The Stranger

  Unlike a grandmother’s spoonful of porridge, though, the “dumpling” began shrinking rapidly. When the Big Puffs had become the size of a statistically average pastry, the cook quickly transferred it to Kofa’s plate, and he began to eat.

  “Start right in, boy!” my culinary “Virgil” informed me with his mouth full. “Its best to eat it straight away.”

  I considered it wise to heed his advice, so as soon as the pastry landed on my plate, I got down to business.

  Inside the Big Puffs I discovered an ample, but light meat filling and a whole ocean of aromatic juices. It was divine!

  The cook kept tossing more and more Puffs onto our plates, but we didn’t give up. Finally, the cart was empty and we were alone.

  “Remember, Max, you should only order the Big Puffs here. It’s not the same in other taverns. Believe me, I’ve tried it.”

  Kofa rolled his eyes to the heavens in delight.

  “Once upon a time, it was the most ordinary dish imaginable. Over the last hundred years or so the cooks of the capital have forgotten the finer points of their profession. Never mind, they’ll make up for lost time and pick up their tricks again now. Time heals all. Let’s go, boy.”

  And off we went.

  “I’ve never failed to give the Skeleton cuisine its due,” Sir Kofa Yox said. “Of course, with legitimate magic alone they could never outdo Madame Zizinda or the Hunchback Itullo, may the Dark Magicians protect him. They’re Old School—without a good spell they don’t know how to butter a piece of bread. Aye, what’s true is true. Now their time has come again, though.”

  “By the way, how could Goppa have been allowed to keep the cooks? Why didn’t you throw them in Xolomi?” I asked.

  “In Xolomi? For what?”

  “Well, you said yourself that they prepared food like in the ‘Good Old Days.’ They must have used plenty of spells, I imagine.”

  “Ah, that . . . You see, Max, the cooks were just carrying out orders. They didn’t even have to try to defend themselves. Their superiors presented them with a paper that stated that they took all the responsibility. If any of the Tallaboonas had survived, they’re the ones we would have ‘thrown in Xolomi,’ as you put it.”

  “Where I come from, everyone would have to bear the blame: the ones who gave the orders, as well as the ones who carried them out.”

  “That’s absurd! How can you punish a person if he’s not acting on his own volition? What a system you have there in the Barren Lands.”

  Kofa stared at me so attentively that I realized: he doesn’t believe Juffin’s legend about my origins. He doesn’t believe it, but he’s keeping mum. So I did, too.

  Our next stop was the Happy Skeleton. Sir Kofa nodded toward another niche at the opposite end of the hall, just like the one we saw earlier. It was occupied by a solitary smiling skeleton.

  “Here we’re going to eat ‘Hathor’ turkey,” Sir Kofa announced.

  “What’s it called?” I wanted to make sure I had heard correctly.

  “‘Hathor.’ It’s a completely baffling sort of animal god from another World. I can’t figure it out. I don’t know whether anyone can. One thing for sure—it has the head of a bull.”

  “A cow,” I corrected him. “‘Hathor’ is female, so her head is that of a cow, not a bull.”

  “Where did you study, boy?” Sir Kofa asked in astonishment. “The things you know!”

  “Well, I certainly didn’t learn it in school,” I admitted. “I just read everything I that came my way. A good way of fighting insomnia.”

  “Everything that came your way! Do you go out of your way, by any chance, to dip into the forbidden library of the Seven-Leaf Clover? Come on, you’ll never get me to believe that!”

  I thought that informing Sir Kofa that the goddess Hathor was one of the many zoomorphic figures in the Egyptian pantheon probably wouldn’t be such a good idea. What if it was some kind of sacred mystery?

  This time two hefty kitchen boys plunked down a huge platter on our table. On the platter was a horned bull’s head. A “braised” turkey’s carcass hovered between the horns. At first I thought it must be resting on a skewer, but then I realized that the delicacy really was floating weightless in the air.

  “Don’t even think of putting the turkey on a plate,” Sir Kofa whispered. “It has to stay right where it is. Slice the meat with a knife using a fork to hold it steady . . . And don’t touch it with your hands. You’ll ruin the taste!”

