How Long 'Til Black Future Month?

by N. K. Jemisin

  And as always while she worked, the small nuisances of life faded, and she lost herself in the marvel of creation.

  Franca put the finishing touches on her dishes and carried them out to the table. Not at all to her surprise, the man was waiting for her, smiling from beneath his wide-brimmed hat.

  “Such rich aromas,” he said, watching as she set down the tray. She had draped a covering cloth over it; steam curled from beneath the cloth’s edge. “But the items I gave you weren’t meant—”

  “Never mind what was meant. They are what they are,” Franca said primly. “A true chef never interferes with the power of food. She simply reveals it.”

  And with a flourish she pulled the covering cloth away. His eyes widened. She let him absorb what he saw while she poured him a very dry sauvignon blanc. When he picked up his fork, she smiled at his hesitation.

  “You made a dessert out of the firebirds?”

  “Is that what they’re called? Yes, their livers had a sweetness that I liked once I blanched out the toxins. Ground fine with beet juice and muscat wine, then chilled. The cups are pumpkin coated with honeyed isinglass.”

  The hat tilted up as he peered at her, then back down. “And this?” He pointed toward a plate holding puffy circles of squid-ink pasta, drizzled with golden sauce and a startlingly white powder.

  “Panicles stuffed with basil-flavored ricotta, takiprik, and electric mushroom strips soaked in Brunello wine. Dusted with potato flour to soften the tartness. The sauce is clarified butter warmed with picklemelon extract.”

  The hat tilted up again. “Electric mushroom. Picklemelon.”

  “Well, I had to call them something.”

  “Indeed.” He pointed wordlessly then at the center course, a silver platter bearing half of the picklemelon’s rind as a bowl for a whole roasted fowl. The smoking globule in its beak made for a particularly dramatic presentation.

  “Whole hen firebird. The stuffing is a seven-mushroom blend with mincemeat, pork sausage, rosewater herb, and sage. Are you going to eat any of this?”

  “There’s so much, in such variety. Where do you recommend I begin?”

  She pointed at a platter of bruschetta on slabs of crusty bread. “Tomino cheese, fresh sardines, olive oil pressed with dreamfruit seed, and pine nuts marinated in absinthe. I find the absinthe eases the narcotic effect of the dreamfruit. The dreams last hours, but are far less … shall we say, overwhelming? Instead they stimulate the other senses so that one more properly enjoys the rest of the meal.”

  “Ah, thus the appetizer. Then there I shall begin.” And he did.

  Franca watched, feeling quite smug as he discovered each dish’s delights. He gasped when the stuffed panicles gave him a jolt, but then he chuckled and amused himself throwing bolts of lightning across the room at the doorknobs. Then he sampled the partridge breast crepe rolls, liberally sprinkled with the strange elixir that had come from the dusty bottle. She had found that this marvelously spicy and thick substance caused the occasional imp to appear, so to counter that effect, she had gone to the nearby church and gotten some holy water to thin the crepe batter. His eyes widened in pleasure as the elixir and holy water sizzled together in his mouth; she smirked. As she had planned, the firebird’s glaze—which contained a few drops of leftover frava oil—sparked on the flintgizzard in its mouth and caught fire the moment he tried to carve a slice. The illusory flames billowed and curled around the dish like the bird’s lost feathers, and the slice he’d cut floated gracefully to his plate.

  And so it went. By the time he’d finished the dessert, he was laughing aloud in pure delight and the common room was a wreck. That had been mostly the result of the dreamvine gnocchi, which he ate too soon after the firebird roast gave him temporary wings. Vandals, she would tell Isadora. Probably the disgruntled former assistants.

  “Well,” he said at last, dabbing his lips with a napkin, “now I truly have had the best meal of my life, signora. Grazie, grazie. You’ve surpassed my every hope.”

  “Oh?” Franca raised both eyebrows. “Does this mean you’ll leave me another bag of strange things?”

  “I could, signora, but I would prefer instead to show you where to find your own.”

