Morte Delizioso (#584)

(an instance of Generic Room with Seats made by Steelgrave)

     The Interzone lures addicts of all persuasions into its embrace. Those who lust for the sweet, subtle, merciless ravishment of sugar and chocolate will find the culmination of their desires here. The enveloping aroma of cioccolato is heavy as incense, luxurious as velvet. The shop is a palace in miniature, once decadent, now falling into decay. Finely carved plaster festoons drip from the domed ceiling, pieces missing. The walls and floors are covered with zelige, the mosaics intricate and colorful, but cracked. Fretted windows look out on the courtyard and give a glimpse of the alley beyond. The fretted windows let in a honeycomb of light and shadow, a cool breeze from the bay refreshes the air. Assorted fanciful chairs and small round tables are scattered about the room, and geckos skitter audibly across the trio of faded and posters bedecking the far wall. Beneath, a display of lavish desserts beckons, their ingredients obtained by devious and exploitative methods.

You choose one of the chairs and sit down at a small table.

You notice some details:
      The case is polished to a spotless gleam, the only flaw a bullet hole that riddles one side panel of glass, radiating a spider's web of lines. Mama won't replace it, as it has sentimental value. Within the glass case the desserts are arranged on fine, if rather chipped, majoiica pottery, gilded plates, and serving trays of burnished metal. The case displays today's assortment of truffles, nested on a paper doily. Beside it is platter of colorful bite-sized tartes. Mama's own Cassatta alla Siciliana is displayed proudly, the rich loaf covered with dark chocolate frosting piped in ornate designs of swirling loops and plump rosettes. Equally alluring is the tiramisu, with its layers of ladyfingers, marscapone, and cocoa. The case is open, tempting you to take a dessert.
      The temptations in the glass case lure your eye. On the wall behind the case, three posters are displayed. Beside it a multicolored beaded curtain obscures a corridor.
      The zelige are laid in a pattern of radiating stars and rosettes, the white framework accented with smaller tiles of cobalt blue and green, rich gold and chocolate brown. The crazing of cracks is noticable, but Mama weilds her broom with ferocity, keeping the floors free of invading sand. Impertinent cockroachs are caned.
      The chairs are bent wood or metal worked in extravagant loops and curls, scarred and chipped.
      The little tables are topped with rounds of different colored marble, slightly fractured.
      The elaborate festoons drip from the ceiling like crumbling stalactites. A lamp of intricately pierced brass has laid a fine shadow of soot within the dome.
      The zelige cover the walls to shoulder height, their cracked pattern of starbursts and rosettes edged with freizes of latticework and lion claws. Above the mosaics the fragile stucco traces a disintegrating pattern of stylized flora and palm leaves mingled with geometric motifs.
      Yellowed, their edges curling, two posters display the beauties of Italy. On one side the sun rises, gilding the wild hills of Sicily, on the other it sets with opalescent splendour in the wavering mirror of the Venician lagoon. Who knows what sinister matters of life and death have driven Mama Hunch to take refuge in the twisted maze of the Interzone, rather than her beloved homeland? Between these two posters is a third which shows a sea of melting chocolate, and bears only the single legend, Cocolat.
      The fretted window screens look out on a courtyard lush with vines but powdered with drifts of sand. In its center, an eroded marble fountain spills tiers of transparent, glimmering cascades.
      The cup of mint tea is pale gold, the scent of its rising steam cool and aromatic.
      The glass is filled with a dark, rich Assam tea.
      White porcelain, the small cup sits on a chipped saucer. The hot dark essence that fills the cup uncoils a fragrant ribbon of steam.
      Mama Hunch serves a robust brew made from freshly ground African beans.
      Mama displays her artistry in the dark to pale layers of the glass of capuccino, topped with thick milky froth.
      The latte is tall and foaming, the dark scent of the espresso softened with creamy milk.

You see a Menu, a fancy case with fractured glass, chocolate truffles, cassatta alla Siciliana, tartes, tiramisu and Mama Hunch here.

EXITS:
      The walls are lavished with a geometric orgy of mosaics and intricate plaster carvings. The door, painted crimson and bronze, leads to the courtyard, and from there down the spice sellers' alley to the Interzone Plaza. [ east ] Interzone Plaza. The lush fragrance of chocolate follows you out the door. You retrace your steps past the marble fountain in the courtyard and through the archway to the spice sellers' alleyway. Your lust sated for the moment, you stroll through the interwoven play of light and shadow cast by the roofing of palm fronds, eyeing the vivid displays. On either side, baskets and jars are heaped with kaffir, cinnamon, paprika, saffron, pale and dark seeds of sesame, pods of cardamon and tamarind. The air is powdered and scented with a multitude of colors and aromas, but the fragrance of Morte Delizioso breathes under all.

