In the Kitchen (13 page)

Charlie would know what to do. He'd call her. She would want to help. He wished she were here now, he wanted to bury himself, let go of everything and lie down with her and see nothing but the hollow of her neck.

He splashed water on his face, picked up his toothbrush and wondered if Lena had used it. Lena, his charitable cause. He ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it back out of his eyes. Why did he think he looked like a chef ? It was funny. If he'd spent his life in an office, would he look any different now?

He couldn't sleep and he was so hot that he was sweating. He stared at the cast-iron radiator that squatted fashionably low beneath the bedroom window, wondering if it was still on, though really he knew that it was not. At school, Gabe used to sit on one just like it at break time with Michael Harrison. 'Come 'ere, come 'ere,' Michael would squeak at any passing girl.

'No, get right close, I want fut tell you something.' He waited until she was close enough that she would jump away when he spoke again. 'Gabe'll give you ten pee if you let him cop a feel.' They did it over and over, sat there, warming their bums and cracking up. In those days if it was funny once, ten times was ten times as much fun.

He picked up a book from the bedside table. The Universe in a Nutshell. It was ridiculous how people bought all these science books, Stephen Hawking books, and never read them. Gabe seemed to have become one of those people but only because he didn't get time to read. He glanced at the cover and turned the book over and read the blurb, which he had looked at so many times he almost had it by heart.

He had to open the restaurant before Dad was too ill to travel. He would check with Jenny how long that would be. Get Dad to the opening. That was something he had to do. Get the restaurant on its feet, he'd be working all hours, Charlie would understand. They'd move in together. The restaurant would be going. They'd be living together. They'd have a kid. Good, he thought, good.

Go to sleep.

He switched off the light.

He ran over it again. Get Dad to the opening. Get the restaurant on its feet.

Move in with Charl
ie.
Have a kid. Dad. Restaurant. Charl
ie.
Kid. Tick them off, cross them out. Tick, cross, tick, cross.

He turned on his side and turned on his front. He flipped the pillow over.

It was Mum who should have been at the opening. Did he think Dad would even care?

Fuck it, he was awake. In a minute he'd get up and make a cup of tea.

In a minute he was asleep.

In his dream he descends to the catacombs and drifts in a phosphorescent light, a jellyfish glow on the walls, guiding him deeper and deeper still. He is afraid to touch anything and keeps his hands in his pockets, and lets the light pull him, lure him, pull him, until he comes to the place. The body is where he left it. He crouches to look at it carefully, beginning with the toes. Yellowing nails, a bunion, dry skin on the heel. Dense hair on the calves that peters out on chicken-skin thighs, and moving along to the genitals, don't miss anything out, a patch of eczema by the groin. The scrotum is hard and shrivelled, but the penis – he has to look at it – is soft and horribly long. Appendix scar on the stomach, leading to a chest that is, slightly but definitely, concave. He has to look at the face but he cannot. He closes his eyes and – gagging, retching – feels it with his hands.

CHAPTER SIX

IN THE KITCHENS WHERE GABE HAD SERVED HIS LONG AND VARIED apprenticeship, violence was not unknown, or, indeed, uncommon. He had been poked in the ribs, kicked in the shins, and – once – squarely up the arse. The chef at the Brighton Grand, an ex-trucker with a sweet little dog-fighting hobby, was a hair-puller, an ear-twister, a ball-grabber and was, Gabe sincerely hoped, locked behind bars by now. In his time he'd dodged a plate or two and taken one full force on the back of the head. There was that incident with the pan of boiling mussels and Gabe had witnessed still worse. These days, though, forget it. You had to mollycoddle them all.

Victor was at his station, filling and rolling trout paupiettes. His white coat was half unbuttoned, his right leg vibrated and his mouth puckered busily, as if limbering up for a quick knee-trembler against the wall.

'Take it off,' said Benny, pointing to his ears, but Victor was lost in the groove.

'Seafood frittata for the lunch special,' said Gabe, continuing his tour of the fridges. 'What else do we need to push?'

'Rabbit stew,' said Benny. 'Two portions. Three quail.'

Victor scraped out the last of the salmon mousseline, picked up the bowl and headed towards the sinks.

'Watch out,' said Gabriel as Victor tried to pass him. He stuck out his foot.

