Alexander Mccall Smith

by The Perfect Hamburger;Other Delicious Stories

He turned and whispered in Nicky's ear.

  "Have you ever seen twisty spaghetti?" he asked.

  Nicky shook her head.

  "Then watch," said Mr. Pipelli, fiddling with one of the dials.

  As the dial turned, the noise inside the machine seemed to change briefly, and within a few seconds the most amazing twisty spaghetti began to emerge at the other end.

  Mr. Pipelli turned to John, beaming with pride.

  "I'm the only person in the world who makes that," he said. "Now, what about you? Would you like to try a special shape?"

  John reached for the dial and began to turn it gingerly.

  "A little bit more to the left," prompted Mr. Pipelli. "Now to the right."

  Nicky watched with fascination as the machine began to respond to her brother's instructions. "It's round!" she cried out. "Round spaghetti!"

  Mr. Pipelli looked over at the place where the spaghetti was emerging.

  "Well!" he exclaimed. "What an interesting shape. Maybe we'll make more of that."

  John craned his neck to see the results of his adjustment. The round spaghetti was definitely very interesting, and tasty-looking too, but it might be a little bit too short.

  "Can I make it longer?" he asked.

  "Anything you wish," said Mr. Pipelli. "Just pull that lever over there."

  John gave the lever a tug.

  "Not so far!" shouted Mr. Pipelli, but it was too late. The machine gave a shudder and started to whine. Almost immediately, from the other end, immensely long strands of spaghetti began to shoot out. In fact, they were so long that they seemed to have no end at all.

  "Cable spaghetti!" moaned Mr. Pipelli, rushing around and throwing his hands in the air. "Exactly what every spaghetti manufacturer dreads more than anything else!"

  It took Mr. Pipelli a minute or two to recover himself. During that time, the machine continued to spew out the strands of endless spaghetti. At the other end, the spaghetti workers frantically tried to pick up the growing mounds of spaghetti strands, but no sooner did they manage to compile them than the machine produced more than they had taken away. It was a hopeless task.

  Then, when at last he began to calm down, Mr. Pipelli managed to find the switch that turned off the machine. With a last heave and gurgle, the giant spaghetti-making device squeezed out the last few feet of spaghetti and became silent.

  Mr. Pipelli mopped his brow.

  "Don't worry," he said to John. "That wasn't your fault. This machine's been malfunctioning for a few months. It was bound to do that sooner or later."

  John was relieved to hear this. He had been sure it was all his fault.

  "We'll have to try and deal with all that spaghetti," said Mr. Pipelli. "Then I intend to do something about fixing this machine."

  Mr. Pipelli now took John and Nicky to stand beside the vast mountain of spaghetti.

  "It's going to be difficult," he said despondently. "We'll have to find the ends of the strands—then we'll have to roll them all up. That's the only way to do it."

  John and Nicky looked at the spaghetti. It seemed like an impossible task to sort out the muddle of strands, and yet, as John watched, he saw what looked like an end. Cautiously he reached down and picked it up.

  "Well done!" said Mr. Pipelli. "Now just pull on it."

  John did as he was told and gradually pulled out a long strand of spaghetti. It seemed to go on forever, and soon he was standing at the other end of the room, linked to the pile of spaghetti by a long, slithery strand.

  While this was happening, Nicky had spotted another end, which she grabbed and began to pull out. Soon she was standing by John's side while Mr. Pipelli went to a storeroom to look for something to wind it around. After a few minutes he came back, carrying an empty barrel. Then, closely supervised by Mr. Pipelli, the children began the slippery task of winding the still wet spaghetti onto the barrel. It was slow work, since the spaghetti kept getting twisted and knotted up, but at last it was finished and the mountain of spaghetti began to look much smaller.

  "We should let the spaghetti workers do the rest," said Mr. Pipelli, who was beginning to look much more cheerful. "Now, let's take a look at this machine. Do either of you know anything about machinery?"

  John and Nicky shook their heads. They could put the chain back on a bicycle—but you would have to know much more than that to be able to fix something as complicated as a spaghetti-making machine.

  Mr. Pipelli looked slightly disappointed.

