Chapter 43: Joyla dreams of sushi
As Dian Mu sped through the sky, never more awake, Joyla burrowed deeper under the covers in her small Hong Kong flat. She hadn’t slept well since the night at the Pearl River Tower, and was catching up with an afternoon nap before the closing party that evening after Rex had taken away her night terrors with a very satisfying morning in bed.
She was dreaming, richly textured, deeply satisfying dreams of food. Laksa and bak kut teh, sushi and ice cream, poached eggs and toast, they paraded through her head, taste memories flitting across her tongue. Her stomach growled and with that she was awake.
“Ice cream.”
“What?” Rex had been working quietly on his tablet in the next room.
“There won’t be any ice cream. No electricity, no ice cream.”
“You can make ice cream as long as you have ice.”
“No electricity, no ice, at least not around here.”
“Fair enough.”
“Espresso.”
“Hmmm?”
“No espresso. No Americanos. No cappuccinos. No lattes.”
“Heat, water and pressure. Pretty easy to come by compared to ice.”
“So you had espresso on your military maneuvers?”
“No, of course not. But that wasn’t because it was impossible.”
“But coffee shops?”
“Likely a thing of the past.”
“I’ll have to make my own?”
“Likely. Hand grinder for the beans too.”
“What?”
“No electricity to run a grinder.”
“That’s barbaric. How did people survive?”
“Low standards.”
“Hawker centers will go back to charcoal.”
“I suppose. The basic process for charcoal will still exist. Of course, with the major famines, the collapse of civilization, the floods of people moving out of cities, I imagine that charcoal for hawker centers might not be high on priority lists.”
“No laksa? No barbecued stingray?”
“Probably not.”
“There will still be chili crab though?”
“Well, maybe.”
“If there isn’t any chili crab, I’m not sure life will be worth living.”
“I’ll take your word for it. I prefer black pepper crab.”
“Philistine. Ohhh, salted egg yolk crab.”
“That’s pretty good. But black pepper is better.”
“Why did I keep you alive the other day?”
“I’d promised to make you breakfast in bed, I think.”
“Right. And you did. Poached eggs, avocado, toast. Wait, avocados.”
“None of those in any place we’re likely to be.”
“Guacamole then.”
“Gone.”
Joyla sat in bed, hair a mess, a desolate look on her face, thinking of the food that would no longer be in her life, in her mouth, in her stomach, a life which could be very, very long. Her belly growled again.
“Sushi? Maki and toro and hotate. They’ll be fine, they’ll be available. That’s just raw fish.”
“Nope. Flash frozen at sea in electric freezers to kill parasites. All seafood will be strictly cooked or soaked in salt and lime.”
“Ceviche!”
“Yes. Ceviche will still be possible. Unlikely, but possible. I notice you haven’t mentioned anything green. Salads will be a thing of the past you know.”
“Meh. Salads are for guinea pigs. Wait, pig. Pork belly. Bacon!”
“Cured meats will still be around. A lot more of them in fact.”
Joyla’s belly growled louder.
“Should I take a hint from that and feed you again.”
“Yes, please.”
“Fine. Get yourself together and we’ll go have sushi and ice cream before the party.”
“Yay!”
“Piglet.”
“Oink.”
Joyla showered, combed her hair out, dressed. And out they went, to possibly the last sushi and ice cream and night life that they would experience for the rest of their time on this blue Earth. She said a silent prayer to whatever gods were listening or not that Kaa would succeed tonight, avert the loss of the things which made an extended life worth living.
And then she thought of Rex. No extended life. She forced a smile back to her face before walking out to him again. If this was the last good food and electrically lit night of her life, she was going to wallow in it.