How to Enliven an Evening
Posted on 16 Apr 2023 @ 8:27am by Brek - Timeless Treasures Art Gallery
Edited on on 16 Apr 2023 @ 3:35pm
Mission:
M3 - Into the Deep
Location: Volchok, Trading Center, Asax’s House - Ferengi Space
Timeline: Backstory: Winter 2379 - Following ‘Mistakes are to be expected’
1677 words - 3.4 OF Standard Post Measure
Brek did try to leave Asax’s house. First with enthusiasm, (of course he could brave the snow and find his way home), then meekly, (he wasn’t very hungry). Nothing worked. Mr Asax insisted that Brek stayed with his family for their evening meal. Now, Brek had wanted this invitation to happen for a while. But he wasn’t keen on receiving it on a day where the house was plunged in the dark and the food would most likely be cold. What sort of nasty fare would he be subjected to? Crispy crickets on bread? Dry weevil biscuits?
“You absolutely must stay with us tonight,” Mr Asax insisted. “You will enliven the evening. I’m sure you’ve heard my wife earlier on. She isn’t in the best of moods. The weather always affects her terribly. You should hear her in summer when the Trading Center gets invaded by swarms of flies. Her nerves, I’m afraid, are very fragile.”
So it was that Brek had to stay. Oroff, who now ignored him like the two of them had never shared a word, led him to a dark dining room. Four camping lamps had been placed on a long table, but the whole place still looked like a cave. You couldn’t see what was on the walls nor what colour the tapestries were. Oroff showed him where to sit and for a few minutes he was left there, alone, pretty much in the dark. Another thing that puzzled him was that this room, although graced everyday with the presence of two ladies, had no nice fragrance to it. No floral scents or the delicate whiff of exotic woods. There was just a general musty smell in the air, and he imagined curtains and carpets laden with dead skin cells, bacteria and dead bugs.
“I have already told you. Do not address the staff!” It was the imperative voice of Mr Asax, scolding his daughter, who had said something derogatory to Oroff. “They don’t understand a thing. That’s why they do what they do. That is to say, not a lot.”
“But they serve us all the same,” Mrs Asax replied. “Although not always well.”
“My thoughts entirely,” the daughter added. “Father is right, the staff is stupid. I don’t know what took me to waste even a second on poor Oroff. He is probably deaf anyway.”
The trio entered the dark room and Brek got to his feet, as a reflex, to greet them. The two women stared at him with great insistence and disdain. It made him feel like a turd that Oroff had forgotten to shove out in the snow. “Do we have an intruder?” Mrs Asax, asked. Her voice was shrill and indignant.
“Not in the least!” Mr Asax said, making an effort to sound jovial. “We have a guest. Young Brek is going to eat with us tonight. On account of the unpleasant weather. Surely you recognise him, my treasure? He is one of my accountants.”
“Oh... Him.” The wife said, as everyone took their places. She sat opposite to her husband, at the other end of the table, whilst the daughter, 13 years old at best, sat in front of the guest.
“I didn’t recognise you, Brek.” The wife continued. “For a moment, the lack of light, there, made you look menacing.” She produced a tiny laugh, which to Brek had all the markings of a grown up woman who wanted to sound like a 12 year old. “Of course, if my husband had been thoughtful enough to buy a generator, we wouldn’t have to live like troglodytes during snow storms. All our neighbours have light tonight. I have seen them through the windows!””
“My everything, this sort of weather never happens.” Mr Asax countered.
And curiously, no one disputed his silly comment. The next person to speak was the daughter, who said that she didn’t mind their circumstance because it made everything look ‘romantic’. Brek sat back, as silently as possible. He knew next to nothing about romance, but what little he knew had nothing to do with sharing cold food, in a dark room, with your employer and his bickering family.
Oroff came back, holding a large tray, which, by some kind of fortuitous miracle, he managed to place on the table without dropping anything. The fare had arrived. It consisted of tube grubs with millipede sauce. A large bowl for everyone. A bottle of Eelwasser was also on offer. And for dessert, you name it, they’ve got it: dry weevil biscuits. None of the delicious food he had seen in Asax’s cellar was there. Not even the white wine from Antede III.
“Hmm... my favorite food!” the daughter said, making her sarcasm plain.
