In an ornate hall, guests moved about in costumes that could only belong to some tale from the Thousand and One Nights. The hall itself looked like a palace out of a fairy tale. Against the wall, beneath a canopy, musicians played. The air carried the scent of saffron and a host of other spices.
At one of the tables sat several guests. A servant poured them tea while they talked.
"Last night's reception was rather ordinary."
"True, but that wasn't the point."
"True."
Their attention settled on the center of the hall, where a table stood.
"I feel a little sorry for Albentine. I liked her style."
"Yes, her aesthetic was excellent. If she had improved her approach, she would have been ideal."
"Well, that was part of who she was." He lowered his head for a moment. "What happened to her is awful. No one should be treated like that."
The others nodded.
"The Saffron Tigress's feasts always tell a story. It is a fairy tale on the tongue."
They drifted into reverie, and deep beneath their feet the fairy tale was becoming fact.
Evan lay in a basin of creamy-gold marinade. The smell of spices, oil, and fire woke him. He opened his eyes. The kitchen was busy. Zahira stood over him.
"I'm sorry to disturb your sleep, but we have to begin. It would be rude to delay the ending."
Evan looked at her coldly.
"We have an agreement."
"Of course. Your girls are safe… so long as you play your part."
Evan sighed. He let himself be untied. Zahira wiped the excess marinade from him.
Beside him they set a great clay roasting pan, already lined with a bed of vegetables. Evan arranged himself as he was told, then let them bind him.
Erosion raged in his mind, flooding him with dopamine and pleasure, repeating without pause that he was lucky, and so intensely that he was ready to believe it. On top of that, arousal made his breathing heavy, and he had an erection.
"Mr. Smith. You look truly magnificent and appetizing. I have to be honest. With your natural appeal, the fairy tale is only seasoning."
Evan did not know what to say. On one side he was angry at the whole situation. On another, erosion bombarded him with positive signals. On a third, he could appreciate the craft and the splendor of it all. That last thing was something he both valued and hated.
"If you cook me badly, I swear I will haunt you until you die."
Zahira laughed lightly.
"Don't worry, Mr. Smith. You will come out perfectly, a true work of art worthy of a fairy tale."
The tigress glanced at the clock, but there was still time for the next act.
She waved a hand. Several assistants brought a great clay lid.
"You will be roasted in the traditional way, under a cover. I hope you will appreciate it."
Before Evan could say anything, the lid was set over him. Then he was placed in the heated oven.
For a time Evan saw nothing. He was alone in the dark, inside rising heat and steam. He had no idea how long he spent in there. At last he felt a sudden draft. The lid was lifted so they could baste him with juices. Then he went back under the lid. And so several times. Finally she drew him out for the last touches and began to pour pomegranate glaze over him. After a moment a thin red crust formed.
At last they took him from the oven and set him to rest on the table. A moment later an ornate golden platter appeared beside him. On it lay a bed of jasmine rice colored with saffron and cardamom.
They arranged him on it so that he lay on his stomach, legs folded back toward his buttocks, arms crossed on his back. Only then did he notice the pomegranate seeds and pistachios in the rice. Around him they set several small golden bowls of white sauce that smelled of yogurt and mint. At the end she laid paper-thin slices of citrus over him and scattered him with rose petals.
"You look wonderful, Mr. Smith. I must admit I did not expect something like this."
She was salivating hard, and her eyes shone.
"You know, I often wondered why the witch wanted this particular prince. But now that I see you, I understand completely. I feel as if I had a culinary revelation before me, or as if I myself were the witch from the fairy tale." She spoke as if in a trance, or in religious ecstasy.
At that moment the tigress spun, tore off her cook's clothes, and appeared in a costume out of an Arabian fairy tale.
"We shouldn't wait." She licked her lips. "Time for the final act."
She nodded to several servants, who lifted the platter and followed her to the dining hall like a procession. The victorious procession of the witch Zahira.
They entered the hall amid murmurs of admiration. They set him on the ornate table. Evan looked. Elegant interiors. Sensual lighting. Ceremony. He, chiefly, as the dish. He knew he ought to be angry, furious, and frightened, but he was not. He was impressed. Not because of the erosion raging in him, but for an entirely different reason. Something worse. The staging itself impressed him, and the styling of the story.
Zahira stood beside him and told the whole fairy tale of the witch and the prince. He lay there and settled accounts with himself.
Especially with the fact that he admired these arrangements. That he thought, as meat, he was lucky to meet such an end. A feast in the form of a story. It was something that had reached his heart and did not want to leave.
In his mind's eye he saw his feast with Rufus, and in his mind's eye he saw himself from above. From both images he felt proud.
He had to admit it to himself. A feast in this form of a story was the highest work of art.
He truly could not be angry at Zahira.
Only the threat to the girls and his abduction were the sole flaws in that picture. Were it not for that, he might have thought it could be extraordinarily valuable. He might even have volunteered.
"And so we have come to this moment. Prince Evan Smith, would you like to say anything else?"
Evan thought for a moment, then said:
"I will bear no one any grudge, so long as the witch keeps her word."
For an instant it seemed some mystic shiver passed through Zahira.
"Of course, prince. I always keep my word. I will say more: if this fairy tale does not end as I think it will, I will give you something you will not be able to refuse."
She placed a single date in his mouth and turned to the guests.
"Dear guests, viewers, and witnesses. We have recreated the entire unfinished fairy tale from the pen of Master Nazim Al-Quadir. We have already reached the final moment. The prince lies on the platter, ready for consumption."
A servant approached, carrying ornate carved cutlery on a red silk cushion. Zahira took it with an exaggerated theatrical gesture.
"This is the moment. It has been awaited for centuries. Let us learn the ending."
