The Paradise War

Chapter 10 The Serbian

The train from Oxford to Edinburgh left half an hour late, and packed end to end and wall to wall with Oxford United devotees. I have nothing against British Rail-only that they let all the wrong sort of people ride on their trains. I don't suppose it's BR's fault, but it makes travelling by rail so tatty. At the end of four or five hours one would have been hard pressed to illustrate the difference between a second-class coach and a cattlecar. Whoever esteemed the serving of alcohol to football hooligans in close confinement a good idea ought to be forced to endure a six-hour sojourn with the inebriate consequence.

By the time we reached Birmingham, I had pretty much had my fill of empty Skцl lager cans and rousing football songs. «'Ere we go! 'Ere we go! 'Ere we go!» can only divert a body for so long, I find, and then the lyric begins to pall.

«Just once,» I murmured wistfully, «I would like to travel first class. I think I'm ready for that.»

At Birmingham the footballers cleared out, however, and we had the coach to ourselves. I tried to read a newspaper someone had left behind, but the words kept jumping around and I couldn't make sense of what I read. So I gave up and looked out the window at the drab countryside racing by in a dull blur outside. It was as if the focus knob had gone on the fritz and the picture was all screwed up-color drained away and image reeling by recklessly. A world sliding sideways out of control.

This is how it begins, I thought, and remembered Simon's impassioned harangue in the car the night before he vanished. Perhaps he was more sensitive than I gave him credit for. He felt it-felt the distress in his soul. I didn't, not then at any rate. But I was beginning to feel something: if not the distress, then fear.

I closed my eyes on such uncomfortable thoughts and went to sleep.

In due course, the train arrived in Edinburgh. We retrieved our luggage and stepped onto the platform. It was cold. The air smelled of diesel oil and Casey Jones' hamburgers.

We tramped up the stairs to the shopping precinct above Waverly Station platform and jostled our way through throngs of cheerless shoppers. I noticed the spark and glitter of Christmas decorations in the shops and reflected that I would have to get some cards sent out before the rush. This time of year it could take three weeks for a holiday greeting to reach the States.

Last Christmas Simon had invited me home with him, but then cancelled at the last minute because Aunt Tootie had come down with the ague and his sister and her fiancй had gone to Ibiza and his mother had volunteered to produce the village pantomime and the staff had been given the hols off and the whole familial frolic had gone quite sour. So I ended up spending a rainy Christmas alone in my room. The thought made me sad.

Nettles hailed us a taxi. Edinburgh castle, cold and forbidding on its high rock, loomed over us, eerily lit against the dark night sky. We piled into the taxi and the professor gave the driver the address of a guest house he knew.

«Inexpensive, but clean. And the food is good. You'll like it,» he promised.

I didn't care if the place was filthy, cost a fortune, and the food was served by six-foot tall cockroaches. I just didn't care. I was tired and sore oppressed by all the vexing thoughts Nettles had put into my head. All I wanted was to crawl into bed and forget everything.

The cab pulled up outside a narrow house, part of the sweeping arc of Carlton Terrace. A neon sign over the door formed the words «Caledon House.» A sign in the window informed us that it was a Private Hotel, a term I have always considered slightly self-contradictory.

The professor and I climbed out of the car and assembled ourselves on the walk outside the guest house. «Ah, yes. Just as I remember it. Let's go in,» he said. «Missus Dalrymple will be expecting us.»

I hesitated. «Nettles?» I asked. «What happens next?»

«Dinner, I hope. I'm famished,» he replied. «I could eat an aurochs.»

Cute. It was good to see that at least one of us had retained a sense of humor. «I didn't mean dinner,» I said, somewhat testily.

«We will check in first,» the professor said, rubbing his hands eagerly. «Then we will take ourselves along to the Serbian.»

The Serbian? What sort of restaurant was that?

«What sort of restaurant is this?» I demanded.

