Lawrence Looks for Treasure

Part 2 - Chapter 32

I found the restaurant, but was too intimidated to enter. I admired the upper class; yet, without Inès, I knew little how to act the part—I could perform for them on stage, but I could not perform like them off it.

The Maître D approached, asking for proof of ticket to third class or higher. I puffed my chest, and explained I could afford the meal, as I had money to spend. The boy, who could not have been less than five years my junior, was understanding to a fault, treating me like an instant friend. He explained that, though I could not sit in the upper-class dining hall, he would make arrangements so that I was fed all the same. I was shocked at my good fortune. All one needs to do is ask. He then led me to the server's quarters behind the kitchen, and brought me a menu. Sitting with the other diners was unimportant—the menu was all my tired stomach cared for.

The server's quarters was a large, square room, on whose walls hung artifacts of navigation, such as steering wheels, maps, and compasses. I longed to grab hold of them, and use them to sail back to Inès. I missed her wildly. What is life without love? The only company I had was my charming Maître D.

The boy soon returned, laying a white table cloth over the worn table at which I sat, and a white napkin on the lap of the worn pants in which I dressed. I was hot with humility. Despite my low position, the Maître D gave me the highest service.

'Wha'll you be having, sir?' he asked.

'The chicken, please' I responded.

'Tha'll be twenty franc.'

'I only have ten,' I said.

'I'll tell you wha, I'll give yeh the fish. It's usually fifteen, but ten'll do. It's meh favourite.' He stuck out his hand for payment.

'Thank you,' I said, handing him all the money I had brought aboard.

'My eye!' He responded, tucking my money in his sleeve. 'Thanks to yeh.'

It struck me that one usually pays after one eats, and one usually keeps payment somewhere other than one's sleeve. However, considering the unusual circumstances, and the unusual kindness I had received, I pushed the thought out of mind.

The Maître D left and returned quicker than it takes to light a stove. He laid in front of me a plate with the ends of vegetables, lukewarm mash and three large fish heads.

'Thank you,' I said, staring at the food. 'The menu did not mention that the fish comprised only heads. I have never heard of this before.'

'You aven't?' he said. 'My ear! It's an American delicacy.'

'Ah,' I responded. As I stared at my meal, my meal stared back at me. How exactly did one cut up fish head? It was all skin and bone and eyes. It smelled delicious, but that was all the more frustrating. I looked hard at the fish; the fish looked hard at me; and the Maître D looked hard at both of us together. I resolved to go after it. Taking my knife, I cut directly into the middle.

The Maître D spoke again, his face pained: 'My nose! That ain't how you cut up a fish head. Why, a man come'n ere the other night, cut his fish up like that, swallowed a bone, and died! Caught in his throat. He woul've lived too, if he 'ad simply asked one who knew to cut it. That's the truth.'

I was shocked by the story and grateful for the Maitre D's experience. I admitted that I knew not how to cut the delicacy, and asked if he knew anyone that did. Luckily, he said he did, and would cut it for me. The boy's kindness was unending.

My new friend, the Maître D, pulled his own chair and sat beside me. He took the fork and knife from my hands and began cutting the fish.

'All the meat's in the back of the skull, see?' He said, showing me a forkful of fish and then putting the food in his mouth.

'Yes, I see,' I replied, too shocked to remonstrate his eating my dinner.

'Just like this, see?' He said, showing me another a forkful and then shoveling it into his mouth.

'Yes, I see!' I said. 'May I eat my own dinner now?'

'Oh, I'm very sorry sir,' he said. 'It's just, we hardly eat here at all.'

The poor fellow. He was starving. He spent his days serving dinner, but wasn't given much for his own. It was all the fouler as he was a plump boy, who clearly needed a fuller plate than most.

I could see the sadness in his eyes, and I offered to share my fish with him. His eyes quite brightened at my suggestion, and, after sharing the rest of my fish, they seemed to positively shine. Sharing the fish, perhaps, is the wrong description, since so much of my fish ended up in his belly that I'm not quite sure we shared at all. After that, he helped himself to my vegetables and mash. In those, he also got the greater portion, I am sure. But I was happy to see him full and contended. I knew what it was to go hungry, and would not wish it on so accommodating a human as him.

Once we had finished, he walked me to the door to say goodbye. Though my meal was wanting in many ways, personal service was not one of them. He begged I return soon, but, having not a penny left over, I knew I could not. Soon enough, I was out of the restaurant, on my bunk and wishing sorely I stayed in Europe.

'Chris?' I interrupted. 'Sorry—can I ask you a question?'

'Sure,' he said.

'Why do you like this book?'

'I dunno,' he said. 'There are some good parts. Like, there's this part, hold on, let me find it.' He flipped back to earlier in the book. 'Remember when the Innkeeper convinced Dmitri to go to day-school? Remember what the Innkeeper said?'

'No, what?'

'Let me read it, one sec.' Chris replied. 'This is what the Innkeeper said.'

"Go to school and learn. You are not the first whom the world has confused, scared or sickened. It is the fate of all men. Most of these men, you will never know; few, you will. Those are the few who record their troubles. They are the artists, scientists, and philosophers, the historians, mathematicians and explorers. Their records, their books, we study in school.

But do not expect much from it. When I was young, school was tedious and corrupt; I suppose it still is. That is a lesson too. The world is not here for you. It is a child's dream to think it so. The mark of an adult is patience and compromise. But you must always try your very best. No supper came from untilled fields; no syrup from untapped trees.

Go to school, then, and try your best. Learn from your schoolbooks. More than education, these books offer help, extra hands to build your life. With enough of these helping hands, with enough patience, compromise and effort, you can build a grand life.

Afterwards, you may even join those distinguished few who record their troubles, write their own books, and help others build their own lives. That is the greatest achievement of all. Of it, I know only this: write about yourself and your discoveries in all its particularities. The particular is the universal. The mark of genius is to expose oneself, and, in so doing, expose the world. Though all are unique, none are alone."

Chris closed the book, and looked at me: 'Why do you like the book?'

'Same as you,' I said. 'Because of the good parts.' I felt more connected to Chris at that moment than maybe ever.

Chris yawned. 'Ready for bed?'

'Yeah.' I said. 'Night.'

'Night.'