Yet everyone, (but Brek), tucked in, and from now on, there were a lot of slurping sounds, along with the occasional foul-smelling burps. Brek looked disconsolate at his food, and he made a great discovery: depending on the company you have around you, a meal will be great or atrocious. He had eaten something called meat-pies on his visits to the outlanders’ sector. Rumour had it that those pies were made, essentially, of saw dust, crammed with herbs and spices. Terrible stuff then, but, with nice people around, those pies were fantastic.
"It won't hurt us to live simply for just one night," Asax added. "Think of all the poor sods who, as we speak, won't even have two beans to eat tonight."
"As it should," the wife said. "The less beans they have, the more our family's profits increase. It's basic economy.” She produced her ridiculous laughter once more. “Tell me, Brek, what decided you to travel to Volchok?"
"He didn't have the cash to travel further," the daughter said before Brek could answer. "It's obvious, most young men are like that. They don't have much wits or latinum."
"Is that so?" The wife asked, looking at him as if to assess his worth - or lack of it.
There was nothing else to expect within Ferengi territory, Brek knew. You weighed as much as your latinum. And if you have none, you might as well be a ghost.
"Let's not be too harsh with our guest, my precious," Asax intervened. "He is quite useful, and he knows everything about the way you spend my latinum."
"I've earned every milligram of it, my dear," the wife retaliated briskly. She no longer looked at Brek, preferring to stare at her husband, with the promise of much more aggro later on, Brek suspected.
"The bookkeeper knows all your secrets, Moogie," the daughter teased.
"He knows yours too, sweetheart," Asax added, visibly amused. "But as you can see, our Brek is very discreet. He knows that to talk too much is unhealthy."
"In actual fact, he is a mute," the wife said. "He hasn't said a word yet. It could be that he doesn't like us. I can't blame him. Millipede juice isn't a way to treat a guest, no matter how lowly that individual is. We could have had, at the very least, a few snail steaks."
"He rather looks traumatised to me," the daughter suggested. "Have you been bullying him, father?"
"As if!" Asax said with a chuckle. "Me and Brek, we are best buddies! Aren't we?" He added, encouraging Brek to say something. In order to give credit to his words, he poured a glass of Eelwasser for Brek.
"Absolutely, Mr Asax." Brek agreed. He took a sip of Eelwasser, flat and tepid. A far cry from the Coke, chilled to perfection, that you often find in restaurants run by Hewmons. “I’m only quiet because, as it has been revealed at this table. There’s much to my life at all. I’m more comfortable with numbers, really.”
“Quiet numbers!” Asax guffawed. “That’s my man! You will go far with an attitude like that!”
“Ah ah! Well said father!” the daughter echoed.
“What sort of background does the young man have?” The wife wanted to know. She sounded austere. Brek gathered that she would never recover from the fact he knew where she spent every little slip of latinum.
“You will find complete obscurity, there, my dear,” Asax continued. “Worse than what this snow storm is giving us tonight. Brek’s parents sort of made a name for themselves by selling trinkets to foreigners. You have never been to Ferenginar, sweetheart, but you should know, our culture, which is wealthy beyond all imagination, is attracting a lot of tourists, all of them hoping to discover the secret to our excellent fortune.”
And it went on and on. They disparaged his family, his education, his choices, with great delight. That’s how Brek made a second discovery: If he was to keep his sanity, he should leave this hell house as soon as he had enough latinum to travel. The Ferengi on this planet were too narrow minded. Ultimately, they would suffocate him.
Some ten minutes later, whilst they were still making a lot of jokes at his expense, the light suddenly came back, bathing the room in a glorious yellow glow, which revealed every detail of the horrendous Asax family. For a second there, they all had a look of ugly surprise on their face, as if their ignominy had been captured, for all eternity, by the powerful flash of a camera.
“I must really go now,” Brek said in a loud voice. “I have a friend waiting for me at home.”
He didn’t wait for an answer, he left in all haste. At the main door, a sight warmed him up. Oroff was there, waiting like a patient sentry. In his hand, he was holding a large orange snow shovel.
“I did my best,” Brek said softly, as if he needed to apologise to the Bolian servant.
“I know you did, young master.” Oroff gave him the shovel. “Off you go now, and good luck, you’ll need it.”
