Light From Uncommon Stars(46)

Shizuka chose this place to meet Tremon Philippe in part because since noodles with Lan, she still had not had her Hainan chicken.

Also, as a bonus, Tremon would be expecting pizza.

Tremon Philippe had been assigned to the world of classical music for over two centuries. Music had always been one of Hell’s most prudent investments, and Tremon took a workmanlike joy in delivering a steady dividend of crushed dreams, bitterness, and, above all, souls.

Which was not to say that the occasional surprise was unwelcome—provided it was beneficial to Hell, of course.

Shizuka Satomi had been such a surprise. Most humans in her position would want to fulfill their contracts quickly, with little regard for quality. There would be stupid souls, shallow souls, tasteless souls that lacked an appreciation of what they were.

In fact, quality control was why Hell only made pacts with humans when necessary. But Shizuka? Her deliveries were always rich with comprehension, realization, such luscious despair.

From the moment she renegotiated her contract, the girl had been an annoying, yet incomparable, summer’s day in his otherwise temperate life.

Still, surprises were one thing, and concerns were another.

After years of enduring Shizuka’s latest indecision, Tremon had finally helped Shizuka Satomi find a perfect candidate—someone in her hometown with talent, desire, and a taste for blood.

But Shizuka rejected her and chose a beginner instead.

This was a concern.

Tremon did not seriously believe Shizuka had gone soft; she was far too ruthless for that. He remembered her expression as the Zheng boy was fed to the flames of Hell. It had been worthy of any demon.

But what was Shizuka Satomi thinking now?

Tremon sat at the table and looked at the menu. He scanned it again, then shifted his glance to the other diners.

“Doesn’t this place still serve pizza?”

“Times have changed.”

Tremon rolled his eyes and put the menu down.

“I wonder what our colleagues in Paris would think if they saw us eating boiled chicken,” Tremon muttered. “Anyway, how is your student progressing?”

“It’s not boiled.”

“What?”

Katrina motioned to the server, who took her order, bowed, and disappeared.

“The chicken. It’s poached.”

“Shizuka, your student. How is she—”

Tremon’s words were interrupted by the clatter of dishes, as the server brought two plates of Hainan chicken to their table.

“Can we have more tea, please?” Shizuka asked the server. “Tea? Hello? Tremon, I missed her. Try to catch her attention when she comes back around?”

“Shizuka—”

“This place brings food quickly, but you have to catch the server or she dashes right by you.”

“Shizuka.”

“Yes, Tremon, Katrina’s doing fine,” Shizuka finally said. “Why are you so worried?”

“You told me this Katrina was your chosen student. You assured me that you would prepare her, that she would be ready. Yet it has been over two months, and still no contract. You’ve not even entered her in a competition.”

“Competition? Tremon, does Katrina seem ready for competition?”

“Shizuka!” Tremon pounded the table.

The restaurant fell silent. Tremon took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. Soon the restaurant returned to its normal clatter.

“Tremon, try the chicken.”

“Do not fuck with me, Shizuka Satomi.”

“Tremon, the chicken. Please.”

Tremon glared at her, but placed a piece of chicken in his mouth. He began to chew. Shizuka tried not to shudder; his mouth seldom opened that wide, but when it did, it contained far too many teeth.

Hainan chicken is poached, traditionally served with crushed ginger and green onion. Because it lacks the exotic ritual of sushi, the heat factor of Thai curry, or the voluptuous rush of xiaolongbao—it is a food with an appeal that most non-Asians don’t understand.

However, done right, the welcoming flavor and moist oiliness of the poached Hainan chicken melds delightfully with the fragrant and chewy rice. The steamy aroma is hearty, yet delicate, while the ginger and green onion relish unites the dish with a pungent, refreshing flourish.

And the Hainan chicken at Caputo’s was even better than that.

“It is very good,” he finally admitted. The demon wiped his mouth. “But what is going through your mind?”

“Tremon, you are aware that the Von Stresemann Competition just concluded in Leipzig last week?”

“Of course.”

“Who won?”

Tremon hesitated.

“Exactly,” Shizuka said. “Okay, here’s an easy one. Who won the Paganini?”

“A young man from Korea.”

“Very good. Name?”

“How is this relevant?”

“Relevant? It’s his name. The next musician wins the competition. Then the next musician. And the next musician after that. Our contracts are clear: we take their souls, and in return, we promise them immortality. But how can we promise that if we can’t even remember a musician’s name?”

“Hell would not”—his voice was molten lead—“appreciate this line of thinking.”