He climbed up onto an especially high chair, tore off a piece of paper, and attached it to his fur with a hair-grip. He was decorated with bits of paper like a Xmas tree.
‘We gonna eat?’ he asked, and went back to punching keys.
‘Yes, of course, Papa,’ said Angela, standing up. She lifted off the lid of the giant dish with a kind of malicious flair. It rang.
They were going to eat a seal, a whole roast seal. Its eyes had gone white and it was surrounded by a moat of amber fat.
Rolfa’s father reached forward and began to thumb out one of its eyes.
‘Papa!’ exclaimed Angela. ‘Please, remember our guest.’
‘You want an eye, Squidge?’ the father asked Milena.
‘Yes please,’ said Milena, crisply. He passed it to her on a plate. It rolled. Her eyes stonily on Angela, Milena popped it into her mouth. It’s a grape, she told herself, it’s just a grape. It crunched as she chewed it.
‘Of course, we’re on our best behaviour because of you, Ms Smash-puss,’ said Angela, as she began to carve the seal. ‘Usually we tear the hot carcass to pieces with our bare paws.’ With deft aplomb, she lowered a section of seal filet onto Milena’s plate without letting fall a drop of grease.
‘Some wine, Ms Shambosh? We make it ourselves out of leftovers. I do hope you like it.’
‘Oh don’t mind me,’ said Milena. ‘I’ll drink anything.’
‘If you’re friends with Rolfa,’ said Zoe, sounding serious, ‘you probably have to.’
Angela went on serving. ‘Ma chere,’ she said to her sister. ‘You have let slip your nap-kin.’ She sliced the word in half, like an orange, as a joke. They were making fun, of Rolfa, of Squidges, of the way they thought Squidges thought of them. You are merry gals, Milena thought. But that is no reason to let you get away with anything.
‘Do try not to blow your nose on it this time, ma petite. Do you know, Ms Fishfuss, the last time she let slip her nap-kin, she picked it up and blew her nose on it, and it turned out to be the hem of my dress.’
‘Well,’ said Milena, sipping the wine. ‘Better than wiping her arse on it.’
‘You girls want to carry on like that, you can leave the table,’ said the father.
The serious business of eating commenced. It was noisy and prolonged. Handfuls of boiled seaweed were shovelled onto plates and into mouths. There was a side salad of whole raw mackerel. Rolfa’s father held one by the tail and lowered it into his mouth, steadily crunching. Seal paws were another great delicacy.
’Don’t eat the toenails, Zoe,’ said Angela. ‘What will Ms Shitbush think of us?’
‘You seem to be having some trouble with my name,’ said Milena, giving up trying to cut her seal. She had to hold her hands up almost over her head to reach it. ‘My last name is Shibush. My family are from Eastern Europe, but the name itself is Lebanese. I believe your name is originally Asian, too, isn’t it.’
A silence as icy as the room descended.
Rolfa said nothing. She kept her eyes down on the plate and ate with pained, exaggerated good manners that made Milena want to throw the seal cutlet at her. When asked to pass the salt, Rolfa wordlessly reached across the table, moving as slowly as a rusty hinge. Rolfa was in hiding, even here, in what was supposed to be her home.
Her father sniffed and proprietorially brushed some seaweed off the table and into his cupped hand. He then threw it over his shoulder.
‘So you actually work in Toy Town, do you, Squidge?’
‘Were you talking to me?’ Milena demanded.
‘I wasn’t talking to the seal.’
‘My name is Milena. Perhaps no one told you that.’
‘OK. Milly. You work at that place.’
‘The National Theatre of Southern Britain. Yes, I do.’
‘Could you tell my daughter please what the attitude of that place is towards GEs? For instance, are they ever going to let her sing there?’
Was that Rolfa’s ambition? Milena’s heart sank for her. Rolfa, Rolfa, you won’t get to sing at the Zoo by hiding in tunnels. Milena looked at her. Rolfa reached thoughtfully for her wine, eyes focused inwards.
Milena answered the father’s question. ‘They probably won’t, no,’ she said, softly.
‘Hey, Rolfa, we’re talking about you. Did you hear that? Rolfa!’ He slammed the table. Rolfa jumped, along with the glasses and the silverware. ‘Look at yourself, sometime, girl. They’re never going to let you sing, you’re covered in fur.’
Rolfa picked up her silver knife and fork and began to eat again, in silence.
‘Your daughter is a better singer than almost anyone at the National Theatre.’ Milena spoke warily. ‘She could also become a very fine composer.’ Milena looked at Rolfa’s face for any sign of surprise. The face remained a mask. ‘If she ever got any help or training or encouragement…’ Milena broke off. She’s had to do it all by herself, Milena thought. She’s had to do it all alone.
‘Is that true?’ Zoe asked, leaning forward.
Milena’s eyes seemed to swell like small balloons about to burst. She could only nod in answer.
‘Can you tell me why she’s such a fat slob?’ the father asked.
‘Because her father is,’ replied Milena. She felt like spitting at him.
He saw that and liked Milena for it. He laughed, showing his canine fangs. ‘Hell yes,’ he said, and belched.
‘What does she do all day?’ Zoe asked, concerned.
‘I’m sorry, I’m not prepared to talk about Rolfa as if she isn’t here.’
The father answered Zoe’s question. ‘She just hangs around. She thinks something’s going to happen. Some angel’s going to come down or something.’ He looked back at Milena. ‘She’s wasted enough time. And money. End of summer, she goes to the Antarctic’
‘Antarctic? You mean the South Pole?’ Milena was rendered stupid by shock. ‘Why?’
‘Because,’ the father said, his voice going wheedling and sarcastic. ‘That is where we make our money.’
Milena found that she was smiling, smiling with the absurdity of it and with anger. ‘What is Rolfa going to do in the Antarctic?’
‘Work for a change,’ said her father. ‘We’re not like you people. We owe each other things. With us a woman does the same job as a man or we kick her butt until she does. She’s going to Antarctica before the New Year…’ The father began to chuckle, ‘or I tear her head off.’
‘I think that’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard,’ said Milena.
‘You’re a Squidge,’ said the father with a shrug. ‘Your mind’s infected. It’s full of germ’s. Nobody infects our minds. Nobody tells us what to do. So. You call us — what — "an intelligent related species". Personally, I think we’re the last human beings left, but that’s OK, because if we aren’t defined as human beings, then we don’t have to obey your crazy laws. We don’t have to have our heads pumped full of disease, we all live to a decent age, and we do what the hell we want when the hell we want to do it. And you know what, Squidge? You people find that very useful. You find it very useful to have people who aren’t part of your little exercise in mind control.’
Milena felt the icy breath of the truth.
The father unclipped a column of adding machine paper from himself and examined it. ‘So,’ he said, slightly distracted. ‘What we’re talking about here is legal definitions. My daughter over there is saying, I want to make bee-ooo-ti-ful music’ His voice was full of scorn. ‘She hangs around with Squidges, she wants to be a Squidge. She gets herself defined as a Squidge, it could mess up our whole little system. You think we’re going to let her do that?’