Nigel Paton
Roundhay, Leeds, July 1970
Atlas A, fourteen years old, is sitting alone in his bedroom reading a comic. Beside him is a box labelled Easy Hobby-Games for Little Engineers, unopened. A Christmas present from his parents. His father is downstairs listening to John Arlott’s Test Match commentary. England versus the West Indies. Every time the crowds cheer, Atlas’s father writes the score in pencil in his exercise book. His Wisden is open on the table next to him. Atlas’ mother is sitting in the kitchen peeling potatoes. She hears the postman whistling as he walks up the garden path. The postman drops four letters through the letter box. It closes with a clean, metallic pop. She goes to the hall, picks up the letters and spreads them out on the kitchen table. She slips one into a pocket in her apron, gathers the others and takes them through to her husband. He is not happy to be disturbed. When he sees that there is a letter from his son’s school, he turns off the radio, takes a knife and opens the envelope. He skims the page and calls out loudly, “Atlas. Come here this instant!”
The son doesn’t respond, so his father rises, clumsily, and marches into the boy’s bedroom. “What is the meaning of this? Explain this if you please,” he says, flapping the document up and down. Enraged. He thrusts the report at this son who takes it nervously.
“Read it to me. Read,” says the father.
The boy’s mother enters the bedroom. “John. Please. What is it?” she asks.
“His school report. It’s atrocious, again,” he snarls. “Here, you read it,” he says to his wife.
Reluctantly she reads: “Latin: A rather feeble effort. French: Has not improved. Maths: Capable but lazy. English: Unbelievably careless. Geography: Very disappointing.” She stops reading, tearful.
“Go on. Finish it,” her husband insists.
She continues to read: “Art: Should try harder. Scripture: The usual! History: A steady but not inspiring term’s work. Etiquette: Atlas’ behaviour is abominable. Summary from the Headmaster: Faced with the challenge of tougher competition than last term, he gives up. This is a very great pity because with more effort on his part he would do well.”
She drops the paper and runs to her bedroom. The father picks it up and addresses his son in a voice seething with anger:
“I warned you what would happen if your school work did not improve. I am washing my hands of you. I’ll pay for you to go to college, if you can get in anywhere, but after that you are on your own. And I’m cutting you out of my will. Your siblings will be the beneficiaries of your failure. You are a disgrace to the family.”
Roundhay, Leeds, September 1970
Atlas withdraws from his prep school and starts at the local technical school where he studies welding. He doesn’t enjoy it and soon gives it up. He takes a correspondence course in law. This lasts a month. He leaves home and disappears.
Schwabing, Munich, May 1982
Atlas is in White Garden, a beer hall tucked between redbrick arches near the Leopoldstraße railway station. The chairs have red seats. The table cloths are faded black-and-yellow check. Several men are drinking cheap beer at the bar. Through a cloud of smoke, lights shine on a card game and drunken conversations. Some students are playing dominoes. The floor is tiled green. Every time the trains pass overhead, plaster falls from the ceiling. The patrons are shouting and gambling for small stakes. Atlas tries to get the attention of a waitress:
“A beer please,” he says. The waitress walks past him. “Hello. Can I get a beer?” He is louder this time.
“Do you have I.D.?” The waitress asks.
“I.D.? Why?” He replies.
“It’s the law,” she explains.
“Look at me! How old do you think I am? I’m almost thirty,” he protests, incredulous.
“I still need I.D. before I can serve you,” she says and looks at him impatiently.
Atlas realises there is no point in arguing. He unbuttons his jacket and pulls out a sheaf of heavy papers held together with red ribbon and hands them to the waitress.
“Here,” he says.
“What’s this?” she says, puzzled.
“It’s my ninth-grade school report card.”
“That’s not a valid I.D.” she says, turning away.
“I’m sorry, but it’s all I have. That’s me in the uniform” he says, pointing with a fork.
“It doesn’t look much like you,” she says.
“I know. But you can still see it’s me, can’t you?” He looks directly at her.
”Don’t you have anything else? Where’s your name?” she asks.
“Here. Atlas A. Atlas A’s the name my parents gave me. I changed it later, but it’s on my birth certificate and my passport. And here are the subjects I took: Scripture, History, Geography, Science, Art, Latin, English, French, Math, Games, Etiquette.”
