In THE KITCHEN OF Mme NORO
The house was smelling very good.
The delicious odor emanated from the other room.
It was apparently the kitchen after a glance at it.
Not the sort of ultra-modern kitchen of the rich people nowadays. When you enter in Noro’s kitchen you would see that it is marked with the touch of simplicity. It is just quite lovely, quite clean and always having this special Malagasy food smell you couldn’t find anywhere. It was spacious and warmly honored by the splendor of mister sun.
It was the second time Mitia came in that house. I was the morning like the last Friday. She was again exhilarated by this appetizing smell which was coming from the pots of Mrs. Noro, the mother of Jeremy.
How she dreamt to taste this dish, which even having not yet appealed her eyes had already conquered her nostrils…and her stomach.
“Hey you! are you falling asleep with opened eyes? Wait for a moment till we finish this homework. Don’t forget that it will be our turn to do the presentation on Monday. It’s in our interest to be ready for that before going back to home.”
It was their class delegate who pulled her from her culinary daydreams. Maybe it was a good luck that this dynamic young person was in their group. However, her manners were a little « brutal » and « intimidating » for the shy and tender little Mitia.
“Calm down Dinah, let her think quietly, is it not her who is super-gifted in Malagasy?”
It was their young host who intervened in her favor with her joker tone; this carefree attitude Mitia used to consider as an indifference toward her. Even if her impression would be founded, she could not bear him a grudge. She was constantly admiring him. She looked stealthy at this smiling face which all at once succeed in making her in all commotion.
She forgot the simmered dish at the room beside and hardly tried to concentrate so she could find a « genius » idea for their Malagasy creative writing. It was true that she always harvested the better grades at this subject. But now, she was rather lost. Lost in the charm of this scented place, as she was lost in the eyes of the son of its owners…Jeremy.
He was the only child of « Mr. MP » and this beauty of ebony called Mrs. Noro. He was the superhero of that little eastern commune where her family settled nearly three years ago. He did not have siblings but, apparently, he was far to justify the cliché of the spoiled only children who have wealthy parents. He was a jovial teenager, smart and talented. His swimming prowess during the local competitions would allow him to enter in the professional court. Besides, his parents didn’t have to spend money on these kinds of artistic lessons. In fact, they have brought into the world a born drawer. Sometimes, he showed his works of art in class, not without a bit of pride. The teachers were impressed. The girls were more and more charmed…especially by the author. Mitia had noticed that and she could not have something against them. For her, it was impossible to be indifferent to this gorgeous boy. Indeed, he was the superstar of the village and he would be that even if he was not the son of Mr. MP.
“Well…we could add a Malagasy proverb in the end” suggested Mitia with her little timid voice. “One which will be able to illustrate and conclude our redaction”
Jenny pouted. She was a splendid teenager, proud and capricious. She was boasting everyday her curved and sexy silhouette which was already worthy of a young lady. And there were her beautiful long African braids which Mitia could never have with her smooth hair inherited from her merina ancestors. Many men would give just anything to Jenny’s parents to reserve her, as the villager used to do there. But Jenny didn’t want them. She wanted Jeremy. For her, “Jeremy and Jenny” were predestined to be husband and wife. It was just a question of a little while and it will become reality. She manifested her boredom in a loud voice.
“Oh, this literature homework makes me tired! Proverbs…aren’t them old-fashioned? Anyway, I’m sure that “miss from the Capital ” is an expert in that stuffs.”
This mean remark was addressed to Mitia but it was another classmate, a big guy with a careful hand-writing, -and so had been selected by their group to be the secretary- who answered “Yeah, if she feels like it…what shall we write then?”
“Well…as it is about enhancing the value of ancestral wisdom, we could quote “Ny fanahy no maha olona”
“You find it young girl! This is a message that merit to be relay on this contemporary age which is striving for idolize the appearance, the superficial…”
It was the lady of the house. The woman with scented dish was standing in the doorway. The milked complexion of Mitia went rosy when hearing this other remark, a compliment one.
« Thank you, madam, in fact we have finished the essential of our work. I have to return at home now… »
« Remind me your first name again?”
Mitia didn’t get upset that the latter forgot her first name which she had already asked her when she arrived this morning and also the last Friday. During the three years her parents, modest shopping street traders, had left their native big city Antananarivo to this lovely coastal village, she used to be an unknown for many. She could not conquer the friendship of the inhabitants, especially concerning Jenny and her group…She felt so different, so she used to be reserved.
“Mitia ma’am » she told again softly.
« Her name is Mitia mom »
Okay, now she had her favorite teacher: Mr Naivo. This brand-new Malagasy teacher would be a special one. The first time he arrived, he had organized this homework presentation. Thanks to him, Mitia was in this house, among Jeremy’s group in spite of her. Thanks to him, Jeremy knows at last her first name…which he had just told his mother with this teasing smile of him.
“Hey guys, don’t forget: my birthday is for this Sunday. You are all invited to have lunch here after the church office. Then, we will have a good time at the beach.” Jeremy continued.
« All, including me! » Mitia told herself. She was excited to have lunch at Mr. MP’s house…at Jeremy’s house. And Mrs. Noro added « I will prepare a feast for you kids!”
