Irregular Verbs

by Irregular Verbs

  Gao could not help blushing when he heard his father telling the same tales he had told a thousand times before. He had never done anything but run the restaurant, never travelled except to buy food or collect recipes, but to hear him tell it he had more adventures than all the Hundred and One Bandits put together. Gao could not count the number of times he had heard his father tell the story of how he had gotten his trademark recipe—the garlicky duck from which he had taken his name, Doi Thiviei—from a hermit who had lived in a hut that was at the top of a mountain when he arrived in the afternoon but at the bottom of a valley when he left at dawn. The zither player had fallen silent to hear the story and Gao could see a half-dozen others kneeling on mourning stools, listening and chatting as they ate the leftovers of the previous night’s meals.

  “And then, just when I opened my eyes, I saw—nhoGao, is that you? Don’t lurk in the doorway, son, come in and sit down. I’m just at the good part.”

  “I am sorry, Father, but I must start to cook for today’s mourners.”

  “Oh, well, all right then. Bring us some fresh tea and some red bean dumplings, will you? Now, where was I? Oh, yes—when I opened my eyes, I saw that the hut, which the night before had been on a mountaintop—”

  Gao picked up the empty bowls, hurried on to the kitchen before his father could think of anything else to ask for. He could not help but notice that his father looked no more vaporous than he had the day before, felt guilty for wishing it otherwise. For most people the mourning party was a formality, a way to make the spirit linger a day or two at the most. It was supposed to be an expense—if it was too short, cost too little, there would be doubts about one’s respect for one’s father—but not a ruinous one. Sighing, Gao laid the qinshon buds onto a square of silk which he then tied into a bundle; any rougher cloth would rub their skins harshly and make them lose their flavour. That done he put a pot of water on to boil and looked around the kitchen, wondering what he could make as cheaply as possible that would not offend the mourners. He sipped the chicken broth that had been simmering since the night before, tossed in the bones from last night’s dinner. He could put pork dumplings into the broth, make a soup with noodles and fava beans, top it with chive flowers from the garden. For the next course he could deep-fry thin strips of pork in batter, if he made it hot enough he might be able to use a pig that wasn’t so expensive.

  Feeling hungry now, he pried one of the stones in the floor loose, lifted the lid off the shallow earthenware pot that lay below, reached in and pulled out a pickled pig’s knuckle. Looking carefully over each shoulder he took a bite. He had promised to give up eating pork when he and Mau-Pin Mienme had become engaged, but nothing calmed him down when he was nervous the way pork knuckles did. Her family were followers of the Southerner—her name meant Sweet Voice from the South—and so did not eat meat at all. When she had insisted that he at least give up eating pork it had taken him less than a second to agree. It had taken him only a day, following that, to realize that he could not possibly keep his promise, so he had bought a pot of pigs’ knuckles one day while she and her family were at prayer and hidden it under the floor in the kitchen, so that she would never know what a dishonourable man she was marrying.

  His mouth was now full of the sweet, salty, vinegar taste of the pigs’ knuckles and he could feel it easing his mind. It was true: he was a dishonourable man, dishonest and unfilial, breaking his word to his wife-to-be and wishing his father’s ghost would leave him alone. He doubted that even Mienme, who like all of her faith had studied to be an advocate to the dead in the Courts of Hell, could convince the Judge of Fate to send him back as anything nobler than a frog. He sighed. It was only because he was due to inherit a good business that Mienme’s father, a lawyer on Earth as well as the next world, was allowing her to marry him at all. He had always known how unlikely it was that he should be able to marry a woman like Mienme. She was beautiful and intelligent, while he was cursed with an overfed body and the doughy face that had made his father call him Glutinous Rice. He knew better than to question the divine grace that made her love him, though, and he had believed since they were children they would one day be married. In all that time he had never imagined it might be his father that would be the problem.

  Thinking of Mienme made him want to see her, have her listen to his problems as she had so often done. Like other women who followed the Southerner she was allowed to go out alone, to spread his Word, and he thought she would most likely be at South Gate Market this time of day. That would work out well enough; he could get all of the vegetables he needed there, and buy the pig later in the day when he was alone. Seeing her face, and hearing her advice, would be more than worth the extra trip. After carefully putting the pot back under the floor stone he opened a small jar in the shelf, took out a boiled egg marinated in soy sauce and popped it in his mouth to cover the smell of the pork knuckle. Then he poured boiling water into the large teapot, put a few of the red bean dumplings he had baked the night before onto a tray, took tray and tea into the front room where his father was still spinning his tales to a rapt audience.

