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1. Days
When I entered the pastry shop, a purple wave swept over me. Almost
every surface was in some shade of this color: the wallpaper, curtains,
rugs, tablecloths, chair covers. So were the shades on the lighted table
lamps. The muted light gave even the air a purple tint.
I squinted and took a look around. Not a single one of the six small
round tables with three chairs each was occupied. The pastry chef was
standing behind the display counter, wiping a glass with a purple
napkin. His apron was inevitably of the same tone as everything else. He
seemed more stocky than stout, and a thick, cropped beard and mustache
compensated for his shiny bald head.
He smiled and nodded, putting down the glass and napkin.
“Good evening,” he said cordially. “Sit wherever you like.”
“Good evening,” I replied, returning his smile, and took off my hat.
I hesitated a moment, then headed for the table farthest from the door.
I put my coat and hat on the coat rack in the corner and sat in the
chair next to the wall. The pastry chef hastened to my table with the
napkin draped over his arm, smiling all the while.
“What would you like?” he asked solicitously.
“I’d like to have something sweet.”
“You’re in the right place. We have a fine selection of pastries.” He
indicated the menu in the purple cover before me on the table.
I picked it up and opened it. The pages were a somewhat lighter shade of
purple, while the words were written in orange. The pastry chef had not
overstated the selection. The list of different pastries filled an
entire eight pages.
My eyes skimmed the pages, making their way down the list. The farther I
went from the beginning, the less familiar were the names. What, for
example, could be hiding behind “livid lightning rod”, “shambling
violin” or “absent-minded bumblebee”? The “enamored water lily” brought
a smile to my lips. Items on the fifth page had names that seemed
intended to repel those with a sweet tooth. Indeed, who would order a
“stinky grater”, “putrid acrobat” or “cheerful carcass” without being in
the know?
I closed the menu and put it back on the table.
“It’s hard to decide with such a selection,” I said. “Might you have
something to recommend? I would like something special.”
The smile that had seemed glued to the pastry chef’s face abruptly
vanished. I couldn’t properly read the look he gave me. It seemed
inquisitive and reproving at the same time.
“Special?” he repeated in a voice that had lost its warmth.
“Yes, something out of the ordinary. I like to try new things.”
“We have something special, but it’s not on the menu.”
“It isn’t?”
“It isn’t. Have you ever tried stuffed monkey?”
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