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serenity.
    Weiner, his immediate superior, briefs him on his latest. “Large establishment discovered in Finsbury Park. Tandoori at aphelion, by the smell of it. Plush seating, sitar music. Pickles mostly mango and lime. Rumours of onion ring system. No known poppadums.” Always they seem to simmer into existence, appearing where least expected, between honest buildings immobile for years. Because of an allergy to chilled lager, Weiner has never completed a mission himself. Yet he feels for his men, he really does, he is in there with them.
    “ The name?” Mondrian flexes his tongue. It twitches like a feline ear, but this is a painful analogy. He recalls Schultz, fed cat dhansak in Earls Court. He has seen many colleagues fall by the tableside. It pays to be cautious, though not in hard currency. Nascent scoffs at his obsession with names. There is a spiceman saying: What the fork cannot balance is no affair of the palate.
    Weiner is more tolerant. “ The Taste of Asia . Could be a variable. Some evidence of inconsistent pricing. Big enough to be unstable. Might go nouvelle at any time.” He reaches out to touch Mondrian’s arm. “There hasn’t been a restaurant this large for years. I hate to think what will happen if it collapses. Pizzeria, greasy spoon, Tapas bar.” Weiner is a pessimist. He still has nightmares about the Leicester Square Nebula, a sprinkling of white dwarf cafés.
    In the common room, the men are polishing their footwear. They do not look up when Mondrian enters. His portrait hangs on the far wall, a lugubrious figure. When they must answer his questions, they address the picture. It makes things easier. There is tension otherwise. Sitting on the espresso machine, dangling his narrow legs, Nascent sneers. “Why not open a restaurant yourself? Explore both sides of the kitchen.” Mondrian inclines his great head. He is stuck with his mercenary reputation. He wants to shout at them, tell them about his insecurities, but spicemen are supposed to enjoy anxiety, wear it as part of the uniform. How else will women know they are attractive?
    Outside, in the Greenwich evening, Mondrian is at peace. The Spice Centre, on the banks of the river, ignites in the sunset. The gigantic nose rotates high above, mapping the city on the culinary wavelength. A solitary bargee gives his impossibly romantic cry: “Southwark for a fiver.” At this point, where the Thames makes a smiling bend, effluent from a thousand unlicensed establishments falters on its journey to the sea. More bargees hove into sight, poles snapping the cooling crust of the curry sauce. Lentils lap at Mondrian’s feet.
    Making his way to the pedestrian tunnel, he passes the ruins of the pier. Even here, last bastion of authority, freelancers are rife. Among the stubs of protruding timbers, balanced like stylites on the reliable posts, men and women dangle nets, catching the larger pieces of carrot and potato for their own pots. One hag, panning for sweetcorn, nuggets as black as her teeth, gestures with her colander. “Hey, spicer, you’ve dropped an apple of abandonment.” Feeling in his metaphysical basket, Mondrian finds this is true. He is running out of existentialism at an alarming rate. A trip to Camden market is called for.
    The tunnel is crowded with ruffians boiling rice. Under every curry there is some Basmati. Mondrian knows how to ignore touts. His stride is purposeful, he shuts his mind to their jeers, the clash of spoon on pan, the turmeric dust storms. On the far side of the river, home territory, he emerges into the Island Gardens. The last industries are milked on this udder of land, tents grouped in concentric circles. In the centre of the commercial Karakoram, the striped marquee of Ancient Electronics Ltd ripples majestically. Dragonflies skim the fabric. The flag, design showing an azure flip-flop rampant, is stiff with pollution, the smoke of charred Naan breads innumerable.
    Old Speckled Henrietta, head of the