Hypothermia

Another giant envelope from the Secretariat, another refusal.
    I’ve lost too many contests—including one that was rigged in my favor—for the likelihood of my being judged to keep me awake at night. Even so, I was on the alert for several weeks, awaiting the arrival at my restaurant of a contingent of Swiss gentlemen—tall, balding, red-faced, and wearing thick eyeglasses. In the fantasies produced by my abominably boring and friendless life, in an apartment without a TV, that’s precisely how the Swiss appear.
    Nobody who looked even remotely like that ever sat down at our tables, so I supposed that they’d forgotten about me, or that the Swiss might have snuck in in the guise of gringo students or Mexican office clerks. One of my waiters—a Colombian know-it-all—told me that the Swiss were Calvinists, and that’s how we’d be able to recognize them. I asked him what a Calvinist would look like. He told me that they’re very strict, practically vegetarians, and that they’ve got no lips. I took note.
    At last a woman with a neutral French accent phoned to let me know that my masterful red snapper in fig vinaigrette had earned me the privilege of competing on Lard . She didn’t speak Spanish but she understood my English, and she was polite, friendly, and obviously very young. It had never occurred to me that there were also Swiss women, much less ones that were young. She was quite insistent that it was the fine quality of my cooking that had won me the honor of participating, that I should be proud and list it as such on my résumé, for which reason I supposed my restaurant to be lacking in hygiene and me in charisma. I asked her if she was from the Secretariat. She didn’t understand and again recommended that I include my status as a finalist on my résumé.
    Once in Lima, Mr. Hinojosa was equally unable to set me straight. The moment I got in his Mercedes I asked him about the people who had hired him. He said that he had no information to give me. He worked for a security agency and all they told him was what to do—he’d spent the whole day delivering foreigners to a hotel in Miraflores. I spoke vaguely about how Mexican chauffeurs made more money from tips than from their nominal wages, then after a pause asked him if he wasn’t authorized to give me that information or if he really didn’t know. Although I’ve lived in the United States for several years, I know perfectly well how to overcome the resistance of my fellow Latin Americans. He told me that if he knew he would tell me because he liked me. Sure, I answered him. Are you attending a conference? he asked me after a while. I was riding along staring distractedly out the window—I’m from Mexico City but still managed to be astonished by the ugliness of Lima, which even surpassed its reputation. No, I told him, with my eyes fixed on the horrific casinos that lined the avenue down which we traveled, we’re here for a dinner, and then a kind of competition.
    The program that they’d sent me once I became a finalist wasn’t very clear, at least not to me, and if there’s something I know nothing about, it’s how the media works: the first day was for individual preproduction filming with each chef, then we were all attending a dinner together at the house of Max Terapia—though he was not expected to be cooking. The next day, the actual competition would be filmed at a studio, they’d pay us our honoraria and a cash prize for the winner, then send us home.
    It’s all a little mysterious, Mr. Hinojosa told me. Normally, people tell me why they’ve come to Lima, but you’re the fifth one that I’ve picked up today and only the first to tell me anything. Is it a conference for secret agents? he asked. I told him it wasn’t, that it was for chefs. Another one of the envelopes that I’d gotten after talking with the perky young Swiss woman contained an astonishingly long contract that forbade me from saying anything about my participating in Lard save to my most discreet, intimate associates. I supposed, however, that the clause was really there to prevent my saying anything to food critics and other chefs, so I saw no reason not to tell Mr. Hinojosa that I was going to a dinner at Max Terapia’s house. He slammed on the brakes, screeching to a halt in the middle of the street, then turned around to face me. Is he here in Lima? he asked me, as if the presence in town of a saucepan artiste was something of great import. He