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Nascent would attend the funeral, he was sure of that, but only to jeer. He could picture them around the open grave, the empty speeches, the handfuls of powdered cumin cast onto the unleavened coffin. Requisat in Spice .
    He gains his room without meeting the others in the passages. They spend their spare time in the common room, laughing at Nascent’s jokes. Weiner has his own pursuits, though he will never state what they are. Mondrian suspects him of having a second job, like himself. As he waits impatiently to fall asleep, he hears a door close softly and footsteps outside his window. A receding superior makes a distinctive sound. One evening, Mondrian decides, he will follow.
    The dawn bastes his forehead in a cayenne glow. He tumbles down to breakfast early, eager to avoid the traditional baiting that precedes a mission. In his case, his colleagues share his reluctance. Lighthearted insults are not the sort they wish to crack his shell with. Belligerent taunts or nothing. They will sleep on.
    He takes coffee and checks the time. The morning is his only until elevenses, when he will be required to present himself before Weiner and suit up. Weiner usually has something to say, a reminder of his duties or a potted history of the founder’s own exploits. There are just enough hours to take the communal moped for a spin. The antique vehicle, kept as a privilege for pre-mission spicemen, is a symbol of resistance. The one dogmatic herald of the technology backlash.
    Mondrian learnt to ride with the aid of diagrams and exercises in balance and embarrassment. The key is waiting for him under his cereal dish, in a brown envelope. In the garage he runs his fingers over the canvas tarpaulin, exposes the rusty machine and settles into the seat. There is supposedly a connection between such devices and the stereo he is due to demonstrate. He cannot imagine what.
    He heads north, his favourite direction. Pedestrians part before him like the waters of a Sunday-schooled sea. Waiters move tables and chairs out of his way, panic on their sardonic faces, amazement in the eyes of their alfresco customers. Porters loaded with chillies, fresh and desiccated, stevedores rolling barrels of humus, minstrels juggling falafel, gape at his smoky progress.
    In Camden market, he browses among the olives of anguish, plums of despair and apples of abandonment. They are imported from New Zealand, where the climate is perfect for Sartrian posturing. In the dissolute corner of the market, the edge of Chalk Farm Road, the proprietor of a quivering stall calls: “Notions of goodness, a dozen for a quid.” On impulse, Mondrian buys a punnet for Old Speckled Henrietta. Slightly squashed, they still represent good ethical value.
    He fills up on existentialism. The juice of the strict philosophy diminishes his fears, though he still does not want to die. Existence precedes essence again, so he can breathe more easy. The journey back, though an exact reverse of the former, takes longer. He is looking out for previous conquests. A particularly sinister restaurant near King’s Cross with ever-changing decor, the Khorma Chameleon, has faded to a wisp. The sight renews his confidence.
    He returns to the garage of the Spice Centre, where a mock-cheerful Weiner greets him with a nod. “The most enjoyable service of all, so I’ve heard. Vespas, eh?” He does not wait for an answer, merely checks his watch and leads Mondrian back into the building. “You’ve got the right stuff. Good heat shield, an emergency napkin for touchdown. We’ll talk you through it.”
    Mondrian grunts absently, his soul oppressed, and yet uplifted, by his basket of philosophy. Turning a corner, they collide with Nascent, who has a bowl of Scepticism. Mondrian’s recent purchases spill and roll among Nascent’s Schopenhauerian kumquats. As they scrabble on the floor, Weiner mutters his disapproval. “Dignity, boys.” The basket and bowl are refilled, the spicemen disengage with