Irregular Verbs (18 page)

Gao sighed, asking forgiveness for wishing his father gone, took the remaining slices out of the skillet then laid them on a waiting bed of steamed and salted greens and white rice. He took the plate with rice, greens and “duck” in one hand and a platter with ten small bowls on it in the other and went out to the front room.

“—so there we were, bound to make dinner for an official of the Fifth Rank and his family and all the salt brokers on strike—nhoGao, have you brought dinner?” The crowd of mourners had grown since the afternoon, with the new arrivals more than making up for the few that had left—word that one of the best restaurants in town was giving out free food had gotten around.

Gao nodded, not quite able to speak. For all the justification Mienme had given him he could not escape the fact that he was giving his father something he would not like. Someone was rolling his stomachs into dumplings as he spooned out the first bowl of Trianha Thiviei.

His father sniffed at the bowl. “Is this duck?” he asked, his brow furrowed.

No sense adding a lie to his long list of crimes. “No, father—it’s Temple Style. I made it because—because Mienme was worried about what will happen when you stand before the Judge of Fate.”

“Is that so? What a kind girl she is.” His father took up his sticks, brought a piece to his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

“Yes, father. She is very concerned about your trial.” Gao felt like a pot of hot tea had been poured down his throat, wondered what punishments awaited him as a result of this.

“You know,” his father said finally, “maybe it’s because I’m dead, but I don’t think I gave this stuff a fair chance last time. It’s really quite good—and for my soul, too, eh?” He laughed. Gao echoed him nervously. “Needs a bit more salt, though. Which reminds me, I was just telling them the story of the big salt brokers’ strike—you know this one, it’s a good story—”

Gao nodded, served the other mourners silently then went out the front door, leaned hard against the wall. He was not sure which was worse, that the plan had failed or that he had hoped it would succeed. Either way things were no better—his father was enjoying his mourning party as much as ever and the number of guests was only increasing.

As he stood in the cool, incense-perfumed night air Nep Gao became aware of bells ringing in the distance. Not the familiar dull tone of temple bells but a higher chime, three strokes, silence, three strokes. The palace bells, he realized. Whoever it was they had been burning incense for earlier—and from the number of bells it had to be an official of the Third Rank, someone in the royal family—had died. He had just pieced this together when he heard a voice call his name. He turned, saw coming down the dark street a man with two heads, one higher than the other. Gao squinted to see better but the second head was still there.

“Yes?” he asked, wondering if this was an agent of the Courts of Hell come to take him to his punishment early.

“We require a service of you,” the man said. He stepped into the small pool of light cast by the torch above the door and showed himself to be two men, one riding in a basket on the other’s back. It was the man in the basket, who was wearing the lacquered red headdress of an official of the seventh rank, who had spoken. Gao immediately dropped to his knees.

“How can your humble servant help you?” he asked, unable to keep from staring at the man’s dangling feet in their white deerskin slippers. That was the reason for the basket, of course; the slippers, which had to be a gift from someone in the royal family, could not be permitted to touch the ground in this part of the city, but the street was too narrow for a palanquin.

“The Emperor’s favourite uncle has died,” the man said. “We are preparing the mourning party for him and have heard of the effect your cooking has had. The Emperor would like the honour shown to his uncle that has been shown to your father.”

“I’m not sure I can—” Gao began, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

“The Emperor would consider it an insult if the same honour was not shown to his uncle,” the man said firmly. “Take this.” The man handed a small jade token to the servant whose back he was riding, who then handed it to Gao. “This will let you and anyone helping you onto the palace grounds. You may keep it when you are done.” Without waiting for an answer he gave his mount a quick kick in the thigh, making him turn around and head back down the street.

Minutes later Gao was lying on the mat in the back dining room, a bag of cold clay on his head and a dozen mint leaves in his mouth. He chewed the mint to control heartburn, but it was not helping tonight.

“How did it go?” Mienme’s voice came from the window.

Gao stood up, opened the door. Mienme pulled herself through the window by her arms, still the adventurous girl she had always been. “Worse and worse,” he said, and proceeded to tell her everything that had happened.

