The 56th Man (13 page)

But at least this confirmed his second
preconception: between their two occupations, painting smudges and
selling needles and thread, the combined income of the Riggins
household should have been barely enough to rent a mid-sized flat.
Unless one of them had come into a sizable inheritance, the house
on the river was inconceivable.

Still unfamiliar with the local roads
and highways, Ari avoided high speed and quick, unexpected exits by
taking Broad Street back to the city, keeping one eye peeled for an
alternative source of groceries. He would have given his eyeteeth
for a good, basic
guss
. Over
the last few days the only food he had enjoyed had been Jack
Daniels and Fritos, neither of which could be considered part of a
normal diet. His roasted chicken had been spongy, his vegetables
lacking in variety and the canned food was as monotonous as the tin
it came in. The paneer cubes had been eaten and the chaats were
unfulfilling snacks on a par with Fritos. The roti turned out to be
his most meaningless purchase, there being nothing to eat it with;
the curry he had attempted to make had failed miserably. Ari was
not accustomed to cooking for himself, so it was reasonable to
suspect this was due to his lack of culinary talent. After all,
chick peas were about as basic as you could get. Yet the result of
his labor had been half soft, half hard, and totally
inedible.

At the intersection of Three Chopt Road he
spotted an ethnic food market. He pulled into the parking lot and
realized immediately that he had made a mistake when he stopped to
let a Chinese family hurry past. But as he circled around to return
to the exit, he braked again when an Indian woman rushed by, her
Salwar kameez and dupatta flowing magically in defiance of the
rain. He pulled into a space and trotted inside.

The clientele was eclectic enough to raise
Ari's expectations. The store itself was much larger than the
Indian grocer he had visited. But after he took up a hand basket
and strode down the first aisle his heart sank. While the fruits
and vegetables looked fresh, he was overwhelmed by the very variety
he had been seeking. Bok choy, tat soi, purple kohlrabi, foot-long
beans called dau gok…he had never heard of any of these, and even
the ones that looked familiar bore unfamiliar names, and were
probably cooked in unfamiliar ways.

To his left the shelves were stocked with
small glass jars. If Jerry Riggins' smudges had been packaged, they
would have looked like these Chinese condiments. As he ventured
further down the row, two women in jilbabs stopped and eyed him
warily. Finally, a reaction he was accustomed to. As he passed them
they drew their hands under their chins, as though guarding
themselves against a sudden chill. Their dread was a little
disconcerting, but there was no way they could have known him,
except as a type. And, as a type, they had picked him out instantly
from the crowd. Was there anything he could do about that?

Stay away from
Arabs
, was his sad but inescapable
conclusion.

At the rear of the store was a long glass
display. Inside, packed in ice, were fish both local and from well
beyond the horizon. In front of the display was a line of crates
and barrels that had been pried open to reveal fresh herring, red
snappers, rockfish, and a gooey mass of squid, their gray tentacles
compacted, eyes gaping forlornly. Against the rear wall was a fish
tank filled with their still-living relatives drifting obliviously
in dreamy innocence.

Behind the refrigerated display cases men in
white paper caps and bib aprons wielded filleting knives with
sweeping strokes. Fish blood and entrails were piled in reassuring
heaps, pleasing reminders of where food really came from. It took
Ari a moment to gain the attention of one of the workers.

"Excuse me..."

The man pushed a codfish to the side and
began working on another. He offered a brief upward glance, then
swooped with his blade from the gills to the vent. He scooped out
the fish guts with fingers encased in clear polyethylene. He looked
up. There were customers of all shades and hues calling out. The
man frowned, as though trying to figure out which voice belonged to
Ari. He looked down again, because he was again making broad swipes
with his knife and had to take care not to dissect his hand.

"Which one of these would make a good
masgouf?"

The man stared up at him for a moment.
“
Deng yīxìa, deng yīxìa
,” he
said, then turned and spoke to one of his coworkers.