  She tensed in interest. “My own?”

  “Certainly. And then if I may be bold, I have an offer for you. A job offer, I should say.”

  She quirked a wry eyebrow. “You really aren’t much of a beggar, are you, signore? You’re not poor enough by far.”

  He laughed. “If it’s any consolation, signora, I am a poor man now by the standards of my past. In my youth—my true youth—one could work wonders with eye of newt and a cauldron. But alas, the world has changed.”

  “I should hope so. Whyever would you waste your time with something as foul as newts’ eyes?”

  “Because all things contain power, signora, and some have more power than most. Science has only recently discovered that truth, but certain professions in the world—yours, mine—have known it for centuries. Who is to say plutonium is more powerful than, say, rice? One takes away a million lives, the other saves a hundred times as many.” He smiled, pausing to take a long appreciative sip of wine.

  “So now you’re a nuclear technician.”

  Another laugh. “What I am is your apprentice, signora, if you’ll have me. My art is too primitive for these times. The old techniques no longer have the same effect, and when they do, the effect is less potent. More importantly, I no longer want to use the old techniques.” He made a face. “I find them … crude. But you, signora, understand subtlety and balance, the proper places of form and function, the interaction of the world with the senses.” He put a hand over his waist and offered a little bow from his seat. “I would learn that from you, if you will teach me.”

  She stared at him, but her mind came alive with the possibilities. No more customers with tastebuds of stone. No more assistants with fumbling fingers and proleterian minds. Her guest had already shown ten thousand times more refinement; it would be a joy to teach him. And yet …

  She put her hands on her hips. “I’m no easy taskmistress. I expect work. I expect art.”

  He pushed back from the table and got to his feet, sweeping his hat from his head in a true bow. “As much as my poor soul can produce, signora.”

  “My kitchen will need to be top notch.”

  “Two floors of my citadel shall be yours to remodel and stock as you please.”

  A citadel. This had promise. “I’ll ask no apprentice fee of you, but I expect room and board and a stipend.”

  “Two more floors for an apartment, outfitted to your liking. As for the stipend, I have little in the way of ready funds but you will lack for nothing materially.”

  “An expense account?”

  “A substantial supply of lead, actually, bought for a pittance. It converts very well to gold through the application of a certain aromatic oil.”

  She considered this for a moment. “All right. And I’ll want a sample of that oil. Aromatics always have possibilities.”

  “But of course, signora.”

  She tapped her foot, wondering how far she dared. “And vacation in August like everyone else.”

  He smiled. “Whenever you wish.”

  She folded her arms, regarding his young-old face in silence now, debating with herself. He could be lying about all of it. He could be a crazy murderer. He could be a politician.

  Well. Probably not a politician.

  “I suppose I can at least see this citadel of yours,” she said at last. “If the kitchen space is as large as you say, I’ll need to begin inventory on what stock you already have. Amateurs never have the right pots and pans.”

  He grinned as if she’d given him a kiss. “As you like, signora. Shall we?”

  He tossed the cloth over the emptied dishes, stepped around the shattered chairs, and offered her his arm. She took it, blushing a little as he led her toward the door.

  “You must promise me one fi
nal thing, signore.”

  “And that is?”

  “The truffles, signore. Never ask me to cook them again.”

  He raised both eyebrows. “But the frava cakes—”

  “Are foul, and should never be forced upon another human being. I can bake up a hundred ways to keep us young, never fear. It is only a matter of art.”

  He stared at her for a long moment, and then his young face stretched in a slow smile. “So it must be, signora. So it must be.”

  They walked together, arm in arm, into the snowy Milano night.

  The Effluent Engine

  New Orleans stank to the heavens. This was either the water, which did not have the decency to confine itself to the river but instead puddled along every street; or the streets themselves, which seemed to have been cobbled with bricks of fired excrement. Or it may have come from the people who jostled and trotted along the narrow avenues, working and lounging and cursing and shouting and sweating, emitting a massed reek of unwashed resentment and perhaps a bit of hangover. As Jessaline strolled beneath the colonnaded balconies of Royal Street, she fought the urge to give up, put the whole fumid pile to her back, and catch the next dirigible out of town.

