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what are you serving on opening night?”
    â€œPufferfish.”
    â€œPuffish?” Was it some kind of pastry?
    â€œPuffer…fish.”
    â€œA fish? Doesn’t sound very dangerous.”
    â€œOh, but it is. This is beyond my powers as a chef. I have to fly in an expert from Japan to cut out the poison. Were you even to touch it, a small drop of it, you would die an agonizing death.”
    â€œThen how do people eat it?”
    â€œThat is why I have the Japanese chef – trained to extract all but the most infinitesimal trace of the poison. It causes numbness, a numbness that titillates because of its closeness to death.”
    â€œAnything else dangerous on the menu?”
    â€œOh, one or two little risky items. Nothing too serious.”
    â€œThe first dinner is when?”
    â€œI had planned for July first. Canada Day. This is a world first, and Canada – Red Island – will be able to lay claim to it. Sadly, we can’t have it then.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œIt’s a Monday. Much too pedestrian.”
    â€œSo, Sunday.”
    â€œYes, I would prefer Saturday, but there are local celebrations.”
    He was trying to sound as if he were being community-minded, but he didn’t want village children swarming all over the cape, shouting and laughing and disturbing his diners on his big opening.
    â€œAny Canadian clientele signed up yet?”
    â€œAll our guests for the inaugural dinner are Canadian, of course.” He spread his arms, hands open, palms up. Guests, not clientele.
    Generous. The Japanese chef. The food flown in. Giving it all away. Where does his money come from? Hy wanted to ask, but this was only a newsletter. In the end, she couldn’t contain her curiosity.
    â€œWhere does the money come from? Do you have backers?”
    Anton winced at the crudity of the word.
    â€œA patroness. I have a patroness.” He sighed. He supposed he’d have to name her. He hated it, every time he had to do it. He preferred to spell it out, avoid needless confusion and explanations. He motioned for her notebook and wrote for what seemed a very long time. Was it a double- or triple-barreled name?
    He returned the notebook to her. On it was written Viola Featherstonehaugh.
    â€œViola…” She screwed up her face. “Feather…stone…haw?”
    â€œShe’s happy to be called…”
    â€œHuff…hog…”
    Anton gave a shrug of despair and Hy gave up the guessing game.
    â€œViola,” she said.
    â€œViola,” he repeated. Another one tangled and tamed.
    â€œThis Viola – who is she? What does she do?”
    â€œ Do ?” He looked at Hy with distaste. “ Do ?” he said again. “She does not do anything. She does not have to do anything.”
    â€œShe has money,” said Hy.
    He half-closed his eyes and nodded his head. “A great deal.”
    â€œAnd she’s invested in you, because –” Hy left the sentence purposely hanging.
    â€œBecause she believes in me, of course, and in what I do.”
    â€œ Do ?” Hy couldn’t resist.
    Anton ignored the dig.
    â€œWill she be here for the inaugural dinner?”
    â€œOf course. She is on the leading edge of the dangerous food movement. This will not be her first taste of pufferfish.”
    â€œLet’s hope it won’t be her last.” Hy grinned. He stared at her blankly, unwilling to encourage her amusement. There had been too much of that. He preferred a serious consideration of his life’s work.
    There was an awkward silence.
    â€œWe were talking about Canadian clientele,” Hy prompted.
    â€œApart from our inaugural evening, none so far. The men and women with money and connections here aren’t jaded yet. They still get excited about eating seal and bison. Not dangerous.”
    â€œNo.” A smile lit her eyes. “Except when they’re alive. The seal to the cod. The