Like a Mule Bringing Ice Cream to the Sun (8 page)

Being a chef at an old folks’ home isn’t glamorous. It’s not like cooking at some fancy restaurant with celebrities coming in and hooking you up. It’s nothing like that. No famous people here, unless you count the mother of some opera singer, but I ain’t never seen her. Only opera person I know is Pavarotti, and he’s dead, right? Basically there’s nothing glamorous here on the clientele front and the food isn’t fancy either. No caviar, no foie gras, no truffles, although, now that I’m thinking about it that would be kinda ideal for old folks – soft to chew, easy on the stomach. But I have to make do with just the basics and that’s cool with me. I didn’t learn at the Cordon Bleu. I learned from my mama then got a credential from the Man. But my real cred, my street cred, is from my building and my mom. Turning ordinary food into crack food is what I do. Just one hit of my cooking and you gotta come back for more. Besides, the expectations
are so low here; it’s not hard to beat. Plus there’s no real pressure – everyone gets served the same thing at the same time. All I got to do is stay within budget and make sure meals are nutritionally balanced and don’t make nobody sick. Old people with the runs ain’t good. The director lets me know that when I’m doing the cooking he never gets complaints – no notes dropped in the complaint box. But I don’t need him to tell me that. I can see how much they like my food here by how little comes back. I’m the celebrity chef around here. ‘Shit!’ I say, startled to find a woman, out of nowhere, suddenly standing beside me. How long had she been there while I was busy talking shit to myself? ‘S’cuse my French, ma’am, but I didn’t know you was there. You okay? You lost or something?’

‘I’m sorry for scaring you,’ she says, while looking at me like maybe I’m the crazy one.

‘Naw, you didn’t scare me. I just wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.’

‘I came to thank you for tonight’s dinner. It was delicious.’

‘Thanks,’ I smile. ‘That’s the first time someone’s done that. I appreciate it.’

‘So what’s your secret? Because from what I hear, you’re the best cook in town.’

‘Cuz of what you heard me saying back then?’

‘No, from what everyone here says.’

‘Really? Well I just like making people happy how I know best and that’s with food. Anyway, I’m Toussaint.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Toussaint,’ she says, giving my hand a firm shake. ‘I’m Morayo. And I like your name, Toussaint.’

‘Well that’s my mom. She was a history teacher so that’s how she chose my name. But you’re not from here, right?’

‘No. I’m just recuperating.’

‘It’s just that your accent sounded different.’

‘Oh,’ she laughs, ‘I thought you were asking me whether I live here, in the Home. But Nigeria, that’s where I come from. Originally.’

‘For real? Africa, word! That’s cool. My mom always wanted to take us to the motherland. So what’s it like?’ I ask, while I reach to turn the radio off. Then I change my mind and search for a different station. ‘Cuz I’ve always wanted to know about Africa. You know, I hear all these things but I don’t know what it’s really like.’

‘It’s like everywhere, Toussaint. It’s amazing, crazy, wonderful, and frustrating – sometimes all at the same time.’

‘And racist like here?’

‘No, it’s not. Other parts of the continent are but not West Africa. You must come and visit one day, Toussaint.’

And there, she does it again, pronouncing my name so nice before she tells me more about Africa. ‘For sure, I’d love to go,’ I tell her, smiling as I look at her feet tapping to the music. ‘And y’all have good music in Africa, right? Isn’t that where Fela comes from?’

‘Ain’t no doubt about it,’ she says, singing along to the song now playing on the radio.

‘You know this song?’ I ask, raising the volume while watching how she’s swinging her hips and clicking her fingers.

‘Evelyn Champagne King!’

She’s kicked off her shoes and I see some toe rings and I wonder just how old she is. Her right sleeve has slipped a little from her shoulder as she grooves to the right, showing a slim hot pink bra strap. I raise my eyebrows surprised that someone her age would wear such a thing. I’m getting a little worked up as I watch her move, which surprises me and scares me. ‘So what’s the food like in Africa?’

‘Well, I’m not a cook, but I do love to eat and there’s such an incredible variety of foods in the continent. As for Nigeria, there’s so much delicious food, it’s hard to know where to start. But a lot of the food is spicy which is why I really loved what you made tonight. Where do you get your inspiration?’

