Huxley set him to work that morning preparing shrimp. Anzo had never eaten shrimp before, despite growing up so close to the bay. They were nasty looking little creatures. Beady, black eyes and long, wispy feelers. And they had that foul smell on them that everything in the water did.
"They cook up well," Huxley assured him.
The little things came frozen in two enormous sacks, and it was up to Anzo to rinse them until they were pliable again. And so he cut off the heads, peeled off the shells, split the backs open, and pulled out that sticky black vein. It was a lot of labor for not a lot of meat.
Huxley pulled one of the tails from the pile and ran a little knife down the back, deepening the cut Anzo had made. With a practiced sort of precision, he spread the meat apart until it was nearly flat. And then, he dropped it into the pot of whatever he was boiling. After a scant few seconds, he fished it out again. The meat had turned from a slimy grey to a rosy pink.
"All yours," he said, dropping it into Anzo's hand.
"It's safe to eat?"
"Fully cooked," Huxley insisted. "That's all it takes."
Anzo popped the shrimp into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. It was a bold flavor, very rich. The meat had a confident firmness to it without any grain. He could certainly see the appeal.
"So," he said, "how many of these can you skim before your patron notices?"
Huxley laughed. "Now you're asking the right questions."
It was hard to think that the little water bugs would cook up so well, but Anzo would hardly balk if Huxley served him a heaping bowl of them. Unfortunately, if he had his fill, (patron) would surely notice her special shipment ran out much too quickly.
But Huxley was a clever man, and he knew how to stretch his ingredients. The pair skimmed just a few off the top, but Huxley made the most of the meat they could afford to pinch. He served them up in a rice dish, something already loaded with colorful vegetables and fried sausage. Even then, the shrimp stood out. If anything, they were elevated by the other flavors.
The rice was thick with broth, almost stew-like. And when it was served to him, still steaming hot, Anzo couldn't help himself. He shoveled it down like a man obsessed. It was hard to put into words what was in that bowl. It was a warm hug, a gentle caress. Anzo hardly looked up until his spoon scraped against the porcelin bowl. Huxley had been watching him the entire time, chin resting on his hand. He hadn't even touched his own meal.
"If you're still hungry," Huxley quickly slid that bowl across the table.
Anzo looked at him for a long, lingering moment. Proper manners would have him insisting that Huxley take it back. But, intoxicated as he was, he began eating again. All the while, Huxley watched him with shining eyes.
"You've a talent for this sort of thing," he said when he emptied the second bowl.
Huxley gave him a wink. "I always aim to please."
There was something about that man. They'd known each other all of a few days, but Anzo felt as though it had been months. Years, maybe. It was as though Huxley had an eye to peer past all the armor. How he liked what he saw, Anzo would surely never understand.
"I'm flattered," Huxley said, grinning with all his teeth. "(patron) likes me enough to keep paying me, but she'd never put my food away like you can."
"Come eat army food for a week," Anzo said. "You'll understand."
"Oh, don't say that. I do hope they're feeding you well."
"They feed us," was all Anzo could say.
Huxley gave him a strange sort of look. "I suppose I'll have to do the heavy lifting, then. So if I wanted to send you a package, where would I send it?"
Anzo felt his face get hot. "Oh, you wouldn't need to do that."
"I do insist." Huxley put his hand over Anzo's.
His heart thudded heavily in his ears "To Lance-corporal Anzo Ayers," he quietly said, "of H company in the 56th battalion. Someone will get it to where it ought to go."
That earned him another sunbeam smile. "Good," Huxley said. "I'll write you when you're out and about. Surely you'll need someone to send you a good meal once in a while."
Anzo had to think of the delicately-wrapped packages that Jan's wife sent to the front. The fancy sausage, the crusty bread... Jan, ever the saint of a man, always saw fit to share with a lonely soul like Anzo. And now, the idea that someone cared enough to do the same for him...
For once, the world felt warm and bright.
After scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing his hands, Anzo's fingers still stank of shrimp. His skin was dry and tight, and just beneath the smell of soap was the telltale odor of water bugs. Anzo briefly panicked, thinking that it was going to be permanent.
Huxley wasn't too alarmed. "You’ll sweat it out, just give it time."
"I hope so," Anzo moaned, sniffing his fingers in minor despair.
"Best way to overcome it is to stop smelling yourself like that," Huxley said.
Even with his hands at his side, Anzo swore he could still smell it. There was something just a little unfair about shrimp, he decided. Never had he spent so much labor on a food that was eaten so quickly, yet stank so brutally. But, if given the opportunity, he knew he'd do it again, stink and all. Just so long as Huxley was the one in charge of cooking them up. Huxley, meanwhile, approached the shrimp with an auteur's eye. While Anzo was futilely scrubbing up, Huxley was deftly scraping all the shell fragments and the severed heads into a big pot. He covered them with a generous glug of oil, then onto the burner it all went. It wasn't long before a divine scent edged out the dull reek. Full of food as he was, Anzo couldn't help but peek his head into the pot. All the shells and viscera had turned that same rosy pink. And then, a great big bowl of water on top of it all. Huxley covered the whole affair and turned the burner down to a dim flame.
"More broth," he explained. "This one's just for me. (patron) won't miss what she doesn't know about."
Anzo scrubbed up well one last time before kissing Huxley goodbye, the latter assuring him up and down that he smelled fine, and that no one would notice. And out on the street, it seemed no one did. The evening was balmy, and a light breeze wafted through the street. Anzo had simply gotten into his head too much, that was all.
Not a minute after Anzo made it back to the camp, Copper was recoiling in his chair.
"Where were you, playing in the bog?"
"Shelling shrimp," Anzo sighed.
"I gathered as much."
"Couple hundred of em?" Schmidt asked. "Because that is a potent smell."
Anzo rubbed his hands on his tunic. "I was in the kitchen for a few hours. I suppose it settled in."
Copper patted him on the back. "Well, don't sweat it too much, Shrimp. The best of us still have our smelliest moments."
"Let's not call me that."
"When the shoe fits, you might as well wear it, Shrimp." Schmidt was trying not to laugh.
"Besides," Copper said, "you're overdue for a proper nickname. 'Anzo' is much too long; this'll be easier to remember in those crucial moments."
"I need nicer friends," Anzo said, shaking his head.
"Well, too bad. You've got us."