Trilemma by Jennifer Mortimer Read Free Book Online

anticipation. “And about how Kiwis suffer from small-dog syndrome. You guys are ankle biters with a chip on both shoulders.”
    â€œAmericans,” Sally shakes her head. “At least we are brave little dogs who do our humble best to fight back. Your lot are raving paranoids, so scared of being attacked you have to carry a gun to protect your sissy arses.”
    â€œOh, not the gun argument!” Jiro says hastily. “Can I get you another glass of wine? What shall we open next?”
    Dirk laughs and holds out a bottle. “This is a five-year-old Chardonnay from the Napa Valley.”
    â€œDamn, it’s got a cork. Screw caps are easier. And they keep the wine fresh and crisp,” says Sally. “At least that’s what the local winemakers tell us.”
    â€œMore like raw and sharp! I’d rather drink mellow andsmooth. Which means a few years under a cork so the oxygen can dribble in,” Dirk replies and removes the cork for her.
    I find myself relaxing with these people, interesting people, who don’t notice the color of my skin, the angle of my eyes, or how I talk. I take another sip of the smooth, yellow Chardonnay.
    â€œHave you met Peter Jackson?” asks Karim. “Is he cool?”
    â€œIn a hairy sort of way,” Dirk replies.
    â€œDo you get to meet all the stars? What are they like?”
    â€œLike normal people,” Dirk says. “They eat, they drink, and they shit, just like the rest of us.”
    Michael darts back into the room with napkins and lays them carefully on the plates. He has laid the tables with the knives and forks reversed. At least I hope it was Michael. I’d hate to think our resident pathologist doesn’t know her right from her left.
    Sally has roasted a large piece of lamb, with potatoes and
kumara
, the sweet potato they eat here, and cauliflower with cheese and peas. Sally carries in the lamb. Polly pads hopefully behind her and lies at our feet, licking her chops.
    The meat has a hot kick. “Cayenne pepper smeared over the surface,” says Sally. “The gravy is made with butter and red wine.”
    â€œButter?” asks Dirk anxiously, holding the gravy boat as if it is poison.
    â€œDon’t be afraid,” coos Sally. “It won’t hurt you so long as you drink red wine as well.”
    I pick up the red wine bottle to examine the label. “Martin-borough. People keep telling me I should visit the wineries.”
    â€œAre you going to the Martinborough Wine Festival?” asks Sally.
    â€œI’d like to see more of New Zealand,” I say. “Ask me again, closer to the date.”
    Michael carefully clears away the dishes. Polly scoots into the kitchen before him and waits by her bowl, tail high andeyes alert. She is rewarded with the scraps, makes a strangled yelp as the cayenne hits, and submerges her nose in her water bowl.
    Sally brings out a large white dessert covered with fruit, sitting on a crystal platter.
    â€œPavlova!” she cries, brandishing a butcher’s knife.
    She cuts portions and slides the slices onto our plates. The meringue has a soft marshmallow center, a chewy outer layer, and a crisp shell, and is piled with fresh whipped cream, raspberries, slices of green kiwis, and chunks of yellow pineapple. Silence falls, eventually broken by the sound of spoons scraping on empty plates.
    Sally takes Michael to his room, and Karim heads out to a night shift, leaving the Americans alone at the table.
    â€œWhat do you think of Kiwis?” asks Jiro.
    â€œThey’re—I was about to say nice, but that’s such a favorite Kiwi word!” I reply. “I’m slipping into Kiwisms.”
    â€œ
Nice
reflects the Kiwi very well,” says Dirk. “
Nice
has a connotation of pleasantness in a modest kind of way, a way that doesn’t aim for anything outstanding.”
    Jiro adds, “If you want to please a Kiwi, you don’t compliment