7
our hero now sets out for the city of new york to find mr samuel zuckermann. he travelled on
foot, and he slept under hedges, and he lived on berries and wild herbs, and it took him sixteen
days to reach the metropolis.
‘what a fabulous place this is!’ he cried as he stood at the corner of fifty-seventh street and
fifth avenue, staring around him. there are no cows or chickens anywhere, and none of the
women looks in the least like aunt glosspan.’
as for mr samuel zuckermann, he looked like nothing that lexington had ever seen before.
he was a small spongy man with livid jowls and a huge magenta nose, and when he smiled, bits
of gold flashed at you marvellously from lots of different places inside his mouth. in his luxurious
office, he shook lexington warmly by the hand and congratulated him upon his aunt’s death.
‘i suppose you knew that your dearly beloved guardian was a woman of considerable wealth?’
he said.
‘you mean the cows and the chickens?’
‘i mean half a million bucks,’ mr zuckermann said.
‘how much?’
‘half a million dollars, my boy. and she’s left it all to you.’ mr zuckermann leaned back in his
chair and clasped his hands over his spongy paunch. at the same time, he began secretly working
his right forefinger in through his waistcoat and under his shirt so as to scratch the skin around the
circumference of his navel – a favourite exercise of his, and one that gave him a peculiar pleasure.
‘of course, i shall have to deduct fifty per cent for my services,’ he said, ‘but that still leaves you
with two hundred and fifty grand.’
‘i am rich!’ lexington cried. ‘this is wonderful! how soon can i have the money?’
‘well,’ mr zuckermann said, ‘luckily for you, i happen to be on rather cordial terms with the
tax authorities around here, and i am confident that i shall be able to persuade them to waive all
death duties and back taxes.’
‘how kind you are,’ murmured lexington.
‘i should naturally have to give somebody a small honorarium.’
‘whatever you say, mr zuckermann.’
‘i think a hundred thousand would be sufficient.’
‘good gracious, isn’t that rather excessive?’
‘never undertip a tax inspector or a policeman,’ mr zuckermann said. ‘remember that.’
‘but how much does it leave for me?’ the youth asked meekly.
‘one hundred and fifty thousand. but then you’ve got the funeral expenses to pay out of that.’
‘funeral expenses?’
‘you’ve got to pay for the funeral parlour. surely you know that?’
‘but i buried her myself, mr zuckermann, behind the cowshed.’
‘i don’t doubt it,’ the lawyer said. ‘so what?’
‘i never used a funeral parlour.’
‘listen,’ mr zuckermann said patiently. ‘you may not know it, but there is a law in this state
which says that no beneficiary under a will may receive a single penny of his inheritance until the
funeral parlour has been paid in full.’
‘you mean that’s a law?’
‘certainly, it’s a law, and a very good one it is, too. the funeral parlour is one of our great
national institutions. it must be protected at all costs.’
mr zuckermann himself, together with a group of public-spirited doctors, controlled a
corporation that owned a chain of nine lavish funeral parlours in the city, not to mention a casket
factory in brooklyn and a postgraduate school for embalmers in washington heights. the
celebration of death was therefore a deeply religious affair in mr zuckermann’s eyes. in fact, the
whole business affected him profoundly, almost as profoundly, one might say, as the birth of
christ affected the shopkeeper.
‘you had no right to go out and bury your aunt like that,’ he said. ‘none at all.’
‘i’m very sorry, mr zuckermann.’
‘why, it’s downright subversive.’
‘i’ll do whatever you say, mr zuckermann. all i want to know is how much i’m going to get in
the end, when everything’s paid.’
there was a pause. mr zuckermann sighed and frowned and continued secretly to run the tip of
his finger around the rim of his navel.
‘shall we say fifteen thousand?’ he suggested, flashing a big gold smile. ‘that’s a nice round
figure.’
‘can i take it with me this afternoon?’
‘i don’t see why not.’
so mr zuckermann summoned his chief cashier and told him to give lexington fifteen thousand
dollars out of the petty cash, and to obtain a receipt. the youth, who by this time was delighted to
be getting anything at all, accepted the money gratefully and stowed it away in his knapsack. then
he shook mr zuckermann warmly by the hand, thanked him for all his help, and went out of the
office.
