The prison cook part 3: The final life of Olivas Ancho Limonez the III

Olivas awoke to find himself in a damp lightless world, the taste of mould crumbling from the walls making the air itself a dusty soup that clung to the cooks lungs. He had no idea how long he had been here. Time had lost all meaning, mixed with the acrid air to become nothing more than broken grains floating around his shackled body; the ooze occasionally lit for a fraction by a flare of light as a metal hatch screamed open and in the phosphorus glow a pail of water would slide across the floor spilling its contents over its sides. Then the light was gone in a deafening ring as the hatch slammed shut that tore at his ear drum.

His jailers(whoever they were?) did not utter a word and Olivas obliged them in this, not letting out as much as a cry or a scream, this was a universe only inhabited by silence. Surrounded by frozen stone walls, the stench of piss and faeces former tenants Olivas did not wonder on his fate, for he was sure they would soon come for him. He would be stood up against a wall, maybe with other men and then he would be dead. He felt no particular feeling about this end, no sense of injustice or anger, that had all burnt out the day of the fire, all he felt now was an aching, a tiredness, to sleep forever did not seem to him an unhappy ending. After all was not this the ending for all of us?

His fate however was in the tiny hands of another man.

The Generalissimo still enraged by the humiliation he had felt that day, as he had stood there the only guest without a plate of food as everyone had watched the restaurant explode into fire. He wanted Olivas to feel that same humiliation, that same ridicule. The Generalissimo had pondered grotesque unmentionable forms of torture but decide against this, the last thing he wanted was for this cook, this traitor to become a martyr, a revolutionary hero of the farmers.

He had considered a firing squad but there was no humiliation in execution, though he felt an almost uncontrollable urge to be the one to squeeze the trigger. At a loss the Generalissimo banged his head again and again against the hard wood of his desk, when an idea came to him. unbeknownst to the Generalissimo this very idea would give birth to the third and final life of Olivas Ancho Limonez the III

Generalissimo Baratoppolipo unable to contain his excitement over the devilish punishment he had devised for the cook; ran from his office as fast as his little legs could carry him, his platformed boots echoing around the halls of his palatial residence, he raced down the stairs and along the subterranean tunnel that led from his seat of government to the enormous sprawling prison.

The diminutive despot had assumed his plan to force Olivas into labour as the prison cook would be without doubt the ultimate humiliation for such a famous chef;

forced to cater in a windowless kitchen to the utter lowest of society would surely break the cooks very soul.

Olivas was sat amid the darkness and stench as he heard voices for the first time since his incarceration, they were muffled, muted their words inaudible to him but he could sense confusion in the tone. Then the hatch, metal grinding upon rusted coils heaved open and the fluorescent light burst into the cell until it covered his legs making them look like ghostly white apparitions unattached to a torso. Then came a gurgling sound of water being pushed rapidly through a tight funnel, a thick hose was shoved into the hatch and powerful jets of icy water bit and lashed at Olivas's like the jaws of wild pampas dogs, his skin itched and burned. At last the pressure dropped and the rubber body became limp, no longer writhing and leaping around the cell like a possessed python but there motionless as the last of the water dribbled from its mouth.

Another howl of metal came this time deeper and more light crept through until the door was pulled fully open leaving Olivas wet skin shivering in a bright otherworldly light.

Two large men stepped forward and grasped the cook by either arm and dragged the stumbling Olivas down a grey passageway, turning left at the end, he was led into a small room where lay a pair of blue overalls. The guards pulled these over his legs and then cut the binds that had held his arms together. As he put his arms through the sleeves the material felt rough as they it rubbed on his sore skin.

Dressed he was marched by his jailers into yet another room, this one was very brightly lit and it took a minute for Olivas's eyes to get used to the sharp light. There in front of him was a large well appointed yet cold steel kitchen. The guards pushed him towards the range and with a growl told he had exactly two hours to prepare lunch for the eighty other inmates.

At first the cook just stood there utterly bewildered by this new turn of events, slowly his legs still weak he made his way over to a table that bulged with the fruits of the fertile Rio Grandean earth. He handled each piece of fruit, each vegetable, holding it to his cheek then rolling it up and down his face until he could feel the outside world touch him. He breathed in its perfume and felt the salt from his tears sting his lips.

