I Went Down (NaNoWriMo Read-Along)

1 Cal

From somewhere in the fog, the sound of a train whistle reached him. The sound cut through his revery and made him wince, for it reminded him again of Minnie and her reproaches. The damp was seeping into his shirt and he shivered; he should have listened to Helen’s advice and taken his coat.

Cal quickened his steps, hurrying past the lampposts which stood like wrought iron trees amongst the fog. Their curled arms rusted elegantly. The Torgove joined with the Lew and he turned away from the canalside to an interior street on one of the many silty islands which made up Delta Mouth. There were people here, and automobiles rattling over the stone streets. Most of those on the street wore dark coats to hold off the chill and Cal felt his dirty white shirt standing out like a flag of surrender. He slipped from the street into an alleyway. At the far end a heavy door stood open, letting out a glow of warmth. Cal threaded his way through the garbage bins and the refuse which hadn’t made it into them to reach the doorway. Inside would be another kitchen, another sanctuary.

He hesitated in the entrance, breathing in the steam and smells of food. He was hungry now; the stale taste of Minnie had faded away from his mouth, much to his relief. There was nothing he could do with her, for her, to her now, but she haunted him still.

One of the sous chefs caught sight of Cal standing the doorway and motioned him inside. The light enveloped him, the steam curled around him like a woman’s arms. Minnie would not trouble him here. 

He passed the long tables where young cooks and scullions were chopping, mixing, stewing and arranging an array of food for the lunch time meal. At the door to the dining room he found a lanky man with an extravagant mustache looking over each plate before the waiters carried them out into the velvet draped dining room beyond. Cal waited while he recurled a delicate twist of radish.

“Good morning Vincent.”

“Cal!” Vincent turned immediately to hug him. Cal returned the gesture, feeling the crisp cloth of Vincent’s chef whites bend beneath his touch. “You’re down around the face, old man. Did you come to tell me that Helen’s deserting you for the Hotel di Ferello?”

“No,” Cal said. “Not yet, anyway.”

“And yet you stumbled out into the street, unwashed and unshaven, and came, I think, directly to my clean kitchen.” Despite his words, Vincent’s tone of voice was gentle and Cal knew his old friend was only joking.

“Not only that, but unfed as well.”

“Unfed?” Vincent waved along a young man in the formal blue uniform of the Hotel di Ferello’s staff who was carrying a tureen of sweet smelling tomato soup. “My friend, you should not be hungry. We no longer sleep on benches by the canal. You could, if you chose, wear clean clothes and visit a barber, even have your shoes shined. We have the opportunities for culture now, though you seem to forget it.”

Cal sighed, even as his stomach growled. He had the management of the nightclub, and there was an entirely different sort of culture than Vincent had found at the Hotel di Ferello. A culture which was tolerant of managers who were haunted by dead lovers. “I had a bad night,” he said and then couldn’t resist adding a dig at Vincent’s high-minded sensibilities. “Anyway, I haven’t your breeding and disposition to culture.”

Now it was Vincent who sighed. “Yes, my mother taught me which spoon to use and to appreciate the taste of a pate. Don’t speak ill of her, there’s enough others who do. If there was anything to be gained by cooking the food of the plains, I would try.”

“You could introduce the fine cuisine of Angiers to the finer folk of Delta Mouth.” It was an old joke, for they both knew that the clientele of the Hotel di Ferello, rich Pelagoans visiting from the northern islands, wanted nothing of the inland food.