  Then someone jostled her. “Pardon me, miss,” said a voice at her elbow, and Jessaline was forced to stop, because the earnest-looking young man who stood there was white. He smiled, which did not surprise her, and doffed his hat, which did.

  “Monsieur,” Jessaline replied, in what she hoped was the correct mix of reserve and deference.

  “A fine day, is it not?” The man’s grin widened, so sincere that Jessaline could not help a small smile in response. “I must admit, though; I have yet to adjust to this abysmal heat. How are you handling it?”

  “Quite well, monsieur,” she replied, thinking, What is it that you want from me? “I am acclimated to it.”

  “Ah, yes, certainly. A fine Negress like yourself would naturally deal better with such things. I am afraid my own ancestors derive from chillier climes, and we adapt poorly.” He paused abruptly, a stricken look crossing his face. He was the florid kind, red-haired and freckled with skin so pale that it revealed his every thought—in point of which he paled further. “Oh, dear! My sister warned me about this. You aren’t Creole, are you? I understand they take it an insult to be called, er … by certain terms.”

  With some effort, Jessaline managed not to snap, Do I look like one of them? But people on the street were beginning to stare, so instead she said, “No, monsieur. And it’s clear to me you aren’t from these parts, or you would never ask such a thing.”

  “Ah—yes.” The man looked sheepish. “You have caught me out, miss; I’m from New York. Is it so obvious?”

  Jessaline smiled carefully. “Only in your politeness, monsieur.” She reached up to adjust her hat, lifting it for a moment as a badly needed cooling breeze wafted past.

  “Are you perhaps—” The man paused, staring at her head. “My word! You’ve naught but a scrim of hair!”

  “I have sufficient to keep myself from drafts on cold days,” she replied, and as she’d hoped, he laughed.

  “You’re a most charming Ne—woman, my dear, and I feel honored to make your acquaintance.” He stepped back and bowed, full and proper. “My name is Raymond Forstall.”

  “Jessaline Dumonde,” she said, offering her lace-gloved hand, though she had no expectation that he would take it. To her surprise, he did, bowing again over it.

  “My apologies for gawking. I simply don’t meet many of the Colored on a typical day, and I must say—” He hesitated, darted a look about, and at least had the grace to drop his voice. “You’re remarkably lovely, even with no hair.”

  In spite of herself, Jessaline laughed. “Thank you, monsieur.” After an appropriate and slightly awkward pause, she inclined her head. “Well, then; good day to you.”

  “Good day indeed,” he said, in a tone of such pleasure that Jessaline hoped no one had heard it, for his sake. The folk of this town were particular about matters of propriety, as any society which relied so firmly upon class differences. While there were many ways in which a white gentleman could appropriately express his admiration for a lady of color—the existence of the gens de couleur libres was testimony to that—all of those ways were simply Not Done in public.

  But Forstall donned his hat, and Jessaline inclined her head in return before heading away. Another convenient breeze gusted by, and she took advantage of it to adjust her hat once more, in the process sliding her stiletto back into its hiding place amid the silk flowers.

  This was the dance of things, the cric-crac as the storytellers said in Jessaline’s land. Everyone needed something from someone. Glorious France needed money, to recover from the unlamented Napoleon’s endless wars. Upstart Haiti had money from the sweet gold of its sugarcane fields, but needed guns—for all the world, it seemed, wanted the newborn country strangled in its crib. The United States had guns but craved sugar, as its fortunes were dependent upon the acquisition thereof. It alone was willing to treat with Haiti, though Haiti was the stuff of American nightmare: a nation of black slaves who had killed off their white masters. Yet Haitian sugar was no less sweet for its coating of blood, and so everyone got what they wanted, trading ’round and ’round, a graceful waltz—only occasionally devolving into a knife fight.