Then he got to work seasoning each dish he prepared by crying into the pot, occasionally wiping his eyes to avoid any danger of over seasoning. With each stir of the wooden spoon, each chop of the knife his body seemed to repair itself until two hours later a glowing Olivas was carrying trays laden with roasted meats, vegetables and a lightly spiced rice around a sparse white walled canteen. 

He was shocked when he noticed who his fellow inmates were, as he had leant down at the first table tray in hand he realised the man he was serving was "Old Barazoglio" the famous poet from the coastal town of Labacantaro. Next to him were a group of young intellectuals and political agitators who hung on every word and phrase of the poet like manna from Santa Socrates. Barazoglia thanked Olivas with a nod so gracious it could only have come from such a writerly head. At the next table was Signor Bassone the famous tango singer, who thanked him for the food with a short and beautiful cantato that garnered great applause from the six men at the end of table. Olivas recognised them instantly and blushed with shyness to be in their presence there as large as life in front of him was half of the famous Rio Grande´team. The captain Aromga got to his feet and the whole dining room stood in response, Olivas looked around to see a room full of poets, singers, craftsmen, workers, mandolin players rise to their feet, this was the restaurant he had always dreamed of he clasped his hands together in joy. Applause broke out then came the shouts of the Rio Grand´players "viva Rio Grande´viva Olivas Ancho Limonez the III" even the guards could not contain themselves and for the rest of the day the prison revelled in a fiesta like atmosphere.

Legend has it that for the five years that followed anyone in search of a truly heavenly meal would have done well to make themselves as an enemy of the state and get thrown in gaol. Olivas being a man of shrewd nature always saved his greatest culinary creations for the guards, who in turn returned the favour by allowing the Generalissimo to think his jail and torture chambers were a hell of anguish and great suffering. The truth was the only happy place in Rio Grande´during Baratopolippo's tyrannical rule was unbeknownst to him, his prison.

Whether this is a myth or not there is even a story about a visiting senator from Nuevo America who, so disgusted by the pompous food served at the Generalissimo's palace that during a state dinner he leapt to his feet to announce he was in fact a spy.

He was led out of the ballroom and promptly flung into the jail for 4 years before being deported.

On his return to Nuevo America his wife waiting at the airport to be reunited with him, let out a sigh when she saw him, the senator had gained 45 kilos during his incarceration.

 

The Prison cook Part II (The second life of Olivas Ancho Limonez the III

A strange thing had happened to Olivas in the wake of his act of arson, as he had stood on the brow of the hill watching the flames engulf his livelihood and home he had felt nothing but a great unburdening, his shoulders had unknotted and in the oxygen fuelled fire his misanthropy melted down until it glowed like precious ore. The life the restaurant had starved him of was reborn in the sulphur of a single match head and for the next year as olivas evaded capture he had felt alive as never before.

Being a wanted man suited the cook and he wore the bounty upon his head well, as if it was no more than a cloth cap and finally when his inevitable capture came it owed as much to the fates as anything else.

It was late afternoon and August had entered its final death throes, the heat still as intense as the long passed days of midsummer, the month was done but refused to yield and die as the burnished orange sky glittered; a defiant rusted majesty. Amid it sat Olivas his bare feet covered in the cut pampas that lay everywhere; his life reflected through the sinking sun and the muted golds of straw. The freedom he had felt, slowly began to be replaced by a sadness that slowly crept its way around him, intwining itself into his limbs, deeper and deeper until it became part of his very marrow; that same marrow that had been used as fuel to stoke the furnace of his being. Olivas knew that no matter how he fed the fire, it had already burned its hottest. Over time it would reduce to no more than the glimmer of the dying wax of a candle waiting to be snuffed by spittle covered fingers. For a moment the sun left, leaving him shivering as if midwinter was there breathing heavily on his neck.

A few miles away four untidily dressed migrant farm workers walked the stone track between two tiny hamlets. If anyone was to observe them carefully they would have noticed something odd in their nature. For they sang no songs, no odes to lovers, there was none of the languid nature of workers finding themselves free for a few hours from the hardships of labour and no laughter. They walked in silence their feet betraying a degree of military training that would have given away their true identity to any villager in their right mind who saw them. unfortunately for Olivas the only man these "workers" encountered was very far from being in his right mind.