The entire brigade was in today, on split shifts, in preparation for the Sirovsky launch. The catcalls went up as Victor went down, hitting the roof as he hit the floor. Gabe walked round to help Victor to his feet, and unfortunately trod on his hand. 'You see why it's dangerous to use iPods in the kitchen? Didn't hear me when I said to watch out.'

Victor acknowledged the cheers with a grin but when he looked at Gabe there was a new wariness written on his cocky little face. 'Sorry, Chef,' he said.

'Apology accepted. Now get your buttons done up.'

They had to dance on their toes today and that was the truth. He wasn't taking a bullet for anyone. The kitchen was on red alert, every last piece of artillery pressed into action, the munitions piling up all around. Sauces and stocks cooled on the windowsill, the fridge-tops, the floor; trays of rissoles, samosas, black bean cakes formed barricades; every flat surface was now in the front line, including the bin lids which formed staging posts between the commis and their chefs de part
ie.

He had all his best men on the party menu, including Nikolai and Suleiman.

Gabriel watched Nikolai adding fines herbes to his spätzle mix, working the dough with his surgical white hand. Really, he thought, taking a moment, there was no better place to be.

Yesterday evening had passed in a dream, less real than the one in his sleep.

It amused him now to think of it, the way the fever had messed with his perceptions, the way the cheap TV melodrama scripted his thoughts. Hadn't he been imagining Lena explaining 'the whole darn mess'?

In the morning he'd left Lena on the sofa watching television. Everything had snapped back together, the fever gone.

'It'll be late when I get back,' he said. 'There's stuff in the freezer. Use the microwave, you won't starve.' Looking out of the window, he regarded the carnival of traffic, three red buses, slow as floats. London, love it, was crazy. He could lock her up here for a month and no one would know.

Lena chewed what was left of her nails. 'You don't forget,' she said, meaning the money.

*

'Excuse me, Chef, could you taste for me?' Suleiman held up a slotted spoon with a dim sum. 'I steamed a test batch. Is it right?'

The embryonic pink of the pork mince seemed to pulse through the translucent skin. In his mouth, the soft explosion gave way to hot salty soy and a ginger tang. 'Yes,' said Gabe, 'it's good.'

Suleiman nodded anxiously. He had a way of peering, as though over the top of an invisible pair of spectacles, searching for the missing detail. 'The gorgonzola custards – did you try?'

'I'll do it now.' The flavour palette was not enough to describe it. He dug another spoonful from Suleiman's little ramekin. It wasn't baked cheese; it was peat, moss and pinecones, a roaring hearth on a frost-cracked day.

'Awful,' said Gabe. 'Terrible.' He laughed.

'I surmise that you are joking,' said Suleiman, gearing up his most industrious smile.

'You'll go far,' said Gabriel. At least as far as the new restaurant. He'd definitely take Suleiman with him, maybe a few of the others as well.

Continuing his troop inspection, he came to Damian, dicing carrots for mirepoix. The boy chewed his tongue as usual; he'd choke on it one of these days. There was something scurfy about him, though he kept his chef 's whites clean enough. Ten to one he was a bedwetter. He needed to toughen up.

'What do you call these carrots?'

'Who?' said Damian. 'Me?'

'Yes, you, what do you call them?'

Damian put his knife down. 'Carrots, Chef, just call them carrots.' He jerked as if Gabe had hoisted him on a gibbet, which, in a sense, he had.

'Carrots, Chef.' Gabe let him writhe a short while. 'Fine dice, standard or large cut? What are these?'

'Standard?' said Damian, beginning to puff.

The boy was useless, even at breathing. 'They're not standard,' said Gabe, slowly. He wrapped an arm round Damian's shoulders. 'I'll tell you what they are. They're shit is what they are. Get the bin, throw them away and start again.'

*

'Was I too hard on him?' he said to Benny, on the way back to his desk.

'To be honest with you,' said Benny, 'no.' Benny was a natural-born peacekeeper. They could probably use him in Rwanda, or wherever the hell he was from. 'In my country we have a saying: the empty sack doesn't stand up.'

He wiped his board and replenished his towel stack. 'I never saw you give harsh words with no reason. You're fair. If you're asking me, I'll say that you stand up.'

Gabe made a detour through the pastry kitchen. The light, operating-room bright, made the space look like some sort of clinic. He could almost hear the sigh of rising dough, neatly tucked beneath hospital-white cloths. Chef Albert moved a toothpick through pink icing with laser precision and speed. He was working his way across a tray of biscuits, writing 'Sirovsky' on them all.