  I obeyed for that would truly have been a sin.

  After the fourth tavern, I began to beg for mercy. I felt there was a good chance I would share the sad fate of the Tallaboona family.

  “What a weak stomach you have, boy! I never would have expected it. There’s one more excellent establishment I want to show you. They have delicious desserts, and very small portions. Honest!”

  “All right,” I grumbled. “But this is the last one. For today, anyway.”

  The tavern was called the Irrashi Coat of Arms Inn.

  “Who’s Irrashi?” I asked without thinking.

  “Come off it, lad! You know who Hathor is, but forget the name of the neighboring country?”

  “I just ate so much I can’t think straight anymore.”

  I felt ashamed. Even though the eight-volume Encyclopedia by Manga Melifaro had long ago found its way from the bookshelf to my bedside table, the geography of the World was still not one of my strong points.

  Sir Kofa Yox shook his head disdainfully, and we entered.

  “Xokota!” a friendly bartender called to us in greeting.

  “Xokota!” Sir Kofa answered solemnly.

  “What did you just say?”

  “Ah, that’s one of the the nice customs of this place. The proprietors are all locals, from Echo. But the cuisine is Irrashi, and they try to speak to the customers in broken Irrashi, to the best of their abilities. It’s funny—Irrashi is one of the few countries where they don’t speak in normal human language. Our homegrown snobs consider their babbling to be the height of refinement.”

  “Right. And you just greeted each other, as I understand it.”

  “Of course. Look over there, Max. You see that fellow in the gray looxi? He’s dressed very strangely, don’t you think?”

  “Strangely? Why do you say that, Kofa?”

  I looked over at the modestly clad, middle-aged stranger who was hunched over his mug at the bar.

  “You didn’t notice? And the belt?”

  “I can’t see any belt from where I’m sitting. Move over! Ah! Sinning Magicians, that’s beautiful!”

  The stranger was wearing an elegant, broad belt under his looxi—a remarkable thing that glistened like bright mother-of-pearl.

  “That’s what I was talking about. Hm, it really is quite strange. The fellow is dressed modestly in the extreme. He couldn’t be dressed worse, in fact. His skaba is downright tattered, did you see?”

  “What a nit-picker you are, Kofa!”

  “That’s my job. Oh, here’s our dessert.”

  The portions were indeed quite small. We were each served a piece of weirdly oscillating pie. It didn’t resemble jelly—the pie seemed to move of its own accord, not as a result of its internal consistency. And the spoons they gave us! They were gigantic. I couldn’t imagine how we were supposed to eat our dessert with them. They would never fit into a human mouth.

  “Excuse me, my fine friend,” I said to the young waiter. “This is not a spoon; it’s a travesty, a mockery of a spoon at best. Couldn’t you find some other kind of utensil for us?”

  “Xvarra tonikai! Okir blad tuu.”

  After this utterance, the fellow disappeared. I looked quizzically at my dinner companion.

  “What was he saying, Kofa?”

  “Magicians only know. I’m no Irrashi interpreter. First he apologized, then . . . I think he said he’d go look for something. But you’re selling yourself short, Max. These amusing ladles are one of the charms of the Coat of Arms. Such a refin
ed dessert—and such enormous spoons! You won’t see anything like it anywhere else in Echo.”

  “I can do without the ‘charms.’ There’s no way I’m going to eat with that shovel! I’d rather eat with my fingers. Oh, where is my Mantle of Death when I need it? If I were wearing it, the proprietor of this place would have pulled out the family silver passed down from his great-grandmother. Sir Kofa, my old face hasn’t returned yet, has it? I’m about to start raising a ruckus.”

  I was having fun. So was Sir Kofa, judging by the look on his face.

  “Is it hard being an ordinary mortal? Nuflin was right when he warned you. Oh, well, go ahead, kick up a fuss. And I’ll eat. I like these spoons.”

  But I didn’t have to make a scene. The fresh-faced waiter was already hurrying over, waving a small spoon above his head victoriously. It was just what I imagined an ideal dessert-eating instrument to be.

  “Shoopra Kon!” the fellow said, bowing obsequiously, and handed me the wonderful utensil. Then he turned to Sir Kofa and mumbled: “Xvarra tonikai! Prett.”

