CHAPTER FIVE
ARTHUR WAS still riding his victory, as small as it was, on Monday. He had gotten Martin to drink at least a cup of broth, eat a few noodles, a couple of vegetables, and a piece of chicken. It was probably a higher caloric content then he'd had at any one given meal in who knows how long. What's more, he seemed to enjoy it, though he would probably be three days dead before admitting to it.
He left more and better food in Martin's fridge with a strong suggestion that he eat it on Sunday. He had no idea if that would happen, but at least he could say he got one meal into him.
He was in his cube at his regular time on Monday. He didn't stop to greet Arthur, but he never did. He didn't expect things at work to change just because he'd gotten a peek into Martin's life. That his brain was half fried by fever no doubt worked in Arthur's favor. However, Arthur was going to institute one small change into Martin's daily routine if he could manage it.
Arthur sat down across from Martin. He glanced at the day's book; Coproduction and Coarticulation in IsiZulu Clicks. He'd made summer rolls for his lunch. They were one of his favorite things. The crunch of mint leaves and lettuce, the chewiness of the rice noodles, the savory bite of sausage with the mildness of the shredded carrot. His were never as good as Hanh's, but they were not half bad.
Martin didn't acknowledge him as he sat but then he seldom did. He turned the page of his book, then picked one of his first of six apple slices. He did look a good deal healthier than he had on Saturday, but Arthur was close enough to see that his skin was still pale and he had rings around his eyes that hadn't been there before.
He had looked up the calories in an apple, and even a large one had barely a hundred. He took one of the summer rolls from his lunch. He'd made them half the usual size. No wider than a D sized battery and not much longer. He placed it where a single apple slice had been.
Martin showed no outward sign that he noticed the addition to his meal. His eyes continued to flick across the page. Arthur picked up his own and began to eat. He felt eyes on him from other parts of the room. It reminded him of high school. He'd solidified himself as one of the weird kids by trying to make friends with the really weird kid.
Martin ate his apple, one slice at a time, and read his book, the summer roll sitting ignored.
Arthur checked his watch. There was five minutes left in lunch, the six apple slices were gone, and Martin was nearing the end of his book. His eyes flicked up to Arthur for a split second, the first acknowledgment he'd gotten, then back down to the book.
"Chilled noodles, shredded carrot, fresh mint, and a small piece of Goi Lua sausage that I make myself. Nothing weird and you can't say you don't need it."
There was no acknowledgment. Arthur waited. He was good at waiting. Martin would either eat it or he wouldn't. Arthur wouldn't make a public scene either way. Wouldn't tell the office about Merlin or the hospital stay. He understood privacy and the need for secrets better than most.
He checked his watch. It was two minutes past one. Martin always ended his lunch at one, his internal clock perfect. He could chalk it up to lingering illness. Martin should probably still be at home in bed. He could attribute it to the fact that there were only a few more pages left in his book and he wanted to finish it but the way his eyes flicked across the page had slowed.
Then, with the same lack of interest that he picked up apple slices, he took the summer roll and ate it.
Arthur's heart raced. He wanted to smile but he kept his face as cool and disinterested as Martin kept his.
In three bites, just like the apple slices, the summer roll was finished and with no comment or even a nod, he finished his book and left. Arthur gave him a minute head start before packing up his lunch box and going back to his cube.
"YOU'RE FEEDING The Alien." Carol ambushed him in the break room as he was reaching for the coffee.
"His name is Martin."
"And you're feeding him."
"Someone has to."
Carol folded her arms and looked him up and down much the way she had the first day they met. "You were one of those kids who brought home stray dogs and tried to hide them from your parents even after they bit you."
Arthur poured his coffee, wondering if somehow she had seen the still ragged bit of scar tissue on his ankle.
"Just because a dog bites doesn't mean it's a bad dog."
"Doesn't change the fact that it bit you."
He shrugged slightly and stirred some sugar into his coffee wishing it was sweetened condensed milk.
"By the way, have you heard anything about the big bio-hazard lock-down last Friday?"
"Not really." He could play it as cool as anyone else. "Heard someone didn't get their flu shot and someone else overreacted."
Carol squinted at him. "Sure. Well, have fun. Don't get bit."
IT HAD been a long time since Arthur had anyone to cook for. Even then, most of that cooking had been done in Hanh's restaurant under the sharp eyes of his sisters before he left home for good.
