Los sorias by Alberto Laiseca, Chapter 24

 

Chapter 24

The Chamberlain of Audiences and the Pastry Chef

Monitor watched the funeral from the palace on television. He preferred to send someone else to give the eulogy, claiming to be ill. If he did, he was afraid he would become passionate and, in a fit of rage, declare war on Russia prematurely or something similar. He was filled with hatred because the deceased was a good officer and he might need him. Beside him, his friend the Bearded Man—whom he had met at the audience—watched silently.

Monitor, in a fit of rage, turned off the television. He was about to do it using the more dialectical procedure of kicking the screen, but then he thought about how expensive televisions were for the state, and instead of doing what he really wanted, he pressed a small button, and the device clicked.

In addition to the Bearded Man and the Monitor, there were several courtiers. In one corner—now in a frankly feta attitude—was the former Russian ambassador. The poor fellow had gone completely mad. The Monitor, out of pity—or perhaps a refinement of cruelty—had postponed his deportation to Russia. The unfortunate man spent hours sitting in a corner in complete silence, and only a meal or torture could bring him out of his schizophrenic reverie.

The mysterious Bearded Man, who had arrived late to the famous audience and thus missed the entire first part, couldn't even remember the Russian. That's why he asked, pointing at him—more to quell the Monitor's anger than out of genuine interest—: Who is that one who always stands in a corner and doesn't speak?

---- It's the "H" in the Cyrillic alphabet. It's the Russian mute of letters. Almost a tuning fork, and that's why I still have it. I prick it with a letter and it screams. It's its own gas chamber, the concentration camp, the torture chamber, and the sepulchral furnace. It's the Jew and the SS all at once. And I like it that way because I hate it. ----Monitor 1 (Beast IV) the Terrible Boyar Sack! Move your hips. Waddle.

The former ambassador immediately and very unpleasantly emerged from his silence. There was the Monster again, bothering him. He babbled from far below, as if emerging from a plane: ---Oh, no . . . please, stop! . . . please. ---Nothing, nothing, damn boyar. Enemy of the absolutely electric State. Nothing at all. Nihil of nihil. He dances for our amusement. The Russian (from whom even the slightest vestige of dignity had vanished): ---But what did I do? Monitor, always within his festive implacability: ----Not for what you've done, but for what you are. You distilled your shit to such an extent that it became purest. Then you brought it to the temperature of absolute zero nihil using liquid helium baths. Demon. ----Another crack of the whip----, Dance, boyar. Now you'll be kicking your ass around the room, son of a bitch. We'll usher in the era of futuristic basketball. Marinetti. ---- Whiplash ----. Dance! Dance! Move your primrose hips. Waddle! The other, groggy from everything happening to him and, as if that weren't enough, having to endure the pale, spectral death of his own person, began a grotesque dance. He smiled, blinked, twitched his ears, and shook his two rear ends, while his crotches became increasingly smaller. Since his abdomen was fat and flabby, the belly dance he began next turned out to be quite acceptable. So, in general terms. Ivan IV the Chestnut or Gloomy: ----Periquete rouge, din, don. Periquete rouge, din, don. ----At each "ding" and each "don" he would unleash a whiplash with soul and soul upon the dancer's feet. -----. Tiny rouge, tiny rouge, tiny rouge. Ding, tiny rouge, tiny rouge, tiny rouge, tiny rouge. Dance! Everyone laughed. Ivan, in particular, was sobbing with laughter. He continued cracking the whip and even hitting him on the ankles: ----Tiny rouge, tiny rouge. ----Whiplash ----. Tiny rouge, tiny rouge. ----Whiplash ----. Tiny rouge, tiny rouge. ----Whiplash ----. The poor wretch moved his stomach, rolled his eyes, smiled like a real zombie entering a theater and being illuminated by bright spotlights, stumbled awkwardly, etc. The Chamberlain of Audiences, who hated everyone, delighted to see someone suffering, sadistically commented to the Deputy Chamberlain, referring to the Russian:

----It's the Victory of Samothrace. With a head but no victory. And since he had been extremely annoyed ever since the Monitor pastry chef managed to escape, exercising imaginative violence on himself, he tried hard to convince himself that the Russian wasn't really the Russian, but the pastry. This lifelong hatred that had gripped him wouldn't let him rest. He could no longer eat desserts. He would have the other guy send him poorly seasoned strawberries so that the Monitor, upon eating any dish—in whose composition they had played a part—at the end of a lunch or dinner, would have him castrated. But the other guy would immediately notice when something was spoiled and would buy others even if he had to pay for them out of his own pocket. In the Technocracy, where everything was cheap, strawberries in particular were very expensive. And the poor pastry chef, who hadn't even dreamed of the plot, heartbroken, would go buy good strawberries; Not only to save his balls, but also because he couldn't stand things being poorly made, and his desserts were created with love and artistry.

Only once did the pastry chef try to request extra money from the Chamberlain of Audiences to replace the strawberries and other things that had to be thrown away. With great humility, he asked for a quarter of the sum he really needed to pay for the essentials for that evening's dessert; he planned to give the rest his own money.

The Chamberlain's reaction was absolutely extraordinary: His eyes lit up like hot coals; he began to foam at the mouth and show his incisors, not as if he wanted to hit him, but to bite him. His face became congested, on the verge of apoplexy. He couldn't utter a single word. His anger produced only hoarse emissions of discontinuous energy, like those of a bass with its tongue cut out. The chamberlain's fingers curled like hooks, reaching for the other's throat, but his body remained paralyzed. The confectioner, seeing the state of the penis, fled in terror to get out of his enemy's reach.

Thus, the chamberlain, watching the Russian dance while thinking of the confectioner with infinite hatred, glimpsed the possibility of immediate revenge, that very day. He smiled as he looked at the dancer, but when that thought occurred to him, the smile faded, replaced by a grimace of attention. It lasted only a moment; then the smile became much broader, as he murmured: "Great."

The deputy chamberlain, always attentive to his master and possible promotions, asked: ----What do you say, sir?

Chamberlain, as if caught off guard:

----Eh? Oh, nothing. Go and tell the monitorial pastry chef to bring a dessert to honor the Monitor and his friend. He was about to add: "The Monitor ordered it, so hurry up."

But then he thought that the idiot, upon bringing the plate, might say: "The dessert you ordered, Your Excellency." And the Monitor, missing the point, asked:

"What dessert?" I didn't order any dessert." And that was where the plot he was planning was revealed. So, he simply said: ----I'll order it. So quickly. The Vice-Under-Chamberlain ordered the Under-Under-Chamberlain:

----Go to the Monitor's pastry chef and tell him to bring a brilliant dessert to honor the Monitor and his friend. The Chamberlain of Audiences orders it, so quickly. The Under-Under-Chamberlain immediately went to share the good news with the pastry chef, like a cancer creeping spectrally on slippers. The Monitor, as they always told him, "... so quickly," wasn't too surprised or afraid. He was simply scared stiff. He had suffered so much in the Monitor's kitchen in recent months that he was no longer in a position to absorb any more terror or pain.

"Ah, well," he said. You've already got it." The under-vice chamberlain looked at him in surprise. How was it possible he didn't turn pale? He'd told her to bring a dessert right away, and instead of dropping dead right there or at least fainting from fear, he simply said, "Oh, well." What was he up to? Was he plotting? He had to contact the Monitor immediately. Never tell the chamberlain, because as soon as he found out about the uprising, he'd take all the credit, and he wouldn't get anything. Just look at this pastry chef. The one who seemed so tame. A dead giveaway. You'll see when the Monitor gets his hands on you. Just in case, and in his eagerness to find out more about the conspiracy, I insist:

"The cake or whatever it is has to go now." "Yes." The confectioner indifferently said, "Yes." More convinced than before and overjoyed, the junior vice-chamberlain went to the chamberlain to tell him that his order had been passed on, but he was careful not to be too cunning, and whose mentally dull master was the confectioner. He would then speak privately with His Excellency. He would surely have the chamberlain castrated and appoint him as his own chamberlain. Very well, very perfect.