  "Oh, dear," he said. "I don't know very much about it myself. Still, we can give it a try!"

  Tangled Up

  John and Nicky watched quietly as Mr. Pipelli picked up a screwdriver and began to unscrew a metal plate on the side of the machine.

  "This is the inspection hatch," he explained cheerfully. "It will allow us to get inside."

  John looked doubtfully at Nicky and gulped. What would be inside that great, gleaming machine? And what could they possibly do once they were inside it? Was Mr. Pipelli sure that it was turned off completely?

  Mr. Pipelli unscrewed the last screw and put the screwdriver down. Then, carefully holding the edges of the plate, he took it off and laid it down on the floor.

  John and Nicky peered through the hatch.

  "It's very dark inside," ventured John. "Maybe we should call a mechanic. He might know where everything is."

  Mr. Pipelli chuckled. "Why go to all that trouble and expense?" he said breezily. "Most machines are very simple once you work out what's what. And as for the darkness, there's a flashlight here. So let's go in."

  Mr. Pipelli led the way, followed by Nicky. John brought up the rear.

  "I'm scared," whispered Nicky. "What if somebody turns the machine on while we're in here?"

  John did not try to answer her question. Yet there was no doubt in his mind that they would be in very serious trouble if that happened. All around them were rollers, sifters, crushers, and squeezers. The squeezers looked particularly dangerous, and John thought that anybody who got caught in one of those would have a very good chance of looking like a piece of spaghetti when they eventually got out.

  "There's no need to worry about that," said Mr. Pipelli jovially. "It's impossible to turn the machine on when the inspection hatch is open. Now we have to locate the part that controls the length. Can anybody see it?"

  John looked up, but at that precise moment a large blob of unsqueezed spaghetti dough fell down the back of his neck.

  "Perhaps we should be wearing overalls," said Mr. Pipelli, noticing what had happened. "Still, one can't expect to visit a spaghetti factory and not have a little bit of spaghetti dough fall on them!"

  Mr. Pipelli moved his flashlight around him. Suddenly he let out a cry of triumph.

  "That's it," he said. "That's where the problem is."

  The children looked at the place where the beam of light was resting. High up at the top of the machine, the spaghetti had become hopelessly tangled. It was like a giant ball of knitting that had gone terribly wrong.

  Mr. Pipelli passed the flashlight to John to hold while he tried to pull down the tangle, but try as he might, he could not reach high enough. After he had failed three times, he stood back and scratched his head.

  "I know what we'll do," he said after a while. "You climb onto my shoulders, John, and we'll do it that way."

  Nicky held the flashlight while John clambered onto Mr. Pipelli's shoulders. Then, as Mr. Pipelli moved into position, John began to tug at the mess of spaghetti.

  It was not easy work. The spaghetti was sticky and had wound itself around and around in a maze of loops and knots. John tugged and pulled, only pausing to wipe strands of spaghetti off his face. And all the time, he heard Mr. Pipelli huffing and puffing beneath him, trying to keep him in the right position. Then, just as he had pulled off the last strand, Mr. Pipelli's legs gave out from underneath him, and John found himself tumbling down, closely followed by the great ball of spaghetti that he had just dislodged.

 
; The spaghetti was soft, of course, which was a good thing, but when John got up, he was covered in it from head to toe.

  "I'm very sorry," said Mr. Pipelli, still sounding very cheerful nonetheless. "But at least we fixed the machine. I'm sure it'll work now!"

  "But what about me?" John mumbled from somewhere within the tangle of spaghetti. "I'm afraid I'm all tied up."

  Mr. Pipelli pointed the flashlight at John.

  "I see," he said. "Well, maybe we should do something about you. I'll just start pulling on this piece here . . ."

  Mr. Pipelli grabbed a strand of spaghetti and began to tug. As he did, John felt the spaghetti slithering around him, like the coils of an impossibly long snake.

  "That's it!" said Mr. Pipelli enthusiastically. "It's coming off nicely."

  Mr. Pipelli spoke too soon. Although the spaghetti had begun to move, it had also begun to tighten.

  "Please stop," John called out. "It's tying me up so that I can't move."

  Mr. Pipelli shook his head. "We have to get you out of here somehow," he said. "Then we can have a better look at the problem."