“What’s etiquette?”
“Behaviour. The right way to behave when interacting with other people. Very important in England. I failed.”
“You failed?”
“Yes. But I passed the others. Look: Two Ds. Three Cs. One B and a B-.”
The waitress looks at him sceptically.
“Not very good,” she says.
“No,” he admits.
“Tell me, why do you carry your school transcript around?”
“To remind myself.”
“Of what?”
“Where I’m from,” he says, putting the report away in his inside pocket. The waitress hovers. She picks up a book from the table.
“And what’s this?” she asks.
“Get me a drink and I’ll tell you,” he says, his tone softer.
“Beer?”
“No. Make it vodka.”
The waitress goes to get the drink from the bar. Atlas admires the way she walks. The men at the bar ignore her. The waitress comes back with the drink. She sits at his table.
“Can I ask you something?” she says.
“What?”
“You say your name was Atlas.”
“Yes.”
“What is it now?”
“Alonso. Atlas Alonso.”
“Atlas Alonso! You mean like the food writer?”
“Not like the writer. I am the food writer and chef.”
“You’re Atlas Alonso, author of The Sardine Who Fell from Grace with the Sea?”
“The very same.”
“Oh, my god! You wrote Roasting Vegetables in Midsummer! The Pesto of Dawn! I love your work. What are you doing here?”
“I’m on my way to the pasta biennale at Bologna. They want me to judge the spaghetti contest and I’m promoting new books.”
“Which books?”
“The Lady Linguine and Madame de Risotto.”
“I have heard of Madame de Risotto but not Lady Linguine.”
“Lady has been out for a year but it’s not well known outside of Italy. But the committee wants to see them.”
“Which committee?”
“The Nobel Prize committee. For literature. I’m shortlisted. They are planning to meet me in Bologna.”
“You are on the shortlist for the Nobel Prize in Literature?”
“I was surprised too. Of course, I’m not expecting to win, but it’s the first time a cookery book writer has been considered. Madhur Jaffrey is on the list too.”
“I love her work.”
“Me too. I am a huge fan. I’m glad that you like my books. Here, I want to give you something. It’s Waves of Panna Cotta. Do you know it?”
“I love it! We’re reading it in school.”
“Would you like me to sign it?”
“Yes please. I have it with me.” She takes the book out of her bag.
“Who shall I make it out to?”
“Renata.”
“Okay Renata. What grade are you in?”
“11th.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m seventeen.” (Her words are drowned out by the noise from the bar, which grows.)
“Perhaps, one day, you’ll cook for me in London. My ambition is to have a restaurant in Soho. I am very ambitious.” More noise from the bar. Atlas and Renata find it hard to hear each other. “Here is my address. Please stay in touch.”
A tipsy woman is leaning against a light switch. When she moves, she turns off the lights. Shouts from the bar and the tables. “No, not again! Get off it! Move yourself!”When the lights come back on, Atlas has disappeared.
The Journey continues. The train to Bologna, June 1982
Atlas is half asleep. A group of young Italian soldiers push their way noisily along the corridor of the train. He wakes up. He looks out the window. The sun is setting. Approaching Bologna, he sees the towers of the university. The oldest in Italy. The train rumbles over the tracks and the engine strains to pull them up a slight gradient. He takes a bottle of mineral water out of his bag and unscrews the top. He drinks from it.
The arrival in Bologna, June 1982
The first thing Atlas does when he arrives anywhere is to visit the farmers market. His hotel in Bologna is on the corner of Via Masciarelli and Via Quattro Novembre under the towers of the church of San Petronius. Although he is tired, he’s determined to visit the market before it closes. The array of foodstuff is even more amazing than he’d imagined. Mouth-watering nuts, oranges, peaches, cakes, olives, olive oil, mozzarella cheese, fontina, parmesan, parma ham and salami. He buys some peaches and parma ham. The woman who serves him congratulates him on his choices.
The contest. Angelo’s Restaurant, the next day, June 1982
Atlas walks to Angelo’s, the restaurant where the competition is to take place.
When he arrives the place is already packed. A smart waiter in a tight-fitting black jacket and white gloves passes between the tables and shows Atlas to a table in the corner. The brightest light is on the lone table in the middle of the room. A waiter enters and arranges silverware. A sommelier puts out wine glasses. He uncorks a bottle of white wine. Another brings water. Another salt and pepper. Sounds of appreciation and anticipation. When the last waiter walks away, the audience claps. Shouts of “Bravo!”
