Casserole Diplomacy and Other Stories

by Various

  Gao nodded, served the other mourners silently then went out the front door, leaned hard against the wall. He was not sure which was worse, that the plan had failed, or that he had hoped it would succeed. Either way things were no better—his father was enjoying his mourning party as much as ever, and the number of guests was only increasing.

  As he stood in the cool, incense-perfumed night air, Nep Gao became aware of bells ringing in the distance. Not the familiar dull tone of temple bells, but a higher chime, three strokes, silence, three strokes. The palace bells, he realized. Whoever it was they had been burning incense for earlier—and from the number of bells it had to be an official of the Third Rank, someone in the royal family—had died. He had just pieced this together when he heard a voice call his name. He turned, saw coming down the dark street a man with two heads, one higher than the other. Gao squinted to see better but the second head was still there.

  “Yes?” he asked, wondering if this was an agent of the Courts of Hell come to take him to his punishment early.

  “We require a service of you,” the man said. He stepped into the small pool of light cast by the torch above the door and showed himself to be two men, one riding in a basket on the other’s back. It was the man in the basket, wearing the lacquered red headdress of an official of the seventh rank, who had spoken. Gao immediately dropped to his knees.

  “How can your humble servant help you?” he asked, unable to keep from staring at the man’s dangling feet in their white deerskin slippers. That was the reason for the basket, of course; the slippers, which had to be a gift from someone in the royal family, could not be permitted to touch the ground in this part of the city, but the street was too narrow for a palanquin.

  “The Emperor’s favourite uncle has died,” the man said. “We are preparing the mourning party for him and have heard of the effect your cooking has had. The Emperor would like the honour shown to his uncle that has been shown to your father.”

  “I’m not sure I can—” Gao began, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

  “The Emperor would consider it an insult if the same honour was not shown to his uncle,” the man said firmly. “Take this.” The man handed a small jade token to the servant whose back he was riding, who then handed it to Gao. “This will let you and anyone helping you onto the palace grounds. You may keep it when you are done.” Without waiting for an answer he gave his mount a quick kick in the thigh, making him turn around and head back down the street.

  Minutes later Gao was lying on the mat in the back dining room, a bag of cold clay on his head and a dozen mint leaves in his mouth. He chewed the mint to control heartburn, but it was not helping tonight.

  “How did it go?” Mienme’s voice came from the window.

  Gao stood up, opened the door. Mienme pulled herself through the window by her arms, still the adventurous girl she had always been. “Worse and worse,” he said, and proceeded to tell her everything that had happened.

  “Actually,” she said after he had finished his litany, “this could work out well for us.”

  “How can this be good?” Gao asked, accidentally swallowing the mass of mint in his mouth. “The restaurant is already nearly broke, and now we have to serve food fit for an official of the Third Rank. We’ll be ruined—I’ll be lucky if I escape with my head.”

  “Just listen,” Mienme said. “Your father can’t complain if you give all the best food to the royal mourning party—imagine what that jade token on the wall could do for business at his restaurant. So you can’t be blamed for just serving him simple food, and when you do that the mourners will stop coming and the party will be over.”

  “You may be right,” he said slowly. He drew the token out from his belt pouch, ran his fingers over its cool, smooth surface. “Yes, of course. If we’re cooking for the Emperor’s uncle, he can’t complain if we give him nothing but rice and millet gruel. Even the Judge of Fate couldn’t complain.” He held the token up against the wall. “I must have done a very good deed in my last life to deserve you.”

  “In that case,” she said, grinning impishly, “come here and give me a kiss while you’re still all minty.”

  Sometimes he wondered if her parents knew their daughter at all.

  The next morning he was up at dawn, fishing carp out of the pond in the back garden. Once the fish were splashing in their wooden bucket, he took his small knife and cut a half-dozen lilies from the surface of the pond to make into a sauce for the fish—fish fresh enough for the Emperor’s uncle. These were the last two items he needed for the day’s meals; after making sure the jade token was still in his belt pouch he went into the kitchen, put on his grocery basket, and went out into the front room. His father’s ghost was regaling two or three sleepy mourners with his adventures, while several more lay sprawled on sleeping mats around the room.