We stood outside a blank-faced brick building in the warehouse district. There was no window, no sign, no Egon Ronay plaque or VISA sticker on the exterior of the dour edifice to indicate that it was an eating establishment of any kind, let alone announce the fact to the world. A solitary lightbulb glowed under a rusted shade above a weathered wooden door. The doorknob was brass, blackened with age and use. On the doorpost was painted the number seventy-seven, one seven above the other, in white.

«Are you sure you've got the right address?» I asked, glancing along the dark street at our taxi's dwindling tail lights.

«Yes, this is the place,» Nettles replied-none too certainly, it seemed to me. He rapped on the door with his knuckles, and we waited.

«I don't think there's anyone here, professor,» I pointed out. «Maybe we should go somewhere else.»

«So impatient. Relax,» the professor suggested. «You'll like this, Lewis. You need this.»

He pounded on the door again, with the palm of his hand this time. Somewhere a cat yowled as it pounced over its long-tailed dinner. I could hear the wail of tires on the nearby overpass as the juggernauts sped towards the Forth Bridge somewhere in the dark distance. We waited. It was cold and growing colder. We would have to do something soon, or I, For one, would fall asleep and freeze to death on the warehouse doorstep. I was about to recommend we take our business elsewhere, when I heard a faint scratching on the other side of the door.

The door creaked open a crack. A bright dark eye surveyed us for a moment, whereupon the door was instantly flung back md a bearded giant lurched out at us, bellowing, «Professor!»

I stepped swiftly back, throwing my hands before me. But he poor professor was seized by this enormous man and rushed in a spine-popping embrace. He hollered something md the giant hollered back. Then he began kissing Nettles in both cheeks. Where are the police when you need them?

The great hulk released Nettles and, to my astonishment, he professor was not badly maimed. He turned to me, straightening his coat and grinning. «Come here, Lewis, I'll Lntroduce you to our host!»

I sidled cautiously closer. The giant thumped himself on his vast chest and said, «I am Deimos! How do you do?» He thrust a massive hand at me.

«Glad to meet you, Deimos,» I said tentatively, watching my own hand disappear into his fist. Deimos was all of seven feet tall and solid as a Volvo tractor. A beard, thick, black, wild, and curly, wrapped the entire lower part of his face and spilled down his neck. He wore old-fashioned farmer's bib overalls and a plaid flannel shirt-the top two buttons of which would never meet their buttonholes. His hair, also gleaming black, formed a mane which was caught up and bound at the neck in a stubby queue. His eyes were lively and his smile wide and welcoming.

He was not satisfied with shaking hands. He grabbed me and crushed me to him, as if I were an only son who had been lost since birth. I felt my shoulderbiades compressed and pummeled under his welcoming thumps. At least he didn't kiss me as he kissed the professor, so I counted myself fortunate to escape with minor contusions.

Nettles and the giant began chattering in something closely resembling a foreign language, and we were whisked inside all at once, just scooped in with one of Deimos' massive arms.

The interior of the building suited its gigantic occupant. It was an empty warehouse. Unlit, virtually unfurnished and, from what I could tell, unheated. In fact, it was largely untroubled by creature comforts of any description. Deimos retrieved a candle from a table inside the door and led us along a narrow runner of ornate flowered carpet. I peered into the distance and saw, illumined by candlelight, a curious assemblage of castoffs thrown together in the middle of the empty space.

Closer, the mйlange of junk turned out to be one long table with benches on either side, and two smaller tables with chairs all around. Behind the tables rose a Persian carpet, draped like a collapsed tapestry over a lopsided frame. The carpet formed a wall, and several perforated wooden screens formed partitions. An absolutely mammoth oil painting of the Jacobite rebellion hung down from the ceiling on wires.

A stuffed moosehead decked one of the partitions, and a fake medieval shield made of spray-painted tin graced another. A well-preserved piano sat nearby, on which a large portrait of the Queen held pride of place.

