Макс Фрай - The Stranger

“Yes. Twice I’ve taken that step. The first time it wasn’t very successful. But it wasn’t a complete disaster, either, and I didn’t go mad. The second time, though, I managed very well. You might even say I was wildly successful.”

“Was that when you moved to the capital from the borders of the Barren Lands?”

“Just so. But I was lucky! If Sir Juffin hadn’t—”

“It was our luck!” Lady Tanita said. “If the Mantle of Death conceals such a fine person as you are, it means the World won’t collapse any time soon. Today I will move to the New City, to the very center of town. And I’ll open a new tavern. There is fierce competition there! And I’ll hire new people. By the time we’re able to stand on our own feet or go under, I think I’ll have had time to get used to the idea that Karry has just gone away.”

“Give it all you’ve got, my lady!” I said in all sincerity.

And I thought to myself that I hoped I had the courage to follow my own advice, if at some point the curious heavens chose to test the mettle of my foolish heart.

Lady Tanita took her leave, and I set out for the Main Archive. Sir Lookfi Pence wandered pensively among the preening buriwoks, absently knocking over chairs as he passed. Melifaro sat in state on the desk, dangling his legs, lost in thought.

“Well, anything to report?” I asked from the doorway.

“Nothing. Not a thing,” Melifaro said, enunciating each syllable. “For all intents and purposes, it looks like not a single crazy Magician has ever before attempted this simple way of preparing a quick and delicious holiday meal. Speaking of a meal, I’m ready to fulfill my side of the bargain right now, with you, Mr. Bad Dream. With you or without you, I’m going out to eat. Otherwise you’ll have one more corpse on your hands.”

“Will you accompany us, Sir Lookfi?” I asked.

“I can’t, Sir Max,” the Master Curator of Knowledge said apologetically. “I must stay here until sundown. And my wife is the proprietress of a restaurant, you know. A very good one. When we had just gotten to know one another, I promised Varisha—that’s her name—that I would never go to another establishment for as long as I lived. Except the Glutton , of course, but that’s in the line of duty. Working for Sir Juffin Hully, it’s impossible to avoid going to the Glutton . She understands that. I wanted to please her, and now I have no choice but to keep my word.”

“And what is the name of her establishment? I’d like to try it sometime.”

“Of course, Sir Max. It’s the Fatman at the Bend . It’s in the New City. Have you heard of it?”

I certainly had! The thought that the adored spouse of Sir Lookfi Pence was one of the prime suspects raised my mood considerably, and my appetite, too.

The Hunchback Itullo , the most expensive restaurant in Echo, is located at some distance from our Ministry, which explained why I had only been to the Hunchback twice. The first time I wandered in purely by chance, when I was studying Echo and its environs. The prices astounded me. They were extremely high, even by comparison with my beloved Glutton —not the cheapest place in town. This only whetted my curiosity. I simply had to find out what you could get with money like that.

But it was the interior of the place that surprised me most of all. I had never seen anything like it in Echo. There was no bar, nor were there small tables scattered about. Instead, there was a spacious hall and many small doors. A middle-aged lady with raven hair and a gloomy expression opened one of them for me. Behind the door was a small, cozy booth with a round table, in the center of which was a fountain. Tongues of rainbow-colored flames from myriad candles dispelled the soft darkness. Yes, the ambience was very impressive! And the food was no less so, though I came away feeling I lacked the education and background to appreciate the nuances of this sophisticated cuisine.

The second time I went there was quite recently, to buy the tiny packet of gourmet cookies for Chuff. From the looks of it, Melifaro wasn’t exactly a regular here, either.

“I feel like a complete dolt,” he admitted, sitting down at the little table. “A completely rich dolt who does nothing except torment his belly with delicacies.”

“That’s why I was so eager to come here,” I remarked.

“To feel like a rich dolt?”

“No, so that you could learn your own worth!”

“You’ve overindulged in your Elixir, Mr. Bad Dream. I feed him, and he mocks me! Mysterious Soul, Child of the Barren Plains—what will become of you?”

The door opened. The proprietor of the establishment had favored us with a visit. It was the legendary Hunchback Itullo himself, famous for preparing all three hundred dishes on the menu single-handed. For that reason, the customers of this elegant restaurant were required to have the patience of a saint. It was sometimes two hours before your meal was served.

“Please don’t close the door,” I requested as Mr. Itullo entered. “It’s stuffy in here.”

“I told you you went overboard with the Elixir,” Melifaro muttered with a knowing wink. “Shortness of breath is the first sign of poisoning.”

“Oh, you’d be singing a different tune if you had to go around smothered under this blanket,” I cried, nodding with repugnance at my splendid Mantle.

“Mr. Itullo, one of the secrets of the universe has been revealed before my very eyes. Now we know it for a fact: Death sweats! Sometimes, anyway.”

Melifaro mimicked an expression of inspired ecstasy, and waved his arms around under the proprietor’s nose. Alas, our host was not the most good-natured fellow in Echo. He smiled grimly, and placed a weighty tome on the table. It looked like a first edition of the ancient Gutenberg Bible. This was the menu.

I gave Melifaro free rein, since he was paying. If he wanted to waste half an hour of his life trying to understand the difference between Cold Sleep and Heavenly Body, who was I to deprive him of his intellectual enjoyment?

“Good gentlemen, if you prefer a crystal clarity of taste, I would advise you to turn your attention to this page,” Mr. Itullo announced with a flourish.

“And what would you recommend for a person who is accustomed to partaking of horse jerky?” Melifaro asked snidely.

“I have just the thing. This is a marvelous stew, which I prepare from the heart of a winded racehorse according to an ancient recipe. A very expensive pleasure, since one must pay for the whole horse. You do know, gentlemen, how much a thoroughbred costs, as well as the cost of the jockey’s labor? Not to mention the seasoning.”

“How about it, Sir Max?” Melifaro asked solicitously. “I’ll grudge you nothing, you know.”

“No,” I mumbled. “I’m more interested in the ‘crystal clarity of taste,’ if it comes right down to it. And it’s beastly to torment animals like that.”

“Some Child of the Steppes,” snorted the amateur anthropologist.

Disappointed, Melifaro poked his nose in the menu again. The hunchback muttered anxiously as my friend turned the pages in rapture; I listened out of the corner of my ear as their exchange dragged on. I held my burning face up to the cool draft that escaped into the booth from the hall. And suddenly . . .

Sir Juffin Hully was absolutely right about my luck. I was devilishly lucky. A weak aroma, that same wonderful smell of delicious food that was so out of place in the morgue of the Ministry of Perfect Public Order, now tickled my nostrils again.

“That’s what I want,” I said triumphantly and pointed in the direction of the open door.

“What might that be, sir?” the host asked in alarm.