  “—of course, a pig that smart you don’t eat all at—nhoGao, do you have breakfast ready already?”

  “I can’t cook for you today, Father, remember? I left a crabmeat and pork casserole in the oven, you can ask one of the mourners to get it out for you in a few hours, and I’ll send you dumplings for the afternoon.”

  “Of course, of course—I’d almost forgotten. You’ll do us proud at the palace, I’m sure—and what a story it’ll make, cooking for the Emperor’s uncle.” Despite his words he did not seem very happy, and Gao wondered if he was finally starting to fade. Crab and pork casserole was not exactly gruel, but it was not the food Doi Thiviei was used to, either. He felt a sudden pain in his chest, hoped that if his father were to depart today it would not be until after he got back to the restaurant.

  He had never been to the palace before. Despite the fact that it was at the centre of the city, few people ever received an invitation to go. Those who went without an invitation, hoping to poach the Emperor’s white deer, usually wound up as permanent guests—or came home over the course of several days, one piece at a time. As he reached the gate he could not help worrying that the whole thing had been a colossal hoax, that the guards would take his jade seal and his groceries and send him away. When he showed them the token, however, they stood to either side of the gate, and one was assigned to lead him to the palace kitchens.

  “How long ago did the noble official die?” Gao asked the soldier.

  The man walked a few steps in silence before finally answering. “Yesterday afternoon,” he said. Like most soldiers he had a heavy provincial accent, which perhaps explained his reluctance to speak. “Didn’t you hear the bells?”

  “I’ve been busy,” Gao muttered. “Have you seen his ghost?”

  The soldier again kept silent for a few moments, then spoke, no expression crossing his face. “No, but I hear it is very pale. He was an old man, and sick for a long time.”

  Gao cursed inwardly. Except for short, violent deaths, long illnesses were the worst. They left a person glad to die, and not inclined to hang around too long afterward. He thanked the guard when they reached the kitchen, and got to work unpacking his groceries. He had planned a light breakfast, fried wheat noodles sprinkled with sugar and black vinegar, in case the ghost was not too solid. Then he hoped that by lunch he would be able to serve the carp balls in lotus sauce and crisply fried eel to a receptive audience.

  It was not to be. The Emperor’s uncle was vaporous, not interested in talking or even listening to the zither. The mourning party was sombre, the guests mostly relatives and lower officials who were attending out of duty rather than friendship. They picked at the delicacies Gao served, leaving the rest for palace servants, who could not believe their luck. The ghost, meanwhile, ate only a bite from each dish, pausing neither to smell nor taste any of them.

  By mid-afternoon, Gao was getting nervous. He had not managed to keep the Emperor’s uncle from fading at all, knew that the official who had hired him would not be pleased. If he could have managed even two or three days, things would have been all right, but if he could only make the royal ghost stay a day and
a night, it would look like an insult. He wished Mienme was there to help him.

  Finally he resolved there was only one thing he could do: make the most elaborate, most spectacular dish he could, so that he would not be faulted for lack of effort. He settled on a recipe one of his brothers had found in a small village on the southern coast, mau anh dem—Yellow Lantern Fish. He sent a runner to the fish market for the freshest yellowfish he could find, telling him to look for clear eyes and a smell of seaweed. When the boy returned, he began to carefully cut and notch the scaled, gutted fish, and boil a deep pot of oil on a portable burner.

  Minutes before dinner was due, he ordered the burner be carried into the room where the mourning party was taking place, followed behind carrying the fish himself. Though he could not look at the faces of any of the guests he could tell few, if any, of them wanted to be there. The most enthusiastic of them, if not the wisest, were using this as an opportunity to get drunk. Even the zither player sounded almost as though he was singing in his sleep. At the middle of it all was the ghost, silent and uninterested in what was going on around him.