Atlas emerges from the corner. The audience members rise to their feet. Stamping, shouting. Loud applause. Some throw flowers. Atlas sits and a waiter brings in a steaming bowl of pasta. Atlas tastes. Makes a note. The waiter takes it away. This routine happens seven times.
Finally a woman comes to confer with Atlas and then announces the results of the contest. The runners up are Paolo and Francesca, and the winner is Federico F.
Alonso’s, Soho, London, October 1989
Atlas’s restaurant is called Alonso’s. It’s nothing special from the outside, but it is very pretty inside. It has a garden and a patio. The review from Time Out is prominently displayed:
This great little restaurant is hard to find. To get to it, you have to make your way past porn shops and massage parlours until you see a door in an graffiti-covered wall. Open the door and you are in a passageway. Nowhere does it say Alonso’s. You could be anywhere. Keep going and the reward is a pretty garden restaurant with elegant white linen table cloths and well-dressed clientele. Atlas Alonso, the owner and executive chef, wears a rumpled, dark blue, open-necked shirt and sports a small silver stud in his ear. He greets me and my party warmly and gives us a choice of tables. The tasting menu is small but changes daily. We choose the four-course option and a bottle of Viognier. It’s all very good, and the weather is perfect. The dining is slow and relaxed with discreet but attentive service. Every course is good. The dessert is spectacular. I recommend the panna cotta. The food is altogether better than either of the Italian Restaurants I reviewed last week.
It is three o’clock in the afternoon. Atlas is sitting in the garden with a handsome woman, his mother. Now she looks like Jeanne Moreau in La Notte. Renata is with them. She is pastry chef at the restaurant. Atlas is trying out new recipes. He looks at them for their reactions. They nod approvingly. They like the dishes very much.
Atlas’s mother eats at the restaurant once a month. When she comes, she brings news of the family.
“Your father wants to thank you for the loan,” she says.
“No problem. I’m glad he’s doing something he loves,” says Atlas.
“Yes. The diners aren’t making much money yet, but he is sure they will do well. Everything American is popular these days.”
“Is he using the air fryer?”
“Yes. He says to thank you. It has made all the difference.”
“I’m so glad. The last time I was in New York, all the young people were buying them. The beauty is that with the fryer, you don’t have to be a cook to make delicious meals. They are the perfect supplement to traditional stoves,” says Atlas.
“Yes, and the cooks in the diners appreciate that they are so user friendly. Clean the chicken, fish, whatever they want to make, add seasoning and then the fryer does the rest,” says his mother.
“You know I’ve even been considering getting one for my restaurant,” says Atlas.
“Really?” says Renata.
“Yes. The air fryer company wants me to promote it and they are paying me well for it. I have even agreed to let them use my name: the Atlas A Air Fryer. It’s their top of the line model.”
“Atlas A! His mother is not sure how to react.
“I know you are surprised. I hated that name when I was a boy. I didn’t know why you and dad chose it,” Atlas says.
“It was his idea,” says his mother, quickly.
“Like, what was the reason?” asks Renata.
“I don’t know”.
“Well, I’ve made it my own,” says Atlas.
“You certainly have, and we are very proud of you. Everyone is.” His mother kisses him on his forehead.
“Thanks Mama. Now I have a special dessert I want you to try. It’s Renata’s. You’re going to love it.”
“I hope so. What is it?” asks his mother.
“It’s a Lemon Ricotta Cake. It’s divine. Renata calls it Etiquette. I hope you’ll give it a good grade,” says Atlas. Renata and he exchange smiles.
Mama takes a bite and says, “It’s very good. I would say, almost an A+.”
“Thank you. That means a lot,” says Atlas. “You know, I have never really gotten over how badly my grades made me feel in school.”
“You will, one day,” says his mother.
“I hope so,” he says. “More wine, or would you prefer coffee?”
Nigel Paton was born in Bath, England. He now teaches English and art history to high school students in New Jersey. He has a very loving and supportive family who provide him with great feedback on his creative work. His writing has appeared in Tiferet and Burningword. Hear him read from his work at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z2b650saZHc.
