Arabesk (109 page)

Pulling a Sabatier from the back of his belt, Raf oiled up a sharpening block and set about giving himself an edge. All the while checking the fish, noticing its every curve and the geometric relationship between anus, eyes and upper fin, the way the scales changed near the tail.

When Raf cut, it was swift, taking his stance and the looseness of his wrist from a Sushi master who ran a dockside café his old boss Hu San often frequented. Raf spent one memorable evening there near the beginning of his time with the Five Winds, as Seattle’s most influential triad was named. And for a while, with tiny dish after dish reaching their table and Hu San chewing in silence, her eyes closing at particularly impressive slivers of raw fugu, Raf thought he was in disgrace. And then, when she looked up and smiled almost without thinking, he realized she intended to sleep with him.

He still hadn’t started to shave and she was in her late thirties, maybe more, but her tastes were for the raw and the fresh. Whatever, the moment never arose and as her Lincoln pulled up outside his flat Hu San dismissed him with a polite good-bye and left him standing on a sidewalk in the rain.

Raf cut three times in all. Once to gut the fish and discard its entrails. Once to fillet one side of the fish and once to fillet the other. The skin he’d already removed in a single scoop of his thumb, not using his knife and not damaging the flesh.

“Done?” Chef Edvard had asked, his face impassive.

Raf nodded and waited while the chef told a boy to fetch a set of scales. First Edvard weighed the entrails, then both fillets and finally bones and skin.

“Not as bad as I expected.”

Behind his eyes Raf scowled but he kept silent, eyeing a strip of skin so clean it could have been sent for tanning. Not a flake of flesh clung to the spine or ribs, the cut at tail and gills was near perfect.

“I’m out of practice,” Raf announced finally and the skeletal chef almost smiled.

Then came three questions.

Where had he cooked before?

Raf named Antonio’s pizza place and a five-star hotel in Seattle so famous that even the silent and anxious Isabeau recognized its name.

“This true?”

That question was for Isabeau. Asked almost politely. No one had said anything to Raf but he’d caught the glances. There wasn’t a single person in the kitchens unaware of her brother’s murder. Even Chef Edvard was making allowances.

“He’s been working for Antonio,” she said. “I can’t guarantee the other.”

“Why do you want to change jobs?”

“Debts,” said Raf. “Waiting to be paid.”

“I work my staff harder,” Chef Edvard told Raf flatly. “Believe me I make you sweat for every extra cent.”

And so the slot became his, at least until Idries’ cousin got released from prison, if he did. Two points went unspoken. One, should Raf turn out okay then Edvard might keep him on anyway, and two, if Idries’ cousin was not released, then Raf had the job until someone better came along.

But first Raf had to do a day’s suds diving to show he was serious. And do it for nothing. Those were the rules. So he scraped plates, hosed them down and loaded them into a washer the size of a small truck for as long as it took for some elderly Philippino to fry his own fingers in a red-hot wok—which was about four hours. The man wanted to work on but Edvard insisted on wrapping his hand in a towel filled with ice and ordered him home. Only the promise of a full day’s pay got the crying man out of the kitchen and into a corridor that ended in steps leading up to an alley at the back. Even then someone had to walk the man up the stairs and shoo him out into the alley.

“Want me to handle his station?”

“Screw up and you’re out.”

Raf took that as a
yes
and stripped to the loose cotton trousers he’d borrowed from Antonio’s and would one day return, with luck. He took a coat someone handed him.

“Nice scars.”

The chef’s smile was mildly mocking, as if his own might prove far more impressive if only he could be persuaded to discard his white jacket with the word
Edvard
embroidered over the pocket in red silk. And to judge by the jagged seams up both wrists and a yellow callus thick as tortoiseshell at the base of one thumb anything was possible.

So Raf cut lamb and braised goat, spatchcocked quail and generally kept the meals coming, on time and done as ordered.

“It’s not a skill, you know…”

“What isn’t?”

“This shit. Being able to do everything. That’s just a design function. You telling me you can’t recognize an adaptive mechanism when you see one?”

“Hey, white boy… You okay?” Raf looked up from wiping out his iron skillet to find the tall Madagascan standing next to him, frowning. A couple of the others were staring across as well.