There were flowers everywhere. Flowers in baskets, flowers in urns, flowers in vases and jars and jugs, cut flowers and potted flowers, fountains of flowers, cascades of flowers on every available surface. In and among the flowers, I made out people actually eating at a long table; four of them. They glanced warily at us, speaking in hushed tones, as Deimos ushered us in.

Our giant host placed us at the opposite end of the long table, a good ten yards away from his other guests. «I saved this for you,» he said, as if he had reserved, against all corners, the best seats in the house especially for us. «Be pleased to sit down.» His voice boomed like that of an Olympian god in the empty space. I lowered myself onto a bench on one side of the table, Nettles sat across from me, and Deimos smacked a vase of flowers down between us.

Then he disappeared, humming loudly.

«It's a fascinating place,» Nettles said, pushing the vase aside. «Utterly unique.»

«Yeah,» I said, peering around. «Loads of atmosphere. How did you find it?»

«A friend introduced me. One must be introduced-initiated you might say.» He smiled mysteriously.

Deimos appeared out of the gloom with a crockery pitcher and two filmy glasses. He threw the glasses before us and splashed a frothy red liquid into them. Wine? An exploratory sip confirmed my suspicion.

Professor Nettleton raised his glass. «Sidinte!» he chortled.

To which I replied, «Cheers!»

I don't know a lot about wine, but the stuff in my glass was wet and fruity, with just a spicy hint of cinnamon in the nose.

The deep-hued liquid tingled on my tongue and its warmth spread through me. «Not bad,» I allowed. «Uh, where are the menus?»

«Deimos will serve what he thinks we will enjoy,» Nettles explained. «It depends largely on what he has found in the markets today.»

As if answering the professor's remark, our whale of a headwaiter appeared with two big brass bowls in his hands. One bowl held a greenish mush, over which oil and paprika had been drizzled, and the other something swathed in a towel. «Bulakki!» he announced, and left.

Nettles unwrapped the towel to reveal a mound of warm flatbread. He withdrew a piece, tore off a hunk and passed the remaining portion to me. The professor dipped the bread into the oily mush and scooped up a big glob. He popped it into his mouth, closed his eyes and chewed.

«Food of the gods,» he declared rapturously. «Do try some, Lewis.»

I dabbed a bit of the stuff on a corner of bread and touched it to my tongue-and found it very tasty indeed. At least we wouldn't starve. The bread was good, too-yeasty, buttery, with a slightly rubbery texture that suggested flour-dusted maidens kneading dough in troughs and singing lusty baking songs.

We tore bread, dipped bread and ate bread, and drank our good dark wine, and I, for one, was disappointed when the bottom of the bowl began showing through the bulakki. This hardship proved short-lived, however, for Deimos appeared at just the right moment with a platter of salad.

I think it was a salad. It might have been another floral arrangement. «Do we eat it or admire it?»

«Both,» replied Nettles, reaching for a fistful of ripe olives. «You've no idea how I have missed this place. It is years since I've been here. I just had to come again.»

The professor set to with a will. He ooohed over the olives, and ahhhed over the artichoke hearts. The fuss he made over the marinated beets and bulgar wheat was not to be believed.

Nettles was enjoying himself so much, it made me laugh just to see him. Or maybe it was the wine. Anyway, it felt good. I had not laughed like that in a long time. A very long time.

In the midst of this hilarity, Deimos appeared once more, bearing two heavy brass platters-one on either arm. These he placed before us with a genuine flourish of pride. «Eat, my friends!» he commanded. «Eat and be satisfied! Enjoy!»

On the meat platter, there was chicken, I think. And most of a duck, maybe. Part of a pig, certainly-or a goat. I don't know what roast goat looks like, so it may well have been goat. Or lamb. And there were birds! Whole cooked birds-complete with tiny little birdy feet and beaks sticking out. And there were some meaty joints of something else, I don't know what.

Among the various meat portions there were bowls of sauces and condiments: creamy, sweet-flavored balms, and singe-the-hair-in-your-nose liquid flame-throwers; astringent herbal unctions, and soothing aromatic blends. The discovery process turned into a culinary adventure.