The pastry chef, who naturally couldn't make a dessert in five minutes on this occasion either, took one of the ones he reserved for these tasks. Apparently, it was something very simple, without any kind of frill, something unworthy of the best pastry chef in the nation. It was something like a delicious sambayon; it resembled a burnt omelet, but with alcoholic lace.

He entered the monitorial chamber of earthly repose, looking like an oriental marching, through mystical suicide, to meet his gods. For the first time in recent months, he wasn't afraid. He was indifferent to living or dying. If the Monitor, instead of killing him, showered him with honors, he would remain equally unfazed. It wasn't true that he was indifferent; he was already overcome, as he had anticipated, with pain, fear, and sorrow. He had absorbed more animosity and injustice than he could bear, and at that moment, he lived as if in an epileptic aura. A kind of frustrated attack of a great evil. He could walk, march, work, carry desserts, and even answer, but in reality, he wasn't the same. The chamberlain of audiences, seeing him appear, smiled and said, "But my dear pastry chef..." Ah, what a beautiful dessert. Ascetic, but beautiful. Very good, very good.

----Pretending to be frightened, he suddenly looked in the direction of the Monitor to divert his gaze from the pastry chef: ----:

Aaah! What is that hairy, one-eyed horror perched on the Monitor's shoulder?!

The pastry chef looked and saw nothing. As he turned his head, the chamberlain sprinkled a handful of bitter powder on the dessert. ----I don't see anything,--- said the pastry chef. The chamberlain calmly: ----No? Well, he'll probably have left by now. Take your dessert. Go on. Go. The pastry chef went to the Monitor, who had already spilled the beans, already tired of the Russian:

----Your dessert, Your Excellency.

The Monitor, puzzled but greedy:

----My dessert? I didn't order any dessert.

---- A shudder ran through the chamberlain. ----.

All right: leave it. It looks delicious. ---- To his friend the Bearded Man ----:

Come. Let's eat this wonderful dessert. Aladdin. The other, a little bored, approached, but also greedy. Seeing the yellow rind of that kind of zabaglione, he grabbed the spoon. He dug it in and scooped out a piece the size of an iceberg. It was enormous: yellow on top and white all over.

Below and in the pulp. Half a meter away, the perfumed smell of the fine alcoholic beverage with which it had been created could be felt. He brought it to his mouth, not caring much about the impoliteness of eating before the Monitor, and devoured a piece, filled with lust. He held it in his mouth for a full second, motionless, while everyone watched, smiling: the Monitor out of friendship, almost all the others out of obsequiousness. Suddenly, he spat it out. But it wasn't just any spit: it was like a geyser, a fumarole, or a solfatara. It came out accompanied by saliva and a horrifying noise. Pieces of dessert, like snot, stuck to his mustache and beard. The Mysterious Bearded Man complained:

----Aaah! Monitor, frightened, while the Chamberlain of Audiences rubbed his hands:

----An attack! Close the doors! ----To the bearded man ----: What happened to you? What's wrong with him?

----It's the most bitter thing I've ever tasted in my life. It's horrible.

Monitor, to the Chamberlain:

----Have it analyzed.

Chamberlain to the Underchamberlain:

----Have it analyzed.

Underchamberlain to the Vice Underchamberlain:

----Have it analyzed.

Vice Underchamberlain to the Infra Vice Underchamberlain:

----Have it analyzed.

The Infra Vice Underchamberlain, pressing a button, called through a grill:

----Send someone from the lab.

Immediately, a scientist full of gadgets appeared and asked:

----What should I analyze?

The Chamberlain of Audiences:

----That dessert.

Coldly and efficiently, the other man got to work. After five minutes, the device gave him all the data. The scientist said:

----This dessert does not contain the slightest toxic substance.

----And why is it so bitter? asked the Monitor.

The scientist, not in the least impressed by the presence of the head of state, replied:

----It's due to a subsequent exploration of the dessert with a highly bitter but harmless substance. Monitor: ----All right. You may go.