This place has a certain ambiance...
     Outside the liquid murmur of the fountain adds a subtle music to the air.
     A man peers through the door of Morte Delizioso. Ascetic face, severe American suit, he enters with a furtive air, skulking up to the glass case and gazes at its contents with mournfully obscene yearning. He carries an old black typewriter under one arm. It seems to squirm - a hallucinatory moment provoked by an overdose of sugar, no doubt. The man clutches the typewriter to his chest. With a moan of thwarted longing he rushes from the shop.
     Mama goes through the beaded curtain. Sporadically, you hear a violent clatter of pots and pans and muffled curses. Mama reappears well dusted with flour, trailed by the warm fragrance of freshly baked pastry.
     A monstrous cockroach, the size of a typewriter, scuttles from under the bead curtain and hurries to the glass case. Its black legs scritch at the glass, and the glossy wings beat in an insectile frenzy. When they lift, you glimpse a pulsating orifice beneath them. Suddenly Mama Hunch catches sight of the creature. With a snort of fury she attacks, flogging it with her cane till it flees out the back, squealing piteously.
     The aroma of chocolate is ever present, palpable as a caress, a continuing seduction.
     Mama Hunch goes to the door and peers outside. She frowns and sniffs the air. She closes the shutters tight. She opens them, glares at the sky, and closes them tight again. You rememeber warnings of the chergui, the vicious sandstorm that devours flesh from bone with its swirling multitude of gritty, fire-edged teeth. Contemplating such a violent demise provokes a perverse lust for chocolate truffles. R'mel qala. The sand has spoken.
     The scent of cinnamon wafts from the spicesellers' alleyway, mingling its poignant musk in the enveloping aura of chocolate.
     Two snake charmers enter, cobras twined like sinister necklaces about their throats. They purchase a truffle and depart, passing it back and forth between their flickering tongues.
     A bedraggled ten year old street urchin wanders into Morte Delizioso, dragging on a cigarette. Mama snatches it from his lips and grinds it into the tile floor. Mama disapproves of all addictions but her own. She gives the disheveled urchin a little bag of broken bits of pastry for free. Later, when he's older, he'll pay.
     Faintly, through the window, you hear the call of the muezzin. You picture him standing on the top of a minaret as he summons the faithful to prayer.
     There is a clamor in the courtyard. A movie crew appears, bearing cameras, and mills about aimlessly. A special effects man leans near the window, dangling the bug-eyed head of a latex Mugwump from his hand. After a while, the director throws up his hands in exasperation and the crew departs. You wonder if they've ever seen a real Mugwump.
     From the alleyway, the braying complaint of a donkey drowns out the susurration of the fountain.
     A trio of musicians seek the haven of the courtyard. Sitting on the edge of the fountain, they play. The fluting of the nira, the plucked delicacy of the rebab, and the fluid zing of the sanza weave their mournful quarter notes into a haunting melody.
     Looking up, you see two shadowy figures outside the window, speaking in furtive and vaguely sinister tones. Their speech is a jumble of French, Arabic, and English. The only word you are certain you hear is "centipede".
     You notice a small white card blending into the pattern of the zelige on the floor. You pick it up and find it offers you the services of the Dr. Benway - notorious even in the Interzone. The card is covered with a faint grit too fine to be sand. Could it be bug powder?
     A wicked gleam comes into Mama Hunch's eyes. She seizes her broom and begins an obsessive sweep of the floor, brushing a few grains of sand into her dust pan. You make the mistake of turning your back and get a poke from the broom handle. Mama apologizes insincerely, the broom twitching in her hands. She sweeps under your table and you quickly lift your feet to avoid the jab of the broom bristles. Her sadistic urge satisfied for the moment, Mama put away the broom and croons to herself in Italian.
     You hear a door open in the back of the shop. Mama disappears with a swish through the curtain. Invisible dealings are conducted in sibilant hisses and disbelieving grunts. You hear the stomp of a heavy shoe and a yelp of pain. Mama emerges through the vibrant rain of beads muttering about exhorbitant black market prices. Mama Hunch has other, more reliable sources she can contact.