Our Little Friend

What's this on the top? asked Pliny at lunchtime peering into his bowl of fruit.

It's rock melon, I replied.

Not our little friend? he said, looking harder.

Yes, it is. His vine rotted away and he became detached this morning. I bet he never expected to fulfil his destiny so soon. How does he taste?

A definite rock melon nose. But disturbingly mushy. I don't think I look forward to finishing him off in this state. Perhaps we could use him in a cooked dish. My friend Apicius had a recipe called Pepones et Melones.

I'm all for that, I agreed, as long as it doesn't contain fish sauce.

As a matter of fact it does, said Pliny. You peel and dice the melon, after removing the seeds. Then you cook it with honey, parsley, pepper, a little liquamen, or salt, and vinegar.

I can't do that to him, I said. And I can't do that to me. But you can. We'll cut him in half, what's left of him anyway, and each do what we like with our portion.

This makes a nonsense of the idea of Fate and Destiny, observed Pliny, not to mention the integrity of the individual soul.

In such cases, I said, agreeing with him, it is better to think in terms of the Manichean division into Good and Evil.

Dualism? said Pliny. And my fish sauce would be Evil I suppose, according to you. May I ask what you intend to do with your own little piece of our friend?

Share him with Nostradamus, I said, who created him in the first place. And perhaps we will save some of the seeds and begin the whole cycle again. I might, I added grandly, even attempt to immortalize him in an elegaic poem.

Right, said Pliny. Now where's my knife?