Madness

by Roald Dahl

  ‘You know what you ought to do,’ his aunt said to him, gobbling the stew. ‘You ought to set yourself down this very minute with paper and pencil and write a cooking-book.’

  He looked at her across the table, chewing his parsnips slowly.

  ‘Why not?’ she cried. ‘I’ve taught you how to write and I’ve taught you how to cook and now all you’ve got to do is put the two things together. You write a cooking-book, my darling, and it’ll make you famous the whole world over.’

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I will.’

  And that very day, Lexington began writing the first page of that monumental work which was to occupy him for the rest of his life. He called it Eat Good and Healthy.

  VI

  Seven years later, by the time he was seventeen, he had recorded over nine thousand different recipes, all of them original, all of them delicious.

  But now, suddenly, his labours were interrupted by the tragic death of Aunt Glosspan. She was afflicted in the night by a violent seizure, and Lexington, who had rushed into her bedroom to see what all the noise was about, found her lying on her bed yelling and cussing and twisting herself up into all manner of complicated knots. Indeed, she was a terrible sight to behold, and the agitated youth danced round her in his pyjamas, wringing his hands, and wondering what on earth he should do. Finally, in an effort to cool her down, he fetched a bucket of water from the pond in the cow field and tipped it over her head, but this only intensified the paroxysms, and the old lady expired within the hour.

  ‘This is really too bad,’ the poor boy said, pinching her several times to make sure that she was dead. ‘And how sudden! How quick and sudden! Why only a few hours ago she seemed in the very best of spirits. She even took three large helpings of my most recent creation, devilled mushroom-burgers, and told me how succulent it was.’

  After weeping bitterly for several minutes, for he had loved his aunt very much, he pulled himself together and carried her outside and buried her behind the cowshed.

  The next day, while tidying up her belongings, he came across an envelope that was addressed to him in Aunt Glosspan’s handwriting. He opened it and drew out two fifty-dollar bills and a letter. ‘Darling boy,’ the letter said.

  I know that you have never yet been down the mountain since you were thirteen days old, but as soon as I die you must put on a pair of shoes and a clean shirt and walk down to the village and find the doctor. Ask the doctor to give you a death certificate to prove that I am dead. Then take this certificate to my lawyer, a man called Mr Samuel Zuckermann, who lives in New York City and who has a copy of my will. Mr Zuckermann will arrange everything. The cash in this envelope is to pay the doctor for the certificate and to cover the cost of your journey to New York. Mr Zuckermann will give you more money when you get there, and it is my earnest wish that you use it to further your researches into culinary and vegetarian matters, and that you continue to work upon that great book of yours until you are satisfied that it is complete in every way. Your loving aunt – Glosspan.

  Lexington, who had always done everything his aunt told him, pocketed the money, put on a pair of shoes and a clean shirt, and went down the mountain to the village where the doctor lived.

  ‘Old Glosspan?’ the doctor said. ‘My God, is she dead?’

  ‘Certainly she’s dead,’ the youth answered. ‘If you will come back home with me now I’ll dig her up and you can see for yourself.’

  ‘How deep did you bury her?’ the doctor asked.

  ‘Six or seven feet down, I should think.’

  ‘And how long ago?’

  ‘Oh, about eight hours.’

  ‘Then she’s dead,’ the doctor announced. ‘Here’s the certificate.’

  VII

  Our hero now set out for the City of New York to find Mr Samuel Zuckermann. He travelled on foot, and he slept under hedges, and he lived on berries and wild herbs, and it took him sixteen days to reach the metropolis.

  ‘What a fabulous place this is!’ he cried as he stood at the corner of Fifty-seventh Street and Fifth Avenue, staring around him. ‘There are no cows or chickens anywhere, and none of the women looks in the least like Aunt Glosspan.’

  As for Mr Samuel Zuckermann, he looked like nothing that Lexington had ever seen before.

  He was a small spongy man with livid jowls and a huge magenta nose, and when he smiled, bits of gold flashed at you marvellously from lots of different places inside his mouth. In his luxurious office, he shook Lexington warmly by the hand and congratulated him upon his aunt’s death.

