Chapter 9: A Heart to Heart

Calvin Ryerson looked with pride at his soufflés. It was nearing the end of the dinner rush, and the waiters and cooks had gone from practically sprinting to merely jogging. He looked over at the pot of soup on the stove that a cook was preparing to serve into a bowl.

"Wait!" called Calvin.

The cook froze. Calvin came over and looked at the soup for a few seconds. The cook stared on inquisitively. Calvin let the day's melody flow through his brain and soon the world was awash with color. The soup had hundreds of different tastes, and Calvin sampled them all with his eyes. Some of them were off. A few ingredients were colliding and sending chaotic ripples through the other slices, while others were overpowering the more subtle ingredients. These sorts of things usually took chefs decades to be able to parse out and identify, but Calvin saw them as clearly as day and night. He added a pinch of salt, a touch of lemon juice, and a few more onions and then did what he could in the fourth dimension to untangle the colliding ingredients.

"It's good, send it out."

"You don't want to taste it first?"

Calvin didn't need to because he could see plainly how good it tasted, but the cook's words reminded him to slow down and enjoy the fruits of his labors. He tasted the soup. It was incredible.

Just as the dinner rush was coming to an end, one of the servers burst into the kitchen, out of breath.

"It's him, he's here!"

The cooks and servers all knew well who she meant. Anthony Id was the most respected name in cooking, and his reviews were legendary. Having just received their fifth star from Le Guide Goodyear, a good review from Anthony Id was critical. If he panned them in the review, Le Guide would send another reviewer in secret to ensure that the star was merited. On the other hand, if he gave a good review, their reputation would soar from best restaurant in the capital to best restaurant in the country.

"Ok, everyone listen up," said Calvin. "I know this moment feels stressful, but I just want you all to know how proud of you I am. Some of you were with me since the beginning, and others joined rather recently, but I couldn't have done it without all of your hard work."

The employees beamed.

"When my father died and left me his restaurant, I didn't know what I was going to do," said Calvin. "I lost what few customers we had, and I could barely pay rent. I thought I was going to have to abandon my dream of being a great chef. But I never gave up, and you all never gave up on me."

Calvin started to tear up, and then composed himself.

"Anyways, this is a historic moment," he said. "When Id writes his review, we'll go down as legends. And when the reservation list grows even longer, I'm giving all of you a raise!"

The employees cheered.

"Take it easy and try to enjoy this moment. I'll handle everything."

Calvin went out to where Anthony Id was seated and introduced himself.

The man was as cold and menacing as his reputation suggested. He said nothing in response, but his eyes suggested incredulity.

"I'll have the lamb."

"Of course, Mr. Id. I'll have that right out for you."

Calvin took twenty minutes to ensure everything was perfect. He used every trick he could think to, manipulating both the physical makeup of the food and its extra-physical attributes. Calvin had never made a greater masterpiece than this one. He smiled, and plated it. Three minutes after he delivered it to Anthony Id's plate, a server entered the kitchen and told Calvin that he had asked to speak with the chef. This was it.

Calvin approached, and saw that Id had taken only a single bite, folded his napkin, and neatly arranged his silverware on it. Calvin gulped.

"I am ready to render my review," said Anthony Id.

Calvin folded his hands behind his back and stood up straight.

"The meal is technically perfect in every way," said the critic.

Calvin smiled.

"But la haute cuisine is not about perfection, it is about soul, and your food has none."

"What?"

"And that is why I have chosen to give you a failing grade and recommend that no true lover of food visit your establishment."

"Sir, if there's a problem I can-"

"Do not debase yourself further by trying to bargain with me. I have made my judgment, and it stands. Good day."

Anthony Id stood up to leave. Calvin grabbed his wrist.

"Wait!"

The man froze, a look of disgust on his face.

"Give me one more try to impress you. I'll make you one more dish, and if you don't like it, I swear I'll close down my restaurant and never open another one again."

The servers and some of the other patrons who heard this audibly gasped.

Anthony Id's eyes narrowed. Calvin released his wrist, and the critic looked the young man over as if studying some rare insect. As the chef's words and their meaning took root, the critic smiled a devilish smile. He sat down.

"Very well, Mr. Ryerson. I will hold you to that."

Calvin tried not to hyperventilate as he reentered the kitchen. Pablo, his father's oldest friend who had been with him from the start, grabbed him by the shoulders.

"What are you doing, boy? Did you really just tell Anthony Id you'd quit being a chef if he didn't like his next meal? Now he's gonna say he hates it just to watch you do it! And if you don't, it'll enrage him further. He's a very vengeful man, you know, we'll never hear the end of his reviews if this goes poorly."

"Then it won't go poorly," said Calvin, his voice steel.

Pablo stopped talking to his friend's boy and addressed his chef. "As you say, chef."

Calvin tried to focus. He had the cooks lay out every ingredient they had before him like a palette of paint. What can I do? If I do what I did before, he'll say the same thing, but if it's not perfect, he'll call it sub-par. Calvin clutched his head in his hands. His dream was falling apart. No, thought Calvin. I haven't come this far just to give up now. Turning his attention away from the food, Calvin studied Anthony Id in the fourth dimension. His various forms had a lot of dissimilarities from the other patrons around him, suggesting that he was indeed a very strange man. Calvin needed a baseline to work with before he could make sense of any of it. He tried to remember the best meal he had ever tasted.

When Calvin was nine years old, he had run away from home. He was angry about something, although what it was he couldn't even remember anymore. Eventually his anger calmed down, and he realized that by bicycling well into the mountains, he had gotten himself hopelessly lost. It was a day and a half of terrified wandering before the search party found him, cold and alone in the woods.

When Calvin returned home, he expected his parents to be furious with him. He had selfishly run away and scared them into thinking he was dead, and they had been angry with him for much less in the past. Instead, to Calvin's surprise, his parents hugged him wordlessly, and then hurried him to the dining room where a large bowl of gourd soup was waiting. It had been made hastily, with very few ingredients at all and no salt or pepper. Despite it being winter, the soup was cold. Calvin devoured it and licked every drop from the bowl. It tasted like forgiveness.

It was this memory that Calvin brought to mind as he looked over the ingredients before him.

"I'm going to make a soup," he announced.

Calvin closed his eyes and focused all of his attention on the fourth dimension. He saw that when he remembered the gourd soup of his youth, a part of him yearned for it, and lept towards the gourds in the kitchen, grabbing them tightly. He looked over Anthony Id for any similar yearnings. It was incredibly difficult to find, but Calvin at last found what must have been the memory that made Id get into the culinary arts in the first place. It twinkled like a star amidst the blackness of his soul. Calvin got to work.

He had to fight every instinct he had learned from both his father and from becoming the greatest chef in town. He knew for a fact that the ingredients he was preparing were completely incompatible with each other. They violated so many laws of cooking that the other cooks visibly winced as he added them. It smelled awful.

When he brought the bowl out to Anthony Id, the critic was sitting up straight with his arms folded. Calvin placed the bowl before him. Id took up the spoon and dipped a tiny fraction of it in the soup before bringing it to his mouth. The second it touched his lips, the smug expression on his face vanished.

"My God. I haven't tasted this since…"

He took another spoonful, this time much larger. The second one seemed to confirm his suspicions, and he began shoveling spoonful after spoonful into his mouth. Slowly, he began to cry, but he didn't stop eating. When he was finished, he simply stood, paid for his meal, and gave Calvin a slow, solemn nod. When he left, the kitchen broke out into a raucous celebration. Pablo brought out a few bottles of champagne and everyone had a glass. One of the servers went out and announced that although the restaurant was now closing, the patrons who were still there could leave without paying for their meals. Several of them still paid.

Calvin was still a bit buzzed from the champagne when the hostess told him there was a man at the door. Happy to deal with it himself, he went to the front of the restaurant and opened the door to find a man in a nondescript suit.

"I'm sorry, we just closed, but I can put you on our reservation list."

"That won't be necessary," said the suited man. "I'm with the Bureau of Health Management."

"Oh," said Calvin. "Then by all means, come on in."

"You misunderstand," said the man. "I'm not here for an inspection. We already did the inspection. I'm here to shut you down."

"What?"

Calvin noticed that the man was not alone. A few other suited individuals with clipboards were exiting an automobile.

"There must be some kind of mistake. My restaurant is very clean. Just point me to wherever I'm not up to code and-"

The inspector sighed. "If you want to file a formal protest, you'll need to come down to the station. We can discuss the details there."

"Ok," said Calvin, trying not to panic. "Let me tell my staff first."

"Very well."

Once Donald had the man in the car, he dropped all pretenses.

"You're dumber than the others, that's for sure."

"What?"

"All of the others had me pegged for secret police the moment they saw me."

"You're secret police?"

"I guess knowledge of food isn't the same thing as common sense."

"Why am I being arrested?"

"The whole point of having a secret police is that they don't have to tell you why they're arresting you."

Calvin considered jumping out of the car. It wasn't moving very fast, but he still didn't like his chances on foot. He was surprised the man had let him sit in the passenger seat, but then again, Calvin wasn't exactly a circus strongman. The police officer could definitely overpower him if he wanted to.

"You said… others?"

Donald smiled.

The next morning, Donald delivered the chef's letter to George as usual. George was sitting in his usual seat, listening to the radio.

"I've almost got them," said George, as Donald entered. "I just need to narrow the results down a little bit and then I'll be able to find the composer."

George frowned. He was listening to Donald in a dozen different ballrooms, and the results were concerning. He had something to say.

"George, listen," started Donald, his voice pained. "A week ago, when we started hunting the other recipients, I thought maybe I could trick the composer into continuing to send the letters so we could keep stealing them. I was hoping to get you an unlimited supply of music, but it seems the composer is too observant for that."

"Where are you going with this?" asked George, concerned by his tone of voice and the fluctuations of his orchestras.

"How many other recipients are left? How many are still receiving letters?"

"Three," said George.

"The composer is tracking my movements. Every time I go near a recipient, the letters stop, except the one that's already in the mail. That means we've only got three more days of music for you."

"I know. And I can probably-"

"Let me finish," said Donald firmly.

"I know you're not an idiot, George. In fact, you're probably the smartest person I've ever met."

George blushed, before remembering that there was still bad news on the horizon.

"So I know you know that the deals people make with me usually end poorly for them. You think as soon as the regime doesn't need you, they'll put you in prison or worse."

George grew all the more nervous, and started feeling the blood rush to his head.

"And you're right. That's our typical playbook. But at this point… I think of you as a friend."

All of the alarm bells were going off in George's head. This was typical secret police manipulation. Good cop/bad cop and all that. He checked ten different ballrooms. George's emotions were in tune with his words. He was telling the truth.

"I can't promise much," said Donald. "My hands are about as tied as yours are. But I can promise earnestly that I'll do anything in my power to make sure you land okay at the end of all of this."

"What are you talking about?"

"You're worried that if we capture the composer and get them to make us songs, we'll work you to death as an agent, right? Or worse, that if we can't get the composer, we'll have no use for you?"

George said nothing. He was surprised Donald could read him so easily.

"You offered me a deal when we met, let me offer you one now. Capture the composer for me, and I'll put pressure on the regime to let you work eight hour days and spend the rest of your time with your fiancee."

George's heart started to beat faster. Donald still wasn't lying. He honestly thought it was possible. George still wasn't sure.

"I don't understand," said George. "I already agreed to capture the composer for you."

Donald cocked his head knowingly. "I'm not an idiot either. I know you figured out the composer's identity a week ago. I've been playing along because I like you, but our time is running out. Sooner or later, you'll have to choose. I'm asking you to choose now."

George's blood turned to ice. The game had ended earlier than expected.

Minnie's tears soaked her blouse, and Mickey, not even home from work yet, was already comforting her. In a few different slices, he caressed and held her, seeing from a hundred different angles how distraught she was.

"They got him," sobbed Minnie, as he came through the door. "They got Ratanoulli."

"I know," said Mickey softly.

"We have to stop," said Minnie. "This is the end."

"We don't have to if you don't want to."

"I don't want to put anyone else in danger. I've already caused almost all of our candidates to get snapped up by the secret police. I won't do it anymore. I should never have done this."

"You served, and they hit the ball back," said Mickey. "Now isn't the time for despair. It's time to put the ball back in their court."

"But how? If I give this power to anybody, they'll just take it, and ruin the life of the person I gave it to."

"Because they have the power too," said Mickey. "Hit Goofenberg and you take that power from them. Without him, they're blind."

Minnie thought for a moment and then wiped the tears from her red face. "You're right."

It was dawn when Sophie got a knock on her door. She was surprised, because although George was an early riser, he rarely visited her in the morning, preferring to spend the peaceful early hours in solemn contemplation. Sophie opened the door. A young, mousey woman stood before her.

"Can I help you?"

"Yes you can," announced the woman. "You're Sophie Mariovitch."

"And who are you?"

"I'm an artist. And I'd like to talk to you about your fiance."

Sophie gulped and ushered the woman into her apartment. The woman seemed tense, so Sophie offered her some tea and suggested they sit out on the balcony. That always calmed her down. The woman agreed.

"Your soon-to-be husband is incredible," said Minnie. "I've been watching him."

"What do you mean?" asked Sophie. "Are you with the government?"

"Far from it. I've been watching him because I read a poem of his once, and because I'm convinced that he thinks differently from most people. He's an artist, same as me."

Sophie smiled. "He is," she agreed.

"So I gave him a gift. I gave him the ability to see."

"What?" coughed Sophie, nearly choking on her tea.

"I created a new field of science," said Minnie, "that allows us to see far more than we normally can. And I gave him the means to use it. Anonymously, because I wanted this to be about him, not about me. And because I didn't want the regime involved."

"This is all a lot to follow," admitted Sophie. She scrutinized the young woman, trying to figure out what her motives were.

"The point is, your fiance was far better at using it than I expected. He's working with the regime right now to find me and turn me in so that they can weaponize this technology."

"I- I don't know what to say," stammered Sophie.

"Then don't say anything for now," said Minie, softly. "I'm scared and I'm lost, and now I need your help."

The woman seemed earnest, thought Sophie. It didn't seem like a ruse.

"But I'm not really all that smart or skilled," said Sophie. "I can't get involved in matters of state like George can. I don't even really understand what you're talking about."

"You don't have to," said Minnie. "I didn't come to you because I wanted you to help me win, I came to you because I've seen the way you and George are with each other. You care about each other, truly and deeply. I'm familiar with that kind of love."

"You want me to talk to him," said Sophie as the realization dawned.

"You're the only one who can. He'll listen to you."

"But- But I don't even know what's going on!" protested Sophie. "How can I pick a side when I don't know who's in the right? I trust George, and if he made you his enemy, then why should I trust you?"

"You shouldn't," said Minnie. "You should trust your heart."

Before Sophie could respond, Minnie reached out in a couple of slices and soothed her fears and anxieties. Sophie felt a rush of peace and euphoria.

"What did you just do?"

"Just a parlor trick," said Minnie. "Your fiance can do this and so much more. This power, in his hands, has the potential to change the world. I mean truly change it. Him and I are kindred souls in that way. Two artists, adrift in a cruel world."

Sophie made a face akin to pouting. "This is some kind of scam. You're trying to trick me."

"I'm not. Think of the word you would use to describe your relationship with George. Think hard, and pick the right word."

Sophie obliged, and closed her eyes. Minnie got to work. She looked at her own word corpus on the vocabulary slice and then at Sophie's. They were worlds apart. She ran through the main word groupings in her head, sorting by a dozen different categories. Good and bad, extreme and subtle, sharp and blunt, hard and soft. Her own word corpus morphed and started to resemble Sophie's. So it was a good word. That made sense. But it was also… bubbly? She refined her search more and more, until every detail of her corpus looked like Sophie's. This had to be it.

"Effervescent."

Sophie's eyes widened.

"Your relationship is effervescent."

"How did you-"

"I can see your heart," said Minnie. "I can see so much more than anyone. Anyone except George."

"So he's really that special?"

Minnie smiled. "Did you ever have any doubt?"

"Not since the third grade," said Sophie.

"But this isn't about me, and it isn't about George. This is about humanity. It's about what we value. The choice you have isn't between me and George, it's about what we want as a species. Do we value weapons and bloodshed, or do we value art and progress? What do you value?"

"I value George," said Sophie adamantly.

"I know that, but what do you value about him?"

"He's sweet and… and he never responds to pain with anger."

"And if you could give him sight, would you?"

"In a heartbeat."

Minnie paused, and let the words linger in the air. "If George keeps doing what he's doing, then I'll end up in jail. If that happens, I'll only have two options."

Sophie stared on, giving Minnie her full attention.

"I can refuse to give the regime my art, and doom the world to blindness. Or I can give it to them, and hand the people who treat your fiance like a second class citizen the greatest weapon humanity has ever conceived of."

Sophie was dumbstruck. She took a moment to take this all in.

"If it comes down to it, and I'm forced to choose between humanity and George, I don't know that I'm strong enough to pick humanity," said Minnie. "I don't know that I have it in me to destroy an artist to save art. That's why I need you. I won't fight him, and you're the only person who can sway him."

Minnie's voice was trembling as she spoke. Sophie was having trouble following what Minnie was talking about, but her emotions were clear. She was troubled. Sophie looked at her and saw fear, hope, and desperation struggling against each other. This woman didn't need a savior, she needed a friend.

"I'll do it," said Sophie, standing. "I'll talk to him."

"Thank you," said Minnie. A sort of relief washed over her face. Her eyes widened and she stared at Sophie's face as if waiting for some kind of condition.

Sophie hugged Minnie as she stood.

"My fiance is a good man, and if he can do right by you I'm sure he will. I'll talk to him."

Minnie simply stood there for a moment, frozen. She hugged Sophie back.

Sophie arrived at George's house a half an hour later. He answered the door, and Sophie prepared to announce her presence with her usual greeting. She realized from George's expression of shock that he already knew it was her. As if he could see. George's gray eyes still darted randomly in every direction, but Sophie now wondered if the woman had spoken literally when she said she had given him sight.

"Sophie, is something wrong?"

"We need to talk. Can I come in?"

George put his hand on her shoulder and ushered her inside. She explained everything, causing an involuntary gasp from George.

"She visited you? The composer spoke to you face to face?"

"She didn't say she was a composer," said Sophie, "just an artist."

"I didn't think she would- I didn't mean to mix you up in all of this. I'm so sorry," said George.

Sophie could feel that something was off. George seemed unusually upset. She looked around the house. Miss Claire and the police officer were nowhere to be found.

"What do you think about what she said? Are you really helping the police to capture her? Is she really who she says she is?"

"Everything she said is true," announced George. "I've been helping them because if I don't, they'll take away our exemption. But it was selfish of me. I wanted to be with you and have a life like we always dreamed, but that was naive. I should never have done it."

"But you can stop now, right?" asked Sophie. "If she's really not a criminal, you can lead the police off her trail and help them in some other way. We can figure this out."

"Oh, Sophie," said George, his voice cracking, "I told them who she was an hour ago."