2: One cold morning in 2036
My friends, my guests, my fellow stylists, welcome back to Café Blablabla. I'm Adrienne Anderson, your host. Beyond the cafe windows, still covered in paper, I can hear the patter of rain. You hear it, don't you? It hasn't let up for a week.
A parcel arrived. It must have been with the night mail. Not the blueprints I was expecting, which really sets the schedule back. Just a few books, wrapped in the same brown paper as our windows, along with a handwritten note:
I slip a butterknife through the tape. The Remains of the Day? Are you kidding? Its binding is barely intact: worn pages, tattered corners, margin notes in greasy pencil, spots where ink has bled through the paper, tawny as onion skin.
I was going to make a cup of tea but now I'm annoyed. Coffee then. I find an extension cord. The espresso machine's lights blink to life and I punch the button on the grinder. Otto goes purple when anyone touches Otto's station so I erase my fingerprints with a fresh towel as I go. The dull horn of a boat groans down the alley.
"Good morning, Vanderpeel."
"It's Adrienne."
"Ah. Martine said you might call."
"Any idea what this book is about?"
"Which book? There are supposed to be two."
I glance to the table, where the other one is lying in plain sight – a massive tome, handstitched, looking ancient yet untouched. Was it even here a moment ago? How did I miss this? It's heavier than an armful of sandbags. In the glow of the espresso machine, I can make out a shimmering title stamped in gold:
NEVER EAT YOUR HEROES
"So, first. Remains. She said she liked some ideas in there, something about a pantry. She wants you to write up a précis. We'll use it in the cafe design but in the meantime she wants to publish some thoughts. The other one –"
"It's humming."
"What?"
"The other book is humming."
"Ah. Yes. Well. She said that one was special. She's never seen it before. Anyway, we need your help with a cheesecake."
I stare at the paper in the windows.
"You know Martine. I mean, you do know Martine, don't you? She's working on a campaign for some people she met in one of the canal bars. Cream cheese people. The money's good, apparently. And there's something in that book."
"Never Eat Your Heroes? I thought she was an international potato consultant."
"Ah. Well. I'm sure there are potatoes. There's always potatoes."
I turn the book over in my hands as the line goes silent. A subtitle rises to the surface:
EVERY SECRET BEHIND EVERY PHOTO EVER
FOOD STYLISTS ONLY
The espresso machine's lever must be freshly oiled; it's smoother than a handshake today. Otto's doing, no doubt. Steam curls toward the rafters. 6 AM: I have at least another few hours before anyone arrives, so I unfold a chair and sit down to read.