“Sure,” Raf said. “Just talking to myself.”

“Well,” said Chef Edvard, “when you’ve got a moment.”

They went to the table, an old black thing that looked as if it came from a French farmhouse that had burned down. Fire damage chewed along one edge but someone, probably years before, had scraped most of it away with the flat of a knife and put that edge to the wall.

“Drink,” Chef Edvard said, pouring Raf a glass of
marc.
“And then listen… I’ve got a job if you’re interested. You know about Kashif Pasha’s party?”

The whole of Tunis knew. At his mother’s suggestion, the Emir’s eldest son was holding a dinner to celebrate his parents’ forty-fifth wedding anniversary. If both of them turned up, it would be the first time they’d met in slightly over forty-four years. The meal was Kashif Pasha’s attempt to heal the rift, a peace offering to his father and a sign of the pasha’s developing maturity where the Emir was concerned. That was the official version anyway.

“You want me to cook?”

Amusement tinged the old man’s eyes. “You’re not that good,” he said. “You wait tables… Still interested?”

“Oh yes,” said Raf, “it’s exactly the kind of opportunity I’ve been waiting for.”

Juggling a fat cowpat of harissa in her hands, Isabeau tried to stop it from dripping oil onto her jeans. Chef Edvard preferred dry mix that needed added oil but none Isabeau and Raf had seen in Marché Central looked good enough, so she’d bought freshly made paste.

That was a difference between them, Raf decided. If the old Madagascan had sent him to buy dried harissa, then that’s what Raf would have bought. The best he could find from the range available. However, he was there to buy lamb. And talk to Isabeau.

Raf sighed.

“What?” Isabeau asked.

“Chef Edvard’s worried about you…” He shrugged. “Everyone’s worried. So if you need to take time off, maybe go back to Tarbarka?” Raf named a town on the northern coast. The only town in Ifriqiya where descendents of French colonists still outnumbered residents of Arab and Berber stock.

“That’s why we were sent out together? So you can suggest I go home to my grandmother?”

“In a way.”

“Yeah,” said Isabeau, “I can see everyone liking that. Solves the problem doesn’t it? Isabeau’s gone off the rails so let’s send her somewhere else…” Isabeau’s voice was loud enough to make a man standing by the shellfish stall stop shovelling cracked ice onto a marble tray and watch them instead, iron trowel poised in his hand.

“I don’t think chef meant it like that,” Raf said.

“Really?” said Isabeau. “How did he mean it?”

“He’s trying to help.”

“No one can help,” Isabeau said fiercely. “What’s happened has happened. Pascal is dead. Nothing anyone can do will bring him back. I have to live with that fact.” Tears were rolling down her face, glittering trails of misery. “Nothing can make it better.”

Carrying a cape of lamb over one shoulder, Raf watched the crowds part to let him through rather than risk having blood dragged across their clothes. The floor of the indoor market beneath his boots was wet with melted ice and slick with tomatoes dropped and trodden to pulp, the green walls sticky with handprints and streaked with condensation. He walked ahead at Isabeau’s insistence. She needed space. Time enough to get a grip on her tears.

They exited near Bab el Bahar, the city’s sea gate in the days before the ground between the medina and the Gulf of Tunis was mapped by French engineers for ersatz Parisian boulevards now old enough to be heritage sites in their own right.

The bab still functioned as the main gate into the walled heart of Tunis. By law, no buildings within the medina could be changed from one use to another. Shops remained shops and cafés remained cafés but little money existed to pay for their upkeep so even the famous suq roofs that cast whole alleys into half gloom were pitted and peeling, cracked across their roofs like lightning, sometimes actually dangerous.

There were also alleys where people lived rather than just made or sold things. And the houses that lined these looked in on courtyards just as the walled city looked in on the suqs and the surrounding ville looked in on the walled city. Within the medina were small squares, the result not of planning but of enough narrow alleys meeting to make a passing space necessary. Maison Hafsid looked onto one of these.

The entrance doors to Chef Edvard’s restaurant were studded with nails, as was usual, and with hammered strips of black iron that formed crescents, six-pointed stars and spirals, this last being reserved for the medina’s grander houses. Both doors were mirror images of the other. Crescent for crescent, spiral for spiral.