The scientist clicked his heels, bowed his head for a brief moment, and left. The Monitor turned angrily to the Monitor pastry chef:

----Would you like to tell me how you're going to explain this to me? Pastry chef, very calm:

----I can't find any explanation, Your Excellency.

----What do you mean "I can't find any explanation!" Careless as an animal, you inadvertently mixed or sprinkled the dessert with a highly bitter substance. And yet you remain as calm as can be. How do you explain what happened?

The pastry chef, even with the calmness that the aura provides, answered calmly and even with dignity: -

---I can't find any explanation, Your Excellency. I only know that the ingredients were just right. I put nothing in this machine that I made for your pleasure that could have given it more flavor.

Monitor was a little disconcerted to hear him speak with such unusual dignity. The Undersecretary jumped into the fray, although a little late:

----I discovered it, Your Excellency! A little while ago, when I spoke to him, I became suspicious. Monitor changed the direction of his anger:

----Oh, so you knew. Huh? What did you know? The Undersecretary continued blindly forward, stubborn and stupid:

----I know he's plotting. I realized it when I saw him so changed.

Monitor, coldly:

----And why didn't you warn me before? I could be dead by now. The Undersecretary, bewildered: ----But... I wanted to find out details, to confirm...

----Yes? Ah, how clever you were. We'll talk later. And turning to the pastry chef ----:

I'm awaiting your explanations.

Pastry chef:

----I know nothing, Your Excellency.

Monitor, in a circular motion: ----Oh, you don't know? Well. But would the bitterness be inside or outside? Because if he were all alone outside, it wouldn't be so serious. An accident can happen to anyone. He was outside, right? ----I don't know, Your Excellency, sir. Monitor stared at him with half-closed eyes. He didn't know what decision to make. The injured Bearded Man, forgetting the ordeal, was busy observing everyone present, particularly the chamberlain and the junior vice-chamberlain. The chamberlain became hysterical in his bliss, and croaked as he felt a violent sexual arousal. ----Castrate him, divine lord! Castrate him as punishment! ----Reveling ----: Because of course, poor thing: with his balls chopped up, he won't make any more spoiled desserts. He must be castrated like a capon pig, so he'll grow plump and very learned. ----Full of hatred for the pastry chef----: Since women are no longer going to interest you, you can now dedicate yourself entirely to the study of haute patisserie and thus create desserts that will be the daily marvel of the divine Monitor. Of course. I even recommend that in the name of these lofty purposes he be immediately castrated, even if he's innocent. Castrated, castrated, without being able to do that anymore. This way you'll learn not to use strawberries that are in poor condition or improperly harvested. To pluck off the lush, green berries, it's been said. A trickle of saliva began to run down the right corner of the chamberlain's mouth, while he turned pale and dangerous red blotches appeared on his face. The Monitor, puzzled, watched all this without understanding. But the Bearded Man did understand. He asked the chamberlain:

----Why do you talk about strawberries, if this is a dessert that doesn't have them?

The chamberlain emerged from his spasms of hatred:

----What do you say? ----He ran a hand over his forehead ----. Strawberries? Did I say strawberries? Bearded Man, implacable:

----Yes. He said strawberries. What strawberries? This dessert doesn't have them.

----Well... I don't know why I said that. But they always use spoiled strawberries in desserts that have strawberries. ----Little by little, the chamberlain's pallor began to fade.

----A few days ago we ate desserts with strawberries, ----the Bearded Man continued, ----, but those were good.

