Free Alentejo Blue by Monica Ali Page A

to it hum, like a man in a state of perpetual indecision. This is what Vasco is going to do: light a candle, take the last cake from the chill-cabinet (an almond tart), sit down and enjoy it and then go up to bed.
    Cake, fork, spoon and candle are before him on the table. Vasco sees that he has forgotten to cover the display stand, a procedure imported from the United States of America where he learned his trade. It is supposed to be a security measure. He looks at the dark and ragged outline made by the sunglasses, postcards, teddies and toy whistles. They are safe enough. But they have been in that rack, most of them, for a long time and he will not neglect to cover them for the night. A child spinning the stand: this is what stock-turn means in the Alentejo.
    What about that Eduardo! Vasco has never liked him. You can’t trust a man who mumbles. Speak up if you have nothing to hide.
    Vasco picks up the fork and holds it above the cake. Sugar glistens in the candlelight, beautiful as young love and as cheap.
    Three days ago Eduardo said, ‘My own prize bull. Give me one of those empadas. I’ll risk it.’ And hasn’t been in since. Vasco hopes he never comes back again. He can do without customers like that.
    He looks closely at the cake, the small landslide of pastry at one edge, the pearly nuts studding the surface, the dense brown syrupy sponge, the sugar flashing its heart out. He puts down his fork. Oh, that Eduardo, a friend for twenty years and if he never crosses Vasco’s mind again it will be too soon.
    ‘Will I eat this cake or not?’ Vasco says it out loud. He picks up the spoon. The table shakes. These damn plastic tables; all day Vasco puts up with their trembling. These damn plastic chairs. He never dares sit in one until after he closes. When he stands up again the chair will be stuck to his backside and he will take hold of the armrests and prise it off and pretend that it could happen to anyone.
    He will not eat the cake. The very idea fills him with disgust. He is not hungry at all. Well, perhaps just a little. If he eats the cake he will feel remorse. But there will be pleasure too. Nobody is going to come and rub his legs. Tomorrow the delivery from Lindoso will be here. Why leave one cake from the old stock in the cabinet? He strokes this thought like a dozing cat until it purrs right back at him.
    Yes, silly not to eat it.
    Although, why should he force down this stale cake? Is he a dustbin? A man without refinement? I’ll risk it . Eduardo! What a toad that man is. Everyone knows that Vasco’s food is always fresh.
    Vasco picks at the pastry and rubs it between thumb and finger. All this reasoning is useless. Either he is going to eat the cake or not. Reason has nothing to do with it. For every argument there is a counter-argument. If it were not so, the world would be a happy place.
    If he eats the cake he will go to bed with a full stomach and sleep soundly. Or the sugar might keep him awake. What are a few extra calories to a man of his size? On the other hand, only a slim man should be eating sticky puddings late at night. You see, there is never just the one way to look at things. Some people are blessed with partial vision. They are the ones who achieve greatness. The rest of us – Vasco turns his head and sees himself in the plate-glass window, floating with a candle in a black sea – the rest of us muddle through.
    Vasco stares at the fat man with his neck spilling over the white chef’s coat and it seems that he is drifting, that the blackness will drown him. ‘What do I know?’ he says, out loud, quickly. His voice is too high and too thin. He needs his inhaler but his legs ache and he does not want to climb the stairs. He looks away from the window and sets his hands on the table.
    His grandmother was less than five feet tall and she knew practically nothing. She had only four teeth. In her entire life she never went further than Santa Clara. She could eat a whole raw onion.