  “—of course, a chicken that laid eggs with two yolks would be worth a lot of money today, though we didn’t think like that in those days. No, we only hoped she would survive the trip home so we could make Double August Sunrise for the Emperor—nhoGao, you’ve brought the dumplings. Won’t you stay and hear this story?” His father was, if anything, more solid than when he had last seen him, the party more lively as noon approached.

  “I’m sorry, Father, I have to go to the South Gate Market to buy food for dinner.”

  “Well, that’s all right, I suppose. Do bring me back some of those preserved mushrooms, and some sweet beer for our friend here, whose throat must be getting dry.” The zither player had not sung a word since Doi Thiviei started talking, nor was he likely to for the rest of the day, but Gao nodded dutifully before steeping back into the kitchen.

  Once out of his father’s sight he picked up the rag that held his shopping list and wrote “sweet beer” on it with a piece of charcoal. His father did not like him reading, saying every other generation had learned to memorize their customers’ orders, but on the other hand Mienme said if he were illiterate he would not be able to read the charges in the Court of Hell and his advocate would not be able to help him. He had to admit it meant he took fewer trips to the market, since without a list he always forgot something. He folded his list, strapped his grocery basket on his back and went out into the street.

  The streets between the restaurant and the market were crowded, even in the heat before noon, and the wind blowing from the west carried a heavy scent of medicinal incense. Someone in the Palace must be sick, he thought. As the massive iron pillars of the South Gate came into view the smell of the incense was met and quickly defeated by that of spices, sizzling oil and a dozen different kinds of meat cooking. Pausing for a moment, Gao closed his eyes, tested himself the way his father had done when he was child, making himself find his way around the market by smell alone. There, off to his right, someone was making salt-and-pepper shrimp, heating the iron pan until the shells cracked, releasing tiny gasps of garlic and red pepper-scented steam. To his left someone else was frying mat tran on a griddle, making sure they would have enough for the lunch rush customers to wrap around their pork-and-kelp rice.

  Satisfied, Gao opened his eyes again, scanning the crowd for Mienme’s familiar face. He found her standing just inside the gate, handing out block-printed tracts to a family of confused-looking farmers. One, an older man with a white-streaked beard and a broad bamboo hat, was listening politely while the others kept a tight rein on the pigs they had brought with them. Gao waited until the father had accepted the pamphlet and moved on before approaching.

  “You do your faith and your father honour,” he said formally when she noticed him. Though they were engaged, there were still certain proprieties to be observed when in public.

 
Or so he felt; Mienme often seemed to disagree. “You know as well as I do that none of them can read,” she said, shaking her head. “Our temple offers free lessons, but they won’t stay in the city long enough for that. Besides, only the Master could convince a pork farmer to give up meat.”

  “And you try nevertheless,” Gao said. “Such determination will serve you well when you argue cases before the Judge of Fate.”

  “That’s very sweet, nhoGao,” she said, making him blush at the use of his childhood name. She was dressed in the brown cotton robe and leggings all her faith wore when preaching, and from a distance she might almost have looked like a man. “But you don’t have to reassure me, I’m not about to lose my faith—I’m just hot and tired, that’s all. Why are you looking so glum?”

  He shrugged slightly. He had not realized his mood was so apparent, resolved to better hide it from his father. “The mourning party is still going on today. If this continues my father’s ghost will outlast his restaurant.”

  “What is it now, four days?”

  “Five. My father is enjoying his party so much I think he is happier now than when he was alive.”

  Mienme put up her hood and extended her hand to him. With her face hidden anyone who saw them would see only a young man helping a monk through the crowded streets. “It’s the food everyone’s coming for. Couldn’t you do something to it, put in something bitter so they won’t like it so much?” she asked. “You could say it was a mistake.”

  “If I make a mistake like that, my father would stay another ten years just to punish me.”

  They stopped at a vegetable stand and Gao haggled with the merchant for beans and cabbage while Mienme seemed lost in thought. “I’ve got it,” she finally said after they had put their groceries in the basket on Gao’s back and moved on. “Remember the night my parents came to the restaurant and you made Temple Style Duck?”