  “Never mind,” Sir Kofa mumbled back. “Get along now, you poor fellow.” Then he turned to me. “Well, you’ve really done it now, boy. You don’t even need the Mantle of Death. People are afraid of you without it. Instinct, most likely. For Sir Max they find a spoon; but not for me, it seems. Incredible . . .”

  I felt very satisfied with my petty victory. And the dessert lived up to my highest expectations.

  “Don’t look now, Max!” Sir Kofa nudged me. “There’s another one. I don’t understand: is this some kind of new fashion?”

  “Another what? I don’t—” I was brought up short.

  I only had to glance toward the entrance, and everything was clear to me. A handsome young man in a splendid yellow looxi froze on the threshold. Underneath his elegant overcoat was a tattered skaba and a magnificent mother-of-pearl belt, the same kind that the fellow at the bar was wearing.

  “It can’t be a coincidence,” Kofa said with a sniff. “It’s the first time in my life I’ve ever seen anything like that—and, suddenly, along comes his twin! Look, they’ve spotted each other! Well, well, well . . .”

  The belted ones did a double-take, staring intently at one another. The face of the youthful newcomer in yellow registered surprise, fear, and, it seemed, even sympathy.

  He opened his mouth, made a step as if he was going up to the bar, then turned on his heels and left. The first fellow was getting ready to rise, but he waved over the proprietor, instead. The tavern-keeper placed another mug in front of him, and the fellow began studying its contents again with great intensity.

  “How do you like them apples, Max?”

  “It is strange,” I replied uncertainly. “Oh, he’s leaving! Shall we follow him?”

  “Hold your horses, hero! We don’t need to follow him.”

  “Why not, Kofa?”

  “Because . . . how can I explain it? It’s just not done. Secret investigators don’t go rushing around Echo, chasing down every suspicious Tom, Dick, or Harry that comes along. Preventing crime is not our job. But if something happens and they ask us politely to look into it—well, that’s another story. In short, we’re not going anywhere.”

  “Well, you know best.”

  I must admit, I was disappointed.

  “That’s the way it is, boy,” Sir Kofa said with a wink. “Don’t be sad. All your chases and crime-hunting are still ahead of you. For the time being, you should just enjoy life.”

  “Enjoy life? You’re making fun of me, Kofa. After tonight I’ll never be able to look at food again.”

  “You’re in for a surprise. Now I’m going to reveal to you the oldest secret of Old Cuisine.”

  “No!” I grimaced and shook my head. “With all due respect, Kofa, I refuse.”

  “Never indulge in hasty decisions. You don’t know what’s in store for you yet. Don’t worry, Max. I’m not going to feed you, but cure you of your culinary overindulgence. Honest.”

  “In that case—onward!” I exclaimed happily. “If I’ve ever needed a cure like that, now’s the time.”

  And with that we left the Irrashi Coat of Arms.

  “If you ever overeat like this again, you must go to the Empty Bowl,” Sir Kofa informed me. “Remember this address, friend: 36 Street of Reconciliation. I have a feeling you’ll be coming here often.”

  The Empty Bowl was full of people, but they worked fast there! In just a few minutes a cook with a small cart came up to us. He rattled the bottles and vials with the concentration of an experienced pharmacist. I looked at the cart. Sinning Magicians! I almost threw up. The fellow drew out of a jar what looked like a huge piece of soft, greenish bacon grease and placed it on a tiny brazier. A minute later he poured the turbid, runny fat into a tall colored glass. He then plopped the second piece of fat onto the brazier. I shuddered, swallowed back some of my own saliva, and turned away. Sir Kofa took the glass calmly and emptied it down, without so much as wincing.

  “It’s not as bad as it looks, boy. Drink up. I’m not joking—I want to help you. Some hero you are! Well, sniff it, at least.”

  I sniffed it obediently. The smell was not in the least nauseating. On the contrary, a pleasant menthol scent tickled my nostrils. I sighed and gulped down the terrible looking stuff. It wasn’t so bad. Not bad at all, in fact. It was like drinking a glass of mint liqueur, diluted with water.