‘Oh man, I’d love to travel more and get even more inspiration, but for now I guess I just learn what I can from the way my mom used to cook and then from tasting different things in different places. I like to experiment and kinda make my own dishes. I guess I think a lot about what will taste good and work all of our senses. You know, the way the food smells, and the way I present it on the plate. And cooking in a place like here I try to take into account the restrictions that I know about, from having lived with my grandmother. So like if people wear dentures then that
means the food can’t be too chewy. Poor digestion means the food shouldn’t be too spicy and you need to go easy on the onions. So that’s why, to be honest with you, if I’d been cooking tonight’s curry just for me, it would’ve been a lot hotter. But just to make sure it’s okay with everyone I kinda toned it down, but still kept it tasty.’

‘So do you get to choose what you cook or do you follow a set menu?’

‘Well, usually the regular chef writes the menu for the week but seeing that he’s gone I can kinda improvise a little bit, as long as we have the ingredients. To be honest with you I don’t really like the suggested menu. It’s boring and old-fashioned. Most of the time I try to change it. So like today …’ I pause to fetch the menu so that I can show her what I mean. ‘So like, today we’re supposed to be having a herb green salad and herbed grilled chicken with a four onion quiche and apple pie. But right there, I mean, you can’t have two herby things and then two tarts! There’s no variety in that. Besides, nobody should be having four onion anything, anywhere in my opinion. So I changed it up. It’s like my culinary mix tape; the tracks may be familiar but the beats, fades, and mixes are all mine. Made a light curry and fresh fruit salad. And then I also like to think about the weather and create food that matches that too. So like for the birthday dinner next week, you can see that the guy has catch of the day with buttered noodles, but that sounds too heavy. And fish in my opinion just doesn’t go with noodles, so if I’m still covering next week I might do something like smoked fish tacos and then make something more of the dessert. But not a peach melba, like it’s suggested. I mean just cuz
folks are old here, not you I mean, but others, it doesn’t mean the food has to be old-fashioned, right? So maybe I’ll do a black forest gateau or some kind of tart maybe.’

‘Well if I’m still here next week then I really hope you’ll be here too because it’s my birthday.’

‘For real? Okay, so I’m gonna make something really
extra
special. What would you like? Like a carrot cake or a chocolate cake? I could even do doughnuts or cupcakes if you like those better.’

‘You know what I’d really like, Toussaint?’

‘Tell me,’ I say, now thinking I’ll surprise her with something from her country, like some African fruit from the Muslim market or the Asia food store.

‘So what I’d really like would be for my friend, Amirah, to make some baklava. I’d just need someone to pick it up for me. But that’s what I’d love. It is such divine baklava. You’d love it, Toussaint.’

‘Sure,’ I tell her. ‘I’m sure we can do that.’

‘Fabulous,’ she winks.

‘Fabulous,’ I repeat, and before I can check myself, I’m winking back.

When he asked me what Africa was like I told him all the wonderful things, reminding him, as I always reminded my students, that Africa wasn’t a country but a continent as varied, if not more so, as Europe. I wanted him to feel proud of where his ancestors came from. I wanted him to know that there are places in the world where a black man doesn’t have to walk around fearing the colour of his skin. So I told Toussaint all the good things – the weather, the food, the spectacular landscapes, but above all I spoke of the warmth of Africa’s people. Told him how modern the continent is, how he could go to malls just like he does in America. ‘So one day,’ I said, ‘when you decide to visit, just let me know and I’ll hook you up.’ Hook you up, I’d offered, as though I were his age, speaking in his lingo – even though these days I know nobody his age to put him in touch with. I was inviting him not just to Nigeria, but also to the whole continent, as if the continent were
my personal possession, my home. I was inviting him as though he were family, as though he were my son.

Now, as I lie in bed, I close my eyes to better picture my shelves with the spines of my literary friends. I am making a mental list of the books I will lend to Toussaint. I think of James Baldwin, Ralph Ellison, and Earnest Gaines as well as C.L.R. James. I suspect, however, that Toussaint’s mother will have already made him read the
The Black Jacobins,
so that one might not be necessary. And with his interest in Africa I could maybe give him some books on Nigeria. I have a few on Fela. And what about books relating to cooking and chefs? I could lend him
The Famished Road
and another book by Zola whose title escapes me. Memory. All of this was assuming that Toussaint had a real passion for food. But what if he didn’t? What if he didn’t really enjoy his job? What if he was only working to make ends meet? What if he’d like a different career, a better career? I fall asleep still thinking of him and my books.

