Макс Фрай - The Stranger

“Whatever that smell is. And that’s what you want, too, right?” I stared meaningfully at Melifaro, whose nose was already turning toward the door in wonder.

In just a fraction of a second, his dark eyes glittered with absolute comprehension.

“Yes, Mr. Itullo. We’ve made our decision. That smell is simply incomparable. What is that dish? Well, spit it out!”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible, gentlemen,” the hunchback said, shaking his head vigorously. “And it’s not on the menu, so don’t bother looking for it.”

“Why isn’t it?” Melifaro asked, leaping out of his chair.

“The fact is that it’s a very expensive dish.”

“Excellent!” I exclaimed. “That’s just what we had in mind—something a bit more pricey. Isn’t that right, my poor friend?”

“Yes, my insatiable foe!” Melifaro didn’t even bat an eyelid.

“Nevertheless, gentlemen, it can’t be done.” Our host was unyielding. “It takes more than two dozen days to prepare such a dish. I have several old customers who order it in advance. I am willing to accommodate you, but your order will only be ready in . . . I don’t quite know how many days, since some of the ingredients are supplied by merchants all the way from Arvarox. I can put you on the waiting list and let you know when it will be ready. But I can’t promise anything.”

“Fine,” I said, with a dismissive wave. “In that case bring me something with a ‘crystal clarity of taste.’ We’ll discover your skills by beginning at the beginning. But please, no horse’s hearts. Apart from that, we are placing ourselves in your hands.”

“I’d recommend that you consider numbers 37 and 89, gentlemen.” The hunchback clearly felt that a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. “The wait will be less than an hour. These are true culinary masterpieces! What would you like to drink in anticipation of the meal?”

“Kamra!” I almost shouted.

“Kamra? Before the meal? But your taste buds, your palate—”

“Yes, we’ll need a jug of water, too, to rinse the palate before the most significant culinary event of our lives. And don’t shut the door, please. It’s hot in here!”

When we were at last alone, Melifaro launched right in.

“That smell is the one in our morgue, a hole in the heavens above your long nose, Max! Am I right?”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. My whole life I’ve wanted a larger nose. One like Juffin’s, at the very least.”

“You have terrible taste. Your nose is the very height of fashion.”

“Well, at least it’s good for something. Send a call to Kofa. Unfortunately, I grow tired too fast using Silent Speech. Let’s hear what our Mouthful-Earful thinks about all this.”

“Does it really tire you?” Melifaro asked in surprise.

“Try to imagine. Have you ever tried learning a foreign language?”

“I’ll say. My papa was always forcing us to memorize the mumbo-jumbo of some idiots who didn’t have the sense to learn normal human speech.”

“Well, then you know how it is for me.”

“I understand. Only it’s so funny to hear you try.”

“Come on, call Kofa, Mr. Ninth Volume of the Encyclopedia of Manga Melifaro. Or I may burst from curiosity.”

“All right, I’m sending the call,” Melifaro’s face assumed an intelligent expression to let me know that he had made contact with our Master Eavesdropper.

In a few minutes, two jugs were served to us, one containing kamra and one with water. Melifaro’s face melted into a more human expression again. As a matter of fact, the poor fellow was laboring under an overload of information and all the implications thereof. By the time the gloomy lady who was serving us had departed, Melifaro looked as though he was on the verge of fainting.

“Your nose is really something!” he blurted out. “Sir Kofa is almost certain that he knows the dish in question: King Banjee Pâté. The most outlandish rumors have been circulating about it for a long time now. Even in the Epoch of Orders not every chef had it in his power to make a dish like that. The problem is that rustling up King Banjee requires magic of no less than the tenth or eleventh degree. But Itullo is the most law-abiding citizen in Echo. He’s never been caught so much as dabbling in the second degree since the Code was written! So there you have it. According to Kofa, the whole King Banjee business is shrouded in mystery. It isn’t anywhere on the menu. Sir Kofa himself tried ordering the infamous pâté several times, but he got some vague promise that they would ‘put him on the list.’ Sound familiar? Among the citizens of Echo, there are several people who, in their own words, have tasted the delights of this pâté. Sir Kofa has overheard talk of this unique experience of the taste buds. Another curious fact—the lucky ones were not terribly rich. They were average citizens, the kind who would come to the Hunchback a few times a year if they could afford it, but not more. And Itullo suggested to us that it was so expensive, a whole month’s salary wouldn’t buy a portion of the grub.”

“He doesn’t want to get mixed up with us, that’s for sure,” I said nodding.

“With the Secret Investigative Force? Stands to reason. There’s something fishy about this pâté.”

“Was that all the news?”

“No, there’s more. Do you know where Boboota ate yesterday?”

“Gosh, it wasn’t here, was it?”

“It most certainly was. And it wasn’t the first time. It turns out that General Boboota developed a passion for luxury a dozen days ago. And recently he’s been eating exclusively at the Hunchback .”

“I don’t think his salary is less than ours; but every day, that’s a bit excessive!”

A curious and thrifty little fellow with an inordinate interest in Boboota’s pocketbook suddenly took over in me.

“Oh, it’s much less, Max. A general of the Police Force makes half as much as an ordinary Secret Investigator. Didn’t you know?”

“Well, that proves my point. I don’t like the sound of this, Melifaro. Not one bit. From what I know of fellows like Boboota, they don’t like throwing their money around on the sly. They want everyone to see them. And here . . . these idiotic private booths! Like some underworld den. It’s convenient for a fellow like me. I can lose my appetite when I’m surrounded by the unpleasant faces of total strangers. But that can’t be a problem for Boboota. Why would he eat in such an expensive place, if not to let everyone see him indulging his taste buds in solitary contemplation?”

“What’s a ‘den,’ Max?” Melifaro asked. “You’re a fount of new words today.”

I scratched my head. How do I explain what a den is? And why were the characters of my favorite books, with Sherlock Holmes leading the procession, always hanging around in ‘dens’? Oh, right, to smoke opium! And how did those visits sometimes end up? Right! Poor Boboota. But would someone mind telling me how opium would have found its way into Echo? And of what possible use it would be for people who can absolutely openly and legally, in the company of their families at home, partake of their Soup of Repose and boggle their minds to their heart’s content?

“Kofa didn’t happen to say which booth Boboota had eaten in, did he?”

“Just a second, I’ll ask.”

Melifaro again seemed to turn to stone, this time only briefly.

“Great,” he said in a moment. “People always take notice when it’s such a renowned person. Several times Boboota was seen coming out of the far booth—the one on the right, if you’re standing at the entrance.”

“Excellent!” I said. “That’s just where I wanted to go. How about you, Melifaro?”