Chapter 20

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Claire and the others followed Francois from the kitchen into the dining area of his restaurant. It was a tiny little place, essentially a bar with twelve seats in front of it and three low tables. There were six pairs of seats, for each type of the various aliens who might come: mushroom-shaped squats for the Spo, stools for the Merith, cup-seats for the Vel, and so on. At the end of the bar, furthest from the kitchen, was a door to the street, and though Francois told Claire it was currently locked, she kept glancing at it.

The walls appeared to have dark wood paneling, while the bar itself was black with a high gloss surface in which Claire could see her reflection. (Which was pretty disheveled.)

A strange assortment of human objects were displayed on the walls. Claire could guess why Francois chose most of them, but it was decidedly strange to see a circular arrangement of empty frames around a bright pink hula hoop, with a mounted deer's head in the center. That was on the back wall. On the front wall there were two shelves. The first one held a guitar and two violins standing upright, which could almost have been normal decor. The second shelf held four pairs of shoes: one pair of children's blue sandals, some red high heels, and two pairs of brightly colored Nike trainers.

The whole room couldn’t have been more than ten feet across, and perhaps three times that deep.

“Size is nothing, it’s all about presentation,” Francois told them, as if he’d heard her. “If you present yourself, and your establishment, as elite and mysterious – a haven for the connoisseur of culture – it will be perceived as such.”

Claire glanced down at herself. She was still wearing the uniform she’d gotten aboard Final Say, and it was on the outer edge of grimy. She’d worn it during her last two days on the ship, the afternoon and night at the embassy prison, and today. Wow, was it only the second day since she’d left the ship? It felt much longer.

Regardless, she needed a shower or some serious deodorant because she had the rank smell of someone unwashed and recently ill. She certainly didn’t feel either elite or mysterious.

“Presence,” Francois repeated emphatically. A cutting board resting on the bar thumped to make his point. “You must cultivate presence.”

He continued to lecture, and Claire tried to wrap her head more firmly around the idea of his telekinesis. She'd dealt with that Crosspoint on the ship only days ago, after all. He had moved a few things: scooting out a chair, bringing a drink, trussing her up like a goose. But Francois moved things all the time. Maybe the other Crosspoint had trained himself to rein in his ability in order to make other species more comfortable. If so, Francois had despised such training. Every sentence ended with a visible period, as some plate or cutlery or something twitched.

It was more than a little distracting.

Claire kept catching movement out of the corner of her eye and looking, only to see a pot gracefully swaying on its hook or grains of rice lifting and trickling through invisible fingers.

 “You still haven’t told me,” Claire said, breaking into his monologue and gesturing at the door, “What makes you certain that the Spo won’t hear about this place and grab us tomorrow?”

 “For one thing – you keep wincing, dear girl! What is the matter?”

She'd sunk down on a stool and her ribs gave a painful twinge.

“I got kicked by a Merith yesterday. It’s rather sore.” She rubbed her hand over the tender area.

“Hmm.” The top of her uniform started to slide up. “Let’s see.”

Claire clutched her shirt, holding it down. “Stop that! For heaven’s sake. Personal space.”

Francois looked blank. “Are humans protective of their pain? I didn’t know. The Tergre are like that, and the Spo, a little. I apologize – ”

 “No, I’m sorry I snapped at you,” Claire said. “I’m not protective of – of the pain, we just don’t – you can’t move someone’s clothes without asking. We’re protective of our space.”

“Would it violate your space if I fixed those bones that are hurting you?” Several bowls adjusted themselves on a shelf behind Francois’ head, as if impatient.

“Um. Can you do that?”

“Of course. I have basic micro-medical training, after all. Just hold still for a moment.”

He closed his eyes, which Claire found to be a relief. She hadn’t realized how much his undivided attention was tiring her. While Francois showed them around and gave his impromptu lecture on his “philosophy of food service,” he’d been focusing on her. Perhaps because she was the only real human?

Pain flared in her rib cage.

“Ow! Yikes – ow.” She rubbed her side, but the pain was almost gone before the words were out of her mouth.

