I turned my attention to the specimen he was escorting. Both sandshoed feet were trailing off the ground. A distressing miasma of studied unwashedness preceded him by a couple of metres. As my eyes became accustomed to the dim light I realised it was none other than our uninvited guest, Jordan King.
Philomela: At last. Somebody understands.
CHAPTER TEN
Thou art wedded to calamity.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, ROMEO AND JULIET, ACT 3, SCENE 3
There are moments when words fail me. This wasn’t one of them. All the accumulated frustrations of the previous day boiled over, and I let myself go more than somewhat.
‘Why, Jordan, how nice of you to drop in again. Actually, no, I don’t know why I said that. I am far from pleased to see you. Is there something you forgot to do during your last visit, like turning on the fire hydrants or pouring yoghurt on my first editions? Perhaps you would like to redecorate my apartment by throwing paint on the walls and smearing apricot jam all over my carpets?’ I paused for a moment. ‘No, wait, that wasn’t you, was it? There seems to be a queue to break into our apartments here in Insula. I suppose there’s some sort of roster, is there? You and our other burglar are taking turns? Do let me know so we can accommodate you as far as is possible.’ I showed him my teeth.
Since Jordan seemed neither willing nor able to say anything for himself, Ma’ani grumbled into life, like a front-end loader preparing to level a building site.
‘What’s this bloke doing hanging around here, Aunty Corinna?’ Ma’ani shook Jordan, as gently as possible, while still holding him well off the ground.
My unwelcome guest shivered like a sapling in a hurricane. He now resembled one of those pole-squatting Stylites who had fallen off his pillar. He still didn’t speak, so Ma’ani continued in a low, menacing rumble. ‘You trying to burgle our aunty’s bakery, son? ’Cos if you are, I’m gonna give youse a belting. Aunty Corinna is a friend of ours. Why don’t youse go and break into some rich bloke’s house in Toorak? What’re ya doing here, anyway?’
I could have asked Ma’ani to put Jordan down so he could explain himself, but I didn’t feel like it. I was beginning to find Jordan as a hanging basket more tolerable than his previous incarnations.
Finally he coughed into life. ‘I’m here on God’s work,’ he gasped.
Ma’ani laughed. It was like water splashing in an underground sea cave. ‘Yair, well. I’m here on God’s work too, son. Feedin’ the poor’s what we do. What do you think you’re doing that’s so important?’ The mighty hand waggled his captive slightly, and gently lowered him until both feet were on the footpath. But the iron grip on his hoodie, at the scruff of the neck, did not loosen.
Jordan recapitulated his sorry tale of Hunt the Heretic and Ma’ani laughed again. ‘What do we do with this bloke, Aunty Corinna?’
I shook my head in frustration. ‘I don’t know, Ma’ani. Short of clubbing him to death, it looks like he’s going to keep on coming.’
‘I could cook him and eat him for you,’ he suggested. ‘It’s no trouble, really. I could turn him into a hangi.’
‘That is a very kind offer, Ma’ani. I’ll think about it.’
Jordan unleashed a torrent of what seemed to be frenzied Latin, and Ma’ani bent his ear to listen. Then he grinned.
‘Right. So yer a Catholic, are ya? You’re coming with me, son. I’m taking you to see Sister Mary. She’s a Catholic, too, and she’s in damn big with God. Youse can explain yourself to her.’
I handed Ma’ani the sack of bread we reserved for the Soup Run, and he hoisted it over one mighty shoulder. With the other hand, he picked up Jordan again, without any apparent effort, and carried him off into the growing dawn.
Jason and I looked at each other. My apprentice grinned at me. ‘Problem solved, Captain?’
‘I hope so, Midshipman. And we may as well begin with the bread. Today’s specials: fig, almond and apricot sourdough, and potato bread.’ I paused, remembering where he had been yesterday. ‘And you can try your hand at baklava.’
‘Aye-aye, Captain!’
And so we slipped into our routine. Autopilot is a dangerous thing when surrounded by large ovens, but we did all the standard things and admired our handiwork busily turning itself into yeasty delights. The potato bread was simple enough. The fig, almond and apricot I had done before, and I knew what changes to make so it would not get too soggy. When all the breads were well underway, I turned to my midshipman.
‘Jason? Ready to show me what you learnt yesterday?’
‘Yai-yai says I’m getting the hang of it,’ he told me proudly.
Yai-yai was right. I admired considerably as Jason removed three sheets of filo pastry from the fridge and laid them out. I noted with approval the fact that each sheet had a damp tea towel spread over it to keep it from drying out and flaking. He combined almonds, walnuts, caster sugar, cloves and cinnamon in a bowl, and seized a sharp knife and held it up next to his mouth. Last week I had caught him putting it between his teeth like a pirate’s cutlass. I had forbidden this, and he understood why. This was his Pretend-I’m-A-Pirate moment and, so long as the gesture remained incomplete, I was okay with it. He winked, and I nodded tolerantly. He whipped off the first tea towel, smeared the surface with unsalted butter, sliced the sheet into three, and expertly shovelled on the nut mixture. Almost before I knew it, he had a huge aluminium tray filled with baklava cigars.
Removing a tray of bread, he loaded his confection into the oven. ‘Fifteen minutes, Captain,’ he sang out, and I set the timer accordingly.
After that, I watched him make up a syrup with lemon zest, cinnamon sticks, cloves, sugar and water. Finally, he produced a large plastic jar filled with crushed pistachio nuts and shook it like a maraca. ‘Yai-yai says these come from Aegina,’ my apprentice told me. ‘They used to be pirates, but after Greek independence they decided to grow pistachios instead.’
‘I’m sure their neighbours appreciated the career change,’ I suggested.
When the timer went off, Jason slipped the tray from the oven, poured his syrup over the baklava and topped it with a thick dusting of pistachio crumbs.
‘Most people put the pistachio in the middle,’ Jason informed me. ‘But Yai-yai says not to overdo it. A little pistachio goes a long way.’
I reached out for a slightly burnt one at the edge and bit into it. Feeling his eyes fixed on my face imploringly, I took my time before speaking.
‘Jason, that is truly excellent,’ I told him. ‘It is possible that they were a little too long in the oven, but even so, I’ll bet there’s none left by closing time.’
‘It’s hard to scale up with baking time,’ he commented, leaning back against the sink. His hand took another of the slightly burnt cigars and devoured it. ‘Yep. Yai-yai said twelve minutes, but I thought fifteen because our ovens are bigger and I’m making more than she would. It’s triple the quantity she makes. Should I have gone for twenty?’
‘Too long. Maybe seventeen. But a brilliant first try, Midshipman. By the by, how are things at Cafe Delicious?’