Bel Canto(62)

“So you know the onion,” Thibault said, holding up an onion.

“Better than you do,” Beatriz said.

“Then take that dangerous knife and chop up some onions.” Thibault passed out cutting boards and bowls. Why weren’t cutting boards considered weapons? Hold the two edges firmly in your hands and it was clear that these great slabs of wood were just the right size for hitting someone on the back of the head. And why not bowls, for that matter? The heavy ceramic in the colors of pastel mints seemed harmless enough while holding bananas, but once they were broken how were they much different from the knife? Couldn’t one drive a shard of pottery into a human heart just as easily? Thibault asked Carmen to mince the garlic and slice the sweet peppers. To Ishmael he held up an eggplant. “Peeled, seeded, chopped.”

Ishmael’s knife was heavy and long. Which of them wielded a paring knife for self-defense? Who had taken the grapefruit knife? When he tried to remove the skin he wound up cutting three inches into the spongy yellow flesh. Thibault watched him for a while and then held out his hands. “Not like that,” he said. “There will be nothing to eat. Here, give them here.”

Ishmael stopped, examined his work, then he held out the butchered vegetable and the knife. He held the blade out to Thibault. What did he know about kitchen manners? Then Thibault had them both, the knife and the eggplant, one in each hand. Deftly, quickly, he began to peel back the skin.

“Drop it!” Beatriz shouted. On calling out she dropped her own knife, the blade slick with onions, a shower of minced onions scattering onto the floor like a wet, heavy snow. She pulled her gun from her belt and raised it up to the Ambassador.

“Jesus!” Ruben said.

Thibault did not understand what he had done. He thought at first she was angry that he had corrected the boy on his peeling. He thought the problem was with the eggplant and so he laid the eggplant down first and then the knife.

“Keep your voice down,” Carmen said to Beatriz in Quechua. “You’re going to get us all in trouble.”

“He took the knife.”

Thibault raised up his empty hands, showed his smooth palms to the gun.

“I handed him the knife,” Ishmael said. “I gave it to him.”

“He was only going to peel,” Gen said. He could not recognize a word of this language they spoke to one another.

“He isn’t supposed to hold the knife,” Beatriz said in Spanish. “The General told us that. Doesn’t anyone listen?” She kept her gun aimed, her heavy eyebrows pointed down. Her eyes were starting to water from the fumes of the onions, and soon there were tears washing over her cheeks, which everyone misunderstood.

“What about this?” Thibault began quietly, keeping his hands up. “Everyone can stand away from me and I can show Ishmael how to peel an eggplant. You keep your gun right on me and if it looks like I’m about to do something funny you may shoot me. You may shoot Gen, too, if I do something terrible.”

Carmen put down her knife.

“I don’t think—” Gen started, but no one was paying attention to him. He felt a small, cold hardness in his chest, like the pit of a cherry had slipped into his heart. He did not want to be shot and he did not want to be offered up to be shot.

“I can shoot you?” Beatriz said. It wasn’t his place to give permission, was it? It had not been her intention to shoot anyone anyway.

“Go ahead,” Ishmael said, taking out his own gun and pointing it at the Ambassador. He was trying to keep his face serious but he wasn’t having much luck. “I’ll shoot you, too, if I have to. Show me how to peel the eggplant. I’ve shot men over less than an eggplant.” Berenjena, that was the word in Spanish. A beautiful word. It could be a woman’s name.

So Thibault picked up the knife and set about his work. His hands stayed remarkably steady as he peeled with two guns pointed on him. Carmen did not participate. She went back to mincing the garlic, hitting her knife against the board in brisk, angry strokes. Thibault kept his eyes on the deep luster of the purple-black skin. “It’s difficult to do with a knife this large. You want to slide it just under the surface. Pretend that you’re skinning a fish. See that. Very fluid. It’s delicate work.” All that was lovely about the eggplant fell into ribbons on the floor.

There was something soothing about it, the way it all came out so neatly. “Okay,” Ishmael said. “I understand. Give it to me now.” He put down his gun and held out his hands. Thibault turned the knife, gave him the smooth wooden handle and another eggplant. What would Edith say when she heard he had been shot over an eggplant or turning on the television? If he was going to die he had hoped for a little bit of honor in his death.

“Well,” Ruben said, wiping his face with a dishtowel. “Nothing around here is a small event.”

Beatriz mopped up her tears against the dark green sleeve of her jacket. “Onions,” she said, pushing the newly oiled gun back into her belt.

“I’d be happy to do them for you if at any point you deem me capable,” Thibault said, and went to wash his hands.

Gen stood next to the sink trying to decide the best way to phrase his question. Any way it was put it seemed impolite. He spoke to Thibault in French. He whispered, “Why did you tell her she could shoot me?”

“Because they wouldn’t shoot you. They all like you too much. It was a harmless gesture on my part. I thought it gave me more credibility. Telling her she could shoot me, now that was a risk. They care nothing for me and they think the world of you. It’s not like I told them they could shoot poor Ruben. That girl might want to shoot Ruben.”