He'd impressed a few guys and even a couple of girls in college by putting together non-instant meals using little more than a two-burner hotplate in his dorm room. But those relationships had never lasted long. He'd always had grand ideas of meetings of minds or souls, someone who fit grandly into the empty places of his heart, but that dream never materialized. The sex, what there was, always felt flat and mechanical, never spurring him on to something deeper.
There had been some dates, once he joined the Agency, but having to lie about his work put early strain on possible relationships before he ever got to 'come back to my place and let me cook.'
But now he had someone to cook for. Sort of. He had someone to bring very small portions of lite foods, during lunch, so whatever he made had to be small, portable, and maintain quality after sitting in a lunch box for five hours.
He made sandwiches, cut down to fancy party hors d'oeuvre size on Tuesday. He also brought his own book; Walden and Civil Disobedience which had been on his 'to read' list for a decade. On Wednesday, he pushed a little too far with a slice of sticky rice cake. Martin took a bite. There was a slight tightening around his eyes and he didn't finish the rest. Arthur supposed it was an acquired taste.
By Friday he was halfway through Walden, had probably gotten close to a thousand extra calories into Martin, along with fresh vitamins and minerals, and aside from telling him what each thing was, they hadn't spoken a word.
"IT'S LIKE a weird version of that scene in Lady and the Tramp where he's shoving the last meatball at her."
"I doubt he'd appreciate that analogy," Arthur told Carol as they both stirred their coffee.
"Unless you two spend an hour on the phone chatting each night, I doubt he's said more than two hundred words to you."
"There is more than one way to communicate," he stated, Carol hitting uncomfortably close to the truth.
"I'm sure there's a culture somewhere where silently shoving finger food at someone is an acceptable form of courting. Hobbits maybe."
"I'm not-"
"Yes, you are and it's adorable. Weird, but hey, I've got no room to talk, whatever floats your boat."
"I'm just bringing food for a friend who doesn't cook."
Carol patted him on the cheek. "Just keep telling yourself that."
ARTHUR SPENT Saturday morning shopping. And at noon, when Martin would be reading Beowulf to a group of school kids, he started making stock. It was a weird form of ignoring issues and he knew it. He had three large pots going on his stove, each slowly boiling down meats, vegetables, and herbs until he'd have a few dozen little jelly cubes flavored with beef, chicken, or fish to keep in his freezer.
He'd been a teenager before he hadn't needed a stool to see into the giant stockpots filled with cracked beef bones and chicken carcasses that had bubbled away on the restaurant's industrial stoves on Saturday mornings.
'Not courting, feeding a friend,' He told himself before calling up the sound of Hanh's voice telling him to focus.
'Was Martin even really a friend?' he asked himself while carefully skimming the fish stock to preserve clarity. But then he remembered Martin's apartment key. It was still on his key ring. He'd forgotten to leave it on Saturday and Martin hadn't asked for it back. That had to be a sign of friendship or at least trust. He had no doubt that if he told anyone about the kids at the library, not only would he demand his key back but probably also find some way of making Arthur disappear.
He turned the heat down on the chicken stock. He refused to use the egg white method to clarify and sweating over large steaming pots was sort of what he needed.
MONDAY WAS sandwiches again and finishing Walden. Tuesday, Summer rolls and by Wednesday he dipped into his smaller but detailed French repertoire with Pissaladière, knowing anchovy paste would be a risk and probably not win him many friends in the lunch room. By Friday he was working on The Wealth of Nations and decided that it was definitely nice to have someone to cook for, even if the rest of the office thought they were weird. They were secret agents. They were all a bit weird.
IT WAS three weeks since the flu, which he'd managed to avoid getting, when he found Martin standing next to his car at the end of the day.
"The children have been asking after you."
"Really?"
"I think they were quite excited that your name is Arthur."
"Arthur to their Merlin."
"Yes."
There was silence in the parking lot. Martin's hands were neatly clasped behind his back and his chin was up.
"I'm not doing anything tomorrow." Arthur answered the question he thought Martin might be wanting to ask. "I could come by the library."
"I believe the children would enjoy that."
"Okay."
Martin gave him a slight nod and walked away. Arthur felt a little flutter, like he'd just been asked on a date.