Jam (27 page)

‘The tea-making.'

‘Ah, you noticed. Well, I think it's important. It brings together a couple of my philosophies. Sorry, that sounded horribly pretentious. My philosophies! I mean, well, my attitudes to living.'

‘What are they?'

‘Goodness, you're putting me on the spot now.' He sat down, and the sofa bowed under his weight. They were opposite each other, illuminated dimly by the glowing honey-coloured lights, cupping their hands around their mugs, as if in a bomb shelter waiting for the All Clear.

‘I suppose the first is,' continued Harold, ‘to try to beautify the little things in life. To instill order where before there was chaos, loveliness where before there was ruination, and so on.'

‘Like when you make tea?'

‘Making tea has the potential to be a very ugly affair. Don't you think?'

‘I suppose.'

‘It's an extension of respect for all of humanity. That of God in every man and so on. Curating the world for the benefit of humanity, so that when I pass on, the fruits will still be there for others to enjoy.'

‘I agree,' said Hsiao May emphatically. ‘That resonates with me. With one of my principal ideas.'

‘Oh?'

‘Yes. But first tell me about your second philosophy.'

‘Mmmm? Oh, it's not anywhere near as grand as a philosophy. It's more an affinity, really. For the East.'

‘The East?'

‘More specifically, Japan. You're Chinese, aren't you?'

‘Ethnically, yes. But I've lived all my life in Britain.'

‘Han?'

‘Yes, Han.'

‘Well, I'm ashamed to say that I've never been to China.'

‘Don't be. I've only been a handful of times.'

‘But Japan . . . now, Japan's another story.'

‘Do you speak Japanese?'

‘Hai, sukoshi hanashimasu. I'm just fascinated with the culture.'

‘The girls?' she said, regretted it, blushed.

‘No, no, no,' Harold chuckled. ‘Goodness gracious me. Why do you say that? The girls? Gracious me.'

‘Sorry. I shouldn't have. It's just that I, er, I'm sorry.'

‘No, no, don't be.' He chuckled again. ‘I'm just fascinated by the arts of calligraphy, tea making, meditation. You know, all the wee things that make one slow down in the world. Appreciate the moment.'

‘Yes, I know.'

There was a pause, and they both sipped their tea. It was strong, given a perfect degree of substance by the milk, and very clean. Simultaneously they sighed, and then they laughed.

‘So what was it that resonated with you?' said Harold.

‘It was what you said about curating the world for the next generation. Curating the world. That's a beautiful way of putting it.'

‘You think a lot about that?'

‘I'm very aware – more than most, it seems – of the dire trajectory that the world is following.'

‘Ah, climate change.'

‘Yes, but that's only part of it. Climate change, population growth, water scarcity, food scarcity. The world is coming under the most extraordinary pressure, and over the next forty years we'll have to do something to face those challenges. Otherwise there'll be all-out war. The apocalypse.'

‘I agree entirely. I've thought long and hard about this. It haunts me, as it should haunt any thinking human being. But I am always led to the same conclusion; what could I, an academic past his sell-by date, do about it? It is the responsibility of the political class, the business elite, to hammer out a solution for all this. Sure, I can vote, I can write to my MP, but is that really going to make any difference?'

‘That seems rather defeatist.'

‘No, no, not defeatist. These thoughts feed my interest in making the world a more beautiful, softer, more humane place on the microcosmic level. Making a cup of tea properly is a step towards saving the world. Bumbling around in my camper van. Inviting people in for cups of tea, discussions like this one. It may not make a great deal of difference to the whole, but it's the most I can do.'

‘Be the change you want in the world.'

‘Aha! A quotation! There's always a quotation, isn't there. I know this one. I know this one. Now let me see . . .'

‘Gandhi.'

‘Oh yes, of course. Gandhi. Of course. How could I forget? I should really write these things down.'

They sipped, again, simultaneously.

‘Well,' said Harold, ‘what about you?'

Hsiao May took a deep breath. ‘As you know,' she said, ‘I'm all about insects.'

‘I know.'

‘Insects are my academic interest, my research interest. But
they're also the basis of my personal philosophy. No, not philosophy. Theory.'

‘Theory?'

‘Guiding principles.'

‘How so?'

She was nervous now, for a reason she did not understand. ‘Let me open my cool bag. There. You see?'

