The prison cook part 1

The finest cook in all of Rio Grande´was Olivas Limonez Ancho the IV, he came from a long line of cooks thought to date back to the 3rd century, though this was just rumour and hearsay. what was not rumour was that he was a phenomenally bad tempered man who now occupied the lowly station of prison cook in the sprawling  subterranean gaol where the Generalissimo had dissidents tortured and enemies locked away until death came for them. This unenviable position that Olivas now found himself in had come about due to an unfortunate turn of events that had transpired to rob a nation of the most elegant of palates.

His troubles had begun around the time of the Generalissimo's rise to power, this was not an uncommon problem as the majority of Rio Grandeans had suffered great hardships during these times but this is Olivas story so we shall tell it as it was told to us by our great grandfathers.

It had been late spring and in the small town of La Bomba Arroz was a small sun soaked square, now if you were to walk down the narrow lane that led of the northern end of it just to the left of the church of Santa Angelina, Maria, Delacroix da Zico you would soon reach a flower laden park. Through that park ran a crystal stream, now if you follow that stream to where the park changed from municipal grounds to the rural lands that are dotted with avocado farms then you would see foothills rising up in the distance. At the brow of the first hill under a copse of Acacia trees, you would find four rusted metal tables hiding under the blossom covered boughs of those trees, around them would be sat chairs whose paint had been flaked off by decades of strong summer heat. Behind these tables and chairs stood a small corrugated hut, out of which drifted smells that made stomachs growl and noses faint with ecstasy. Inside the hut always behind the stove stood the greatest and without fail the most singularly  bad tempered cook this land had ever known. 

No matter what time of day or year the tables were always full here and often you would find families, workmen, rebels, fighters, farmers and poets sat on the ground under the trees enjoying the delights of Olivas fair hands and foul mouth. mothers would position their children under the Acacia blossom so it would cover their ears from the expletives that exploded and tumbled out of the little corrugated hut, sometimes the language got so bad they would have to cover their own ears but always when the food arrived all was quickly forgiven and people would smile, laugh, eat and wonder how such beauty and harmony could come from such a violent process.

Plump fillets of fish and meat would sit proudly atop soft and sweet roasted fennel, wearing coats of herbs and wild flowers each mouthful was at once rich, simple calming and complex and slowly the shouting and swearing would drift from the diners minds over the acacia trees, before being blown out into the pacific that sat behind the white topped Rio Grandean mountains where the gods watched what happened below with consternation.

This particular spring, there began to be a marked change in the type of clientele who gathered at this culinary idyll. Gone were the families, the artists, writers, avocado farm workers, labourers and ageing revolutionaries; who had rubbed shoulders in harmony by the old corrugated shack. Now everyday just before midday the tiny road that led to the village of La Bomba Arroz was choked with fumes coming from the roaring engines of huge motor vehicles. Their wheels would spin as the raced up the towards the track sending terracotta dust spewing over the avocado trees. The farmers would shout and waved their fists and would be repaid only by a mouthful of salty soil and a barrage of popping champagne corks that flew from the car windows like a volley of rifle bullets. underneath the hum of the engines could be heard the shrieks and giggles coming from the lips of the young showgirls as they entertained oil men and the political cronies of the Generalissimo. 

Olivas did not like these new customers not one bit and this caused his infamous ill temper to grow and grow until it transformed itself into a meteorological force. From the village you could see a angry cloud that never moved, suspended over the hut and the acacia trees, full of a torrent that constantly threatened but never burst.

His clients now were wealthy captains of industry often accompanied by men dressed in ostentatious military regalia, lithe yet empty looking young women draped themselves over the men and howled with delight as fur boas were hung around the smooth skin of the necks. their voluminous hair and heavy make up burying their Rio Grandean beauty below layers of vulgarity.

The men had demands! requests! they insisted on dishes that the fuming cook considered brutish and frivolous.

Olivas was and always had been essentially a misanthrope, a fair man he held all people in equal contempt but as he muttered and cursed over the hot stove he had started to remember his former customers with a warmth and kindness he did not know existed within him.

Down in the village three ladies so ancient their age was now interminable stood in the square dressed in the traditional black of mourning, they looked up at the cloud over the hill, it was blacker than ever before and around the walls of the square thunder echoed.

