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Give them access to an espresso machine.
Offer them a safe haven after seventy-two hours of running from death.
Feed them a home-cooked meal made by an orangutan.
Tell them that tomorrow, they will get to see a make-believe submarine from the 1800s that is actually not make-believe.
Luca insists that we will not talk any further about theNautilusuntil the morning. Even though I am burning with questions, I suppose that’s just as well. My head already feels like it is going to explode from too much impossibility.
How could a submarine survive intact underwater for over 150 years? And what does Luca mean byintact? The shell is recognizable? The inside wasn’t completely flooded? Most of all, what does he mean about ‘introducing’ me to the sub? He makes it sound almost like … No, I’m not going to follow that line of thinking. It’s crazy.
During dinner, only ten of us can fit around the dining table.The rest of the crew spreads out through the main room. They sit wherever they can, though nobody is brave enough to try Jupiter’s tyre swing.
The volume of conversation increases. I hear occasional laughter. My classmates joke with one another, looking as relaxed and happy as I’ve seen them since before our world was destroyed. If I close my eyes, I can almost believe I’m back in the Harding-Pencroft cafeteria on an average school night.
My melancholy starts spiralling out of control, until Jupiter places a steaming plate of lasagne in front of me. He’s added a beautiful mixed salad on the side, along with two slightly burnt pieces of garlic bread.
He points at Luca.The bread was his fault.
Thank you, I sign.
Jupiter picks up my napkin and puts it in my lap. Because, like most higher primates, he knows more about dining etiquette than I do.
The smell of the lasagne makes my mouth water. Cheese and tomato sauce bubble between golden sheets of pasta.
I turn to Luca. ‘I don’t want to insult Jupiter’s cooking, but this doesn’t have any beef, does it? You know, Hindu.’
Luca chuckles good-naturedly. ‘No beef. In the early days of theNautilus, Nemo and his crew hunted sea animals for meat, but, as he got older, Nemo became what we would call a vegan. He realized that was better for the ocean. He cultivated his own hybrid crops in subaquatic gardens down in …’ A momentary shadow passes over his face, as if he realizes he’s said something he shouldn’t. ‘In the water nearby. Many of those crops went wild. They’re still flourishing today. Everything on your plate is from those gardens.’
On his other side, Ester sniffs a piece of her garlic bread. ‘Even this?’
‘Well, not the garlic itself,’ Luca concedes. ‘I keep my ownabove-ground garden on the atoll for herbs and spices that are difficult to simulate. But everything else, yes. White seaweed flour, sodium bicarbonate and acid for the yeast –’
‘What about butter and cheese?’ I ask.
‘Specially processed macroalgae and carrageen-moss extract.’
‘Yum?’ Nelinha says from across the table.
Ophelia nudges her arm. ‘Give it a try.’
Nelinha nibbles the bread. Her eyes widen. ‘Actually, yum! It’s a little burnt, but –’
‘Okay, enough of that!’ Luca says.
Ophelia grins, which makes her look less steely, more … I don’t know,silvery. ‘Anything Jupiter sees onThe Great British Bake Off, or any of his other cooking shows, we can simulate with sea-plant products. The orangutan keeps us on our toes.’
I try the lasagne. It tastes even better than it smells. ‘You could feed the world with those crops.’
Ophelia raises an index finger in warning. ‘Or we could feed the bottom line of multinational corporations who would want to exploit the food sources – or more likely strangle them – to keep their monopolies.’
Suddenly my dinner tastes a bit more like macroalgae.
Top sits patiently at Ester’s feet. He doesn’t beg – he’s too clever for that. He just looks cute and sad, staring into the distance as if thinking,Alas, my poor stomach!Whenever someone slips him a scrap, which happens frequently, he looks surprised.For me? Well, if you insist.
He is part emotional-support animal, part con artist.
Meanwhile, Jupiter circulates among the Dolphins, chatting with them in sign language. He describes the culinary wonders they are enjoying. Some of his cooking lingo is hard to follow. I have never learned the sign-language terms forsautéorcarrageen moss. Still, the Dolphins know how to saydeliciousandthank you. That seems to please him.