Within the white interior, in addition to the cans of Diet Coke, there were various brown paper bags, various Tupperware tubs.

‘What are these?' said Harold carefully.

‘These are . . . I believe these to be an important component of humanity's survival.'

Harold raised his eyebrows then knitted them, thoughtfully.

‘Imagine,' said Hsiao May, ‘if there was a way to feed people on livestock that could happily thrive in their millions in very confined spaces. That were higher in protein, pound-for-pound, than any conventional animals. That were rich in micro-nutrients, iron and zinc. That were distant enough from us in the food chain not to pass on any diseases. That were cold-blooded, making them energy-efficient, as they didn't have to expend energy warming themselves. That were cheap to produce, cheap to breed, cheap to feed. That were natural recyclers, thriving on food by-products, cardboard, even manure. What would you say?'

‘I'd say how does it taste?' said Harold.

‘Delicious. Delicious. With the right recipes, delicious.'

‘I'd say is it safe?'

‘Absolutely.' She pulled out the smallest paper bag, lighter than it appeared, and laid it on the yellow sofa. ‘Here,' she said, prising it open. ‘Tenebrio molitor. A beetle larvae. Commonly known as mealworm. Pan-fried with sea salt and cracked black pepper. A great snacking food.' She took out a pinch and popped it in her mouth. ‘Would you like to try?'

Harold hesitated, then reached over and placed a small
amount in the palm of his hand. Then he raised it carefully to the light.

‘Not as I expected,' he said thoughtfully. ‘If you sold me a packet of these in the pub, I'd be none the wiser.'

‘Exactly. No yuck factor.'

‘But it is actual mealworm?'

‘It is actual mealworm.'

‘How does it taste?'

‘Try it. Look. It's perfectly fine.' She ate a handful now, by way of demonstration.

‘You're sure it's safe?'

‘Of course. I eat it all the time. It's an ideal snack. Healthy too.'

Harold hesitated again. Then he took a sip of tea. The little cluster of mealworm, yellowish and crusty, sparkling with crystals of salt, lay waiting in his palm. He replaced the teacup and raised the mealworm to his face. Then he cupped his hand, brought it to his mouth; the mealworm pattered on to his tongue, tumbled into the corners of his cheeks. He chewed. Hsiao May watched in anticipation.

‘Well?' she said.

‘Hmmm,' said Harold. ‘Tastes a bit like sunflower seeds. And a whiff of wild mushrooms.'

‘Exactly,' said Hsiao May. ‘You see? Eco-friendly and delicious. Now have a look at this.' A second bag joined the first; she dug her hand into it. ‘Roasted crickets,' she said. ‘You roast them as you would a potato. Then when they're nice and crispy, you pull off the ovipositors and legs.'

‘Now this,' said Harold, taking one in finger and thumb, ‘looks more like an insect.'

‘Do you think so?'

‘Yes, I do. Goodness, I barely want to touch it.' He dropped it into the bag.

‘Now isn't that interesting,' said Hsiao May, rolling a cricket in her fingers. ‘Why do you think you had that reaction?'

‘I don't know. It's evolutionary, perhaps. Insects tend to be rather dirty.'

‘Most of the world eats them. Always has. In India, in South America, in Africa. Children roast tarantula in Venezuela. Tenebrio molitor is factory farmed in China.'

‘Tenebrio molitor?'

‘The stuff you've just eaten.'

‘Oh.'

‘The Oaxacans are quite happy to eat grasshoppers, but believe that prawns are foul.'

‘Is that so?'

‘Yes. It makes sense if you think about it. Lobsters, prawns, shellfish; they are scavengers. They are also arthropods, but they feed on the garbage of the ocean. Insects, which usually consume fresh vegetation, are actually far cleaner.'

‘I see.'

‘Do you know how you bait a lobster?'

‘Meat?'

‘Putrid flesh.'

‘No.'

‘Yes. Insects are more hygienic by far. Crickets, actually, are even mentioned in the Bible as a foodstuff. So are locusts and grasshoppers.'

‘Really? Where?'

‘Deuteronomy.'

‘Now isn't that interesting.' He reached into the cabinet, past the bottle of Balvenie, and took out a battered, leather-bound bible. ‘Could you give me the chapter and verse?'