‘the whole world is before me!’ our hero cried as he emerged into the street. ‘i now have
fifteen thousand dollars to see me through until my book is published. and after that, of course, i
shall have a great deal more.’ he stood on the pavement, wondering which way to go. he turned
left and began strolling slowly down the street, staring at the sights of the city.
‘what a revolting smell,’ he said, sniffing the air. ‘i can’t stand this.’ his delicate olfactory
nerves, tuned to receive only the most delicious kitchen aromas, were being tortured by the stench
of the diesel-oil fumes pouring out of the backs of buses.
‘i must get out of this place before my nose is ruined altogether,’ he said. ‘but first, i’ve simply
got to have something to eat. i’m starving.’ the poor boy had had nothing but berries and wild
herbs for the past two weeks, and now his stomach was yearning for solid food. i’d like a nice
hominy cutlet, he told himself. or maybe a few juicy salsify fritters.
he crossed the street and entered a small restaurant. the place was hot inside, and dark and
silent. there was a strong smell of cooking-fat and cabbage water. the only other customer was a
man with a brown hat on his head, crouching intently over his food, who did not look up as
lexington came in.
our hero seated himself at a corner table and hung his knapsack on the back of his chair. this
he told himself, is going to be most interesting. in all my seventeen years i have tasted only the
cooking of two people, aunt glosspan and myself – unless one counts nurse mcpottle, who must
have heated my bottle a few times when i was an infant. but i am now about to sample the art of a
new chef altogether, and perhaps, if i am lucky, i may pick up a couple of useful ideas for my
book.
a waiter approached out of the shadows at the back, and stood beside the table.
‘how do you do,’ lexington said. ‘i should like a large hominy cutlet please. do it twenty-five
seconds each side, in a very hot skillet with sour cream, and sprinkle a pinch of lovage on it before
serving – unless of course your chef knows a more original method, in which case i should be
delighted to try it.’
the waiter laid his head over to one side and looked carefully at his customer. ‘you want the
roast pork and cabbage?’ he asked. ‘that’s all we got left.’
‘roast what and cabbage?’
the waiter took a soiled handkerchief from his trouser pocket and shook it open with a violent
flourish, as though he were cracking a whip. then he blew his nose loud and wet.
‘you want it or don’t you?’ he said, wiping his nostrils.
‘i haven’t the foggiest idea what it is,’ lexington replied, ‘but i should love to try it. you see, i
am writing a cooking-book and …’
‘one pork and cabbage!’ the waiter shouted, and somewhere in the back of the restaurant, far
away in the darkness, a voice answered him.
the waiter disappeared. lexington reached into his knapsack for his personal knife and fork.
these were a present from aunt glosspan, given him when he was six years old, made of solid
silver, and he had never eaten with any other instruments since. while waiting for the food to
arrive, he polished them lovingly with a piece of soft muslin.
soon the waiter returned carrying a plate on which there lay a thick greyish-white slab of
something hot. lexington leaned forward anxiously to smell it as it was put down before him. his
nostrils were wide open to receive the scent, quivering and sniffing.
‘but this is absolute heaven!’ he exclaimed. ‘what an aroma! it’s tremendous!’
the waiter stepped back a pace, watching his customer carefully.
‘never in my life have i smelled anything as rich and wonderful as this!’ our hero cried, seizing
his knife and fork. ‘what on earth is it made of?’
the man in the brown hat looked around and stared, then returned to his eating. the waiter was
backing away towards the kitchen.
lexington cut off a small piece of the meat, impaled it on his silver fork, and carried it up to his
nose so as to smell it again. then he popped it into his mouth and began to chew it slowly, his
eyes half closed, his body tense.
‘this is fantastic!’ he cried. it is a brand-new flavour! oh, glosspan, my beloved aunt, how i
wish you were with me now so you could taste this remarkable dish! waiter! come here at once! i
want you!’
the astonished waiter was now watching from the other end of the room, and he seemed
reluctant to move any closer.
‘if you will come and talk to me i will give you a present,’ lexington said, waving a hundred-
dollar-bill. ‘please come over here and talk to me.’
the waiter sidled cautiously back to the table, snatched away the money, and held it up to his
face, peering at it from all angles. then he slipped it quickly into his pocket.