The vegetable platter was no less enigmatic. There were piles of potatoes and mounds of rice-these were the only familiars of my acquaintance, and even these had been boiled in a spice-laden liquor which rendered them unspeakably alien. Bulb-shaped tubers held center stage, boiled in nectar I guess, for they were among the sweetest objects I have ever put in my mouth. There were several bowls of concoctions that looked and tasted like curries, each highly seasoned and spiced, but each distinct and peculiar in its own way. And all equally enjoyable.

We ate and talked and drank and ate and talked, filling the vast dark sanctuary of the warehouse with our ebullience and fellowship. Our meal was made more jovial, more exuberant, more cheerful and carefree, by the simple lack of plates or utensils. We ate from the platters with our hands, licking our digits like naughty schoolboys. Professor Nettleton showed me which hand to use, the proper way to hold my fingers, and I became, if only for the space of an evening, a sultan and potentate of exotic mien.

At last-too soon-Deimos appeared to clear away the debris. He brought a plate of flat almond biscuits and a large bowl of oranges. And he brought an urn of oily black scalding liquid which he said was coffee. We peeled oranges, and sipped the coffee from tiny porcelain cups hardly larger than thimbles. Alas, I felt the blissful glow of my inebriation dissipating in the bracing surge of strong coffee.

I looked down the table to discover that the other diners had gone. I did not remember them leaving. But we were alone at the table all the same. When Deimos came to refill the coffee urn, the professor bade him sit with us. He brought himself a chair, took a cup-minuscule between enormous thumb and forefinger-and sipped delicately.

«Deimos,» Nettles said, «your food is, as ever, worthy of kings-of the gods themselves! I cannot think when I have enjoyed a meal more.»

«It was fabulous,» I added, languidly lifting a segment of orange to my mouth. «I may never eat again, but it was magnificent. And these oranges are delicious!»

Deimos, inspired by our praise, toasted us with coffee, raising his dinky cup and saying, «To friends! Life belongs to those who love, and where love reigns is man truly king!»

A strange toast, but I heartily concurred with the sentiment. Then he and the professor reminisced about old times; their friendship went way back. When this ritual had been observed, our host asked, «Why have you come to me this night?»

«We are wayfarers on a journey, Deimos. We required nourishment for our bodies and our souls,» Nettles answered happily. «You have served both gloriously.»

Deimos nodded gravely, as if he understood all about the needs of wayfarers and their souls. «It is my happiness to serve you,» he said, in a voice solemn and low.

And then our strange, wonderful evening was over. We rose, bade good-night to our host, and were led to the entrance by candlelight. Deimos held the door for us, placed a huge, heavy hand on our heads, and blessed us as we passed before him. «May God go with you on your journey, my wayfaring friends. A thousand angels go before you; a thousand prayers for your return. Peace! Good-night.»

Stepping out into the night, we stood for a moment huddled under the lamp before striking out to find a taxi. As we turned to move away, the weathered door opened once more. Deimos ducked his head beneath the lintel and held out a white paper bag. «Please,» he said to me. «For you.»

I accepted the bag and opened it. «Thanks,» I said simply. «Thanks.»

Our genial giant bobbed his head and ducked quickly back inside. «Oranges,» I told Nettles, reaching into the bag and bringing out a bright globe for his inspection. «He gave me oranges,» I said, a little embarrassed by the man's peculiar largess.

«What an extraordinary place.» Tucking the bag under my arm, I fell into step beside Nettles. «You brought me there on purpose, didn't you?»

«I thought you needed a night out.»

«That's not what I mean,» I said. «What was the point?»

«Nourishment, Lewis.»

«Food for the journey-is that it?»

The professor only smiled and strolled away, humming to himself. I followed, too full of food and too sleepy to do anything other than let my feet fall where they would. Once, as we walked along a pitch-black street, I glanced up into the sky and saw a spray of stars, fiercely bright in the clear, cold air. The sight almost took my breath away. When had I ever seen a sky so vivid and alive?