Back | Next
Contents

Chapter 9

Bong! Bong! Bong! Chuck glanced up from his reverie at the sudden noise. A fluted loudspeaker grew out of the wall over his head. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," said a smooth, plummy voice. "Dinner is now being served."

"Great!" Chuck said. "I'm starved."

The front door of the car, in the center of the now-restored wooden wall, opened to admit the conductor, who wore white gloves in addition to his uniform. He snapped his fingers over his head, and a cadre of waiters and wine stewards streamed past him into the car. The waiters whisked white tablecloths into the air in between the seats. As the white linen settled down, it lay flat, even though there had been no table there a moment ago. Curious, Chuck raised one corner for a peek, but the grandest wine steward, the one with the golden chain around his neck and the very French mustache, claimed his attention.

"Sir," he said, presenting a bottle of red wine half-wrapped in a white napkin. "Our dinner tonight will be a tribute to you. Our finest vintage. With our compliments and thanks for your so brave action."

"Uh," Chuck said, pleased but embarrassed to have the subject brought up again. He took a close look at the label. The date stamp on the neck spun backwards and forwards through centuries, until it settled on a year, paused, then reduced the number by two. "Well, thank you! That's very nice of you. I . . . don't mean to be rude, but I don't drink too much red wine. I'd be happy to share it with my companions here." He waved a hand to include the rest of Keir's clients and the people across the aisle who had been so nice to him.

"But of course, sir," the sommelier said, and bowed ever so slightly. Crystal wine glasses that hadn't been there a moment before appeared on the table. Chuck had to blink as the man lowered the bottle with a deft turn of his wrist and began to pour white wine into the glasses. Mary Poppins, he thought. As soon as he'd thought it, the waiter nearest him writing orders on a pad shrank into the shape of a penguin with black fins and a bow tie.

Chuck felt his cheeks burning. He ought to be registered as a lethal weapon! He concentrated hard on dampening his thoughts. Within two paces the waiter was human again. The man didn't seem to have noticed a thing. Neither had the Dreamlanders around him. Only the people in Keir's group paid any attention at all, and most of them had ceased to be astonished by anything.

The conductor, in his guise as headwaiter, raised his fingers in the air to snap them, and his staff ran around to place small silver-covered dishes before all the passengers. They halted, hands on the handles, until the conductor snapped his fingers again. In perfect unison the domes were raised and removed. The diners breathed a collective sigh of pleasure at the dainty entrees revealed.

"The entrée, sir," the headwaiter said. "Our tribute to you."

Chuck stared in dismay at the carefully designed display of pasta with tiny octopi scattered across it. There was a fork and a spoon on either side of the plate, but he had absolutely no inclination to eat anything with that many legs. He took a casual glance out of the corner of his eye to see how the other diners were handling it. No two people seemed to be eating the same thing or in the same proportion. The precise Mr. Bolster had a plate of cured ham with a fanned wedge of green melon. Mrs. Flannel and Spot, now a cat, shared a chunk of white and gray fish. He couldn't tell what Master Morit and his wife had. It looked like a mess from where he sat, and the utensils they had to eat it resembled egg beaters. The others' first course ranged from a mighty bowl of hay sprinkled with sliced bananas (Bergold) to tiny, translucent, perfectly folded pasta envelopes (Pipistrella).

He looked again at the polpetti al' linguini. His stomach turned and threatened to make a break for it. He'd eaten and enjoyed seafood all his life, but he had always tried to avoid things that were served with their eyes and legs still attached. Chuck picked up the fork and toyed with the noodles, queasy about touching the little octopi. They looked so . . . pathetic. At least they weren't moving, like he'd seen in some fresh fish restaurants. He could probably manage to get the food down. Whether it would stay there was open to question. Why would they give him something that he felt so uncomfortable about eating? Was it to show their superiority over him?

"Symbolism," Keir had said. Everything in the Dreamland was fraught with meaning. The sommelier had said the dinner was in his honor, so it had some connection with him. Chuck needed to figure out what a plate full of baby octopi could possibly mean to him. He had always been uncomfortable with accepting praise or gifts, yet that was what they wanted him to have. What was it his grandmother had always said? Accept it and move on? Chuck stared at the octopus linguini and thought honestly about being singled out for congratulations. What would have been the consequences if he had failed? But he hadn't failed. He had saved the train. He had been heroic, even if he didn't feel like a hero. He surely hadn't intended to be one. The real hero was somewhere in the background, the owner of the voice that had shouted what to do. But Chuck was the one who had done it. It was kind of nice to be lauded. The whole train full of people could have died in the abyss, and he had saved them. People wanted to pay him back in some way. He ought to accept that with grace. Squeezing the truth out through the resistance of modesty, he had to admit it felt good.

That was all the pasta needed to know. Under his eyes the polpetti became meatballs, plain, old, comfortable meatballs. Without hesitation, he picked up his fork and ate. The food tasted wonderful, better than any he had ever eaten.

* * *

The empty plates were whisked away into the air, and replaced with a flat dish containing a clear, golden liquid, and a huge-bowled spoon.