After some time one of the ladies spoke, softly to herself as much as anyone who would have cared to listen.

"That cloud will split in two today and what will come will be a turmoil this country has never known"

Olivas furiously whirled some butter into an iron skillet, squeezed some lemon over the fish then hurled the yellow shell drained of its juice against the thin corrugated metal wall, as he spooned the emulsion over the fish he felt a tap on his shoulder; he spun around and having to look down saw a midget standing there plate in hand. This particular midget was wearing a garish military uniform, which had hanging from the jacket row after row of meaningless medals. on his minute feet were the most grotesque bejewelled platform boots Olivas had ever had the misfortune to see. The shape of the mans lips gave the appearance of a constant sneer. Then he did the unthinkable!

The Generalissimo thrust the plate of beautifully cooked and seasoned fish in front of the explosive cook and barked out the order "more salt, put more salt on this fish, then bring it back out to me"

Olivas exploded spectacularly but the combustion had taken place silently deep inside him; he just nodded took the plate and tuned back to face his stove leaving the Generalissimo to walk back to his table with a smirk of satisfaction one only sees on the faces of men with great power.

Several minutes later the Generalissimo and his guests stood in shock as the corrugated shack exploded into a ball of fire.

At the very moment the plate had been thrust in front of him Olivas had known what must be done. He had turned all the flames on the stove to full so they licked their way up and over the sides of the pans. Then he had carried one of the gas canisters into the kitchen, opened the valve, lit a cigarillo and walked out.

Once the cook had reached a good vantage point high above the restaurant he had sat down on a pile of scythed pampas and lit another cigarillo, watching as his home and livelihood burned.

In the months that followed Olivas had managed to retain his freedom despite a nationwide manhunt by the Generalissimo's not so secret secret police. He had criss crossed his way around Rio Grande´ from  farm to fish cannery earning his keep working in the kitchens that fed the seasonal workers who grifted their way across the land in a similar manner. There was a lot of work that year as the avocado crop was an abundant one and the anchovies had jumped out of the ocean as if some unknown devilry deep underwater was a worse fate than the one that awaited them in the cannery's that dotted the coastline.

The Generalissimo had made the famous cooks capture a priority of his new state security apparatus, after correctly assuming that the fire at the shack had been a directly aimed sleight towards him. His whole moustached still bristled with anger at the humiliation he had felt that day, standing there without a plate of food surrounded by important business figures from Nuevo America all watching the flames first engulf the restaurant then the acacia trees sending everyone scuttling back to their motor cars without desert.

All the way back to the city the Generalissimo's stomach haunted by hunger had made the most horrifying gurgling noises that made the faces of the two glamorous showgirls who were sat opposite him, twist their faces in disgust.

It was late november now and the young officer stood in the grotesquely opulent office of the Generalissimo shifted nervously from foot to foot, his head bowed, eyes fixed on the rug decorated with pictures of "their great leader" as he reported that once again the cook had managed to evade capture, this time allegedly by hiding in a giant vat of cooked tagliatelle.

The Generalissimo was convinced that villagers across the land had been harbouring this fugitive, perhaps even helping him remain at large, despite the repercussions of this treachery. The young officer nodded in agreement with everything. Then in a fit of fury the Generalissimo hurled all the items off his desksending the young officer diving for cover before the Generalissimo did something that left the soldier in utter shock. From the corner of the room he watched as running out of things to hurl the Generalissimo threw himself to the floor, banging the wooden boards with his fists and began to weep and wail like a child. he appeared oblivious to the officers presence and feeling thankful for this the the young man quickly snuck out of the office leaving the Generalissimo to his tantrum.

