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wine…
    Silence.
    Truth said, “You told us to buy carbonated olive oil.”
    No visible response at first. Then Dr Teufelsdröckh convulsed. “What’s that you say?” he blubbered.
    “He said you told us to buy carbonated olive oil,” said Beauty.
    Dr Teufelsdröckh spit a mouthful of wine into the sink. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.” He swallowed the remainder of wine in the glass and, pouring himself another glass, said, “But let’s assume that what you say is true. Let’s assume it. For the sake of argument. You say— both of you say—that I told you to buy carbonated olive oil. Fine. That’s what you say. That’s what you’re telling me that I told you to do, and you do what I tell you to do, because I tell you to do it, and because I pay you to do it. In short, that is the nature of your occupation, or, as it were, your job . Now then. Here is the question I want to pose and, if you will, problematize. Why would I ask you to purchase carbonated olive oil? That’s the question. That’s the question I’m talking about. Here’s another one: What can a man do with carbonated olive oil? What can anyone do with it? Why does it even exist, is the thing I really want to know. Have you ever heard of a meal of any genre, class or ethnicity that features carbonated olive oil as a requisite ingredient? Have you ever even heard of anybody dipping a piece of bread into carbonated olive oil for the sake of a pleasurable tasting experience? Don’t say you have, because you haven’t—because nobody has.”
    “The thing is,” said Truth.
    The doktor took a sharp sip of wine. “As far as I know, the only thing you can do with carbonated olive oil is drink it straight from the bottle. Do you know what else you can drink straight from a bottle? Milk. Piss. Hemlock. Whatever you damn well want. But you don’t use it to cook a meal! Hence my point. Thus and so. You understand, yes? But let’s pretend you don’t understand. Which you clearly don’t. In which case we won’t be pretending anything. On the contrary, we will be operating within the confines of reality , per se. Which is to say, reality is performative by nature . Which is to say, whatever we accomplish here, whatever we do , be it known that our actions are not natural or free-spirited, as some Nerf mongers would have it. An action is an act , after all, as in to act , as in to play a role . Man is a histrionic, technological animal. And nature is the theater of technology.” Sip of wine. “At this point I’d like to revert back to my thesis. What was I talking about, for Christ’s sake?” Sip of wine. Sip of wine…
    Beauty started to nod off. Truth killed a ladybug that landed on his arm.
    Dr Teufelsdröckh chewed a fingernail. “Yes, olive oil. Meals. I’m making a meal, you see. This is the point. I’m making a meal, and it calls for olive oil, not carbonated olive oil, which is an atrocity, which is something that could only exist in a shitty pulp novel or B-movie, and yet here I sit in my kitchen, and over there, sitting on the countertop, is a gigantic bottle of carbonated olive oil. I realize that olive oil, carbonated or not, is still olive oil. But when one says olive oil, when one thinks olive oil, the last thing that comes to mind is carbonation. So here’s the score. Either we are all characters in a shitty pulp novel or B-movie, or else you, my assistants, have committed an act of idiocy. I hope you can hear me. Am I making myself clear?”
    Truth handed Dr Teufelsdröckh a slip of paper.
    “What’s this?” He snatched the paper. Scribbled on it were the items he had asked his assistants to purchase for him that day…Sun-dried tomatoes. Leeks. Tofu. Dill weed. Bulgur pilaf. A turnip. One pasta after another…The last item on the list was, apropos, a bottle of CARBONATED olive oil, beneath which hung a subcategory listing acceptable brands.
    Truth said, “I thought it was an odd request.”
    Beauty said,