Sometime after the power returned and water began rumbling through the pipes, my young friend Leni arrived, still dressed in his cook's uniform. Coffee? he said, pulling a small butcher-paper bundle out of his satchel. I've brought extra from the hotel kitchen. It's Bulgarian. While Leni washed in the downstairs bathroom, I put the beans into my old makeshift percolator, the one I'd salvaged from the officers' quarters nearly eight years before. A mass of wires and copper joints hung from the edge of the pot, almost touching the gas flame below and making it look like some turn-of-the-century device used for plumbing or irrigation. Still got that thing? Leni said, coming in from the hallway. You know, it won't be much longer until the new Italian models are available. If the Party purchases some, the old samovars will be expendable. I'll see that you get onto the list. Leni, despite his age, had made more connections in his first six months cooking at the Hotel Dajti than I had in my last ten years as the Deputy Minister of Slogans. He'd recently replaced a number of my dishes with better, only slightly chipped, hotel china and had also gotten my name entered for a soon-to-be-available convection oven. usual, I felt bad that I had so little to offer him in return, just a cup for his own coffee and a small basket of figs I'd picked in the country that morning. Leni understood, however, that in my position I worked only with thoughts and ideas--and sometimes not even that. Listen, I'm putting together a deal, he said, stirring his coffee with a cinnamon stick, another item he'd brought along. As you know, the hotel will be the site for Schlobodkin's promotion feast at the end of the month. Yes, in conjunction with the Tiranefest, I offered casually, trying not to betray the fact that I already knew Leni had been working nearly a fortnight on some scheme. Right. And between all the extra food we'll need, there certainly won't be enough room in the kitchen storage lockers to meet the demand. Leni briefly paused, taking a final sip of his coffee, and it occurred to me that this particular presentation seemed especially well-rehearsed. When I rose to get him more, he waved me off and continued. Florin, the head cook, has already asked that the meat and chicken be brought in that day, early in the morning. But other shipments are scheduled to arrive throughout the preceding week, and some of them will be kept down at the docks until the day before--including thirty or forty sacks of flour. Flour, Leni? Yes. Flour. Perfect, huh? It keeps fresh for a fairly long time, and right now I'm working on an arrangement to trade some across the border. Where do I fit in? You'll be the driver. Oh, I replied, not really committing myself one way or the other. I had known Leni for a number of years and his tactics of persuasion had become more than familiar to me. Instead of playing out the conversation that would have transpired had I spoken, I simply let it bounce around in my head. Had Leni and I actually discussed the scheme further, I might've pointed out that taking flour is an act of theft. He, in contrast, might have replied that, morally, it would not technically be stealing because the flour partially belonged to us in the first place. Leni had a way of conveniently adapting the best and worst facets of socialist theory to support his arguments. So, I might've responded, does that mean they won't send us to prison? My sarcasm, of course, would've only inspired him to resort to some sarcasm of his own. With so few policemen on duty these days, we may have a bit of difficulty getting caught. That's how the whole discussion might have begun. And from there it would've digressed tremendously, possibly continuing well into the night, outlasting that first pot of coffee and the many others that would certainly follow. …
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Jan 1, 1998
Osamu Ohashi + 2