  Gao had the burner and pot of oil placed in front of the royal ghost, waited a few minutes while the oil returned to the proper temperature. Then, with enough of a flourish to make sure all eyes were on him, he dropped the fish into the oil. In seconds it blossomed out like a paper lantern, its flesh turning golden and crispy. It was a dish designed to impress even the most jaded crowd, and it did not fail him: the guests pressed forward to get a better look and eagerly handed him their plates. Before the first bite was taken, however, Gao knew he had failed. Unlike the guests, the Emperor’s uncle was still withdrawn, uninterested, not bothering to eat or even smell the fish.

  My life is over, Gao thought as he walked home. If the Emperor’s uncle had faded away by morning he would be blamed, and that was sure to kill business if it did not kill him. Just then he realized that in all of his worry about the Emperor’s uncle, he had forgotten to send the lunch dumplings he had made for his father’s mourning party. Without food that party was sure to have broken up by now, his father likely faded away. He suddenly regretted not listening to any of the stories his father had told over the last few weeks, too busy cooking and worrying about the restaurant. He had heard them all a dozen of more times, but now might never get a chance to hear them again.

  When he neared the restaurant, however, he saw lights inside and heard voices. Creeping into the front dining room, he saw his father still holding court before a half-dozen mourners, the room strewn with empty bowls and teacups.

  “nhoGao, is that you?” his father asked, spotting him as he tried to slink past into the kitchen. “How did it go at the palace?”

  Gao shook his head slowly. “I am sorry I was not able to send you the food I made for the day,” he said. “I was busy with—”

  “Don’t worry about us—we don’t need food to keep the party going. Besides, I know where you hide the pig knuckles. Now, where was I—”

  Watching his father, more solid than ever, Gao wondered what it was he had done so wrong at the palace and so right here. He had made dishes for the Emperor’s uncle that were twice as elaborate as anything he had ever made at the restaurant, but had left the royal ghost cold. His father, meanwhile, looked likely to remain among the living indefinitely on a diet of pigs’ knuckles. I must be missing something, he thought. If only Mienme were here to help me think. She would say, if it’s not the food—

  “Father, can you come with me for a few minutes?” he asked suddenly, interrupting his father in the middle of the story of the seo nuc game he had played against a beggar who had turned out to be an exiled general.

  “I suppose,” his father said, puzzled. “I can finish this story later. Where are we going?”

  Without pausing to answer his father’s question, Gao rushed back to the palace, flashing the jade token to the puzzled guard. The mourning party was down to just a few diehards, likely trying to win points with the Emperor. The royal ghost was hardly visible, a thin gray mist barely recognizable as once having been human.

  “Please excuse me, noble officials,” Gao said, dropping to the floor and bowing low. “I forgot the most important part of the mourning party.”

  A few seconds of silence passed as the guests watched him curiously, wondering what he was going to produce that might top the Yellow Lantern Fish. Finally his father said, “What a glum group. Reminds me of my father the day our prize rooster died, the one who would crow every time a rich customer was coming—” The guests looked at the chatty ghost in amazement, but Gao’s father made straight for the Emperor’s uncle. “Did he try to feed you that Temple Style Duck? I only ask because you’re looking a little thin. The first time I met one of those Southerners I thought they were crazy, won’t eat meat, won’t eat fowl, not even fish. But I met one who was a wizard with rice—learned a few tricks from him—”

  By the time dawn came, Doi Thiviei and the Emperor’s uncle were chatting like old friends. The royal ghost was looking much more substantial and even accepted one of the sesame balls with hot lotus paste Gao had made for breakfast.

  “Gao, I think I’ll stay here awhile,” his father said. “I hope it won’t disappoint my mourners, but I’ve gotten a little tired of hearing my own voice. Take good care of my restaurant, will you?”

  “Of course,” Gao answered, ladling out the clear soup he had made from chicken stock and the last of the qinshon leaves.