“How is that?”

She gingerly stretched her arms over her head and felt only the echo of an ache.

“That’s incredible. Thank you so much.”

“It’s nothing, it’s nothing,” he said, but Claire could tell he was pleased. “Human bones are not much different from other calcium fortified mammals. A few cells shifted, and it’s half-healed. You should be careful for several weeks, however, not to re-injure the spot.”

Then he launched into the nuances of food preparation for alien species. She’d gotten the gist of this during her work on the Diarena’s ship, but she’d only been in charge of fetching and carrying and trash removal. She certainly hadn’t been allowed to help prepare the food.

There were supplements for everything. When an alien ate across culture, which apparently aliens loved to do, things got complicated. Every species had standard vitamin supplements that they generally took with any meal that wasn’t from their home planet. But each species had things they flat couldn’t stomach, or that had to be counteracted in some ways. So it was a balance – present the cuisine as close to the original as possible, but in such a way that the customer wouldn’t leave with a stomach ache, hives, or newly sprouted green hair. Some ingredients could be suppressed and some had to be altered. Some were innocuous when combined with another Earth food, or only in certain amounts. Some had to be separated out altogether.

Francois had been testing all his food samples for the last few weeks as he prepared to open his restaurant.

Claire wished she had a computer, or even a notebook to take notes. She felt like she’d strayed into an advanced chemistry class without her textbook.

"You look pained again," Francois said. "It's very disconcerting."

"Sorry. I'm just trying to remember what you said. Protein supplements for Vel - ?"

"No, no. You're treating this like a science, but it is art! You mustn't just memorize this as a list, but get a feel for each species and their particular problems." The guitar on the wall strummed gracefully, apparently to make his point about art.

Francois continued to teach all morning, and despite what he said, it was a lot of memorization. At some point a young Merith came in, whom Francois introduced as the chef. The chef began preparations for lunch, mixing up bread dough and forming about eight loaves. The yeast and wheat smell was intoxicating.

If someone had asked Claire whether she missed the smell of flour or corn meal or any of a dozen mundane ingredients, she would have shrugged. But as she trailed after Francois, listening to the eccentricities of each species’ food requirements, each smell was a world of memory.

The smell of dough reminded her of Thanksgiving when she made rolls with her Nana and watched her mom roll out pie crusts on the table. The yeast smelled like homemade pizza, her dad’s specialty. The cinnamon was for winter. It was the smell of oatmeal and Cuban hot chocolate.

“Francois, you never told me. How do you get all this?” Claire asked, when he paused. If someone was bringing him supplies from Earth, then someone here was regularly going to Earth. Why shouldn’t she use that ship to get home?

“I have contacts in Spo mainspace who put me in touch with a supplier. Earth restaurants are going to be the next big thing. From what I understand, shipments are still controlled by the Spo supervisors on Earth, but I bought a start-up shipment which should last for some months.”

“Months?” Claire said. “How long are we going to be working for you?”

“It depends,” Francois said, not unkindly. “You and your friends will get a percentage of my profit, so the more I make... But now look here and tell me, is this food or paint? I tried some in a mixed drink only two days ago and it turned me pink for twelve hours."

Hunts and Heinz ketchup sat in the cabinet, and Claire laughed in spite of herself. “It is more like paint than food, but we eat it. It’s supposed to go on certain things...mostly salty, fried things.”

“Ah, see, already you help me.” He smiled, and his flat, leaf-grinding molars flashed again.

After lunch and more delicious human food, Claire was dismissed to her new living quarters to get cleaned up and get changed for the evening opening.

“I would like you all to take part in the food preparation eventually," Francois added, "to add to the authenticity of the experience. But authenticity goes poorly with bad food, so that will wait. Tonight you will merely serve food and speak to the customers.”

“Speak?” Claire's voice squeaked. “Tonight?”

“Just pleasantries. The customers are connoisseurs of culture and they are curious about Earth. The timing of the trial couldn’t be better; you’re famous!”