These Raf avoided, heaving the lamb carcass around to the rear, where his struggle to lift it off his shoulder without covering himself in slime was observed by Isabeau and a boy sitting in a door opposite. Aged about seven, the boy was sorting straw hats into those damaged by winter rains and those still good enough to sell.

Every city was like this. Interlocking circles, poverty and plenty. As was every life. The only difference being that no one bothered to write guides about the picturesque poverty of London or New York, Seattle or Zurich. Or if they did, it was in no language Raf read.

“Has anyone asked him if he saw anything?”

“What?” Isabeau sounded puzzled.

“That boy,” Raf said, nodding to the child who was now watching them. “Has anyone asked if he saw what…” He stopped as soon as he realized Isabeau was no longer listening. She had leaned against the wall, near the top of the stairs that led down to Maison Hafsid’s cellar kitchens, hands over her face.

“It’s okay,” said Raf, which was about as dumb a thing as anyone could say.

“No, it’s not,” Isabeau said.

Raf took the lamb and the large lump of harissa Isabeau held, neatly wrapped in its grease-proof paper, and carried them down the steps, along a short corridor and into the kitchens. He spoke to Chef Edvard, got the man’s agreement for letting him have time off to take Isabeau back to her flat, then went back to the alley. Isabeau was standing exactly where she’d been when Raf left. The boy with the hats was gone.

Salt on his tongue. Raf woke with Isabeau naked in his arms. Worrying enough. What made it worse was a blinding headache and the packet of condoms by her bed. They were unused, unlike the brandy bottle beside them.

Taking one out, Raf squinted at the small print. American, which he could have guessed from its gold coin wrapper. A quality mark, a use-by date and a warning from the Surgeon General about retrovirus.

“Belonged to my brother…” Isabeau said, opening one eye.

Nodding hurt, so Raf just watched her go back to sleep.

The use-by date was two years ahead.

Very slowly, Raf shifted one arm from under Isabeau’s shoulders, twisted until his legs hung over the edge of the cast-iron bed and sat up, regretting it immediately. For the time it took him to stop feeling sick, he played that game where the room spun when he looked at it but stopped if he shut his eyes again. Between spinning and darkness Raf played a second game of remembering what was in the room and wondering, why?

Once expensive but lately fallen into disrepair, its sash window glazed with only a single pane of glass, the room was soulless, almost sullen. A small music system sat on a metal table, both chrome. Although the sides of the music system were ersatz, coated plastic. There were no pictures on the walls. No looking glass or dressing table.

“This isn’t her room, is it?”

“No,” said Raf, agreeing with himself. “It’s not.”

The room was emotionally cold and Raf imagined Isabeau’s real room to be littered with mementoes from a recently discarded childhood. A Cheb Rai poster. A row of those kitsch blue Chinese foals, piebald with dust as they rolled across some glass shelf. A vase, bad cut glass. An anorexically thin marble Madonna. The kind sold in St. Vincent de Paul…

Raf reined in his headache. Ran that thought back.

Someone like him, or rather someone like the
him
he’d become back in El Isk, might wear jade wrist beads while carrying a silver-and-coral Fatima key ring but neither Hani nor Zara would ever own something forbidden just because they liked the way it looked. Even a rust-eaten antique Buddha that Raf had found in a suq and placed in an alcove in the
qaa
drew odd looks from both of them. Mind you, it drew scowls from Donna and she was Catholic.

Which meant…

“Let me get this right,” said Raf. “You’re sitting in a dead man’s room beside a naked woman and you’re internalizing some seminar on comparative religion?”

Yeah, Raf nodded to himself. That was it exactly.

He’d fucked Isabeau. No matter that his memory of the exact act was bricked off with rising doubts, alcohol poisoning and emotional shutdown. The very fact he was having this conversation with himself was proof enough.

Pulling back Isabeau’s covers, Raf swallowed what he saw. Flash-freezing her high breasts, soft stomach and hips permanently into memory. Comparing her figure, despite himself, with his memory of Zara. They were alike enough to make Raf feel ashamed. The only real difference, apart from the fact he’d fucked one and not the other (and the one he’d fucked was not the one he loved) was that a small crucifix on a gold chain twisted sideways in the crease between Isabeau’s breasts.