'Look,' he said, pausing a moment and holding up his hand. 'No – how do you call? – tremor. Absolutely none.' He patted his breast pocket and Gabe heard the rattling of pills. 'Beta blockers. What miracle! Magnifique. I have stress, I am stressed, my muppet – he muppets around – but all the time I remain calm, absolutely calm.'

'These are terrific,' said Gabe. He wanted to get away from the yeast smell, and Chef Albert's shiny, sugar-glazed face.

'Yes,' said Chef Albert. 'Beautiful. But you know what will happen to my little work of art? It goes into the mouth and – a few hours later – it comes out of the arse.'

'Such is life,' said Gabriel. 'If you need me I'll be at my desk.' He almost ran back to his office and found a fresh pile of paperwork on his in-tray, peppered with Post-it notes from Human Resources.

'It all witchcraft and wizardry,' said Oona, blowing into the cubicle and cackling over his shoulder. 'It all about the codes.'

'I thought F17 was the sick-pay code,' said Gabe. 'God, it's the second time I've filled in these forms.'

'Want me to do it for you, darlin'?' said Oona, squeezing into a seat.

It was why he had kept her on in the first place, he supposed; why the chefs before him had too. Oona's knowledge of the Imperial's bylaws and footnotes was encyclopedic. He used her to fend off red tape.

'A ting I need to arks you, sweetheart ... it OK with you I take tomorrow afternoon off ? I can swap a half-day holiday with Benny, he suppose be home tomorrow but he can come. Oh, no, not Benny, I mean it was Suleiman and then he gonna trade half a day with ... wait ... now I'm getting muddled but it work itself out in the end.'

'No,' said Gabe. He handed her the sheaf of paperwork.

'I wouldn't arks but ...' said Oona, one hand sinking into her breast.

'No.'

Oona's eyes twinkled, because she knew he was pulling her l
eg.

'I'm serious,' said Gabriel. 'The holiday rota is fixed. It doesn't work itself out. I work it out and that's that.'

'Ho,' said Oona, sagging. 'Well.' She slipped off her shoes and rubbed her feet together like a praying mantis. 'What about Mr Maddox's little meeting, in the Roosevelt? Want me to rustle up some nice tasty plates?'

Shit. He'd forgotten all about it. He'd have to divert Suleiman for a couple of hours. 'Thanks for reminding me. Consider your part of the job done.'

'Harn't you lovely?' cried Oona, leaning forward and, for one alarming moment, seeming to prepare for a hug. 'I'll whip up some nibbles quick enough.'

'Oona,' he said, 'no offence, but that's not a risk I'm prepared to take.'

Ernie nearly ran him over with a forklift piled to invisibility level with cartons of milk and cream.

'Driving blind today?'

Ernie parked the trolley. He scratched his head. 'There's no motor on it. Ah'm just pushing it along, you know.' For a poet he could be somewhat literal-minded.

'How's the world of goods-in?'

Ernie thought. 'Not bad. Not bad at all. The goods come in and Ah put 'em away. That's how it works, you know. Ah cannae complain.'

'I see.'

'Chef,' said Ernie, sliding a plastic folder out from between cartons of organic full-fat. 'Chef, would you be interested in buying a valentine poem?

It's a new business. Three pound for two verses, six pound for four.' He extended and retracted his scrawny neck.

'Valentines? It's only November, Ern
ie.
'

Ernie blinked proudly. 'Aye. Ah'm ahead o' the game.'

Ernie's trousers were too short for him. His socks showed and the elastics were gone. His haircut was an institutional scalp job and there was something defective about the way the Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. Gabe flicked quickly through Ernie's folder, time running through his hands. In this job, sometimes, you had to play social worker, whether you liked it or not.

'This one you'll like,' said Ern
ie.
'See what Ah've done? That's what you call an acrostic – see – it spells VALENTINE down the side of the page. Ah reckon to sell ten a day, say for the next month, and Ah'll be adding more, you know.

Mothers' Day, Fathers' Day ... You've got a Day in every month, at least.'

'Good plan, Ernie,' said Gabriel. 'I'm afraid I've got to run.'

The phone was ringing in his cubicle. Gabe snatched it up.

He was just hanging up again as Mr Maddox filled the doorframe. 'Good news,'

said Gabe. 'That was the inspector.'