…………………………………………………
“You are not hungry, are you? …Well, that’s new! Then, give me your part so that I can wolf it down.”
Without hesitation, Mitia gave up the stainless-steel jar which was containing her portion of lunch: rice mixed with “ravitoto” . Her eleven years old little brother ate it with pleasure. In fact, appetite fled from her in the middle of a stifling noon heat of nowhere. Especially since they were like sardines in this old bush car which bumped up and down…and also that it was not what she was expecting to eat today. Even if she didn’t have motion sickness – and the road was muddy and deplorable- she had an instant of nausea while rethinking about the yesterday night which had turned upside down their quiet life in Manompana.
She was not where she would be today. She was supposed to be some hundred kilometers backward…at the dining room of Mr.MP, savoring at last the culinary works of Mrs. Noro…and especially celebrating Jeremy’s sixteen birthday. But now, Jeremy and all the village are called « past » for her…
The previous day, while she was pampering her Sunday yellow dress, the only one she found pretty enough for Mrs Noro invitation, her father had come in a rush, trembling. First, Mitia thought he was drunk, he was often in this state, but he was apparently sober. And he was with his only good friend. She understood he was not joking when he announced firmly, although with terror in his voice, to his little dumbfounded family that they had to fled from the village. Why ? Because, with his usually carelessness, he had broken a terrible « taboo » against some very traditional indigenous. Furious, the latters was preparing to get their revenge on this lay person from other tribe which had just ridiculed their sacred tradition. Mitia’s father did not want to know what kind of revenge they were preparing against him. He wanted to flee with his family without any minute of waiting. « Anyway” had said his docile wife. “It is time to leave this hostile place…»
They had gobbled their merchandises and the bare minimum of their belongings in rice bags. In a basket, they had put the food already cooked for the diner. They had all the same prayed together in a flash before the secret big departure.
They left for good the cute wooden hut which was their shelter since they landed in the village. They went on, hiding, as malefactors until a quite far place where the only friend of Mitia’s father had put his old van to drive them to a hundred kilometers from the danger. There, they took the first bush bus which passed. They were returning to the Capital. The journey promised to be very long, and very trying.
Mitia was at present weaken. However, she felt calm now that her family and herself were safe and sound. The trip had last two night and three days. It was dark when the big bus, the fifth car of their exhausting long journey, was penetrating in the town of mile . September wind was still cold here. The thousand artificial lights were sparkling everywhere while the noises of the mass transits and the city-dwellers resounded. It was in this town that Mitia was born and had lived her first childhood. That’s reassured her, she was at home. She had to forget all she had left behind. Everything was so different. All things will be different.
Already nostalgic she was listening, in her mind, to the refrain of a song their English teacher had taught them: season of the sun
“We had joy, we had fun, we had season in the sun…”
Goodbye to you, sunny little beach, with your so blue and so clear sea. There is no sea here…Goodbye to you Jeremy, so tanned, so handsome with your dazzling smile. She wished for nothing between them, humble child as she was. It was just a natural ecstasy toward a gorgeous someone who ignored her innocently…It will be a romantic souvenir of her modest youth.
…………………………………..
«I am pride of you honey. I can tell that the disciple has overstepped the masters. Your dish is succulent!
“Oh, thank you mama. And I am pride to tell that it was because I had the best cooking coaches”
“Then, we are both grateful to you mamabe ” Mitia told tenderly to her daughter. Fitia was going to celebrate her ninth birthday tomorrow and… how she looked like so much to Jeremy and Mrs. Noro. She turned to the latter who was busying to sing cheerfully with the radio. She answered all the same to Mitia spinning in her flowery lambahoany
“I am the one who give thanks to God, every day He makes, for having you three, with me. You are a blessing for me, I repeat it again.”
Mitia, happy, became thoughtful. More than one year had passed since she moved into the beautiful residence of Mrs. Noro with her husband…Jeremy, and their only child Fitia. Her father in law died two years before, and Jeremy who was a ship captain decided to moved in his youth village in his family house with his little family. That overwhelmed his mother who was left widowed and now could live with her son, her daughter in law and her grand-child. Mitia smiled to herself. It was not the life she foresaw but it was the best life she could ever imagine for her….
Mitia was twenty-two when Jeremy and her had met in Antananarivo. Eight years had passed since their last Malagasy group homework…since their flight from Manompana. She was still studying to be a midwife and he was passing in the country, as he was a sailing student in France. He was visiting a relative who had just given birth in the hospital where Mitia was a trainee. It was unexpected. She had recognized him and thought he had not recognized her. But when she said his name he answered with his unchanged smile. Well it was more beautiful in his twenty-four years old face “Mitia! Here you are at last after all this time.”
He told her he could not forget this sweet and special young girl he waited in vain for his sixteen birthday. They became friends…then best friends. And one day, to her surprise Jeremy came in Antananarivo and invited her -just her -to celebrate his graduation in a charming restaurant …and there he asked her to be his wife. After few months, they were married in the coastal town of Toamasina where Jeremy’s father came from. Mitia was twenty-five and Jeremy two years elder.
And then, time passed and the little shy Mitia became, also, “the lady of the kitchen”. She was at home, at this delicious kitchen with its more delicious smell that remind her of her fourteen spring. But it was a past story. All things have been renewed now.