"No," Ari interrupted, counting his luck. His
smattering of Mandarin was usually useless around Chinese workers,
the majority of whom spoke Cantonese. "It won’t be braised."

The fish processors froze when they
realized Ari had understood them. The man Ari had first addressed
tapped his hat with his bloody thumb. Then, very tentatively, he
said, “
Cùipí yú
?"

Ari nodded. "Yes, crispy skin."

A collective sigh both pensive and delighted
arose from the workers and some of the customers--even among the
non-Chinese. Their linguistic bubble had been burst by an outsider,
giving pleasure and pain. Had they been trespassed against, or had
an unexpected and welcome guest arrived at their doorstep?

The opinion of the man to whom Ari had
been conversing was obvious. His grin was almost ecstatic. No, Ari
amended. It
was
ecstatic.

"You say masgouf?" he said in English.

"Yes."

"I remember now. I know fish. You want
cop."

"Cop? Yes...carp! But I don't see any
here..."

"We have in back! You eat plenty?"

"Not plenty. Only for me."

The man tried to size Ari up through the
mist-filled display. "You eat plenty. You wait!"

Ari hoped the wait would not be long. Some of
the people around him looked as if they wanted to strike up a
conversation, and not in English. He had not realized his smidge of
Mandarin would draw so much friendly attention. But from the end of
one aisle, half-hidden by a freestanding rack of tea, the two Arab
women Ari had encountered while inspecting the vegetables watched
him uncertainly. They would be telling their husbands about him,
tacking on their suspicions like holy writ, and their small
community would soon be buzzing.

It was not a good morning. What he had
intended to be a discrete foray in search of information was
becoming a spectacle.

Ari's personal fishmonger emerged from the
back room holding a fish swaddled in white paper. He rested it on
his work counter and pressed back the wrapping. With a wide grin he
looked up at Ari, watching from the other side of the counter.

"
Zhēn
měi
," said Ari.

"Yes, beautiful!" the man laughed. But as he
raised his knife a squabble broke out among his coworkers, who
gathered around like surgeons disputing a risky procedure. Ari had
suddenly acquired his own groupies. They were determined their
idol's every whimsy should be catered to, and this meant treating
the carp with the utmost respect and delicacy. Ari found the
rapid-fire debate impossible to follow.

Ari's fishmonger threw up both hands, nearly
slicing off the nose of the man standing next to him.

"The man wants masgouf! I know fish! Masgouf
should be whole fish!"

The others backed off at this sign of ethnic
food expertise. They looked at Ari almost apologetically, as though
they had unintentionally violated a Commandment and were begging
forgiveness. Ari's fishmonger dismissed their ignorance with a
brisk shake of his upper body and proceeded to scale and gut the
carp. Ari wanted to urge him to speed it up, but the man had
abandoned his usual deftness for a slow, methodical approach. He
wanted his prized customer to see what care he was taking on his
behalf. When done, he tilted the carp Ari's way so that he could
admire his artistry.

"
Hăo jí
le
."

Ari's fishmonger carefully wrapped up the
carp, then slipped through a gap between the displays to place the
treasure in Ari's outstretched arms.

"You cook soon? Best fresh. No freeze."

"Fresh is best, always."

"You cook on wood. Use barbecue."

"I understand," said Ari, thinking of the
woodless Jenn-Air in his kitchen. It would do almost as well, but
he was not about to say this to his fishmonger, who looked ready to
grab him by the lapels if Ari contradicted him.

"You can cut along back, make it flat, but
best keep whole. You can put it..." The man paused.

"Rotisserie!" a coworker shouted.

"I know fish!" Ari's fishmonger shot
back.

"But you don't know rotisseries!"

"No rotisserie! Grill!"

"I understand perfectly," Ari said, a little
nervously.

"You can stuff it, too. And serve with
rice!"

Ari answered with a nod as he tested the
weight. Enough here for five people. His fishmonger must had sized
him up as a very hungry man, indeed. Then his mind took a
downturn.

Should I tell him how expensive this has
become in my homeland? And how much more expensive, and dubious, it
has gotten since a fatwa was pronounced against it?

