Allspice, five spice, mince pies, French fries. If you had a craving, chances are it could be sated in Westport. Markets brimmed with haggling merchants and thrifty store owners, cars and bikes, and joggers and runners racing to get the choicest picks – no place for the weak of heart, or tongue for that matter.
And this particular morning, with autumn-buttered leaves, a crawling sun, and cold in the spice-scented air; as per every Saturday, a 'friendly' negotiation was taking place…
"You damn cheapskate!" jeered Amar. He kicked the side of a rickety kiosk. "What do you mean $3.50 for a kilo of radish? This is a robbery in plain daylight!"
A rotund, sleazy-looking man straightened his back, looked up from his phone, and walked to the corner dented by Amar's kick, rubbed it, "You're paying for this y'know?"
Amar took a step back and looked at the store. It was made from old, unpainted plywood, tuckered with dents, and scarred inside out. "Pay for what? There's nothing to pay for!"
"Ah!" The man faked pain as he gripped his heart. "You're killing me Amar; this is my life's work – this stall. My dad passed it down to me, and his dad passed it down to him, and his dad passed it down to him, and-"
"Cut it," Amar rolled his eyes. "If your goods were even a little less quality, you wouldn't find me ten feet around this place."
He patted his side and found his wallet, pulled out 2, 10-dollar notes, and handed them to the man. "I'll have 2 kg of these radishes, 1.5 of the carrots, and some of the good stuff."
The man scooped up the radishes and carrots into two separate bags and handed them to Amar. Suddenly he looked around suspiciously.
"Some of the good stuff you say?" He lifted a side of his jacket and reached into a contained pocket. His hand left the pocket, and he raised his head again to look for any bystanders, then, twisting his palm slightly, he revealed a small packet. "Saffron. Finest grade."
"…"
"…"
Amar was flabbergasted. "Kurt, cut it out. You're making it look like we're dealing with some sketchy stuff."
"Heh, we might as well be. This little friend can give you more ecstasy than any dru-"
Amar snatched the packet from the man's hand.
"Hahah, it was nice doing business with you." Kurt smiled.
"The sentiment was not shared."
Amar turned and broke into a light jog. He still had groceries and there was no time to waste; if he dallied any further, the good picks would be stolen away.
He checked his list: buttermilk, sugar, tea leaves, cinnamon, saffron, eggs, salmon, radishes, carrots…
Down the street, he ran. Past a greengrocer, a fruit stand, a parked truck selling meats, and all sorts of shapes and stalls till he made his way to the fish market.
His feet splashed puddles, and he smelt the salty grime in the air, then turning a corner and rushing past other urgent pedestrians he reached a busy stall. People crowded around, yelled, and haggled. A well-built, middle-aged man haggled back, jumping between three-four conversations simultaneously. His daughter worked the register, counting money with skillful and fast hands.
Amar bumped his shoulders passed the crowd till he made it to the front. He scanned the displayed fishes and saw that the selections were sparse and of less-than-desired qualities.
"Nicole!" He waved to the girl, around his age.
Nicole looked up from counting money. She finished dealing with her customer and came over. "Hey Amar, making rounds again?"
"Yeah."
"What are you in need of this time?"
"Salmon. Do you have any left?"
Nicole shrugged, "Unfortunately not." She pointed around, "Actually you came at a bad time today, not just salmon, we're running low on most seafood, specifically river for some reason. Bass, bream, carp, catfish, and most importantly, your salmon. All gone."
"That's strange," replied Amar. "It's only February, shouldn't it be a prime season for salmon here?"
"Nature works in strange ways, I guess," Nicole looked off into the sky.
Amar sighed, "Well if some does come in can you reserve a couple for me."
"You know we run on a first-come, first-serve basis... mhm… for you though, I'll make an exception. " Nicole laughed.
***
The sun neared its midpoint in the sky.
The market wasn't far from home, so Amar always walked the distance. It was good exercise, and it was fun. He took a scenic route through a park, then passed a metro station, some shops, and a kindergarten, till he reached his apartment complex.
His parents were away for a couple of months. They were chefs – pretty good ones at that – and they had taken a business trip to some location that Amar couldn't remember (or didn't pay attention to). What Amar did remember, however, or I guess inherited you could say, was their passion for food. So as he listlessly ambled his way home, daydreaming about recipes, he had nothing except the 'f,' double 'o,' 'd' on his mind.
As his feet wandered, so did his mind. All sorts of recipes floated around: mint julep, stuffed tulips, ice pops, lemon drops, turnovers, lamb shoulder, and then to stews. 'Stews…' he thought. Suddenly he was reminded of that odd stew he made the other day during the meeting.