‘what can i do for you, my friend?’ he asked.
‘look,’ lexington said. ‘if you will tell me what this delicious dish is made of, and exactly how
it is prepared, i will give you another hundred.’
‘i already told you,’ the man said. ‘it’s pork.’
‘and exactly what is pork?’
‘you never had roast pork before?’ the waiter asked, staring.
‘for heaven’s sake, man, tell me what it is and stop keeping me in suspense like this.’
‘it’s pig,’ the waiter said. ‘you just bung it in the oven.’
‘pig!’
‘all pork is pig. didn’t you know that?’
‘you mean this is pig’s meat?’
‘i guarantee it.’
‘but … but … that’s impossible,’ the youth stammered. ‘aunt glosspan, who knew more about
food than anyone else in the world, said that meat of any kind was disgusting, revolting, horrible,
foul, nauseating, and beastly. and yet this piece that i have here on my plate is without doubt the
most delicious thing that i have ever tasted. now how on earth do you explain that? aunt
glosspan certainly wouldn’t have told me it was revolting if it wasn’t.’
‘maybe your aunt didn’t know how to cook it,’ the waiter said.
‘is that possible?’
‘you’re damned right it is. especially with pork. pork has to be very well done or you can’t eat
it.’
‘eureka!’ lexington cried. ‘i’ll bet that’s exactly what happened! she did it wrong!’ he handed
the man another hundred-dollar bill. ‘lead me to the kitchen,’ he said. ‘introduce me to the genius
who prepared this meat.’
lexington was at once taken to the kitchen, and there he met the cook who was an elderly man
with a rash on one side of his neck.
‘this will cost you another hundred,’ the waiter said.
lexington was only too glad to oblige, but this time he gave the money to the cook. ‘now listen
to me,’ he said. ‘i have to admit that i am really rather confused by what the waiter has just been
telling me. are you quite sure that the delectable dish which i have just been eating was prepared
from pig’s flesh?’
the cook raised his right hand and began scratching the rash on his neck.
‘well,’ he said, looking at the waiter and giving him a sly wink, ‘all i can tell you is that i think
it was pig’s meat.’
‘you mean you’re not sure?’
‘one can never be sure.’
‘then what else could it have been?’
‘well,’ the cook said, speaking very slowly and still staring at the waiter. ‘there’s just a chance,
you see, that it might have been a piece of human stuff.’
‘you mean a man?’
‘yes.’
‘good heavens.’
‘or a woman. it could have been either. they both taste the same.’
‘well – now you really do surprise me,’ the youth declared.
‘one lives and learns.’
‘indeed one does.’
‘as a matter of fact, we’ve been getting an awful lot of it just lately from the butcher’s in place
of pork,’ the cook declared.
‘have you really?’
‘the trouble is, it’s almost impossible to tell which is which. they’re both very good.’
‘the piece i had just now was simply superb.’
‘i’m glad you liked it,’ the cook said. ‘but to be quite honest, i think that it was a bit of pig. in
fact, i’m almost sure it was.’
‘you are?’
‘yes, i am.’
‘in that case, we shall have to assume that you are right,’ lexington said. ‘so now will you
please tell me – and here is another hundred dollars for your trouble – will you please tell me
precisely how you prepared it?’
the cook, after pocketing the money, launched upon a colourful description of how to roast a
loin of pork, while the youth, not wanting to miss a single word of so great a recipe, sat down at
the kitchen table and recorded every detail in his notebook.
‘is that all?’ he asked when the cook had finished.
‘that’s all.’
‘but there must be more to it than that, surely?’
‘you got to get a good piece of meat to start off with,’ the cook said. ‘that’s half the battle. it’s
got to be a good hog and it’s got to be butchered right, otherwise it’ll turn out lousy whichever
way you cook it.’
‘show me how,’ lexington said. ‘butcher me one now so i can learn.’
‘we don’t butcher pigs in the kitchen,’ the cook said. ‘that lot you just ate came from a
packing-house over in the bronx.’
‘then give me the address!’
the cook gave him the address, and our hero, after thanking them both many times for all their
kindnesses, rushed outside and leapt into a taxi and headed for the bronx.