  ‘I suppose you knew that your dearly beloved guardian was a woman of considerable wealth?’ he said.

  ‘You mean the cows and the chickens?’

  ‘I mean half a million bucks,’ Mr Zuckermann said.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Half a million dollars, my boy. And she’s left it all to you.’ Mr Zuckermann leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands over his spongy paunch. At the same time, he began secretly working his right forefinger in through his waistcoat and under his shirt so as to scratch the skin around the circumference of his navel – a favourite exercise of his, and one that gave him a peculiar pleasure. ‘Of course, I shall have to deduct fifty per cent for my services,’ he said, ‘but that still leaves you with two hundred and fifty grand.’

  ‘I am rich!’ Lexington cried. ‘This is wonderful! How soon can I have the money?’

  ‘Well,’ Mr Zuckermann said, ‘luckily for you, I happen to be on rather cordial terms with the tax authorities around here, and I am confident that I shall be able to persuade them to waive all death duties and back taxes.’

  ‘How kind you are,’ murmured Lexington.

  ‘I shall naturally have to give somebody a small honorarium.’

  ‘Whatever you say, Mr Zuckermann.’

  ‘I think a hundred thousand would be sufficient.’

  ‘Good gracious, isn’t that rather excessive?’

  ‘Never undertip a tax-inspector or a policeman,’ Mr Zuckermann said. ‘Remember that.’

  ‘But how much does it leave for me?’ the youth asked meekly.

  ‘One hundred and fifty thousand. But then you’ve got the funeral expenses to pay out of that.’

  ‘Funeral expenses?’

  ‘You’ve got to pay the funeral parlour. Surely you know that?’

  ‘But I buried her myself, Mr Zuckermann, behind the cowshed.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ the lawyer said. ‘So what?’

  ‘I never used a funeral parlour.’

  ‘Listen,’ Mr Zuckermann said patiently. ‘You may not know it, but there is a law in this State which says that no beneficiary under a will may receive a single penny of his inheritance until the funeral parlour has been paid in full.’

  ‘You mean that’s a law?’

  ‘Certainly it’s a law, and a very good one it is, too. The funeral parlour is one of our great national institutions. It must be protected at all cost.’

  Mr Zuckermann himself, together with a group of public-spirited doctors, controlled a corporation that owned a chain of nine lavish funeral parlours in the city, not to mention a casket factory in Brooklyn and a post-graduate school for embalmers in Washington Heights. The celebration of death was therefore a deeply religious affair in Mr Zuckermann’s eyes. In fact, the whole business affected him profoundly, almost as profoundly, one might say, as the birth of Christ affected the shopkeeper.

  ‘You had no right to go out and bury your aunt like that,’ he said. ‘None at all.’

  ‘I’m very sorry, Mr Zuckermann.’

  ‘Why, it’s downright subversive.’

  ‘I’ll do whatever you say, Mr Zuckermann. All I want to know is how much I’m going to get in the end, when everything’s paid.’

  There was a pause. Mr Zuckermann sighed and frowned and continued secretly to run the tip of his finger round the rim of his navel.

  ‘Shall we say fifteen thousand?’ he suggested, flashing a big gold sm
ile. ‘That’s a nice round figure.’

  ‘Can I take it with me this afternoon?’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’

  So Mr Zuckermann summoned his chief cashier and told him to give Lexington fifteen thousand dollars out of the petty cash, and to obtain a receipt. The youth, who by this time was delighted to be getting anything at all, accepted the money gratefully and stowed it away in his knapsack. Then he shook Mr Zuckermann warmly by the hand, thanked him for all his help, and went out of the office.

  ‘The whole world is before me!’ our hero cried as he emerged into the street. ‘I now have fifteen thousand dollars to see me through until my book is published. And after that, of course, I shall have a great deal more.’ He stood on the pavement, wondering which way to go. He turned left and began strolling slowly down the street, staring at the sights of the city.

  ‘What a revolting smell,’ he said, sniffing the air. ‘I can’t stand this.’ His delicate olfactory nerves, tuned to receive only the most delicious kitchen aromas, were being tortured by the stench of the diesel-oil fumes pouring out of the backs of the buses.