“Actually,” she said after he had finished his litany, “this could work out well for us.”

“How can this be good?” Gao asked, accidentally swallowing the mass of mint in his mouth. “The restaurant is already nearly broke, and now we have to serve food fit for an official of the Third Rank. We’ll be ruined—I’ll be lucky if I escape with my head.”

“Just listen,” Mienme said. “Your father can’t complain if you give all the best food to the royal mourning party—imagine what that jade token on the wall could do for business at his restaurant. So you can’t be blamed for just serving him simple food, and when you do that the mourners will stop coming, and the party will be over.”

“You may be right,” he said slowly. He drew the token out from his belt pouch, ran his fingers over its cool, smooth surface. “Yes, of course. If we’re cooking for the Emperor’s uncle, he can’t complain if we give him nothing but rice and millet gruel. Even the Judge of Fate couldn’t complain.” He held the token up against the wall. “I must have done a very good deed in my last life to deserve you.”

“In that case,” she said, grinning impishly, “come here and give me a kiss while you’re still all minty.”

Sometimes he wondered if her parents knew their daughter at all.

The next morning he was up at dawn, fishing carp out of the pond in the back garden. Once the fish were splashing in their wooden bucket he took his small knife and cut a half-dozen lilies from the surface of the pond to make into a sauce for the fish—fish fresh enough for the Emperor’s uncle. These were the last two items he needed for the day’s meals; after making sure the jade token was still in his belt pouch he went into the kitchen, put on his grocery basket, and went out into the front room. His father’s ghost was regaling two sleepy mourners with his adventures, while several more lay sprawled on sleeping mats around the room.

“—of course, a pig that smart you don’t eat all at—nhoGao, do you have breakfast ready already?”

“I can’t cook for you today, father, remember? I left a crabmeat and pork casserole in the oven, you can ask one of the mourners to get it out for you in a few hours, and I’ll send you dumplings for the afternoon.”

“Of course, of course—I’d almost forgotten. You’ll do us proud at the palace, I’m sure—and what a story it’ll make, cooking for the Emperor’s uncle.” Despite his words he did not seem very happy, and Gao wondered if he was finally starting to fade. Crab and pork casserole was not exactly gruel, but it was not the food Doi Thiviei was used to, either. He felt a sudden pain in his chest, hoped that if his father were to depart today it would not be until after he got back to the restaurant.

He had never been to the palace before. Despite the fact that it was at the centre of the city, few people ever received an invitation to go. Those who went without an invitation, hoping to poach the Emperor’s white deer, usually wound up as permanent guests—or came home over the course of several days, one piece at a time. As he reached the gate he could not help worrying that the whole thing had been a colossal hoax, that the guards would take his jade seal and his groceries and send him away. When he showed them the token, however, they stood to either side of the gate, and one was assigned to lead him to the palace kitchens.

“How long ago did the noble official die?” Gao asked the soldier.

“The man walked a few steps in silence before finally answering. “Yesterday afternoon,” he said. Like most soldiers he had a heavy provincial accent, which perhaps explained his reluctance to speak. “Didn’t you hear the bells?”

“I’ve been busy,” Gao muttered. “Have you seen his ghost?”

The soldier again kept silent for a few moments, then spoke, no expression crossing his face. “No. But I hear it is very pale. He was an old man, and sick for a long time.”

Gao cursed inwardly. Except for short, violent deaths, long illnesses were the worst. They left a person glad to die, and not inclined to hang around too long afterward. He thanked the guard when they reached the kitchen and got to work unpacking his groceries. He had planned a light breakfast, fried wheat noodles sprinkled with sugar and black vinegar, in case the ghost was not too solid. Then he hoped that by lunch he would be able to serve the carp balls in lotus sauce and crisply fried eel to a more receptive audience.