The next morning, smiling at the swiftly vanishing threads of my dream, I go to search for Toussaint. He’s not in the kitchen so I return to the dining hall and sit with Pearl and Reggie.

‘Where’s our wonderful chef?’ Pearl asks, mimicking what I’ve just asked Reggie.

‘He’s not here yet, darling,’ Reggie answers.

‘Where’d he go?’ Pearl persists.

‘I don’t know, honey.’

‘Honey?’ asks another woman at the table.

‘Honey honey, touch me baby, ah-hah,’ Pearl sings.

‘Honey?’ the other woman repeats, looking for it.

‘No, Donna, nobody’s asking for the honey,’ Reggie explains. ‘Have you got your HEARING AID in? Donna?’

‘Honey honey, hold me baby, ah-hah.’

Madness, I think to myself. It’s madness here, madness. Madness. Old age is a massacre. No place for sissies. No place for love songs. No place for dreaming. No place for dreaming erotic dreams about a man half my age. And because I’m distracted, I’m slow to notice what’s going on around me until an angry voice draws me back.

‘What do you see when you see black folks?’ the man shouts. ‘They’re either in prison or they’re walking around, pants hanging down their butts. They’re loud, they cuss, and they’re dangerous.’

‘That’s what you see,’ Reggie shouts back, ‘because you’re a racist bigot.’

‘I don’t give a fuck what you say. All I know is that my granddaughters now can’t even play in the park across their street because of all the black thugs who wanna hurt them.’

‘You!’ Reggie threatens, pushing back his chair. ‘You!’
Quickly, I reach for Reggie, afraid that he’ll do something rash, but instead he jabs his finger back in the direction of the other man’s jabbing finger.

‘Reggie,’ I call as he storms out. ‘What about Pearl?’

‘She’ll be fine,’ he shouts. ‘Plenty of white folks here to make sure she’s okay.’

‘Reggie,’ I call again, getting up to follow.

‘What,’ he snaps, shaking my hand off his shoulder. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I’m sorry,’ he says, turning reluctantly to face me.

‘No,’ I tell him. ‘You’re not the one who should be apologizing.’

Normally I would’ve ignored the old man with his racist vitriol. I know there’s no point in trying to talk sense to men like that and yet something about that morning made me lose my cool. Maybe it was because Pearl kept singing her silly songs, maybe because Morayo had joined our table and I was finding it impossible to have a proper conversation with her above the singing and Donna’s interruptions. Maybe just because I was hungry. But probably it was the combination of all of the above and my fondness for the chef that made me snap when the old man announced, loud enough for the whole dining room to hear, that certain people are just born irresponsible and that there was something inherently wrong with ‘their culture’. This was how the old man explained the chef’s absence: categorizing not just the chef but also all black people as irresponsible and uncivilized. I was so angry that I might have struck the man had Morayo not intervened.
I left early that day and then skipped meals for the rest of the week so as not to see him again. And because of this, because I’d missed last night’s birthday dinner, I’d missed Morayo’s birthday.

Days earlier, when I’d first noticed that it was Morayo’s birthday, I had decided to find her a book. I’d gone to the library, thinking that if I saw something good then I’d simply take it and give it to her as my gift. Nobody much used the library, so I reasoned it wouldn’t hurt for a book or two to be put to good use in this way, put in the hands of someone who really appreciated them. I even remembered some of the African writers that Morayo had mentioned and looked first for these, but finding none I looked for something different. There were plenty of Agatha Christies in the library, which brought back fond childhood memories. But these, I knew, wouldn’t be good enough for a woman of Morayo’s sophistication. Not for an English professor. There was a biography of Mother Teresa, which Pearl would’ve liked, but I wasn’t sure how Morayo felt about biographies. Besides, such a book might be depressing and I'd decided that whatever I chose needed to be uplifting and preferably literary, like a Nobel Prize winner. That was why when I spotted
Dear Life,
I knew I’d found the right one. It was a new book, so I figured that Morayo probably wouldn’t own it yet. Even if she did, she would surely approve of my choice. So I’d taken the book and put it away in Pearl’s bedside drawer. And now, I retrieve it.