"Our soup du jour, sir," the headwaiter said, deferentially. "The flow of the liquid represents willingness and adaptability, the nature of our beloved homeland. The savory flavor—oh, so good!—means the joy of discovery. Bon appetit!"

Chuck picked up the spoon. The soup certainly did smell good. He drew the spoon through the basin, just barely picking up enough liquid to slosh around in the bottom. He tilted the spoon sideways, measuring the depth of the soup. Why did they always offer such enormous spoons with flat dishes? It would take him forever to eat it.

But an odd thing happened. While he was thinking about it, the soup flowed upward into the spoon, filling it most of the way. Chuck was so startled the utensil clattered in his hand, but nothing dripped out. Cautious about eating sentient soup, he raised it to his lips. The liquid didn't immediately jump into his mouth. It acted like ordinary consommé, delicious and warming.

There were only a few spoonfuls in the bowl, a good thing because the waiters were upon him again before he could blink.

"Salad, sir," the headwaiter said. He snapped his fingers. One tuxedoed server snapped an empty plate down before him. Another rolled up with a tray containing a broad, wooden bowl full of leaves. "Offering you the various flavors of the Dreamland. The greens symbolize . . ."

"Just a moment," Chuck said. "Forgive the interruption, but you don't have to give me the spiel for every single dish. I bet my friends here feel the same way. I'd just like to eat."

"But sir, we wouldn't want you to have a meal without explanation," the headwaiter said, looking rather shocked and a little hurt. "We don't want you to feel unsatisfied later that such things were not made clear to you."

"Of course," Chuck said, embarrassed to have made a fuss. "If that's the custom. I'm sorry. I didn't know. I don't want to be rude. Sure, please tell me all about it."

The man gave Chuck a quick, deferential nod, and began to tell him all about the salad. Exotic greens, rare vegetables that had only tasted moonlight, mushrooms grown in the broad light of day. Followed by a refreshing, bright pink sorbet served in the petals of a tropical flower the size of Chuck's fist. Pursued closely by a dish of tiny string beans in a rich tangy sauce that tasted slightly of fish. Chuck tried them all and enjoyed everything.

"We never have things like this where I came from," Chuck said. The headwaiter was delighted.

After all the fancy dishes that had been served, Chuck was relieved he could recognize the main course: beef stew with hearty dumplings and huge chunks of potato in it. Its savory aroma wafted up and tickled his nose enticingly. He consulted with his stomach. Still rattled from the adventure and the subsequent shake-up, it didn't want anything as heavy as comfort food.

"The chef's specialty," the waiter was saying. "We intend that you should feel at home, sir. Potatoes, the apple of the earth; parsnips and swedes, the unexpectedly sweet rewards of toil. Beef. Iron to give you strength, the yielding texture . . ."

Chuck glanced around him. Again, no two meals were the same. At the table behind him he spotted a man about to eat a plate of broiled chicken with planks of carrot and squash. Chicken and carrots! That notion pleased his stomach.

"This is very nice," Chuck said politely to the waiter, "but I am afraid I'm getting full. I wonder if I could have the same meal that he's having?" The waiter smiled pleasantly, and walked to the other table. "No, I didn't mean . . . oh, no, that's not what I wanted you . . . oh."

Even as Chuck protested, the waiter picked up the other diner's dish and brought it to him, presenting it with a majestic flourish. As the plate touched the table before Chuck the food on it changed into the same course he had been served before: stew with dumplings.

"Never mind," he told the waiter. "I'm sorry," he babbled to the person whose food the waiter took. He felt his face burning with shame. "It's a mistake."

The other diner frowned at him, just short of shooting daggers at him with his eyes. Chuck could have dropped dead from embarrassment. The waiter picked up Chuck's rejected and untouched main course and brought it to his place, where it promptly became a chicken breast with vegetables. Chuck sighed and picked up his fork. He was going to get what they wanted to give him, period. Maybe he didn't have to eat the whole thing.

He wasn't particularly surprised when he managed to finish the meal.

"And what about this?" Chuck asked, when the waiter deposited a chocolate ice cream sundae with a paper umbrella sticking out of it. He had turned away without any explanation. "Isn't there any symbolism in this?" The waiter smiled the superior smile of servers the world over.

"Oh, that's just because it tastes good, sir."

"Do you care for a cigar?" The assistant sommelier, she of the silver chain and bottle opener, came around with a beautifully polished mahogany box. She offered it to Bergold. Chuck glanced into it from across the table. Bergold chose one, smelled it up and down, unwrapped it, and took a bite off the end, smiling with pleasure. They were chocolate. But they didn't remain chocolate, or cigars. Another passenger reached into the box and chose a baby-blue pacifier. When the box reached another passenger, the contents changed again to another shape so embarrassing that Chuck glanced away. When the box was presented to him, he was almost afraid to look in it.

"Cigar?" the young woman asked again, persuasively, waving the box under his nose. Uneasily, Chuck looked in. It was full of ordinary cigars, merely sticks of tobacco. When Chuck looked up at the sommelier suspiciously, she smiled politely. "Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar."

"You can read too much into things," Keir said with a wink.

Chuck decided just the same that he wouldn't take one.

Back | Next
Contents
Framed