The Alchemaster's Apprentice - By Walter Moers Page 0,121
passage.
‘There he is!’ Echo whispered. ‘Now for the moment of truth.’
The Alchemaster appeared in the doorway. And froze.
‘Er, good evening, Sir Alchemaster,’ Izanuela blurted out. ‘Please forgive me for barging in here uninvited, but it’s an ancient Ugglian custom which has fallen into disuse, and I’d very much like to revive it. That’s to say, it’s not an ancient Ugglian custom to barge in uninvited, but to call at the castle on the eve of the full moon and pay our respects to the Alchemaster in ceremonial attire. Hence this floral gown of mine.’
It looked for one moment as if she were about to faint. The Alchemaster stood there transfixed, staring at her like a snake mesmerising a rabbit. He didn’t spare so much as a glance for Echo. As if towed across the laboratory on a string, he walked slowly, very slowly, over to Izanuela, who was swaying unsteadily beside the window. To Echo, those few seconds seemed longer than all the hours he’d endured in the bookcase. Ghoolion came to a halt just short of the Uggly, gazing at her with an expression Echo dared not interpret. Then he fell to his knees, bowed his head and whispered: ‘Will you marry me?’
‘Yes,’ Izanuela whispered back. So saying, she lost consciousness and subsided into the Alchemaster’s outstretched arms.
The Engagement Party
‘You can always tell a good chef by his puddings,’ said Ghoolion.
‘Isn’t that what people say? All the time they’re ploughing their way through a menu, isn’t it the sweet they’re really waiting for?’
Echo and Izanuela nodded eagerly. This had been their invariable response to everything he’d said in the last few minutes. No sooner had the Uggly regained consciousness than he plied them both with flattering compliments and conducted them to the castle kitchen, where he laid the table and proceeded to heat the oven.
‘That’, he went on, ‘is why I should like to celebrate this day by creating a menu composed entirely of puddings. A symphony of rousing finales. One sweet sin of self-indulgence after another. Nothing but the best from first to last. Do you agree, my blossom? Do you agree, Echo, my honoured guest?’
Izanuela was sitting stiffly at the end of the table while Echo occupied his usual place on top of it. They both watched, fascinated, as the Alchemaster busied himself at the stove.
Ghoolion seemed a different person. He was behaving for all the world like a husband of many years’ standing, but one who was still as enamoured of his wife as he had been on their wedding day. He missed no opportunity to pay Izanuela compliments and fire off ardent glances in her direction.
‘I thought you ate nothing but cheese,’ Echo whispered to her when Ghoolion had hurried out of the kitchen to fetch some additional ingredients from his storeroom.
‘For his sake I’d eat a plate complete with cutlery,’ she whispered back. ‘And the tablecloth into the bargain. Stop needling me!’
‘There’s no need to abandon your principles just because he’s besotted with you. Keep him on a tight rein. We want him eating out of your hands, not the other way round.’
‘Isn’t it fantastic, though?’ she demanded, clapping her hands. ‘The potion is working far better than I thought it would.’
Ghoolion returned carrying two baskets filled with flour, sugar, butter, eggs, chocolate, dried fruit and vanilla pods.
‘I want to prepare everything freshly, my dearest,’ he called, ‘that’s why I must ask you to be patient. Permit me to pass the time by telling you a charming story while I toil away at the stove. It’s about the finest pastry cook in Zamonia.’
Echo and Izanuela nodded eagerly again.
‘Hm,’ thought Echo. ‘A charming story about a pastry cook, eh? The old boy really has changed his spots.’ All Ghoolion’s stories in the past had been about vampires and demented mass murderers, Snow-White Widows and lethal wines that choked those who drank them.
The Alchemaster proceeded to beat up some white of egg in a large bowl.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘At first this pastry cook was a rather crabbed individual. He despised sweet things of all kinds, detested cakes and puddings, abhorred meringues and biscuits. Puddings were an abomination to him and whipped cream he found loathsome. What he liked best were pickled gherkins and rollmops, smelly cheeses and salt cod, hard roe and sauerkraut from the Sourwoods swimming in sour cream.’
‘Ah,’ thought Echo, ‘that’s more like the old Ghoolion. At least his story’s