Free Fermentation by Angelica J.

put her away in a cold dark place until the time for burial. I was still holding on to the bunch of flowers I had bought outside the hospital. I threw them now on to the water, then turned my back on the scene and left the small crowd behind me.
    Though it was late the shop was still open. As I entered, the bell rang and the cool mossy smell immediately made my body tingle. I hoped to see the owner again. Since my first visit I had returned several times and we had talked on more than one of these occasions. His name was Monsieur Montasio. Each conversation we had, he would teach me something more about cheese.
    This evening the shop appeared to be empty; no one was serving and I was the only customer. I walked around, breathing in the cool-sharp air, and then I heard the sound of voices. Several people were talking and laughing. Abruptly the noise stopped and there was silence. I walked over to the door, thinking I should probably leave, when suddenly the old man's head popped up from behind the counter.
    ‘I was downstairs,’ he said in apology. ‘We're makingsome cheese of our own. I'm sorry. We should have locked the door,’ and as he spoke he gradually grew taller.
    ‘You make cheese on the premises?’
    ‘In the cellar,’ he said, pointing to the floor behind the counter where I imagined a trap door to be. ‘Just a few. Most of the space is for storage purposes.’
    ‘Could I buy some?’
    ‘It's not ready yet. Maybe in a few weeks’ time. It has to mature.’
    The old man allowed me to taste various cheeses and finally I settled on a Swiss Emmental which he recommended.
    ‘You see the holes?’ he asked, holding the cheese up for me to see. ‘When is a hole not a hole?’
    ‘When it's a half,’ I said.
    ‘Ah, you know the joke. Well, to most people a hole is a hole, but of course this is not true. Be a detective and know your quarry! Sniff out your cheese like a true cheesehound. An Emmentalian hole should be round and about the size of an eyeball or a large bullet. Know your holes and you'll find your cheese. Misread the signs and you'll take home an impostor,’ he said, putting the Emmental down and washing his hands under a tap. Afterwards he dried his hands, then carefully picked up the Emmental and placed it on a thick wooden board. He took a piece of wire and laid it over the cheese, measuring the cut precisely. ‘I'll let you know when our cheese is ready,’ he said.
    When I returned home I went to the kitchen, unwrapped the Emmental and then looked it up in my book. Once again the book gave a fair-enough description of the cheese, but it was particular words that stuck in my mind and made me hungry as I read. Curdling, scalding, pressing, ripening. Words that wrapped round your tongue. And all the time I was reading I was consuming large chunks of Emmental. The salty taste filled my mouth and I rolled the cheese on my tongue and let its flavour spread through me.
    This time when I lay down I thought of the body lying in the morgue and its pale milky skin slowly decomposing, and then I thought of the cellars in the cheese shop and of the old man and his staff gathered in the mushroomy silence, mixing the milk, draining and stirring the vast liquid masses, creating their gold. I could almost hear the milk drip, dripping into the metal pails.
    I found myself walking through what I perceived to be a fairground. I asked a woman passer-by where I was and she replied that we were in the water-gardens of the Third Empress. I wanted to talk to her further but she said she was searching for her children and then hurried away into the crowd.
    I wandered through the throng of people, watching as they flowed to and fro like tides about me. Their reflections shimmered in the many pools lit by roaring torches and a smell of fire filled the air. I caught glimpsesof faces I had known and in particular a man's face appeared in my vision. I began to walk cautiously towards him, but as I did so he began to walk