Colin Harrison - The Havana Room

Meanwhile Shantelle was passing through the room with sets of slate paddles and chalk. She handed each man one and I could see that most, like me, were torn between our desire to study Shantelle and our fascination with Ha's activities. Paddle in hand, I watched him lift the fillets onto a new cutting board, whisk the skin and backbone into the bucket, then remove the old larger cutting board completely.

"How many, Ha?" came Allison's voice.

He bent forward to examine his fillets, made an adjusting trim on one- the fleck of flesh flying instantly into the bucket- then checked the organs in their separate bowls. "I have just one Sun, just one Moon, and always just one Stars," he announced.

"Okay, this is the usual number. Those of you bidding on the Sun portion, please write down your sums," Allison instructed. "Remember, the Sun is a portion that involves great heat." She looked about the room. The men appeared tentative, not sure of what to do. But I saw several men leaning over their paddles.

"Please lift your bids… I see $75, that will not do, I see $100, that won't either, $50, you should be ashamed of yourself, sir, this fish came from the other side of the world, I see $250, yes, that's better, I'm ignoring the lesser bids, I see- you may drop your $100 bid, sir- I see $300, I see $600, he's the most motivated, clearly, $600, this will be the cheapest portion of the evening I guarantee you, $600, again, and that's it. Sold to the man in the green tie."

Instantly Shantelle was next to him, a balding man of about forty-five, indeed wearing a green tie, and he gave her a credit card.

"Please come forward."

Allison received him, and he stood before us, a bit embarrassed to be the first one, perhaps afraid to be revealed as a fool before the room. Shantelle returned with the credit card slip and a pen. She smiled helpfully as he signed. Ha, meanwhile, was preparing the portion of Shao-tzou sushi, his fingers patting and rolling rice and seaweed and tucking until the tiny delicacy was done.

"Do I get soy sauce?" the man joked.

"I'm afraid not."

"Okay, here I go." He picked up his sushi, held it before his mouth, looked at Ha, looked at Allison, then gently took it into his mouth. He chewed slowly and swallowed.

"How's it taste?" someone called.

"That is rather good," he said.

"Please," said Allison, leading him by the hand to the chair.

We studied him.

"I feel okay," he announced. "I feel really pretty normal."

Shantelle had collected the slate paddles from the unsuccessful bidders, erased them, and given them back.

"I'm- okay, okay- there… it's-" The first winning bidder gripped the arm of his chair, then tipped his head back. His fingers relaxed, his feet slipped forward, and he eased into the comfortable leather, his eyes still open but blank. He breathed deeply through his nose, as though appreciating a fine wine. Then his mouth sagged open, his eyelids heavy. His eyes fluttered closed, his face still tranquil, attentive to some far pleasure, as if he were listening to exquisitely drifting jazz.

"Is he sick?" asked a worried voice.

Allison held up a hand. "Wait."

The man in the green tie slackened further, his head lolling softly on his shoulder. The muscles around his eyes twitched, as did his lips. These movements suggested surprise and deep internal experience, the pleasurable awareness of light across a sleeping form. His face seemed to set itself within a coma of concentration, eager to receive as much sensation as possible. The fingers on both his hands quivered as if it was all too unbearably good, and he moaned indistinctly, the pleasure forcing its release through his mouth.

"For God's sake!" one of the men called. "Is he dying?"

The room remained hushed, the men looking back and forth at one another, uncertain whether to be worried or outraged or entertained. Allison followed her watch closely.

"This man looks ill!" came a protest. "I insist you call-!"

Allison held up a calm finger, following her watch. "One of the training elements for a Shao-tzou chef is to estimate body weight and size the portion accordingly. Mr. Ha is an artist, gentlemen, not a murderer. Please, have a little faith."

Half a minute more went by agonizingly, then the intensity of the man's pleasure began to subside, and we saw the gradual reassertion of consciousness. He blinked, lifted his head, coughed, focused, lost focus, blinked again, munched his mouth dryly, then sat up in his chair, recognizing the room and the rest of us.

"Oh," he said in a low, thoughtful voice. He sighed a noise of contentment. Then he noticed the expectant eyes upon him and nodded. "Yeah, it was unbelievable…"

He started to stand.

"Just wait a minute or so, sir," said Allison, gently pushing him back down in the chair. "Just let your body figure it all out."

He looked up at Allison and smiled coyly. "Can we do it again?"

"No," Allison said, rejecting his innuendo.

"Wait, you don't understand," he protested. "Just tell me what to pay! I'm good for it." Despite Allison's insistence, he rose unsteadily, but his halting steps seemed caused by his amazement as much as by any infirmity.

He was pacified by Shantelle and escorted to his seat.

"We have two more pieces of Shao-tzou fish," Allison announced. "Next we have the piece of Moon, with the blade wipe coming from the liver. Write your bids, please. Let me remind you that the winning bid in the last round was a mere $600."

This time more men hunched over their slates and I could see a few of them look up, study the other men, then erase whatever had been on the slate and write another figure.

"Bids please," Allison said loudly. "Get the paddles up. Here we go. I see $800, $900, $2,000, $1,000 is it? Yes, very nice, the highest so far is $2,000, please, sir, don't change your bid, ah! $3,316, quite an odd bid, I think we have a winner at $3,316."

This time a younger, heavyset man in a blazer came forward, sporty and confident. He nodded back to the men, stepped forward to Ha, grabbed the piece of sushi, pivoted, faced us, and pushed the whole thing in his mouth.

"No hesitation there," Allison narrated.

He swallowed and stepped forward to the chair.

"Do you have anything to say to us?" Allison inquired. "Any chit or chat?"

"No," he said quietly.

He closed his eyes and tilted his head back. Allison stepped toward him, adjusted his head forward and sideways, then turned to the group. "What you're seeing here is art, gentleman. Mr. Ha's art. The poison in the Shao-tzou is so deadly that even a sliver more of the flesh or an accidentally large wipe through the organ- in this case the liver- would kill. But Mr. Ha is a master."

Ha nodded ever so subtly, then inspected one of his knives. Meanwhile the heavyset man in the chair slumped to one side, face slack, his mouth almost closed, a thin line of saliva dripping down one side of his chin. His lips trembled softly, as if privately repeating a liturgy of devotion. This time the group watched with less trepidation. Several men, I saw, timed the process themselves, looking up at the man in the chair and then at their watches. He continued his private prayer, which deteriorated into speechless puffs, a panting of gratification that became winded breathing even as his eyebrows arched upward in appreciation. We were transfixed. No one doubted his transport to realms of unknown sweetness.

And then, just as it crested, that sweetness fell back, fell away, and his legs stilled and his eyebrows dropped. He began to come out of it. He began to remember that he was alive, and opened his eyes in full consciousness, respiration almost normal, his color good.

"Well?" inquired Allison, on behalf of the rest of us.

"Oh God, the light just came up like a giant moon…" He turned toward Ha and shot out his arm. "You are a rock star, man!" He rose to his feet, pumped the air once or twice, then fell back heavily. "All the time I'm seeing the surface of death, man, the rolling surface of bones or the moon or something, just beaming this white death light that feels so good and I can't move, man."