Claire licked her lips. No one seemed to be concerned about having a high profile job after escaping from the Spo. They kept telling her that Lower Selta was big enough for the restaurant to remain below the radar of whoever was searching for them, but Claire still felt like this was a crazy plan. Maybe it was because she’d been unconscious on the journey, but she didn’t feel nearly far enough away.

If they were all going to remain discretely hidden in the kitchen that would be one thing, but Francois wanted them front and center.

Sage pulled her aside to whisper in her ear, “We can make a fortune if we stick with this. I know he’s a little overwhelming, but hang in there. Your share for tonight alone would be...” and the amount made Claire's eyes get wide. “We have to pay off our escape first, but then we’ll earn quickly.”

It was more than a week's worth of pay on Final Say, for a few hours of serving food and chatting up the guests. Surely she could silence her nerves for such a good cause.

Sage showed her back through the kitchen into the bedroom she’d slept in. The other door off the bedroom led to a small staircase.

“Straight up there are our living quarters. Girls on the left, boys on the right. Diva said that would make you more comfortable."

Claire blushed. “Sure, whatever.”

The small apartment above the restaurant had two bedrooms, with the shower room in the middle. The “girls” room was fitted out with Spo cots, but they would do fine for humans. Next to each bed there was a hook on the wall, and Claire could see that the Rik girls had already hung their extra clothes up.

She went to the unclaimed bed and sank down on it, grateful for a moment of quiet reflection.

What was she doing here? Was she a fool to stay and trust Francois and the Rik? Was she a traitor to enjoy the company of her new friends?

And yes, she was starting to think of them as friends. She told herself to stay on guard, but it was hard to do. They might be aliens, but they also seemed like decent people...

Claire went to the shower room and was surprised to find it looked a lot like an earthly bathroom. A large mirror, a toilet (shaped for the Spo, of course, but workable), and a big walk-in, wrap around shower. In the corner by the mirror was a built in cabinet, and she spied a stack of clothing waiting there. Claire picked up the top item, a cherry-red, satin something, and unfolded it.

“Ha! A kimono?”

She ran her hand down the pretty wrap-around dress, admiring the gold and black thread on the red background. Was she supposed to wear this?

She looked through the rest of the stack. There were two more red kimonos, three royal blue ones, and two black. Serving gowns perhaps? Francois had said something about changing clothes. On the next shelf was underwear, and Claire grinned to see such a common, yet utterly gorgeous thing as real cotton underwear.

Hmm. She looked at the tags but the sizing was in another language, probably Japanese, so she made a guess and left the rest neatly stacked.

Claire took her glasses off when she got in the shower. Water might break the delicate electronics.

The shower was heavenly. She’d gotten to shower regularly on the ship, of course, but they’d had short time slots. She’d gotten four minutes every other day. This unrestricted access was a treat, and she blasted the hot water for a long time.

When she was dry and dressed, she stared in the mirror for a long time. It had been so long since she’d really looked at herself. Years.

She didn’t know this person very well. It wasn’t that she was so much older or taller than she had been - the physical differences between seventeen and twenty-one weren’t that obvious. It was more the expression that was different. The seriousness of the eyes, the firmly compressed lips.

It was bizarre to feel so little connection to the person in the mirror. Her light brown skin was so pale it was almost yellow. Lack of sunlight was probably to blame for that, Claire supposed. She had a lot of dark, curly hair, and dark brown eyes. And of course the wretched Spo tattoo on her cheek.

She didn’t know if she was still pretty or not. She was thin, too thin, Claire thought, picturing Diva and the twins. Basher was probably right about a vitamin deficiency. And this girl looked so... guarded. She looked like a cautious, well-trained Spo cadet.

How odd. Claire had not really been their type when she was in high school. Her grades were fine, but she spent more time at her volleyball and softball practices than she had on homework. Everybody knew the Spo were picking genius kids, so she’d been shocked when they’d come for her. She’d always thought they made a weird mistake selecting her, but now she looked exactly their sort.

Hmm.

Claire put her shoes on, even though her ship shoes were all wrong for the kimono, and went back downstairs to get ready for her job.

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