  “How could I forget?” Gao asked. “Your parents thought I was insulting them, making bean curd so that it tasted like a duck. My father thought I was insulting the duck!”

  “Exactly. Make him that and when he complains, say you’re concerned about what the Judge of Fate will find if he keeps on eating meat after his death. That way it’ll cool the party down and you’ll only be acting out of filial affection.”

  “That’s true.” Gao thought for a moment. “That’s an excellent idea. You really are too smart to be wasted on a person like me.”

  Mienme laughed. “I know. I took an oath to defend the hopeless, remember?”

  Five hours later Gao held his breath as he lifted the steamer basket’s long oval lid. All around him lay the remains of the bean curd, sweet potato, arrowroot, and other vegetables he had used. He did not make Temple Style very often—even most followers of the Southerner did not eat it; it had been created for high-ranking converts who wanted their vegetarianism to be as painless as possible—but he enjoyed the artistry it involved, matching flavours and textures in a way that was almost magical. Gao, the youngest of his father’s four sons, had mostly learned cooking from his mother, and she had been the vegetable cook. For that reason his father and brothers had been responsible for the meat dishes the restaurant was famous for and he had been left to take care of the vegetables and small items like dumplings. But his brothers had left, one by one, to start their own restaurants in other cities, and for the last few years he had been doing all the cooking himself, his father only planning the menus—menus he had changed, slightly, to include more vegetables and some of the things he had learned cooking for Mienme.

  When the steam coming out of the basket cleared he could see, inside, something that looked almost exactly like thin slices of barbecued duck, greyish-white with streaks of an almost impossible red. Getting it to look right was the easy part, of course; the flavour and the smell were harder, and much more important. He carefully lifted the slices out with a slotted spoon and slid them into a waiting skillet full of oil and the sauce needed to complete the illusion. In seconds the oil sealed the outside of the slices, browning them and making the red streaks even brighter. He lifted the smallest piece to his mouth, burning his tongue slightly tasting it. It was perfect, better even than the cooks at the Temple made it. It had taken him months to duplicate their recipe, making sure he had it right before he could even invite Mienme’s parents to dinner, but he had also improved it, giving it that crackling texture the Temple cooks had never managed. This was the dish he made better than anyone else—Trianha Thiviei, Temple Style Duck. This ought to be his name, not Glutinous Rice, something he had made every day for the poorest customers because his brothers were making more complicated things. He could not change his name while his father was still around, of course, but soon, perhaps. . . .

  Gao sighed, asking forgiveness for wishing his father gone, took the remaining slices out of the skillet then laid them on a waiting bed of steamed and salted greens and white rice. He took the plate with rice, greens and “duck” in one hand and a platter with ten small bowls on it in the other and went out to the front room.

  “—so there we were, bound to make dinner for an official of the Fifth Rank and his family and all the salt brokers on strike—nhoGao, have you brought dinner?” The crowd of mourners had grown since the afternoon, with the new arrivals more than making up for the few that had left—word that one of the best restaurants in town was giving out free food had gotten around.

  Gao nodded, not quite able to speak. For all the justification Mienme had given him he could not escape the fact that he was giving his father something he would not like. Someone was rolling his stomachs into dumplings as he spooned out the first bowl of Trianha Thiviei.

  His father sniffed at the bowl. “Is this duck?” he asked, his brow furrowed.

  No sense adding a lie to his long list of crimes. “No, father—it’s Temple Style. I made it because—because Mienme was worried about what will happen when you stand before the Judge of Fate.”

  “Is that so? What a kind girl she is.” His father took up his sticks, brought a piece to his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

  “Yes, father. She is very concerned about your trial.” Gao felt like a pot of hot tea had been poured down his throat, wondered what punishments awaited him as a result of this.

  “You know,” his father said finally, “maybe it’s because I’m dead, but I don’t think I gave this stuff a fair chance last time. It’s really quite good—and for my soul, too, eh?” He laughed. Gao echoed him nervously. “Needs a bit more salt, though. Which reminds me, I was just telling them the story of the big salt brokers’ strike—you know this one, it’s a good story—”

  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, who was wearing the lacquered red headdress of an official of the se
venth 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.”