"Artistry shows even when the materials are inferior," Ford offered. "I cook only as a hobby, but I know that much."
That quick, Ford had the run of the kitchen. Oscar wanted to show him everything; to make all the difficulties he endured known. His stove was fueled with wood. It was fine for boiling and frying, but how could one bake properly with such a system? Bread was difficult; cakes a disaster. But did the general and his officers understand these difficulties? No, but they expected perfection anyway. Then there was the problem of proper utensils. How could he provide superior fare when he was forced to use the cookware of peasants? Ford listened sympathetically as he worked his way between Oscar and the stove.
There were several two-gallon pots bubbling on the fires, and Ford lifted the lids one by one. One pot held red beans. Another held several chickens being rendered for stock. In a third, spiny lobsters, whole clams, and a fish head simmered in an oily broth. The beans would have served; the fish chowder was ideal. Ford inhaled deeply, as if in ecstasy, and put the lid on the counter. "Bouillabaisse!"
"What?" Momentarily confused, Oscar had to look in the pot himself to see what Ford was talking about.
Ford said, "Truly, you are a master. Who would have expected to find such artistry in the jungle?" Then he hesitated. "But perhaps I'm wrong. Perhaps it isn't really bouillabaisse, for I see you are using clams—"
Oscar held up his index finger; an exclamation. "I use them because our bouillabaisse is not the weak soup of the Mediterranean! This is ocean bouillabaisse, as delicate and as strong as the sea itself. I use mollusks as well as crustaceans, plus good fresh eorvina. You will see! I will serve you this for your dinner."
"If you're sure General Zacul and his officers won't require it all. I don't want to deny my host."
"They would eat it all if I let them, the"—Oscar was about to say "pigs," but he quickly amended—"for they are having a party tonight. The Cubans especially appreciate fine seafood, as does the general. They have complimented me personally."
Ford pointed to the enlisted men's mess where soldiers in T-shirts stirred huge pots cooking over open fires. "Do those men also know the secret of your bouillabaisse?" When the chef turned to look, Ford dropped the botete entrails into the soup and he began to stir with the ladle.
"Those men are peasants. They cannot even cook beans properly. I will serve you and your associate the soup for dinner."
Ford scooped a ladle and smelled it. "You think there's enough?"
"Tonight I will eat beans like the peasants so that the soup may be eaten by one who appreciates artistry. "
Ford put the lid back on the pot. "A sacrifice you won't regret, Oscar."
When Ford returned to the cabin, Tomlinson was inside pacing back and forth, back and forth. He looked up when the door opened and said, "They took him.'
"What?"
"They took him—the kid! They took Jake!" He was running his fingers through his hair, frantic. "Not five minutes ago I saw Suarez pushing him down the path. That dick."
"Where? Toward the cliff?"
"Naw, the other way. Toward the main building."
Ford said, "Maybe they were taking him to the shower or something," not because he believed it, but to calm Tomlinson.
"Come on."
"Wherever they took him, we can't do anything about it now."
Tomlinson stepped in front of him, his eyes intense, breathing too fast, hyperventilating. "Whata you mean we can't do anything about it? We got to; those bastards! I've had just about enough of this shit, Doc. I can't take much more; I mean it. I keep seeing those guys falling off that cliff. I close my eyes and I see that little doctor hitting the rocks. You think I'm gonna let that happen to that little kid? No way, man; no fucking way." And he pushed past Ford and started out the door.
Ford grabbed his arm. "What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to talk to Zacul, that's what I'm gonna do. I'm going to try and talk some sense into him. He's got no reason to hurt that child. He's got no reason to hurt us either. I'll make him see that!"
Ford pulled Tomlinson back into the hut. "I can't let you do that."
"Let go of my arm, goddamn it!"
"I can't let you—"
Tomlinson yanked his arm free, yelling "You son of a bitch, you got us into this, and now you won't let me get us out!" He lunged for the door again, but Ford caught him by the shirt, swung him around, and slammed him into the wall.
"Tomlinson? Tomlinson. I want you to take some deep breaths. Nice and easy." Speaking softly, trying to get through the shield of paranoia; trying to reach the man inside. "You're not thinking clearly. You understand?"
Tomlinson was looking at the floor, trembling, refusing to meet Ford's gaze.
"There's nothing we can do now. If we try, Zacul will kill us all. Each and every one of us. You know that."
Tomlinson nodded slowly, then something broke in him and he began to cry softly. He pulled away from Ford, went to his cot and sat down, his face buried in his hands.
"We'll be okay, Tomlinson. We'll make it. We're all going to make it." Speaking with confidence, but not feeling it, Ford opened the door of the hut and went outside to sit beneath a tree.
Half an hour later, Tomlinson came out. He looked scraggly and very tired. He stood above Ford, saying "I really freaked out, man. Sorry."
"Don't worry about it."
"It's like a disease."
"Yeah, well . . . like you said: We all have our quirks."
"I can't believe shit like this goes on in the world. "
"Every hour of every day it goes on. Someplace. "
"People back in the States don't realize, man. This is like something out of a movie. "
"No. You've got it backward. Life back home is like something out of a movie. That's what people don't realize."
"You think the kid is dead?"
"I haven't heard any shots."
"I hope not, man. I really couldn't take that. I'd be ready to cash it in right here."
What Ford was hoping was that Jake Hollins wasn't hungry, or didn't like fish. . . .
Oscar served them in their hut an hour after sundown. When Ford asked if the general had enjoyed the meal, the chef
straightened himself, saying grandly "The general can wait while I serve a man who is a true gourmet," rolling his r's, which gave the French word an earthy sound.
Tomlinson and Ford touched their spoons to their lips and raved about the soup, though they did not taste it. Pleased, Oscar complained more about the bad cooking conditions, made more excuses for the poor food, and got more compliments from Ford.
When the chef was gone, Ford said, "Don't eat anything."
Tomlinson stopped with a spoonful of beans in mid arc. "I thought you said it was just the fish chowder."
"He could have used the same ladle. He could have poured some of the soup into the rice to spice it up. We don't know what he did. Don't eat anything."
Tomlinson put his tray on the ground and leaned toward Ford. "What the hell is in those fish gizzards?"
Ford said, "You really want me to answer that? Don't you assume some responsibility if you know?"
"Yeah, but I'm not hypocrite enough to refuse to listen now."
Ford said, "If that's the way you want it," and began to scrape the food off onto the ground behind the cots. "Those kind of fish, puffers, are found in warm waters all over the world. The flesh is okay as long as it's been cleaned properly or if the fish hasn't been injured during its life cycle. But only fools take the chance because the liver, the gall bladder, some of the other viscera contain a crystalline alkaloid. If you eat an injured fish, you get sick no matter how carefully it was cleaned. I've seen it happen."