  It had been simplicity itself for Jessaline to slip into New Orleans. Dirigible travel in the Caribbean was inexpensive, and so many travelers regularly moved between the island nations and the great American port city that hardly any deception had been necessary. She was indentured, she told the captain, and he had waved her aboard without so much as a glance at her papers (which were false anyhow). She was a wealthy white man’s mistress, she told the other passengers, and between her fine clothes, regal carriage, and beauty—despite her skin being purest sable in color—they believed her and were alternately awed and offended. She was a slave, she told the dockmaster on the levee; a trusted one, lettered and loyal, promised freedom should she continue to serve to her fullest. He had smirked at this, as if the notion of anyone freeing such an obviously valuable slave was ludicrous. Yet he, too, had let her pass unchallenged, without even charging her the disembarkation fee.

  It had then taken two full months for Jessaline to make inquiries and sufficient contacts to arrange a meeting with the esteemed Monsieur Norbert Rillieux. The Creoles of New Orleans were a closed and prickly bunch, most likely because they had to be; only by the rigid maintenance of caste and privilege could they hope to retain freedom in a land which loved to throw anyone darker than tan into chains. Thus more than a few of them had refused to speak to Jessaline on sight. Yet there were many who had not forgotten that there but for the grace of God went their own fortune, so from these she had been able to glean crucial information and finally an introduction by letter. As she had mentioned the right names and observed the right etiquette, Norbert Rillieux had at last invited her to afternoon tea.

  That day had come, and …

  And Rillieux, Jessaline was finally forced to concede, was an idiot.

  “Monsieur,” she said again, after drawing a breath to calm herself, “as I explained in my letter, I have no interest in sugarcane processing. It is true that your contributions to this field have been much appreciated by the interests I represent; your improved refining methods have saved both money and lives, which could both be reinvested in other places. What we require assistance with is a wholly different matter, albeit related.”

  “Oh,” said Rillieux, blinking. He was a savagely thin-lipped man, with a hard stare that might have been compelling on a man who knew how to use it. Rillieux did not. “Your pardon, mademoiselle. But, er, who did you say you represented, again?”

  “I did not say, monsieur. And if you will forgive me, I would prefer not to say for the time being.” She fixed him with her own hard stare. “You will understand, I hope, that not all parties can be trusted when matters scientific turn to matters commerc
ial.”

  At that, Rillieux’s expression turned shrewd at last; he understood just fine. The year before, Jessaline’s superiors had informed her, the plan Rillieux had proposed to the city—an ingenious means of draining its endless, pestilent swamps, for the health and betterment of all—had been turned down. Six months later, a coalition of city engineers had submitted virtually the same plan and been heaped with praise and funds to bring it about. The men of the coalition were white, of course. Jessaline marveled that Rillieux even bothered being upset about it.

  “I see,” Rillieux said. “Then, please forgive me, but I do not know what it is you want.”

  Jessaline stood and went to her brocade bag, which sat on a side table across the Rillieux house’s elegantly apportioned salon. In it was a small, rubber-stopped, peculiarly shaped jar of the sort utilized by chemists, complete with engraved markings on its surface to indicate measurements of the liquid within. At the bottom of this jar swirled a scrim of dark brown, foul-looking paste and liquid. Jessaline brought it over to Rillieux and offered the jar to his nose, waiting until he nodded before she unstoppered it.

  At the scent which wafted out, he stumbled back, gasping, his eyes all a-water. “By all that’s holy! Woman, what is that putrescence?”

  “That, Monsieur Rillieux, is effluent,” Jessaline said, neatly stoppering the flask. “Waste, in other words, of a very particular kind. Do you drink rum?” She knew the answer already. On one side of the parlor was a beautifully made side table holding an impressive array of bottles.

  “Of course.” Rillieux was still rubbing his eyes and looking affronted. “I’m fond of a glass or two on hot afternoons; it opens the pores, or so I’m told. But what does that—”