Allan Kolski Horwitz

Feast

Allan Kolski Horwitz

At the far end of a darkened hall, a row of broad tables are laden with sumptuous foods; polished tureens filled with steaming soups and stews; earthen-ware dishes laden with tender, well-spiced meats, fishes and vegetables; porcelain bowls brimming with sauces, salads and succulent desserts. A great crowd pushes forward trying to reach the food, but, hemmed in by a mass of strangers, I am pressed against the main door, I am stuck at the very back.
     Perfume of a rare and delicate incense fills the hall, mingling with the rich aromas rising from the tables. Peering through the half light, I anxiously watch the silhouettes of those at the front, their heads moving this way and that as they heap their plates and eat their fill. I watch their every movement till these fortunate ones — oh so reluctantly! — are forced to leave and, little by little, the groaning, famished crowd advances, each new line of the needy finally able to feast.
      At last, weak and tense with expectation, I, too, reach the tables but to my distress I cannot find a plate. The stacks of dishes that had earlier stood in neat rows on the tables have all been taken. I search under baskets of fruit. The few plates I find are filthy, crusted with dried out leftovers. I search under bowls and jugs but the ones left there are also dirty and badly chipped.
      The hall fills with the sounds of eating, the sucking and munching of the satisfied. I become frantic. If I do not find a clean plate soon, the food will be finished. In desperation I tilt the heaviest pot but all I find under it is a heap of tangled, sticky cutlery, and though I redouble my efforts, checking everywhere, shifting and lifting, my search is in vain. There is nothing to be done; I must contain my hunger.
      I leave the hall and return to the small room where I live. There, still distraught, my empty stomach rumbling, shaking with frustration and anger, I lie down to rest. But images of the feast continue to float before my eyes, each succulent dish parading before me so that it makes me curl up, hollow inside, an anguished longing needing to be filled. Eventually, exhausted, I fall asleep.
      Hours later, I rise and return to the hall. The containers and receptacles have all been replenished; clean plates and cutlery have been laid out. Again the perfume of incense and the aromas of food fill the air and masses of people push forward. But this time I am at the very front of the crowd. I stand before the freshly decorated, laden tables. At last, I am content. I contemplate.

boontoe

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