It was strange; that stew, he'd heard of blood pudding and blood sausages before, even the occasional blood noodles, but never of these blood-stew patties – must be some exotic food, he guessed. And that recipe too, with that chanting, how... unique.
As he thought of the recipe his head began to whirl. A bit dizzy. Then a little nauseous, then his stomach churned with butterflies. The grocery bags fell from his hands and his knees hit the pavement. And as the world began to spin his mind wavered, suddenly the moment the recipe drifted from his mind, so did nausea.
Breath in, breath out, breath in, breath out – he collected himself.
'What the heck was that?' Amar was positively confused. What was that sudden migraine? He tried to think of the recip- "Ow!" Strange… what was with this… um… let's not think about it directly.
There are hard recipes technically, and hard recipes in terms of gathering the ingredients, but mentally difficult recipes? This might be the first Amar's heard of. And plus when he read the recipe from the book, he was fine, so what was going on by just thinking about it?
In fact, what was going on with this whole week? First that strange dream, then that recipe book materializing from nowhere, the recipe itself, no salmon in salmon season, and now this terrible headache. Amar's curiosity was piqued.
He pondered and thought and thought again, and suddenly it came to him, 'Maybe… maybe… it all started with that dream with that Mr. Alef… no, the Mr. Aver? No, no, what was it? Alev? Vavler? What was it again? A.. av… ah, the um... oh, it was Avlev wasn't it? Yes. Mr. Avlev. It was like a dream, but it felt all so real, no, it didn't feel real – I'm sure it was real. Why did it only come to be now? It's almost like I forgot about it- just like the recipe. Perhaps the two are connected… if I use that book maybe I can use it to find Mr. Avlev."
Amar stood up, picked up the bags he dropped, dusted his pants, and sprinted home.
The leaves fluttered past him, and his groceries dangled beside them. He ran and ran until he reached his complex. His foot nudged the door open, slid in, and ran up some stairs – through the hallway to his room. Key into the lock – wrong angle – wrong side – wrong angle - wrong angle - success, he entered the room, tossed the bag onto the closest table, and bolted back outside.
'That strange book that appeared, Levi probably kept it.' Amar guessed. Levi was quiet but reliable. He loved recipes and always took copies after every meeting. 'So,' Amar thought to himself, 'I'll just pop over and test takes a peek at it.'
***
The train shuttled underground with a soft growl and slight cradle.
Amar was taking the metro. It was two stops before he would get off at the 3rd and walk the rest of the distance to Levi's. The train portion of the trip was about half an hour, so Amar found a seat and leaned back to take a cat's nap.
He closed his eyes and began to drift, and as he fell into a sleep he started noticing the environment around him. The smell of burnt cigarettes mixed with the aroma of cheap perfume, his hand drooped to the seat, and he felt the texture of peeling paint. He tasted, tasted what he had for breakfast this morning, and what he had eaten last night, and the day before, and the day before that. It all rushed to him in a monsoon of sensations.
A light hit his closed eyelids and flickered on his retina as the train passed an exposed area of track and Amar could see, see the faint silhouettes of figures. He suddenly realized he couldn't move. Tugged and tugged but couldn't. He tried to open his eyes, stuck. He tried to lift his hands, but they were heavy like lead weights.
Suddenly, the light in his eyes bloomed into a bright glow, and he found himself standing in front of a building. It looked familiar but his flash-banged eyes hadn't adjusted to the change in brightness. He rubbed his eyes and saw a sign… a sign that read… "No Parking."
Huh?
Oh, wrong sign.
He looked up and saw another sign that read, "Paradise of Gourmet." And was filled with shock, 'Where am I, how did I get here, wasn't I just on the train?'
He was about to check his surroundings when-
"Ding…
We are stopping at Hillston Station in two minutes."
"AAH!!" Amar woke from his dream. Passengers around him gave him an eye and moved away cautiously.
'Huh? What's going on? Wasn't I just…"
An old lady moved towards him, "Son, are you alright?" she asked worryingly.
Amar looked up and faked a smile, "U- uh, yeah. I just… missed my stop."
The old lady tilted her head incredulously but didn't question further.
'What is going on this week." Amar scratched his neck. "I really haven't a clue…"
***
In a shelf-filled library, Avlev was meditating on a rocking chair. Eastern greenhorn tea by his side, the finest in all of Aihaidek. The smell of old books and warm tea was a personal comfort of his.
Soft light shone through an adjacent window onto his lap, and the quiet murmur of guests below eased him into calm.
Suddenly he sensed something. 'Hm?' he raised an eyebrow, then he chuckled. 'Interesting, interesting.'