Макс Фрай - The Stranger

The first attempt, as it turned out, was the most successful. The next few times I had to wait even longer. Now, at last, I knew why I had to suffer. By the time I left for work, I had four cigarettes—three that someone had already smoked, and one whole one. After wrapping up my loot and carefully hiding it in the pocket of the Mantle of Death, I set out for the Ministry of Perfect Public Order. With all the excitement of these otherworldly experiments, I had even forgotten to eat.

After yesterday’s historic occasion, I must admit I expected a huge crowd of chefs at the visitors’ entrance, all of them longing for permission to apply magic of the heretofore-forbidden 20th degree in their kitchens, and to wear the Earring of Oxalla to top it off.

Nothing of the sort. There were no visitors, either outside or in the corridor, or even in the Hall of Common Labor, where a temporary reception space had been set up. Melifaro was sitting in state on the table with the bored expression of the well-rested.

Sir Juffin Hully came out of the office to meet me.

“Unbelievable, Max. You’re on time today, and not three hours early. What’s gotten into you?”

“Don’t you know? I saw Sir Maba in my dream.”

“Really? And was this vision too wonderful to wake up from?”

“You really don’t know? He taught me how to forage for cigarettes. Underneath my pillow!”

“How thoughtful of him. I never would have expected it. And did it work? It did, of course—it’s written in big letters across your happy forehead. Strange, Maba never was a very good teacher. He’s too impatient to bother with neophytes. We’re talking nonsense over here, Melifaro. Don’t give it a second thought,” said Juffin, finally noticing that the eyes of his Diurnal Representative were popping out in surprise. “It means you’re going to have to work that much harder, poor boy. It seems that from now on Max is going to be spending all his time fishing around under his pillow.”

“Well, that beats sitting in an office all day,” said Melifaro.

I was feeling magnanimous, like every truly happy person.

“I’m not yet a lost cause. But tell me, where are all the chefs? What happened this morning?”

“Not a thing,” said Melifaro and yawned. “Chemparkaroke, the innkeeper of the Old Thorn, dropped in. It was really something. He claims that he can prepare his house special, the Soup of Repose , without any magic whatsoever, as long as the seasoning herbs are potent. But the Earring of Oxalla, he said, was a beautiful thing, and the customers would like it. He’s quite a character. He insisted on looking into a mirror while the earring was being affixed, so he could see the whole process. I thought I’d have some fun, and called in the junior staff. The boys crowded around Chemparkaroke, each of them holding a mirror so that he might see his reflection from many different angles at once. I put the earring in, wailing some terrible incantations at the top of my lungs, half of them made up right on the spot. The fellow was ecstatic! He pirouetted in front of the mirror for half an hour, at the same time inviting all the policemen to his establishment. Finally he turned to me, told me he liked the earring, and left. Now there’s a full house at the Old Thorn, no doubt.”

“Do you mean to say that Chemparkaroke was the only one who came by for an earring? And he didn’t need magic at all, if he is to be believed? What is this, Juffin?” I asked my boss in consternation. “It was such an achievement—persuading Grand Magician Nuflin, and so forth. And now the idiots . . .”

“That’s precisely the point. They’re not idiots at all. They’re just sensible, cautious gentlemen. Do you think they would come running on the very first day? The Earring of Oxalla is no trifling matter. Do you know what will happen to the person who decides to indulge in magic of even the 21st degree if he’s wearing that little doodad? There aren’t many who could withstand the shock of pain that is inevitable in that case. Our amazing culinary wizards are living people, and they’re not quite ready to be hemmed in that way. Everyone thinks that if he breaks the prohibition only once he can hide from us, if he’s lucky. And it isn’t even the end of the world if he ends up in Xolomi. Almost half of the most important people in the Unified Kingdom have done time in Xolomi. But about the Earring of Oxalla there can be only one opinion—either you have it or you don’t.”

“Why not take it off?” I didn’t understand a thing. The day before I was so sleepy that I hadn’t managed to pin Juffin down and ask what the Earring of Oxalla really was.

“Oh, Max! Give me a break, Marvel of the Steppes!”

Melifaro held out for my inspection a fairly large ring of some kind of dark metal, clearly different from ordinary jewelry. It was solid, without any break in the hoop, nor was there any clasp. I took the thing in my hand. It felt heavy and warm.

“Affixing it to someone’s ear is quite easy, but it can only be done by a competent person. Me, for instance. This metal, as you see, can’t penetrate human flesh without the accompaniment of specific charms,” Melifaro explained. “And to remove it . . . In the Order of the Seven-Leaf Clover there are several fellows who specialize in such procedures. To go to Jafax, however, and say, ‘Hey, guys, take this hardware out of my ear! I’m itching to make some magic!’—well, it’s not the wisest move. Am I right, Boss?”

“Absolutely,” said Juffin and yawned. “You are so very right that my presence here is becoming superfluous. I’m going home to sleep, fellows. I’m as tired as a mad murderer.”

“Wait, so it was all for nothing?” I asked. “Your diplomatic stunt, I mean. The cooks aren’t going to flock to you in record numbers?”

“Don’t be silly. Everything will fall into place. Today the whole city will throng to Chemparkaroke’s. Tomorrow a few of his bolder fellow-chefs will report to us. In the evening all his customers will be lined up at his door. The day after tomorrow another ten cooks will show up. In a week we’ll be fending them off. Everything in its own good time, you see.”

“Yes, I see,” I said. “I guess I’ll be able to hold out for a few days.”

“What a glutton,” Sir Juffin exclaimed in admiration. Melifaro rose.

“I suppose I’ll stop in at the Thorn . I’m very curious—was Chemparkaroke telling the truth when he said he wanted the Earring just for esthetic purposes, or did he have other motives? What kind of soup will he cook up now? Poor Mr. Bad Dream, you’ll never know, will you?”

“Big loss. Run along, you pathetic opium-eater, you.”

“What’s that? Your tongue really runs away with you sometimes. I take it that must be something very improper.”

“Why improper? In the Borderlands that’s what we call nomads who hanker after fresh horse dung—so much so that it can be habit-forming. They also claim that it ‘brings them repose.’”

“You’re just envious,” Melifaro said, putting an end to the matter. “Well, Magicians be with you, I’m off to enjoy myself.”

“Who isn’t going to enjoy himself?” I murmured as my colleagues departed.

When I was finally alone, I went to the office I shared with Juffin. I poured myself some kamra and took out a little stump of a cigarette. Life was already wonderful without the Soup of Repose .”

That night I didn’t go anywhere, since Lady Melamori, it turned out, hadn’t slept well the night before and was too tired to go for a walk. But I did get a promise in return: “Tomorrow your poor feet will be cursing you, Max!” In lieu of something better, that promise was quite satisfactory.