The carp was a freshwater fish, and there had
been so many corpses tossed in the river that the religious
authorities were not only concerned for the health of their flock,
but by the possibility of indirect cannibalism.

Satisfied that his instructions had been
understood, Ari's fishmonger signaled his approval with a flurry of
clapping. The other fish processors clumped behind the displays,
their white-capped heads looking severed but pleased as they beamed
ray-gun grins his way. Ari submitted to an irresistible urge to bow
his head.

Wanting to avoid the two Arab women and their
baleful looks, he carried his package to the last broad aisle,
turned the corner, and nearly fell over them.

They were as startled as Ari and jumped
back a little. He gave a small nod and was about to pass around
them when one woman murmured, “
Al-salamu
‘alaykum
."

“
Wa ‘alaykum
as-salam.”

“
You must try the Middle Eastern Bakery
and Grocery."

Ari stopped and looked down at her.

"No," the other woman said. "Ali’s, in the
Fan."

"The Fan?" Ari asked.

"In the city. Ask anyone here. They can tell
you where it is."

The first woman was shaking her head. "Middle
Eastern has more to choose from."

"But Ali’s is Halal."

“
So is…” The first woman paused.
“Crescent Groceries is Halal…”

“
What about the Mediterranean Bakery at
Regency…?”

As the women set to bickering over which shop
was better, Ari wondered how he could extract himself from their
clutches. Having been raised in a culture where women could be
simply brushed aside, it would be no great offense to turn his back
on these two. Yet treating women with contempt had never suited
Ari's taste. There was no question that most of them were an
inferior species, but neither were they donkeys. He could be
brusque with them when the occasion demanded, but he had a much
greater tolerance for female inanity than most men he knew.

Two things resigned him to hearing them out.
It was obvious they knew where good food was to be had. Judging
from the bundles they were hugging to their breasts, they had only
come to the Chinese market for the fresh fish. They did their main
grocery shopping in the Middle Eastern shops Ari had so far failed
to locate.

The second reason for his forbearance was the
way they used ‘ani’ instead of ‘ana’. The dialect was Baghdad
Arabic. He had to be careful. He had already drawn too much
attention to himself, and it was not yet noon. He allowed his
posture to relax into a passive stance and sighed. His eyes
wandered to the front of the store. A young man was staring up at
some gaudy Chinese statuary on the shelves overhead, but Ari
doubted he could be much interested in the brightly colored demons
and dragons of the Orient. His left arm was pressed against his
side, as though he was favoring something heavy under his
camouflage jacket. He kept lowering his head and looking in the
direction of the checkout line, then shifting his gaze from the top
of the aisles to the broad window at the front. There were at least
two others. Damn…did they think this was a branch of Al-Rajhi
Bank?

He surveyed the wall against the ceiling.
Security cameras. Tons of them, at least one every fifteen feet.
They had to be dummies set up to deter honest citizens. The
dishonest ones would not be impressed. The desperate ones would not
be deterred.

"
Alma'derah
." Ari reached behind the two women. In
what in the West would be considered exaggerated deference, they
scooted several feet out of his way as he plucked some chopsticks
off the shelf. "These might be useful."

They gave him puzzled look. Perhaps they had
made the wrong assumption about him. Good, Ari thought. Let them be
confused. But he knew they would not stay confused for long.

"You mustn't converse with strange men," Ari
admonished, taking little satisfaction in their sudden wide-eyed
horror. He only wanted them to retreat in embarrassment to the back
of the store. He succeeded admirably.

Good. They were out of harm's way.

He walked slowly past some large cardboard
boxes filled with canned goods in the middle of the aisle. Cradling
his catch of the day in one arm, Ari used it to shield his free
hand as he nimbly stripped the paper wrapping from the chopsticks.
He stopped briefly when he reached the far wall and scanned the
shelves. Miscellaneous foodstuffs gave way to statuary about midway
up the aisle. He worked his way forward, nodding introspectively, a
prudent shopper.