IGMS Issue 49 (22 page)

The kitchen staff was leaving as we came in. Reggie began scampering around ready to wreak havoc but calmed down once I built him a bed of dish towels. Rhine seated himself on a tall stool near a walk-in freezer. With Reggie napping, I forced an apron and the Bwill equivalent of a toque on the fish poet.

"What's the point of this? You said it yourself, I'm not Nery. I'm no kind of chef. I can carve stonefish, but I can't cook."

Instead of replying, I positioned him in the middle of the kitchen, right where an executive chef would stand to command his sous-chef and the various station chefs below. But no, that wasn't right. Nery had never allowed anyone in the kitchen with him when he made his cribble puffs. Which meant he'd had to be able to reach and do everything by himself. 

Those legendary seven cheese cribble puffs had defied classification. A braised entree that was also a fish dish that nonetheless had the delicacy of the finest pastry. I moved Rhine to a spot midway between where
Nyonya Baba's
 poissonnier and rôtisseur would have stood, a quick step would take him to either spot. The pastry chef's station was a bit further but still near.

"Mr. Conroy, what do you expect me to do?"

I stood directly in front of him, and caught his gaze. "Ride a bicycle," I said.

"What?"

"Hestia Ambrosia." Rhine responded to the trigger I'd installed and slipped instantly into trance. His eyes closed and he swayed in place. "Listen carefully now. Let your mind go blank. I don't want you to think. You don't need to think. It doesn't matter that you don't remember anything of Nery's life. You don't need his mind to be a master chef. The memory of how to cook is in your muscles and reflexes. Your body knows everything Nery knew. In a moment, you're going to open your eyes. You won't need to think. You won't be able to think. You'll just respond to the needs of the situation. Your body knows what to do. Let it do it. Just go with it. If you understand, let your mind sink deeper, surrender yourself to the situation, open your eyes and let your body respond."

I stepped back out of his line of sight. Rhine opened his eyes, tensed and waiting.

"Order in, chef," I said. "Seven cheese cribble puffs!"

Nery flew into action. It was the same deliberate movement I'd seen on the pier when the fish poet's knives had juggled and carved a massive stonefish. He grabbed bowls and pans, opened cupboards and cabinets, sought and discarded ingredients and spices. 
Nyonya Baba's
 kitchen had everything he needed, and I watched as he prepared the signature dish that had died with him twenty years before. Seeing the intricacy of it, the elaborate construction of the entree, made me understand why it had never been duplicated. It was culinary complexity that made fish poetry look like throwing together a peanut butter and jelly sandwich by comparison. And then, after an eternity that passed too quickly, he was done. Nery placed several circular pans into a pre-heated oven and set a timer. Then he stepped back, tensed and waiting once more.

"Both of you, step away from the oven doors. Now!"

While I'd been absorbed watching Nery, another Bwiller had entered the kitchen. Her voice sounded familiar, and when I turned toward the entrance and saw Dugli standing in front of her, soaking wet and with a chef's knife at his throat, the pieces all fell into place. It was Plorm.

"Why couldn't you leave him to his sonnets?"

I eased Rhine/Nery away from the oven, positioning one of the station chef's tables between us and the others. "You knew who he was all along."

"Of course I knew. He was the sun to me. A pair of overalls and beard couldn't blind me to him. He made me all that I am. But cooking wasn't enough for him. For years after his death his students suffered the shame of his crimes. Now my name burns brightly on its own, no longer tainted by his. But you wanted to bring him back."

I could have kicked myself. "You tampered with the bottle in my suite. The steward who brought it was the driver, who was also a busboy at 
Stone Fin.
" 

"My son," said Plorm.

Dugli sobbed. "He tried to drown me, Conroy! He drove me into the sea."

Plorm shoved Dugli in my direction, freeing her other hand and drawing another knife from her belt. "This ends now. I didn't set out to hurt anyone. Your mad quest for Nery's recipe will destroy everything I've rebuilt. But you've conveniently arranged for everyone to be gone from here tonight, and every chef knows how dangerous a kitchen can be. A trio of tragic but fatal accidents."

The bell on the oven dinged. Reggie woke up and barked. Plorm shifted her glance for an instant to my buffalito. Nery snatched up a circular pan and flung it into the air.

Plorm ducked, but it wasn't necessary. The pan flew wide and high, passing harmlessly over her at great speed. She laughed once and took another step toward us, brandishing both knives. 