  Helped by Nicky, Mr. Pipelli managed to half roll, half push John out of the hatch and back into the factory. The spaghetti workers stood around, gazing at John, scratching their heads.

  "Can anybody think of a way to get him out of there?" asked Mr. Pipelli. "If we pull at the spaghetti, it seems to just get worse."

  The spaghetti workers whispered among themselves. They had seen all kinds of things happen in the spaghetti factory. They remembered the day when Mr. Pipelli dropped his hat into the spaghetti machine and watched helplessly as it came out the other end in long strands of material. They all remembered it very well and still talked about it whenever they saw their employer wearing anything on his head. In fact, one of the spaghetti workers had named her new baby Cappello, which means "hat" in Italian—just to remind her of that marvelous incident. Yes, they had seen many strange things, but never anything quite as strange as this.

  As they were standing around, wondering how they could possibly get John out of the tangle, one of the women suddenly stepped forward and whispered something in Mr. Pipelli's ear. It was Olive.

  Mr. Pipelli listened gravely, stroked his chin, and then nodded.

  "That just might work, Olive," he said. "You go and grab the—you know what I mean—and we'll try."

  Nicky tugged at Mr. Pipelli's sleeve.

  "What are you going to do?" she asked timidly. "You're not going to hurt him, are you? Aunt Rebecca will be furious if you do."

  Mr. Pipelli patted her gently on the shoulder.

  "Of course not," he said reassuringly. Then, whispering, he explained, "Olive suggested that we"—his eyes glistened with mischief— "pour olive oil all over him. That way he'll be slippery enough to wriggle his way out of the spaghetti! Now, isn't that a brilliant idea?"

  Before Nicky had a chance to reply, Olive returned. Fortunately, John could not see out of the spaghetti tangle, so he was unable to watch them raise the large can over his head and begin to pour. He realized what was going on only when he felt the cold, slippery oil slithering its way all over him.

  "Now!" shouted Mr. Pipelli. "Wriggle!"

  John did as he was told and, after a few minutes of wriggling and hopping, he felt himself begin to slip out of the tangle. With a final shiver and shake, he popped out and was free. All the spaghetti workers gave a cheer of delight.

  John was thrilled to be free of the spaghetti. In fact, he was so pleased that he hardly noticed the fact that he was covered not only with little bits of spaghetti but with olive oil too.

  Mr. Pipelli beamed with pleasure.

  "Now we can try the machine again," he said. "Let's see if we fixed it."

  It took only one press of the button. With a great whirring, the machine came back to life, and it worked perfectly.

  "We did it!" shouted Mr. Pipelli. "Everybody take a day off!"

  The spaghetti workers gave another rousing cheer, and Mr. Pipelli turned to John and Nicky.

  "And as for you, my friends," he said, "let's go right to the factory kitchen and have lunch. I asked the chef to cook the best plate of spaghetti he can imagine, so I assure you it should be delicious."

  Mr. Pipelli was right. The lunch was even tastier than the one that John and Nicky had eaten in the restaurant. There was not just one plate of spaghetti for each person—there were six! There was:

  For the first course, spaghetti with special cheese sauce, made out of Swiss cheese with holes. The spaghetti was threaded through the holes of the cheese and tied in bows!

  For the second course, a single strand of spaghetti ten yards long. This strand was curled around and around on the plate and had to be sucked up and swallowed all in one bite!

  For the third course, spaghetti that was plain on the outside but that had the sauce inside the hollow center. Many have tried to make such spaghetti, but only Mr. Pipelli could do it.

  For the fourth course, Indian cobra spaghetti. This spaghetti stood up like a cobra. It swayed as you tried to eat it, but it was very delicious when caught.

  For the fifth course, needle spaghetti. This spaghetti was so thin that you could suck it into your mouth through the spaces between your teeth!

  For the sixth, and final, course, ordinary spaghetti in the most delicious tomato sauce imaginable. There was oodles of sauce, which had to be slurped up with the spaghetti. Everybody made a lot of noise doing this and got covered with sauce, more or less from head to toe. Second helpings were served—twice!