Chamberlain, coldly:

---- If he's not guilty of that, he's guilty of other things anyway. This bitter dessert, for example.
The Bearded Man, unwilling to be sidetracked, turned to the pastry chef:
----Why does this man accuse you of using poorly harvested strawberries?
The pastry chef, with the calmness of a beginning, answered as if it were someone else's problem:
----I often find the strawberries spoiled.
Bearded Man:
----But we always ate them deliciously.
----That's because I bought good strawberries and threw away the bad ones.
----But the chamberlain accuses you of using them. Why? What's the story behind these strawberries?
----I don't know, sir. I only know that I'm not guilty of the strawberry affair, which costs me quite a lot.
----Well, they don't cost you. To the monitor's petty cash box, in any case.
----No. It's money from my pocket.
Bearded Man, astonished:
----How? Isn't your money returned to you?
----No
Monitor, to the chamberlain:
----Why isn't this man getting his money back?
----But Your Excellency, sir! ----replied the aforementioned. He says he spends, but he doesn't. The strawberries and everything always arrived in good condition.
----And why did you accuse him of using spoiled strawberries? ---- asked the Monitor.
Chamberlain, somewhat frightened:
----I said it as a symbol.
----What symbol, not even eight centavos! What I want to know...
The Bearded Man interrupted him gently:
----Excuse me, are you telling me to question him?
----Yes. And you'd better find out what's going on in all this strange thing, or my Chinese are going to start questioning.

Bearded Man, to the pastry chef:
----Didn't you ask for your money back?
----Yes
----So? What? Do they have to take things out with a twist? There was.
----The chamberlain was about to have a fit, so I didn't insist.
----Is it only lately that strawberries and other things come out in bad condition, or has it always been like this?
----It's just lately.
Bearded Man, to the Monitor:
----It seems to me they're trying to make this man look bad.
Chamberlain, furiously:
----That's not true! Nobody wants to make him look bad! And how can the pastry chef explain his criminal carelessness with today's dessert? Just as he inadvertently threw out the sieve, so later he'll throw in rat poison, cyanide, arsenic crystals, etc.
Monitor looked for a moment at the chamberlain, then at the confectioner, back at the chamberlain, then at the junior vice-chamberlain—who was trying to blend in with the scenery, seeing that things were going badly—and understood everything. The technocrat said to his henchmen, pointing at the chamberlain and the junior vice-chamberlain:
---Cut off both of their balls and send them to work in the rare earth excavations.
Their moans and protests were in vain. They were taken by their hair.
Monitor rose from his throne and, approaching the confectioner, said, placing a hand on his shoulder:

----I now understand that you had nothing to do with the matter. Find solace in the thought that your enemies won't be able to cause you any more trouble. I want to tell you that you are the best pastry chef I've ever had. Go and make me some dessert.
The pastry chef, who had been sustained by the aura in the moment of danger, began to rapidly collapse after the change of fortune. The Monitor and the Bearded Man had to carry him to an armchair, each holding him by the arm, and give him a cordial. They also had to comfort him in a hundred different ways.
The Pastry Chef, sobbing:
----My Monitor, I was always faithful to you, I was always at your service. You... why did you always seem to hate me?... I have worshipped you like a god because you raised this nation. When I entered your service... I dreamed... I was happy back then. But I can't live like this, in perpetual terror. I'm fed up.

Monitor, very moved:
----I don't hate you, don't be silly. Look, let's do something. Now you're going to rest. . .
Pastry chef, trying to sit up:
----No! I can't rest. I have to make the dessert you ordered. . .
Monitor, acting angry:
----Silence in the procession. Don't interrupt me, I haven't finished speaking; I'll see if I can administratively deport you to the third province, Escalida. Now you're going with your wife. . . ----Monitor interrupted. Did the other guy really have a wife? What did he know about this guy? Was it the first time in his life he'd seen him as a human being? ----You have a wife, right?
----Yes
----Children?
----Two.
----Very well. Well, he's going home to his wife and two children and resting for four days. He's got them quite big. ----In a different tone, bringing his face closer to him ----: Listen to me, no one will bother you anymore. You'll be able to dedicate yourself to your art in peace. And in four days, you'll make me a chocolate cake, which, as you know, is one of my favorites. I'm the most greedy Monitor the Technocracy has ever had; something doubly true considering that I am, so far, the only Monitor the Technocracy has ever had. ----And he laughed under his breath, aggressively bland. The pastry chef, also laughing but through tears, in the thawing of tension (which always produces instability at first), stood up and, still trembling, bowed and left.
The Monitor had been moved and worried. He ordered the room to be cleared and was left alone with his friend. The Bearded Man said:
----What he must have suffered, poor thing.
----Yes. But what worries me is that all of this is partly my fault. It wasn't so bad, but how many screw-ups did he make me and I didn't even know it?
The Bearded Man replied:
----You've armored yourself in order to protect yourself. But in doing so, you've dehumanized yourself. It's no use being like a god if you cut yourself off from all feelings so as not to suffer:
----Bitch! You say that as if it were so...

