Paul Theroux: The Mosquito Coast

"Nuthun."

"You're the witness, Charlie."

Polski laughed. "Only his eyes are all swole shut."

Father tipped some of the water out of the glass, seeming to measure it in splashes until there was about an inch left. He put the glass inside the metal compartment, closed the flap, closed the door, closed the hasp, then lit a match.

Polski said, "Don't tell me you're going to cook that glass of water."

"I've got better things to do."

"Likewise!"

Polski moved his lips after this. He was boiling.

Father said, "You won't be disappointed."

"What's that stink? Kerosene?"

"Correct. Range oil. Cheapest fuel in America."

"And smelliest."

Father said, "Opinions vary."

This made Polski gobble. "And you say you're not cooking anything?"

"Not exactly."

Father was enjoying himself. He worked at the back of the wooden box, where the tubing and the heating element were. Worm Tub was a good name for this crate of pipe joints. He had lighted a wick that was fed and moistened by a spout on the fuel tank, and adjusting the flame he sent bats of sticky soot out of the chimney. There was a gurgle inside, the sound a hungry stomach makes, but apart from this surge of discontented squirts in the tubes, nothing no motor and not much heat.

"Does she burp or fart?" Father said. "That's what you're asking yourself."

Polski grunted with embarrassment and clicked his eyes and looked impatient as he fussed his footsoles over pebbles. Heat, loose weeds of it, were growing blackly out of the chimney. Polski backed away.

"If them pipes are sealed, she'll blow up," he said. "Pressure."

"Hide in your house if you want," Father said. "But she's got a full set of safety valves. Reason she's smoking is I've got her turned up full blast. For demonstration purposes." He snatched at his visor. "She can take it."

He looked proudly upon it, and he seemed so certain of it, so carelessly confident, that I half expected it to wheeze open with a boom of flame and explode in his face. We had had other explosions. "Just testing," Father would say. The workshop ceiling was scorched, and Father had not lost the tip of his finger opening a can of tuna fish, as he sometimes claimed.

Polski said, "If I ever wanted to cook a glass of water, I'd shove it on the front burner. Only I never veally wanted to voast a glass of water."

Polski looked at me for approval, and then turned gloomy when he saw the column of greasy smoke. His head turtled into his shoulders, and he squinted, awaiting the bang.

Father winked at me. "Like the way she purrs?"

"Vumble, vumble," Polski said.

"Not a wire anywhere," Father said, walking slowly around the box. "She's not connected to anything. I've got nothing up my sleeve. No moving parts, Doctor. Nothing to wear out. Last forever."

"Just the ticket for my chicken coop," Polski said, and he looked at me. "During the winter. It'd keep the birds warm as toast and laying vegular if it didn't kill them with fumes."

"He's a great kidder," Father said. "The fumes can be rectified. It's all a matter of fine adjustment. I only want to show you what she's capable of."

"I'd say she's capable of putting skunks out of business."

Polski cleared his throat, then spat, and toed dust onto the medallion of spittle.

Father said, "How's the old asparagus?"

"Too damn much of it. It's this dry weather. It's shooting up in this heat. It's mostly all vipe. I've got more than I can store."

Mowah than I can stowah.

"Sell it, then," Father said.

"They'd like that."

"Everyone likes asparagus."

"The market's glutted," Polski said. He filled his jaws with spit and used a jet of it like a reply. "I wouldn't tell you what I'm getting for a pound. I'll be selling it by the ton next. Or giving it away."

"That's the idea."

"I'll be in the poorhouse."

"Sure you will," Father said.

"You too, Mr. Fox."

"I've been there. It's an education."

Polski said, "The cold store is chock-a-block. I want you to look at the fuses later on. I don't know how much they'll bring back today, but if it's more than a couple of truckloads I'm in trouble. I mean, we're all in trouble. Last year, I couldn't cut it fast enough. I was making a dollar a pound some weeks. This year it's vuining me. I'm buried in grass—"

He went on complaining this way and spitting and angrily nuthuning and sumthuning and kicking dust until finally, in what was almost a shout, he said, "I guess that glass of water must be good and cooked by now!"

Father said calmly, "Wouldn't be a bit surprised."

"Mind opening it up, Mr. Fox? I've got work to do. Show me whatever you're going to show me."

Father turned to me. "He wants us to open it up."

Polski was gobbling again. "You talk to him, Charlie. He won't listen to me."

"Don't plow with my heifer," Father said.

Drawing harsh bellyaching breaths, Polski said in a suffering voice, "For pity sake, Fox, will you see if this thing's emulsified!"

Father sucked on his cigar. He tasted it. He swallowed. He puffed and blew a smoke ring into the windless air. It was a blue hoop, it grew handles and pedals and a rider, it cycled away. We watched it slant toward the fields, pulling itself apart like a sinking comma from a sentence of skywriting, filling Father's pause with visible delay.

"Here we go," he said.

He unfastened the door and plucked open the metal flap, and without stooping or looking inside, he took out the water glass, flourishing his arm like a magician. He handed this to Polski, who bobbled it from one hand to the other, blowing on his fingers.

"Hot potato," said Polski. "I mean cold." He blew at his neat fingertips. "She ain't cooked. That's for damn sure."

Father said, "Go on, pour it."

Polski tried. He turned the glass upside-down and shook it. "She won't pour." He smacked the bottom. "She won't come out."

"Ice," Father said. The word allowed him to grin and hiss at the same time.

"Ain't that sumthun." Polski was impressed in spite of himself.

The Worm Tub was still glugging and squirting softly through its guts, the sooty smoke still rising. It looked comic and potbellied, like a fat boy with his coat open, puffing a stogie.

Polski warmed the glass in his hands, then jerked out the disk of ice and lobbed it into the rose bushes.

"I should have known it was an icebox," he said. "I should have expected it from you."

"But where's the juice?" Father said in a taunting way. "Where's the electrical cord?"

"Range oil you said."

Father said, "You mean, I made ice in a firebox?"

"So it seems."

"And range oil is dirt cheap. She's an energy saver."

Polski said, "I've got work to do. I'm buried in grass."

"Want to know how she operates?"

"Some other time."

"Stick your hand in that locker. Feel how cold she is. It'll take your fingerprints off. You've never seen anything like it."

"No," Polski said. "But I've heard of them. You've invented sumthun that was invented thirty years ago." Polski started to walk away. "It's like coming to me with a toaster. 'Look, no wires. And the toast pops up.' Fine, but it's still a toaster. And that's still an icebox. You can't invent an invention."

"It's perfection!" Father said, and Polski winced at the word. Puffection. "I perfected it. Those other ones were small. Inefficient. Low-grade coolants. They didn't know a thing about coolants until yesterday afternoon. Gas operated. Couldn't make an ice cube if you shoveled snow into them. Ammonia water, lithium bromide. Brine. But this baby" — and he touched it tenderly—"this baby uses a new formula of high-expansion liquid, enriched ammonia, and hydrogen under pressure. She's a scale model. I'm planning to make a huge one. What do you think?"