Bronte's Inferno XXVI (Moonlighting)

One of the confusing doors opened and Hella walked in carrying a large tray that required the use of her full wing-span. Now she was dressed in one of Mrs. Addams cast offs. It fit her where it touched and it touched everywhere. Only the long split in the dress saved her from the geisha walk. It took me a while to notice what was on the tray, but once I confirmed I wasn't going to end up wearing the contents of it, I saw that there was a vast tureen that surely contained enough of something to feed at least twelve. There were four bowls beside it and some improbably neatly aligned cutlery. A long refectory table was at the other end of the room to the club chairs: it looked as though it stretched half the length of the cricket-pitch corridor on the other side of the wainscot-ted wall.

The editor-at-large and I both stood as if to relieve her of the tray, but Hella gave a tut and continued to the table and placed the tray and its contents between two candelabra holding lit candles, badly matched for colour and height. The refectory boasted only three further chairs in addition to ancient throne at the head. The other three chairs were matching cartwheel designs, although the one at the foot was also a carver. The editor swept a bow that directed me towards the seat at the foot of the table and then skipped – yes, skipped – to the seat of majesty at the other end. By the time I had sat down Hella had served a bowl of something or other to Woland and the cat was sitting in the chair to his left, half-way down the table. I was served next. The bowl contained something that looked like callos, a Spanish stew of tripe and chickpeas that I had tried once in the Guadalhorce Valley. I wondered how much I would get away with leaving in the bowl. Hella served the cat, then herself and sat down opposite him.

Begemot was lapping at the liquor from the callos, a front paw either side of the bowl. Woland and Hella were picking out the pieces of tripe with thumb and forefinger, then slurping each one into the mouth like a child eating spaghetti for the first time. Or a chimp eating a caterpillar, for that matter. I thanked all the gods that never were that we each had a pair of decanters and glasses as part of our place setting. I sank near a half-litre of a singularly rough red from a glass that could have held a whole one. When I finished off the glass, I realised how they dealt with the chick-peas would haunt me for the rest of my days, and drank a half-litre of throat-searing hock from the other decanter. All three pushed their bowl away at the same time, liquor, chickpeas and tripe spilled onto the polished mahogany of the table, as though they had not eaten a morsel from them.

Woland stood and clapped his hands. The door opened. Charon walked in wearing a butler's uniform, with a starched collar and a stern look.

'Moonlighting?' I asked her.

'I loved that programme.' Woland said.