----I know it's not easy. But you have no choice. This guy, for example: he's been in front of you for a thousand days, and you never saw him as another being.
----That's exactly what I was thinking.
----Well, there you go. It's necessary for you to be a god, but without losing your humanity.
Monitor, oscillating between true feelings and hypocritical sentimentality:
----I don't know if you have the same memory for things as I do. I remember not only tones of voice and faces, but also the smallest gestures, the exact words a guy said, ten years after the last time I saw him. So, I don't know if you remember the day I met you.
----How could I not remember?
----No, I know. It's not that. I mean every single detail. For example, when I made you bring that dessert to honor you.
----Yes.
----Well, well. You tried the dessert, and I asked you what you thought. And you said, "Delicious! Do you remember?"
----I don't know. Maybe. I remember liking it.
----You said exactly that. Okay. And then I added, "I'm happy for someone I know." One who was saved thanks to you." Well, what I meant was that if the baker hadn't made a dessert you liked, I was going to have his balls cut off.
The Bearded Man, almost indifferent:
----And you think it's nice?
----No. I don't think it's nice. ---- And the Monitor stood firm, waiting for punishment.
The Bearded Man, animatedly:
----All that's your inhuman side. Don't you know that in baking, as in any other business, sometimes things don't turn out right? You put the same ingredients as always, in identical proportions, and with the necessary love. And yet things don't turn out right? You put the same ingredients as always, in identical proportions, and with the necessary love. And yet things don't turn out the same, by some sort of reverse miracle. You didn't know that?
----No. But I should have.
----Well. Or they ruined the dessert with a Sorcery, or he was manipulated into making a mistake about the cooking time, or the horoscope indicated an unfavorable conjunction, or whatever. That's a guy who was always faithful to you and loved you: however, you have to see his face to realize it. Only an inhuman like you doesn't notice the obvious. Monitor would have killed anyone who had said something like that to him at some point. But he was such a strange person that this time he swallowed it. In fact, he meditated on it deeply. The other continued: That man loved you, and you were about to make him shit himself. He purposely said "loved you" instead of "loves you," so that the other would subliminally see the pastry chef dead and thus the shock would be greater. I recognize that one cannot be humane when governing well; the leader must be implacable, because his is a fundamentally inhuman task. But one cannot govern without humanity. That is the contradiction of the ruler.
Monitor, ironically:
----Lao Tzu said.
----Lao Tzu didn't say it. I'm telling you, and I'm serious.
Monitor, now without irony:
----Yes, I understand. ----After a pause ----: Being inhuman and also human. What a task!
----What a task, but that's why the leader must be one of the gods of his people. Because it's extremely difficult. Look at Soria Soriator. He doesn't have any problems.
----He doesn't have problems because he's a Soria.
----I'm sure he doesn't have problems because he's a Soria. Sure. But you're not a Soria. In his country, he limits himself to getting drunk. He doesn't care a bit about anyone's happiness. He just wants to gather enough power to destroy you, and once he achieves that, if he achieves that, he'll die of boredom. He'll have no choice after victory but to navel-gaze, or kill his own people and then hang himself by his balls. For Soriator, the town is his private property, not a huge, single responsibility fragmented into millions.
----As far as I'm concerned, Soriator can go to hell. I mean: fuck off.
----And fuck off, but don't fuck off yourself.
Monitor decided within himself that the other was right. But, with the lack of thematic unity that characterized him, in a split second, he changed course. He walked to one of the walls and pressed a small button; with a click, the wall disappeared, leaving a space containing a library of twenty-five thousand copies. He turned to Bearded Man and said, smiling: