The Ghost of Greenwich Village: A Novel Read Free Page B

said the first one.
    After going through another set of double doors, she found herself in a cavernous, dark blue space roughly the size of an airplane hangar and cold as an igloo. She moved through the silence, feeling as if she were treading a lunar landscape. Above her, not stars, but a thousand lights of every different color, hanging from the ceiling. In various directions, tiny solar systems hugged their orbits: here a living room set, there an assortment of gym equipment, here the tiny tables and chairs of a children’s playroom, there the counter and appliances of a kitchen. Eve strolled through the parallel universe, finding that its objects bore only a passing similarity to what they appeared to be. “Wood” floors were laminate painted to look like oak, “marble” was plastic, and walls that appeared solid could be knocked over with a breath.
    The bookshelves were lined with a beautiful set of classics like
The Collected Shakespeare, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
, and
Moby-Dick
. She reached for the Shakespeare, thinking she’d center herself with a sonnet or two, but the binding came away in her hand, revealing nothing more than a book-sized cardboard box.
    She approached the gleaming kitchen, its counter big as a bus.
    “Hey there. Where’s Kevin?”
    Eve turned to find an extremely tall, ebony-skinned womanwith cornrows halfway down her back and white teeth as perfect as subway tiles. “Who?”
    “One of the writers. I thought he was doing this soup mess.”
    “I don’t know. I just got here and Tanya sent me down.”
    “Oh, well. Hey. Welcome, then. What’s your name?”
    “Eve Weldon.”
    “I’m Lark Carmichael. Director. I’d shake your hand but I have a wicked cold,” she said, dabbing at her nose with a tissue. “All the stuff is laid out for you. It shouldn’t be too bad. As long as it looks good, that’s all that matters. When Zorin’s done pretending to cook it tomorrow, Bliss and Hap will pretend to taste it and pretend to love it. I’d help you, but I probably shouldn’t handle food right now.” She sneezed twice and turned to go.
    “No problem. Nice to meet you,” said Eve, sorry to lose her fellow space traveler so soon. She ran her eyes across the staggering array of ingredients on the counter: a dozen lobster tails, slabs of red snapper, halibut, and sea bass, and piles of shrimp, crab legs, mussels, oysters, and clams. The recipe said the entire lot was to be cleaned, cracked, de-boned, de-shelled, and de-veined.
De-lightful
.
    She leaned in close, poked a finger at a set of glistening silver scales, and wrinkled her nose at the smell of raw seafood. She tried breathing through her mouth, but there were other hindrances. The cold slime of the flesh turned her fingers to ice, and the tiny bones hidden deep within put up fierce resistance to separation, driving her nearly mad with frustration. Gradually, she got used to the odor, though the halibut seemed particularly malevolent. Well, raw fish wasn’t exactly known for its pleasant aroma. She briefly considered finding Lark to ask her opinion, then decided against it. If Eve had learned anything during her two forays into the New York City job market, it was that nobody wanted to hear your questions or your problems. They expected you to get on with things. Figure it out.
    When she was finished, she washed her hands and bent over the directions. “Heat oil in large pot.” The pot came up to herneck, but after finding a crate to stand on, this was doable. “Add garlic, onion, leeks, and bay leaf and cook until onion is tender but not browned.” Check. Now, this actually smelled quite lovely, she thought, inhaling the woody steam. She was really cooking now, cooking on the moon. “Add tomatoes, fish stock, wine, fennel, saffron, salt, pepper, and parsley.” Check. Check. “Bring to boil. Reduce heat and simmer five minutes. Add lobster, snapper, sea bass, and halibut and cook ten minutes. Add shellfish to pot and