The Stranger - Max Frei [183]
Juffin’s prognosis was correct. The next day, Madam Zizinda came to the House by the Bridge with her cook, and toward evening, yet another plump, red-haired beauty with violet eyes arrived, with two terrified cooks in tow. Since I had come to work fairly early, I was lucky enough to witness the spectacle. Only when Lookfi ran downstairs, red in the face and getting tangled in the hem of his looxi, did I realize this was the famous Lady Varisha, adored young wife of the Master Curator of Knowledge, and proprietress of a restaurant renowned throughout Echo: The Fatman at the Bend.
Sir Lonli-Lokli made a long speech about “how happy we were,” and so forth. Our Master Who Snuffs Out of Unnecessary Lives was simply indispensable in such situations. Melifaro stared at the guests in frank admiration, nudging Lookfi with his elbow occasionally, and bellowing with approval: “Good show, fellow! Good show!”
At last, flattered by our attentions, Lady Varisha left, gripping her treasure tightly. Poor Lookfi’s legs were buckling under him from the emotional strain. The cooks, whose ears were already adorned with the cunning embellishments, followed their mistress gloomily.
Then Melamori and I went out for a walk, leaving only Kurush behind in the Chancellory. The buriwok didn’t object—I promised to buy him a pastry.
This time there were no fraught conversations about my “non-human origins.” Alas, neither were there any passionate kisses when we parted. But I wasn’t bitter or sad. If this wonderful lady needed time to make room in her heart for me—so be it. I could allow myself the luxury of being patient. Nowadays, besides our waking meetings, I had my dreams, too.
I had only to close my eyes, and she appeared at the bedroom window. In contrast to her original, the Melamori of my dreams wasn’t the least bit afraid of me. She came very near, smiled, and whispered sweet nothings in my ear. She couldn’t touch me, though; it was as though an invisible glass partition sprang up between us every time. Nor could I take any action—it was so hard to move in this dream. I could begin to stir, but my mobility stopped there. Then she would disappear. I would wake up and toss and turn for a long time in bed, trying to pick up the pieces of my dream so I’d be able to hold it in my memory.
The days passed very quickly. At home I spent hours fumbling with my pillow. The process was still long and tiresome, but I didn’t mind. I was glad that at least something succeeded. How and why were questions I avoided asking myself. I couldn’t come up with anything sensible, so it was better if things just unfolded as they wished.
In the evenings I hit the streets with Melamori, and at night, on my shift, I twiddled my thumbs and chatted with Kurush. Then, a few hours before dawn, I went home to see another Melamori, the Melamori of my dreams.
Juffin seemed to guess that there were some strange things happening to me. In any case, he had nothing against my absences from duty. Whenever I saw him, I noted the flash of unfeigned curiosity in his eyes. A chemist leaning over his beaker—that’s what our Venerable Head looked like at those moments. Evidently, to him I resembled some sort of rare virus. I suppose I should have been pleased.
The culinary wizards really did start pouring into the House by the Bridge. After Mr. Goppa Tallaboona graced us with his presence (he was the proprietor of all the Skeletons: Sated, Tipsy, Fat, Happy, etc.), it was clear that Juffin’s brilliant idea had conquered the folk.
Goppa didn’t really need the Earring of Oxalla at all. Not only did he not know how to cook, but he ate his food cold and raw. Mr. Tallaboona brought two dozen of his head chefs to us. And while Melifaro performed the appropriate ritual on them, he gave his colleagues from the Secret Investigative Force an edifying lecture on the dangers of gluttony. The sly old fox knew no one would pay the least