The Generalissimo's cobbler

The Generalissismo's cobbler

Gustavo the cobbler sat on his stool carefully re stitching a pair of hideous bejewelled military boots. Turning one of the boots over so it was now upside down, the rubies that covered it flashed red in the light of the hearth. He began to apply the glue to the comically high platformed sole. setting the boot down the shoemaker let out a yawn and his mind turned back to the very night when he had first set eyes on these wretched foot coverings.Then they had been little more than a common pair of boots, a dusty brown leather and the type you would find worn on any avocado farm across Rio Grande´. In fact the only thing that was remarkable about these bootees was the dramatic nature of their arrival in Gustavo's workshop. on that night the fighting in the capital had been fierce, people had hidden in their homes as rumours abounded about a psychopathic midget who had led a troop of bloodthirsty mercenaries bringing terror to the peaceable villages of Rio Grande´. His army were now on the cusp of seizing the capital and there was little resistance left, nothing more to be done by the residents except to hide in their ramshackle dwellings half starved and pray to santa maria socrates. This is exactly what Gustavo had been doing as there was a wild hammering at the door. Gripped by horror the shoemaker did not move but crawled into the empty fireplace muttering incantations to himself. There was a crash and the door burst open a young man gasping for breath stood in the now open doorway the light of the flares in the sky behind illuminating the boyish looking soldier in a glow of phosphorous. Gustavo did not move he watch as the officer scan the room his eyes at last resting on the crouched figure of the cobbler whose eyes shined out of the black shadows of the hearth.Gustavo realising he had no other option, emerged from the fireplace his limbs quivering. The shoemaker let out a audible sigh of relief when instead of drawing his pistol the young officer thrust a pair of small grime covered leather boots into the arms of Gustavo.

He had listened to the soldiers request, had not questioned it but instead went over to his stool lit the gas lantern and had began to work on the boots. the soldier must have been no more than eighteen he stood there uncomfortably watching as the cobbler used a small hammer to push the metal pins into the ridiculously high platform soles he had been instructed to attach to the boots. it was clear to Gustavo that this young man wanted to make it clear that these now idiotic looking boots did not belong to him.When he spoke he sounded nervous as trying to sound casual he asked the shoemaker "if he had a pair of mountain grapplers in a size 43?" the cobbler shook his head and apologised saying that since the trouble had begun it had been hard for him to get hold of leather for new boots. As he said this he turned and watched the soldier; he had a handsome face that glowed warm in the gaslight he wasn't eighteen he was still a boy no older than fourteen! His uniform was ill fitting, a hand me down that his mother had tried to make good with a darning needle and some goats thread. He looked scared, he was looking at the boots shifting from one leg to the other, in the distance through the open door the cobbler could here the sound of instrument strings being picked in a mournful lament. Then as if suddenly gripped by the something the music had awoken in him he grabbed Gustavo by the shoulders and pulled him close as if to plant a kiss upon the shoemaker instead in a barely audible whisper he took the ear of the cobbler. " These are for the Generalissimo please make them shine".

Gustavo had not known from that night on he would be forbidden to work on any other footwear apart from those of the "great" Generalissimo.

He sat there his thin legs creaking with each movement from the endless years sat at the stool, reaching over Gustavo took another huge dollop of the thick indigenous Do Sul beeswax and slathered another coat on the already sickly glistening patent boots. The cobbler wondered how many pairs of people shoes he could have lovingly attended to over these last years if it had not been for the Generalissimo? Then in a fit of rage he tossed the shoe brush and watched as the beeswax on the bristles caused the brush to skid across the stone floor until it came to a rest with a thud as it hit the crumbling brick wall of the dead fireplace. 

These years alone, isolated by his task, kept away from his fellow Grandeans, day after day huddled over these wretched boots, their ruby eyes constantly watching him imprisoning him in this tiny workshop he could take not a moment more.

For hours the cobbler worked with a feverish concentration, gathering up every piece of dry timber, evert splinter of wood he could find. He broke up the desk and his acacia wood stool with an axe, scrunched up decades old newspaper Rio Grande´match reports into balls. At last in the fireplace stood a magnificent pyre. Atop it he carefully placed the jewel encrusted 10 inch platformed boots, doused them in homemade grape spirit and struck a match.

When the Generalissimo's not so secret secret police were called to the remnants of the blaze nothing of the boots remained accept a small pile of red precious stones that glowed orange in the white hot embers. A few hours later the cobbler was arrested, they had found him lying by a quiet acacia draped part of the river, the late spring sun dappling through the leaves and dancing on his face. Gustavo was fast asleep and on his wore a contented smile, a smile that did not leave him even after he had been roughly awoken and charged with high treason.