  ‘I must get out of this place before my nose is ruined altogether,’ he said. ‘But first, I’ve simply got to have something to eat. I’m starving.’ The poor boy had had nothing but berries and wild herbs for the past two weeks, and now his stomach was yearning for solid food. I’d like a nice hominy cutlet, he told himself. Or maybe a few juicy salsify fritters.

  He crossed the street and entered a small restaurant. The place was hot inside, and dark and silent. There was a strong smell of cooking-fat and cabbage water. The only other customer was a man with a brown hat on his head, crouching intently over his food, who did not look up as Lexington came in.

  Our hero seated himself at a corner table and hung his knapsack on the back of his chair. This, he told himself, is going to be most interesting. In all my seventeen years I have tasted only the cooking of two people, Aunt Glosspan and myself – unless one counts Nurse McPottle, who must have heated my bottle a few times when I was an infant. But I am now about to sample the art of a new chef altogether, and perhaps, if I am lucky, I may pick up a couple of useful ideas for my book.

  A waiter approached out of the shadows at the back, and stood beside the table.

  ‘How do you do,’ Lexington said. ‘I should like a large hominy cutlet please. Do it twenty-five seconds each side, in a very hot skillet with sour cream, and sprinkle a pinch of lovage on it before serving – unless of course your chef knows of a more original method, in which case I should be delighted to try it.’

  The waiter laid his head over to one side and looked carefully at his customer. ‘You want the roast pork and cabbage?’ he asked. ‘That’s all we got left.’

  ‘Roast what and cabbage?’

  The waiter took a soiled handkerchief from his trouser pocket and shook it open with a violent flourish, as though he were cracking a whip. Then he blew his nose loud and wet.

  ‘You want it or don’t you?’ he said, wiping his nostrils.

  ‘I haven’t the foggiest idea what it is,’ Lexington replied, ‘but I should love to try it. You see, I am writing a cooking-book and …’

  ‘One pork and cabbage!’ the waiter shouted, and somewhere in the back of the restaurant, far away in the darkness, a voice answered him.

  The waiter disappeared. Lexington reached into his knapsack for his personal knife and fork. These were a present from Aunt Glosspan, given him when he was six years old, made of solid silver, and he had never eaten with any other instruments since. While waiting for the food to arrive, he polished them lovingly with a piece of soft muslin.

  Soon the waiter returned carrying a plate on which there lay a thick greyish-white slab of something hot. Lexington leaned forward anxiously to smell it as it was put down before him. His nostrils were wide open now to receive the scent, quivering and sniffing.

  ‘But this is absolute heaven!’ he exclaimed. ‘What an aroma! It’s tremendous!’

  The waiter stepped back a pace, watching his customer carefully.

  ‘Never in my life have I smelled anything as rich and wonderful as this!’ our hero cried, seizing his knife and fork. ‘What on earth is it made of?’

  The man in the brown hat looked around and stared, then returned to his eating. The waiter was backing away towards the kitchen.

  Lexington cut off a small piece of the meat, impaled it on his silver fork, and carried it up to his nose so as to smell it again. Then he popped it into his mouth and began to chew it slowly, his eyes half closed, his body tense.

  ‘This is fantastic!’ he cried. ‘It is a brand-new flavour! Oh, Glosspan, my beloved Aunt, how I wish you were with me now so you could taste this remarkable dish! Waiter! Come here at once! I want you!’

  The astonished waiter was now watching from the other end of the room, and he seemed reluctant to move any closer.

  ‘If you will come and talk to me I will give you a present,’ Lexington said, waving a hundred-dollar bill. ‘Please come over here and talk to me.’

  The waiter sidled cautiously back to the table, snatched away the money, and held it up close to his face, peering at it from all angles. Then he slipped it quickly into his pocket.

  ‘What can I do for you, my friend?’ he asked.

  ‘Look,’ Lexington said. ‘If you will tell me what this delicious dish is made of, and exactly how it is prepared, I will give you another hundred.’

  ‘I already told you,’ the man said. ‘It’s pork.’