Nobody answers when I knock, so I try again.

‘Hello,’ I call, but still no answer, so I contemplate leaving the book by her door. I don’t have a card to go with it, so how will she know it’s from me? It’s still early, only 8 p.m., so I quietly nudge the door open, just to make sure. The room is silent and the door to the right, leading to her bathroom, is open. The lights are off and I’m about to leave when I peer around the door. We’re both surprised but she obviously more than me because she starts to scream and soon others come running and the room fills quickly with people.

‘What happened?’ the staff ask, accusingly.

‘I don’t know, I really don’t know,’ I insist.

Later, she comes looking for me and knocks gently on Pearl’s door.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says.

Her arms, I notice, are clutching a book, but it’s not the one that I got for her. ‘It’s okay,’ I tell her, for what else am I supposed to say. It’s awkward enough with Pearl trying to sleep and the two of us having this whispered conversation in the hallway.

‘I know you’re upset,’ Morayo says, holding my gaze, ‘and I’m sorry. I’m very sorry. I didn’t mean to cause a scene. It wasn’t logical, I know, but I’d like to try to explain.’

‘You don’t have to,’ I say, but Morayo persists.

‘Do you remember, the other day, when I read from the notes that I’d made in this book?’

I shake my head.

‘You know, when I brought it to dinner. Do you remember? And I read a little bit to Pearl.’

Now I remember.

‘Well I skipped a few bits – so here, please,’ she offers me the book. ‘I’d like to give this to you because it’s easier for me to share it this way.’

I hesitate.

‘No,’ she says, taking the book back and looking down at where she lets it dangle by her side. ‘I should just tell you.’ She brings the book back up clutching it closely against her chest. ‘Years ago,’ she says, looking at me, ‘someone, a neighbour, came to my front door.’ She pauses, but doesn’t look away this time. ‘I didn’t suspect anything. I trusted him and let him in. But I shouldn’t have. And that’s why.’

I read it while waiting for the bus. ‘Your body,’ it began, ‘seated at your desk with head resting as it thinks between the palms of your hands. Books on your desk, pencils wedged into the thick afro of your hair. Fingers tap softly at the keyboard. Remembering. Your body, shaking in
uncontrollable spasms, wracked with memories of your mother who once floated in a bath of blood.’
God
, I gasp, stopping to reread before I continue. ‘Your body on the toilet, arms wrapped tightly around knees remembering the menstrual flow and the drips that made red rings in the toilet bowl beneath. Your body constipated. Your mother telling you, ‘this is the way childbirth will feel.’ Your body unsuspecting when opening the door to welcome the neighbour. Your body fighting. Flailing. Being flailed. Your body in hospital, exposed, and shamed. Your body shaking in uncontrollable spasms, wracked with memories.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I mutter, ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Your body,’ I whisper later that night as I lie in bed, returning to thoughts of my childhood. To my body as a thirteen-year-old in Georgetown, British Guiana, discovering girls. To my body learning the hard way that one must never fall in love with a governor’s daughter, no matter how close one might feel to the family. My body was told by the governor that I was a coolie; that I must never, ever, set eyes on his daughter, Rose, for she was white and I, my body, was not white. But because I was proud and because I needed to save face, my body, in protest, had gone to that part of town known as the ‘nigger yard’ to prove to my friends that I was over the governor’s daughter; that I really couldn’t care less. But above all, my body went there to make Rose jealous. Years later, my body with muscle memory reminds me not to fall in love with another white woman. But then I meet Pearl, and what do I do? My body should have known better. It should have known that Pearl’s children would be suspicious of a black man with little money wanting to marry their mother. I
shouldn’t have been surprised when the children disowned their mother on account of me, but I was. And it was this that my body so clearly remembered, the other day, when the old man began to rant. My body knowing that when the man spoke of his fears for his granddaughters, he was speaking of my body in the way that white men have spoken of black men’s bodies for millennia. As threats. As rapists. So earlier, when the only black woman in the Home recoiled from my body in a fit of screaming, my body had felt crushed and humiliated all over again. But now my body understood. ‘I understand, Morayo, I do.’