.”
“If you go far enough inland,