With a clang the pan hit the wall, ricocheted off, struck the adjacent wall, bounced again, and caught Plorm in the back of the head with sufficient force to knock her to the ground senseless.

The authorities took Plorm away to a forensic hospital to test for a concussion, and sent someone to pick up her son back at 
Stone Fin
. They took Dugli to the hospital too, just to check him over. Other officials suggested that Rhine and I leave the kitchen-turned-crime scene sooner rather than later. I agreed, but asked the fish poet to get Reggie for me. As he did, I found a clean, cloth sack and emptied the contents of two cooking pans into it from the oven. 

We left the restaurant and walked a while. Office workers coming off shift flooded the street around us, and if these worthy Bwillers found anything unusual in the sight of a human, his buffalo dog, and a transpersonified fish poet they had the good grace not to let it show. After several blocks, a pedicab stopped in front of us and the operator invited us aboard in broken Traveler. We set off for my hotel.

Rhine hadn't said a word, even after I brought him out of trance. The only sound was the cabby's feet slapping against the street. I considered using his trigger again, to understand and try to ease his obvious pain, but I didn't have that right. Instead I said, "Rhine, talk to me."

He looked up at me and reached for Reggie, pulling my buffalito into his lap and cradling the animal tenderly. That simple gesture broke something open in him. "I could have killed her. How did I do such a thing? How is it possible?" 

"You didn't do a thing. That was all Nery."

"No, you said you couldn't reach Nery, that he was gone. That leaves only me. I did it."

"Rhine, were you ever a champion disc caster?"

"What? No, I told you, I just fooled around with it as a kid."

"That's right. But Nery was the best on Bwill. He trained at it, burned the knowledge into his muscles. When the situation called for it, the body remembered how to do it, and was able to do it because I prevented 
you
from being there to interfere. Do you see that?"

"I... suppose."

"And another thing. Plorm was never in danger for her life. She'd been Nery's protégé; he'd never have hurt her. I don't know if some part of him still resides in you and knew her or not, but consider the cast that took her down. A double ricochet to catch her by surprise? Nery was that good. If he'd wanted to do more than knock her out, do you have any doubt it would have happened?"

Rhine looked down into Reggie's soulful brown eyes and managed a smile. "You're almost as convincing as your Caliopoean."

"I'll take that as a compliment. Now, what do you want to do?"

"How do you mean?"

"You're not Nery, but I could help you to recover some of the things your body remembers. You could recreate his recipes, maybe even become a competitive disc caster if you like."

He passed Reggie gently from his lap to mine. "No, Mr. Conroy. Those skills belong to someone else. I told you, I'm content to be a fish poet."

There was nothing left to say and the pedicab continued on in silence again. I offered Rhine the sack and he reached in and helped himself to a puff. I took two, one for myself and one for Reggie. They were still warm. I bit into mine and it burst in my mouth like a succulent explosion of savory delight. Beside me I heard Rhine gasp.

"Oh my! I think I finally understand what brought you and Mr. Dugli to Bwill."

"Yeah. Nothing else like it in the world. On any world."

"May I have another? For inspiration? I think there are sonnets that need to be written about these things. What did you call them?"

"Nery's legendary seven cheese cribble puffs. Sure, have as many as you like."

He laughed. "I don't dare. There wouldn't be any left for you or Mr. Dugli."

"Good point. He'd better hurry back if he expects to get some."

The End

Our regular reprint editor and interviewer, Lawrence M. Schoen, just published a book he's been working on for more than 20 years, and to celebrate we thought it only right to put him in the hot seat and invite his predecessor, Darrell Schweizter, back to interview him. Which of course is what we did:

Psychologist, professor, author, linguist, and (lately) hypnotherapist Lawrence M. Schoen may have once been best known as "the Klingon guy," but he is surely too accomplished for that now. True, he founded the Klingon Language Institute, edited a Klingon journal for thirteen years, and published the original Klingon text of
Hamlet
, but he has also been nominated for the John W. Campbell award, the Hugo award, and the Nebula award (three times). His most recent novel is
Barsk: The Elephants' Graveyard
, published by Tor. His other books include
Buffalito Destiny,
Buffalito Contingency, Buffalito Buffet, Aliens and A.I.s,
and
Sweet Potato Pie and Other Surrealities.
He founded the small press publishing imprint Paper Golem. He has also edited anthologies.

Schweitzer
: Tell me something about your illustrious self, your background, education, etc. When did you start writing? What was your first success?