  “Well, how did you like it?” Sir Kofa asked in concern. “You certainly are impressionable. I would never have expected it. Fine, let’s go. For your information, it’s called River Rat Bone Marrow. A strange name, of course. Remember it, though—it’ll come in handy.”

  When we were outside again, Sir Kofa studied me attentively.

  “Are you sure you’re not hungry, Max? We can stop into a few more places . . .”

  “Magicians be with you, Kofa! I don’t even want to think about it!”

  “Well, suit yourself. Now then, run along to the Ministry. It will be morning soon, anyway. Don’t forget to take Kurush the snacks you promised him. He’s earned them.”

  “Of course. Thanks for the experience. It’s a night I won’t soon forget.”

  “That’s the spirit. Good night, Max.”

  On the way to the Ministry, I carried out my promise, stopping by the Glutton to pick up a dozen pastries. Kurush wouldn’t be able to eat all that—but it’s no sin to skip out on work and then try to make up for it later.

  The delicious aroma of freshly baked pastry made me think it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have a little bite to eat myself. Sinning Magicians, was I crazy? How could I eat after a night like that?

  Kurush was delighted, and he started right in on them. I changed into the Mantle of Death and went to look at myself in the mirror. What a bizarre sight! My own features could already be made out under the unattractive false face. I had two distinct faces, one showing through the other. I shuddered and went downstairs to wash up. On the way back I glanced in the mirror again. Finally! There was my trusty old mug looking back at me. I wanted to cry with relief. I was, after all, quite a guy. It’s a matter of taste, of course, but it was a face that agreed with me.

  I went back to the office. Kurush had just finished the fourth pastry, but his enthusiasm was flagging. I looked at the bird enviously, and—well, I ended up eating five whole pastries myself! I really had worked up an appetite already. That River Rat Bone Marrow was a devil of a concoction. Wonder of wonders, I felt I hadn’t eaten in days.

  At home I dreamed of Melamori again. The invisible wall dividing us disappeared all at once, and she sat down next to me. She was amused by my immobility. Not only was she amused, but it made her very brave. I was showered with kisses, such real ones that it almost made me start thinking that . . . But my poor brain didn’t want to think at all, and then she disappeared. And I woke up.

  Melamori always disappeared from my dreams at about the same time, just after dawn—the time people wake up to go to work. But I tried no
t to pay attention to this coincidence. Once I get hold of something, I’ll hold onto it for dear life, even if it’s only a dream, and in my case, especially if it is a dream.

  Not long before noon I dozed off again to the deep, guttural purrs of my cats. Almost immediately, I got a call from Sir Kofa.

  Enough lounging around, Max. Something very interesting is happening here, so—

  Time to eat again? I asked, horrified.

  No, time to work. Remember those clowns with the belts?

  And how I do! Oh, Kofa, do I have an hour, at least? To wash.

  What a squeaky clean rascal you are! Fine, go hose yourself down. But we’ll be expecting you in an hour.

  I jumped out of bed. Armstrong was so deep in sleep he didn’t twitch an ear. Ella woke up with a diminutive feline roar and rushed down to her bowl. After feeding the cats and bathing, it turned out that I had no time to replenish my tobacco supply with my pillow prestidigitation. It’s a good thing I hoard things like a squirrel: I had hidden away several cigarette stubs for a rainy day. Like today.

  The Hall of Common Labor was swarming with chefs again. I gave Melifaro a sympathetic nod, and continued through to our office. An unrecognizable Sir Kofa Yox (curly haired, ruddy faced, large eyes) was whispering to Juffin. When he saw me he fell silent.

  “Secrets?” I inquired. “Dreadful ones? Or not very?”

  “Somewhere in between,” Juffin said. “How’s your stomach, hero? Are the city toilets running over after your busy night?”

  “Are you trying to compensate for the absence of General Boboota? That’s not your forte, Juffin. Moreover, Boboota’s irreplaceable.”

  “Well, just take a little walk to the morgue and back. It’s bound to be an instructive excursion. We’ll just finish up our secret-swapping session while you’re gone—and don’t let your nose get out of joint. In fact, these are secrets of Grand Magician Nuflin. Not very exciting.”