  Afterward, as full and as happy as they had ever been in their lives, the children were led by Mr. Pipelli to the front door and ushered into a waiting car.

  "Thank you so much for all your help," he said as he shook hands with both of them. "And perhaps we will meet again one day. After all, who knows what life can bring?"

  The car pulled away from the factory, with Mr. Pipelli still standing on the steps waving to his departing guests. Inside the car, John and Nicky were happier than they had been for years. It didn't matter that John had a blob of spaghetti dough lodged down the back of his shirt. It didn't matter that the rest of his clothes were covered with sticky strands of spaghetti, as well as soaked in olive oil. And it didn't matter that Nicky's dress was splattered with hundreds of reminders of the tomato sauce. It had been a marvelous, exciting day and they both knew they would remember every second of it forever.

  Aunt Rebecca Gets to Work

  "Look at you!" yelled Aunt Rebecca, quivering with rage. "Just look at you!"

  John hung his head. He had to admit that he looked a bit unsightly, covered with spaghetti and all, but wouldn't it all wash off easily enough?

  "And as for you, Nicky," Aunt Rebecca continued. "What were you doing letting your brother become such a mess? And look at your dress—ruined!"

  "I was holding a flashlight!" Nicky said timidly. "Mr. Pipelli had John on his shoulders, and—"

  "On his what?" cried Aunt Rebecca. "You both obviously have a lot of explaining to do!"

  John tried to tell his aunt about what happened, but it only seemed to make matters worse. At the end of his explanation, her face was stormy with anger.

  "I should have known that something like this would happen," she said. "Nothing good could be expected to come from a spaghetti factory! And as for that Mr. Pipelli, I hope that he has a good explanation when I see him tomorrow."

  "You're seeing him tomorrow?" Nicky asked. "Why?"

  "To complain," snapped Aunt Rebecca. "Do you think I'm going to let him get away with all of this?"

  John and Nicky were silent. When Aunt Rebecca made up her mind about something, they knew there was nothing they could do to persuade her otherwise.

  The next day Aunt Rebecca told John and Nicky to get ready to go with her to Mr. Pipelli's factory. They were very unwilling to go, since the last thing they wanted to do was to complain to the generous and likable Mr. Pipelli, but their aunt insisted.


  They arrived at the factory in sunken spirits.

  "It's going to be awful," Nicky whispered to John. "She's going to make a terrible scene."

  "I know," John said under his breath. "And Mr. Pipelli will think that we put her up to it."

  The man at the factory gate tried to tell Aunt Rebecca that it would be impossible for her to see Mr. Pipelli, but she brushed him off.

  "If you don't show me to his office," she said, "then I will find my own way there."

  The man looked Aunt Rebecca up and down and decided that she was not a person to be trifled with. Reluctantly, he led the three of them to the door marked The Boss.

  Aunt Rebecca knocked once but did not wait for an answer. Throwing the door wide open, she burst into Mr. Pipelli's room and marched up to the astonished spaghetti manufacturer's desk. Mr. Pipelli sprang to his feet and, hiding his surprise, bowed to Aunt Rebecca.

  "My dear lady," he said, reaching for her hand. "How kind of you to visit me. I take it that you're the aunt of my two friends."

  Aunt Rebecca stopped in her tracks.

  "Please," said Mr. Pipelli, kissing her hand. "Please allow me to offer you a chair."

  By now, Aunt Rebecca, overcome by the politeness and charm of the famous spaghetti manufacturer, was completely incapable of complaining.

  "Actually," she began, "I was very . . . um . . . very angry . . ."

  She stopped. Mr. Pipelli had seated her in a chair and had offered her a peppermint from a silver bowl on his desk.

  "I don't eat candy," said Aunt Rebecca.

  "How wise!" said Mr. Pipelli. "If only other people were as smart as you."

  Aunt Rebecca looked suspiciously at Mr. Pipelli.

  "I don't see how you can say that," she said. "After all, you make all that spaghetti that people cover with tomato sauce and terrible things like that."

  Mr. Pipelli waved his hand in the air.

  "Well, maybe you could help me," he said, smiling in a charming way. "I've always wanted to make a healthier spaghetti, but I've never found the right recipe."