Jimmy said: 'Damn. I was going to write the headline, We're All Going to Die!
Scoop laughed. 'This is California we're talking about — Hollywood. They exaggerate everything. In a few days we'll find out that it's nothing more than bad flu.'
'What about — Californians Should Stop Whining and Go Back to Work?'
'No.'
Half an hour later the door opened and Claire appeared, yawning.
Scoop looked at his watch. 'Jimmy's been here since eight-thirty. It is now ten-fifteen.'
'I had a swim. Then I had to get my nails done.'
'We start at eight-thirty.'
'Relax, would you? It's not like it's a real job.'
Scoop took this as a direct attack on his profession. 'If you're late tomorrow you will be sacked,' he snapped. 'Then your father will take the appropriate action.'
Claire rolled her eyes. 'All right, all right, keep your hair on. I'm here now, aren't I?' She took a seat beside Jimmy. He hadn't looked at her, or said a word. He continued to study the screen. 'Good morning, James.'
'It's Jimmy.'
'Isn't that short for James? I much prefer James. Kings were called James. Jimmy is someone who comes round and fixes your drains.'
'It's Jimmy.'
'Please yourself.' She looked at Scoop. 'Well? What do you want me to do?'
***
Jimmy couldn't believe it. His first proper assignment was to go down to the kitchens and interview Pedroza, the chef. Claire was to go with him to take photographs.
He had protested immediately. 'But you told me he was as mad as a bag of spiders.'
'That's what you want in an interview, someone with a bit of personality.'
'But what if he goes mental on me?'
'Even better.'
Jimmy looked at Claire. 'What are you smirking at?'
'Nothing, James.'
***
They found Pedroza sitting over a coffee and reading an old newspaper at a table on a small section of the deck outside the kitchens reserved for catering staff. The floor was littered with cigarette butts.
Jimmy hesitantly approached. Scoop had told him that Pedroza was expecting him, but he certainly didn't look like he was. His black eyes burned into Jimmy. 'Ah . . . hello . . . I'm . . . from . . . the newspaper . . .' Jimmy began, pointing down at the paper. 'I'm here . . . to . . . interview . . . you . . .'
Pedroza looked at him blankly.
'You sound like you're talking to an old deaf person,' said Claire.
'Shut up,' snapped Jimmy. Turning back to Pedroza, lie continued, 'Do . . . you . . . speak . . . English? Have . . . you . . . worked . . . on . . . a . . . ship . . .' and he waved vaguely around him, '. . . like . . . this. . . before?'
Pedroza's brow furrowed, then he spat something short and sharp in a language Jimmy didn't recognize.
'Where . . . do . . . you . . . come . . . from?' Then he pointed out to sea. 'Far . . . away?'
Pedroza thought for a moment, then he brightened suddenly and pointed at the water. 'Fish,' he said.
'Nice one,' said Claire.
"Will you shut up?' Jimmy exploded. 'I'd like to see you do any better!'
Claire smiled sarcastically, then sat down in the chair opposite Pedroza and began to address him in fluent Portuguese. Jimmy's mouth dropped open. A few moments later a torrent of words issued from the chef, all accompanied by enthusiastic hand gestures. Claire turned to Jimmy. 'He's from Africa originally, but has settled in Lisbon in Portugal, he's married with six children, he's been a chef with White Star for fifteen years, he only gets back to see his family twice a year and he misses them very much. Are you going to write any of this down?'
Jimmy fumbled for his pen. 'Ye-yeah — hold on . . .' He began to write as quickly as he could. 'Lisbon . . . six children . . . only gets back . . .' Then he glanced up. 'Why didn't you say you spoke Portuguese?'
'You didn't ask.' Before Jimmy could respond Claire returned her attention to the chef, and began firing questions at him. As soon as Pedroza responded, she translated in the same animated fashion, and Jimmy quickly jotted down the details. One hundred and five thousand meals prepared every week . . . three hundred thousand desserts . . . one and a half thousand pounds of coffee . . . eight thousand gallons of ice cream . . . When he'd filled seven pages with facts and figures, and they all seemed a lot more relaxed, Jimmy said: 'Ask him how come he screams at anyone who drops food on the carpet, or tries to smuggle it out of the restaurant.'
Claire repeated the question. Pedroza got out of his chair and poked Jimmy in the chest. He barked something. Then he poked him again. Jimmy took a step backwards. Pedroza snarled something else. As Jimmy moved backwards Pedroza went with him. Claire translated in staccato fashion as she followed them across the deck.
'He says . . . messy people drive him mad . . . he slaves over food but because it is free people don't care if they drop it . . . they don't pick it up . . . they grind it into the carpet . . . they fill their plates . . . and only eat a little bit . . . and throw the rest out . . . then try something else . . . they are greedy and lazy . . . and the food they leave . . . would feed his village in Africa for many years.'
Pedroza had Jimmy backed right up against the railings now and was still jabbering away.
Jimmy looked to Claire for help. 'Claire, please — tell him to back off!'
Claire spoke rapidly in Portuguese.
'And,' Jimmy added, 'why don't you tell him he's mad as a bag of spiders, and if he spits in my face one more time I'll twist his ears off and stick them up his nose.'
'Why don't you tell me yourself?' Pedroza asked, this time in perfect English.
'I . . . I . . . I . . . I . . . I . . . I . . .'
Pedroza laughed suddenly, prodded Jimmy once more in the chest, then turned away. He retook his seat and lifted his newspaper.
Claire stared down at him in disbelief. 'You can speak . . .'
Pedroza's eyes narrowed. 'Sometimes it is good to have secrets.' He glanced across at Jimmy without any attempt to conceal his contempt. 'And sometimes it is good to know when to keep your mouth shut.'
Jimmy felt a shiver run down his spine.
***
'Did you notice,' Jimmy asked on the way back to the newspaper office, 'that in every single photo you took of him he had some kind of knife in his hand?'
'He's a chef, of course he had.'
'He creeps me out.'
'ou creep me out.'
Jimmy made a face.
'These are really neat,' Claire said, clicking through the photos on the camera as they approached the office.
'Yeah, right,' said Jimmy.
When they re-entered the office they were surprised to find Scoop standing by the window, looking out. He rapped a fist on his legs, making a hollow, metallic sound. 'Thought I'd give them a spin,' he said, smiling. 'Land ahoy and all that. Never going to win an Olympic medal for sprinting, but they're not bad. Now then, how was our chef?'
'Mad as a . . .'Jimmy began, already sitting down at his desk and beginning to type.
'Fine . . .' said Claire at the same time.
Scoop looked from one to the other. 'OK, let's get a look at those pictures then.'
Claire began to push buttons on the back of her camera. 'If I can just hook it up to a monitor we can . . .' But then she stopped. She pushed some more buttons. Then she looked up, her face now rather pale. 'I've erased them.'
'What?' said Scoop.
'I was trying to get rid of the ones I didn't like, but I've erased them all.'
'Let me see.'
Scoop took hold of the camera. After a while he let out a long sigh. 'Did you by any chance read the instructions before you started pushing buttons?'