It was not to be. The Emperor’s uncle was vaporous, not interested in talking or even listening to the zither. The mourning party was somber, the guests mostly relatives and lower officials who were attending out of duty rather than friendship. They picked at the delicacies Gao served, leaving the rest for palace servants who could not believe their luck. The ghost, meanwhile, ate only a bite from each dish, pausing neither to smell nor taste any of them.

By mid-afternoon Gao was getting nervous. He had not managed to keep the Emperor’s uncle from fading at all, knew that the official who had hired him would not be pleased. If he could have managed even two or three days things would have been all right, but if he could only make the royal ghost stay a day and a night it would look like an insult. He wished Mienme was there to help him.

Finally he resolved there was only one thing he could do: make the most elaborate, most spectacular dish he could, so that he would not be faulted for lack of effort. He settled on a recipe one of his brothers had found in a small village on the southern coast,
mau anh dem
—Yellow Lantern Fish. He sent a runner to the fish market for the freshest yellowfish he could find, telling him to look for clear eyes and a smell of seaweed. When the boy returned he began to carefully cut and notch the scaled, gutted fish and boil a deep pot of oil on a portable burner.

Minutes before dinner was due he ordered the burner be carried into the room where the mourning party was taking place, followed behind carrying the fish himself. Though he could not look at the faces of any of the guests he could tell few if any of them wanted to be there. The most enthusiastic of them, if not the wisest, were using this as an opportunity to get drunk. Even the zither player sounded almost as though he was singing in his sleep. At the middle of it all was the ghost, silent and uninterested in what was going on around him.

Gao had the burner and pot of oil placed in front of the royal ghost, waited a few minutes while the oil returned to the proper temperature. Then, with enough of a flourish to make sure all eyes were on him, he dropped the fish into the oil. In seconds it blossomed out like a paper lantern, its flesh turning golden and crispy. It was a dish designed to impress even the most jaded crowd, and it did not fail him: the guests pressed forward to get a better look and eagerly handed him their plates. Before the first bite was taken, however, Gao knew he had failed. Unlike the guests the Emperor’s uncle was still withdrawn, uninterested, not bothering to eat or even smell the fish.

My life is over, Gao thought as he walked home. If the Emperor’s uncle had faded away by morning he would be blamed, and that was sure to kill business if it did not kill him. Just then he realized that in all of his worry about the Emperor’s uncle he had forgotten to send the lunch dumplings he had made for his father’s mourning party. Without food the party was sure to have broken up by now, his father likely faded away. He suddenly regretted not listening to any of the stories his father had told over the last few weeks, too busy cooking and worrying about the restaurant. He had heard them all a dozen or more times, but now might never get a chance to hear them again.

When he neared the restaurant, however, he saw lights inside and heard voices. Creeping into the front dining room he saw his father still holding court before a half-dozen mourners, the room strewn with empty bowls and teacups.

“NhoGao, is that you?” his father asked, spotting him as he tried to slink past into the kitchen. “How did it go at the palace?”

Gao shook his head slowly. “I am sorry I was not able to send you the food I made for the day,” he said. “I was busy with—”

“Don’t worry about us—we don’t need food to keep the party going. Besides, I know where you hide the pig knuckles. Now, where was I . . . ?”

Watching his father, more solid than ever, Gao wondered what it was he had done so wrong at the palace and so right here. He had made dishes for the Emperor’s uncle that were twice as elaborate as anything he had ever made at the restaurant, but had left the royal ghost cold. His father, meanwhile, looked likely to remain among the living indefinitely on a diet of pig’s knuckles. I must be missing something, he thought. If only Mienme were here to help me think. She would say, if it’s not the food—

“Father, can you come with me for a few minutes?” he asked suddenly, interrupting his father in the middle of the story of the
seo nuc
game he had played against a beggar who had turned out to be an exiled general.

“I suppose,” his father said, puzzled. “I can finish this story later. Where are we going?”

Without pausing to answer his father’s questions Gao rushed back to the palace, flashing the jade token to the puzzled guard. The mourning party was down to just a few diehards, likely trying to win points with the Emperor. The royal ghost was hardly visible, a thin grey mist barely recognizable as once having been human.