Silence fell over the hall. Zahira stood beside Evan. She set the knife before her. Evan tried to stay calm. If this was to be the end, he did not want to spoil it. Zahira began to lower the knife.
Then a dull crack sounded. It was as if someone had set off a horn and started playing a vuvuzela, farting in time during a concert at the philharmonic.
"What is this?" Zahira shouted, fury undisguised. "Who dares ruin such a solemn moment?"
At that moment another boom rang out. The doors at the far end of the hall nearly tore from their hinges. Something shot across the hall. It struck Zahira and threw her all the way to the wall.
"Who dares?!"
"SFO, on the ground!!!"
At least several dozen armed officers burst into the hall. With them were Arslan and the girls.
Zahira could not believe what she was seeing.
"Arslan?! You?!"
Evan could not believe it either. They were safe.
"How did you find me?!"
Frida stepped forward.
"Thanks to your agents, you bitch."
She threw her a hostile look.
"Nothing will break my servants."
"Almost nothing," Frida hissed. "It was enough to put their cocks on the grill, and once they realized how easily they could end up as sausages in hot dogs, they started talking, just to avoid it."
The tigress gave the she-wolf a contemptuous look.
"Barbarism. I always wondered what the prince…"
At that moment she fell silent at once.
She dropped the knife she still held in her hand.
Then something happened that no one had foreseen.
She began to laugh so hard she bent double.
"Of course. I understand. So this was how it was meant to be."
Arslan stepped forward, a taser in his hand.
"What are you talking about?"
The tigress wiped her tears.
"Don't you understand, Arslan?" She spread her hands. "A human prince, four concubines, a lion ruler, a tiger witch, a feast. We recreated the fairy tale from the pen of Master Nazim Al-Quadir." She looked upward, as if she had received a divine revelation. "At last we know the ending. The prince was rescued. The witch loses, because her servant was caught and forced to speak." She sighed heavily and looked at Evan. "A pity. I was so close."
"You and your love of stories. How many times have you broken the law for them?" Arslan furrowed his brow and growled.
"Don't deny it, Arslan. As a cook you yourself must admit it was beautiful and perfect." Zahira seemed not to hear any accusation. She looked as if she were taking part in some elite literary dispute about the intentions of an author dead for hundreds of years.
"No. The fairy tale has not yet been finished."
Zahira seemed greatly shocked. Arslan aimed the taser at her.
"The punishment of the witch remains."
Zahira shot him a challenging look.
"If, as punishment, I were served whole, I would lie on the table with honor. If I ended in pieces, I might still consider it worthy. I know, however, that I would end as mince. That is why I do not intend to let myself be arrested."
Instantly a wall opened behind her and she ran into the opening, which closed at once behind her.
Arslan roared with rage.
"She escaped again. Evan."
He turned toward Evan and only then looked at him carefully. His nose drank in the scent of his student, and a mind stripped of an enemy could not resist that aroma. Saliva began to fill his mouth. He licked his lips. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the knife. In his mind his student and the knife began to find a common point.
And not only he seemed to think so. Callisa, Frida, Aiko, and Morona were also salivating hard and staring, spellbound.
For a moment Evan thought the fairy tale was still going on, only the feast had changed its diners. He closed his eyes. He was ready.
"Let some herbivore give him the anti-cooking potion! IMMEDIATELY!!!" Arslan roared.
As a member of the council he hated that woman twice over. First as a criminal. Second because he could not deny her undeniable culinary talent and her gift for choreography. He did not know which he hated more. The last was the greatest question. He was a master of the kitchen, but he was not a master of choreography. His style was simple, sure, and craftsmanlike. He did not know whether it was hatred or envy. And honestly, he did not want to learn the answer.
Some time later Evan sat wrapped in a blanket with a cup of tea. His girls surrounded him. Arslan came over to them.
"Zahira escaped us. Again." He pressed his lips together. He looked at Evan. He seemed lost in thought, but not crushed. As if he were weighing something very important. "How do you feel?"
Evan looked at them over the cup and said, very seriously:
"I have to confess a few things to you."
In the limousine Evan sat sunk into the seat. Arslan looked at him the way a master looks at a student who has admitted he was planning some stupidity. The girls seemed only mildly surprised.
"You planned to eat Rufus Lapin?"
"It stopped at planning. I wanted to talk to you about it when that fake text was sent to me."
Arslan sighed.
"Cooks very often lose their heads when an ingredient appears before them that somehow speaks to them, or hits a tender spot. Most, however, can control it and keep the proper boundaries. You have seen what those who knowingly reject that boundary become."
Evan nodded.
"Is that why the law exists?"
"The law is above all a rail you can hold on to. You yourself should know where the boundary runs."
Evan lowered his head.
"I cannot agree with Zahira about her methods."
Arslan nodded.
"I cannot deny, though, that her feast was beautiful. For a moment I myself thought it was an honor."
Arslan bowed his own head.
"That is why I cannot stand that woman. Her talent is undeniable, but her person and her approach to the law…" Here he fell silent.
"I have made a decision." Everyone listened to what Evan said.
"I have to look the truth in the face. I am meat." Everyone went quiet. This was what they had been trying to protect him from. Someone was already about to speak, but Evan was first. "But not only that. I am also a cook. Neither of those roles excludes the other. I will not run from the fantasies. I'll say it plainly: without them, and without this tension"—here he looked at the girls—"I feel frustrated. I do not intend, however, to jump onto a plate just like that. By cooking others I also discovered something I had not known before. I cannot yet fully name it." He drew a breath. "I do know what I want to aim for as a cook. I want my cooking to tell a story. If I am already going to cook others, I want their end to be a story on the plate, but without crossing certain boundaries and without appropriating someone else's ending."
Arslan nodded.
"In the end, something good came of it. As your master I will support you however I can."
And so they drove on…