  “And I suppose you’ll be marrying that Southerner girl and changing the name your mother and I gave you. I know you’ve never liked it, though it’s a good story how you got it.”

  Gao frowned. “I always thought it was because—well, my face—and I always had to make it for the customers who couldn’t afford anything else.”

  “No, no,” his father said. “It wasn’t like that at all. You see, when I first met your mother—but I suppose you don’t have time to hear this story.”

  Gao sat down, took a sip of the soup, enjoying the fragile flavour of the qinshon. He only allowed himself one bowl a year, to be sure he would appreciate it. “I have plenty of time, Father,” he said. “Only please, let me go get Mienme so she can hear it as well. We will both need to know this story so we can tell it to our children.”

  It turned out his father had lots of stories he had never told; or maybe Gao had just never heard them before.

  Originally published in On Spec Summer 2001 Vol 13 No 2 #45

  Matthew Johnson has published stories in such places as Asimov’s Science Fiction, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction and Strange Horizons. A collection of his short fiction, Irregular Verbs and Other Stories, was published by CZP in 2014. “Closing Time” was the first story he ever sold.

  Foster Child

  Catherine Macleod

  The baby came in the mail on Monday, arriving as Claire Warren’s grocery bag tore. She marked its entry by screaming as marmalade mashed her instep. Claire yowled through her teeth, and made a fist, then realized she still had the mail in that hand.

  “Uh, ma’am?” She turned back to the open door and managed a smile for the mailman. “You have another package.”

  “Oh. Thanks.” She glanced at the postmark. Did she know anyone in Hastings, Kentucky?

  “You gonna be okay, ma’am?”

  “Yes, thanks.” She shut the door behind him and flipped the box. The sender was Starway Collectibles. It took her a minute. Right—SF mail-order company. She’d sent the order last month. She hobbled through the groceries and opened the box with a steak knife.

  The baby was ugly.

  It was one of those gag alien embryos she’d seen advertised, wrinkled and gray, floating in a jar of sludge. Tendrils of something white and wispy drifted around it. She set it on the counter and dug through the box. Her receipt listed the contents as “Paperback: Trust No One.”

  Claire chalked another one up for Monday. She made a mental note to check Starway’s returns policy, and m
aybe call them tomorrow. The embryo was from one of those novelty companies that sold “pickled” noses, fingers and eyeballs. Their appeal was beyond her. She turned away and promptly forgot about it.

  She stacked the food in the cupboards and carried the crumpled mail down the hall. Application for cable TV; didn’t want it. Flyer for Tracy’s Hair Salon; didn’t need it. She opened the phone bill, noting the minimal cost of an unlisted number. There were no calls. The only person who knew her address was the clerk who mailed her alimony. She slid that one in the nightstand drawer.

  Having the cheques forwarded guaranteed her privacy, though she couldn’t imagine her ex showing up—in meditating on her marriage, Jason wasn’t there had become her mantra. The night the burglar smashed the bedroom window, Jason wasn’t there. The day the dog got hit by a car, Jason wasn’t there.

  And the morning of her miscarriage, she knew he wasn’t going to be.

  Claire shucked her clothes on the way to the shower and grabbed the shampoo. The stubble on her head was long enough to be called hair now.

  Jason said the baby’s loss had unbalanced her, and she allowed there might be some truth in that. She’d cried at odd moments, making it hard to go out with his law partners. She’d stopped playing tennis with their wives—she was sick of their scrutiny. She didn’t remember cutting her hair off. She did remember Jason asking her to leave. She took his alimony because it was be alone with money or be alone without, and she didn’t lay blame. Divorce was too much like their marriage for that: she had comfort and means, and Jason wasn’t there.

  Claire thought of that as her time in the darkness, and felt herself traveling back to the light. She did the Saturday crossword. She slept late. She hung a bird feeder. She had hundreds of paperbacks she’d never had time to read. She read them now.