  ‘And what exactly is pork?’

  ‘You never had roast pork before?’ the waiter asked, staring.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, man, tell me what it is and stop keeping me in suspense like this.’

  ‘It’s pig,’ the waiter said. ‘You just bung it in the oven.’

  ‘Pig!’

  ‘All pork is pig. Didn’t you know that?’

  ‘You mean this is pig’s meat?’

  ‘I guarantee it.’

  ‘But … but … that’s impossible,’ the youth stammered. ‘Aunt Glosspan, who knew more about food than anyone else in the world, said that meat of any kind was disgusting, revolting, horrible, foul, nauseating and beastly. And yet this piece that I have here on my plate is without a doubt the most delicious thing that I have ever tasted. Now how on earth do you explain that? Aunt Glosspan certainly wouldn’t have told me it was revolting if it wasn’t.’

  ‘Maybe your aunt didn’t know how to cook it,’ the waiter said.

  ‘Is that possible?’

  ‘You’re damn right it is. Especially with pork. Pork has to be very well done or you can’t eat it.’

  ‘Eureka!’ Lexington cried. ‘I’ll bet that’s exactly what happened! She did it wrong!’ He handed the man another hundred-dollar bill. ‘Lead me to the kitchen,’ he said. ‘Introduce me to the genius who prepared this meat.’

  Lexington was at once taken into the kitchen, and there he met the cook who was an elderly man with a rash on one side of his neck.

  ‘This will cost you another hundred,’ the waiter said.

  Lexington was only too glad to oblige, but this time he gave the money to the cook. ‘Now listen to me,’ he said, ‘I have to admit that I am really rather confused by what the waiter has just been telling me. Are you quite positive that the delectable dish which I have just been eating was prepared from pig’s flesh?’

  The cook raised his right hand and began scratching the rash on his neck.

  ‘Well,’ he said, looking at the waiter and giving him a sly wink, ‘all I can tell you is that I think it was pig’s meat.’

  ‘You mean you’re not sure?’

  ‘One can’t ever be sure.’

  ‘Then what else could it have been?’

  ‘Well,’ the cook said, speaking very slowly and still staring at the waiter. ‘There’s just a chance, you see, that it might have been a piece of human stuff.’

  ‘You mean a man?’

  ‘Yes.
’

  ‘Good heavens.’

  ‘Or a woman. It could have been either. They both taste the same.’

  ‘Well – now you really do surprise me,’ the youth declared.

  ‘One lives and learns.’

  ‘Indeed one does.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, we’ve been getting an awful lot of it just lately from the butcher’s in place of pork,’ the cook declared.

  ‘Have you really?’

  ‘The trouble is, it’s almost impossible to tell which is which. They’re both very good.’

  ‘The piece I had just now was simply superb.’

  ‘I’m glad you liked it,’ the cook said. ‘But to be quite honest, I think that was a bit of pig. In fact, I’m almost sure it was.’

  ‘You are?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘In that case, we shall have to assume that you are right,’ Lexington said. ‘So now will you please tell me – and here is another hundred dollars for your trouble – will you please tell me precisely how you prepared it?’

  The cook, after pocketing the money, launched out upon a colourful description of how to roast a loin of pork, while the youth, not wanting to miss a single word of so great a recipe, sat down at the kitchen table and recorded every detail in his notebook.

  ‘Is that all?’ he asked when the cook had finished.

  ‘That’s all.’

  ‘But there must be more to it than that, surely?’

  ‘You got to get a good piece of meat to start off with,’ the cook said. ‘That’s half the battle. It’s got to be a good hog and it’s got to be butchered right, otherwise it’ll turn out lousy whichever way you cook it.’

  ‘Show me how,’ Lexington said. ‘Butcher me one now so I can learn.’

  ‘We don’t butcher pigs in the kitchen,’ the cook said. ‘That lot you just ate came from a packing-house over in the Bronx.’

  ‘Then give me the address!’

  The cook gave him the address, and our hero, after thanking them both many times for all their kindnesses, rushed outside and leaped into a taxi and headed for the Bronx.