Paroxis was stood on a small jumbled stone wall that ran along the entire outskirts of the village, to his eye he held an empty bottle of fruit wine. Mistaking the tall pampas blowing in the breeze (as he had for every single day of the last thirty years) as the rolling waves of the ocean he searched through the grape stained glass for his ship but there was nothing save for a few sea birds circling above the foaming waters. Taking the telescope from his eye he threw it to the ground where it smashed joining the pile of hundreds of other discarded telescopes. This was Paroxis mused without doubt the worst sea port he could have ever been washed up in. If you had asked around the village anyone would have told you that Paroxis had never seen the ocean. At 14 he had fallen from an unusually tall avocado tree, when he had awoken Paroxis had become convinced he was merchant seaman and had remained that way ever since. in the true tradition of a sea farer he became a brawler and a drunkard and slowly withdrew more and more from his fellow villagers. For the past ten years he had spent from dawn until sunset swaying on top of the wall, drinking fruit wine waiting for his ship to finally return and spirit him away back to his beloved ocean.

The heady mixture of the sun and the seven bottles of fruit wine he had consumed that day caused Paroxis to squint as he tried to focus on the four strangers at the foot of the hill walking towards him. immediately Paroxis mistook them for sailors on shore leave and gripped by excitement leapt from the wall, tumbling over the pile of spent telescopes and then stumbled down the hill to greet them. The men looked surprised as a man clearly inebriated and dressed in full naval regalia staggered towards them. Paroxis shouted out "Ahoy ship mates" sensing an opportunity one of the workers saluted then replied "aye aye captain". Clearly delighted by this Paroxis began to question the men feverishly. "How long would they be ashore?" "How were the trade winds?" "What cargo did they have aboard?" 

The men played along hoping that this madman might let slip some valuable information. They explained to a wide eyed Paroxis that they had put into shore that morning for a brief stop as the ships cook had been struck down with scurvy. So ecstatic to finally meet other genuine men of the ocean Paroxis felt desperate to help his mariner brothers and mentioned that there was a wonderful cook hiding out in the village. Paroxis was sure he would happily take on the position for safe passage across the sea and giving a knowing nod said "he is the type of man who would be right at home in a ships galley"

The men thanked Paroxis with two bottles of fruit wine and the promise of a berth on the ship when it sailed tomorrow and left the ecstatic madman leaning against the wall guzzling fruit wine and dreaming of the fine tea clipper he would  be sailing on. 

Olivas was still sat cross legged amongst the felled Pampas as evening silent and thoughtful took tentative footsteps over Rio Grande´. His fingers running up and down his clothing examining the threads and stitches of each item. The day of the fire he had left with no more than a sharp knife and the clothes he was wearing. The trousers were so worn now that his knees poked through all knobbly and gnarled and when Olivas bent down to sniff the ripening tomatoes that grew so abundantly in the village, the tear in the seat of his pants caused the old ladies to blush. The jacket on the other hand seemed to wear time and hardship with an elegant ease becoming more comfortable with every passing day. Olivas wondered how all these years he had failed to notice what a fine piece of tailoring the jacket was. It was a faded blue denim, like the overalls worn by the famous poets of the port town of Albacantaro, its weave sturdy yet light upon the skin. It was Olivas considered, a fine enough piece of clothing to worship the gods in. This was how he was to be captured; kneeling in prayer to Santa Socrates Maria.

The four men of Baratopolippo's elite guard were on their hands and knees crawling through the tall grass that led to the hills summit, the setting sun above them spreading in pools and lighting up the dead flower heads. The nearer they got to their quarry each man could hear their fellow soldiers breathing heavily, each inhalation sounding as tense as a steel string, then there in front of them was Olivas, knelt down, the sun behind him a suspended copper orb. Perfectly still the cook looked like a painted icon seen through coloured glass. The men hesitated feeling almost blasphemous as if breaking the vision in front of them may incur the wrath of the spirits and gods of rural Rio Grande´.

The soldiers sat crouched silently wrestling with their consciences and fears before the commanding officer at last gave the order and the men sprung from the grass and in an instant Olivas bound,gagged and blindfolded was placed in an empty rice sack and dragged away.