‘Of course,' said Hsiao May, without so much as a pause. ‘Leviticus 11:22-3.'

Harold lurched awkwardly to his feet and hunched around the dim light bulb, holding the ancient pages of the bible – his father's bible – to the glow. There was a silence.

‘I see,' he said suddenly. ‘Now isn't that fascinating? “Even these of them ye may eat: the locust after his kind, and the bald
locust after his kind, and the beetle after his kind, and the grasshopper after his kind.” All these years and I'd never noticed those little verses before. Fascinating.'

He closed the bible, put it back beside the whisky, sat down.

‘So,' said Hsiao May, ‘your reaction derived from ingrained ethnocentrism.'

‘Did it?'

‘Absolutely. I see it all the time.'

‘Ingrained ethnocentrism.'

‘I'm not being critical. I don't mean to belittle culturally assumed attitudes. They have a visceral hold over all of us.'

‘I suppose they do.'

‘This touches on what I'm going to be talking about at the conference. The need to bypass cultural ethnocentrism by transforming bugs into a foodstuff. Psychologically. In the popular imagination.'

‘How?'

‘Lots of ways. By changing the language surrounding it.'

‘The language?'

‘Yes. Off-putting terms such as bugs, insects, termites, worms and so on can be substituted for other more friendly ones: micro-livestock, chapulines, tenebrio.'

‘I see.'

‘Also by making it look less buggy. Insect flour, for instance. Or insect hot dogs. Or insect steak.'

‘Insect steak?'

‘It could work, so long as you get enough of them. So long as you choose the right species. A lot of them are too viscous without the exoskeleton.'

Hsiao May paused, marshalling her thoughts. It was going well, she could sense it. Harold had already eaten some mealworm. And he was reacting to her arguments objectively. Perhaps it wasn't so difficult to change people's perceptions after all. If they had enough intelligence.

‘Honey,' she said. ‘That's bee vomit.'

‘I suppose it is.'

‘In the nineteenth century, the Society for the Propagation of Horse Flesh as an Article of Food had French chefs prepare a banquet of what they called
chevaline
. It was a resounding success.'

Harold's brow was furrowed now. ‘Was it?'

‘Four-fifths of all animals are insects.'

Harold got to his feet and rummaged carefully in a cupboard. Instinctively, Hsiao May stopped speaking. Then Harold closed the cupboard and sat down.

‘Sorry,' said Hsiao May, ‘I've been going on a bit.'

‘No, no,' said Harold. ‘It's lovely to get somebody on to their passion.'

‘It certainly is a passion. With good reason.'

‘Indeed.'

‘Sorry, anyway.'

‘Don't mention it. Please.'

‘So . . . would you like to try a cricket?'

‘That's very kind of you, but I'm . . . I'd . . . I think I'd rather have a Rich Tea. Can I tempt you?'

Hsiao May smiled and felt herself blush. ‘A Rich Tea would be lovely,' she said.

Natalie

In the dream, there had been nothing but darkness. It had been moving, shifting, changing, writhing, and although she could make out nothing with her eyes, she could feel it. At times the darkness became heavy, and she felt as if she was going to be crushed. At times it became thin and air-like, and she felt sure she would lose track of everything. At times it seemed comprised of snakes of all different sizes, all seeking to insinuate their way into her being. At times it smelled of the medicine of her childhood; rotten apples; burnt onions. It stank, and offended her, and tasted of everything that was foul; there were horrible noises of grinding and scraping, and these times were perhaps the worst of all.

When she woke up, it was to the most blinding of headaches. It was pitch-black. She did not know where she was. The smell of skunk was in her nose, in her throat, in her lungs, in her skull. Her mouth was so dry that she couldn't even swallow. After lying there, compressed and uncomfortable for a couple of minutes, she hauled herself up and sat, rocking slightly. Her hand found her face. Wet with drool, water in her hair. God, she was so stupid.

Where the hell were Stevie and Dave? She had to get out of this suffocating car. She opened the door and emerged into the cold. There was a clattering sound by her feet and she saw that her new phone had fallen out of her pocket. She picked it up. The top right-hand corner was scuffed a little now, but it seemed to be working OK. It was then that she became aware of a patina of whitish crust on her hands. She spent some time spitting, wiping, scraping with her sleeve.