Greetings !
 

I spent my first night in Penatrata in a tavern. The Tyson twins were most apologetic about not putting me up, but the decision outsized them, "because of our sister, you see".

The food that they served in the place was interesting, tasty despite it being pungently so, not quite strong enough, however, to vanquish the ammonium and sulphur hydroxide smell that permanently pervades Penatrata. I cannot really say what it was, and there was no menu to inform me. It was just put down in front of me with a grunt, in a wide, deep enamel bowl, decorated with stylized little christmas trees, which I found touching, since I have seen absolutely no sign of vegetation since arriving in Penatrata.

It was composed of a gooey, jelly-like substance (they call it soup), a rich orangy colour, that sort of wobbled up into a high little heap in the middle of the bowl. It seemed to abhor adhering to the bowl, as if it had an electrical nature, a force of repulsion pushing the stuff as far away from the sides as possible, into a mound in the middle. One eats the stuff with a blunt metal spoon, though my first efforts to spoon it up were fruitless. Each time I attempted to push my spoon into it, it just waddled off to the sides. It took a while of observing the locals relishing the stuff to understand that there is a way of looking at it sideways, at the pattern of refracted light shining through it, to see the flaws where one can get an edge in with one's spoon. A bit like diamond cutting, but not as lucrative.

I suppose that it contained carrots and beans, but the body of the stuff, the goo, is of animal or marine origin. On my inquiring as to whether whatever it came from walked, flew, or swam (or a combination of the three) before ending up in my plate, I learnt only that the tavern's proprietor was not privy to the origin of his ingredients. He is delivered every Wednesday morning by the Company suppliers. He boasts, however, of scrupulously preparing it in the time honoured way.

The beer that they serve in the place is very tired and subject to a very complex rationing system (which evaporates on coming into contact with foreign currency, you might have guessed. Lucky me!). Thinking back to the Tysons' insouciance in the face of the rarity of the stuff makes me believe that they have alternative channels of supply.

There were only men in the place. It seems as if the tavern caters primarily for migrant workers who labour in the pits, and travelling salesmen. My attempts at conversation were fruitless, I have never seen such a roomful of dour people like that, their noses buried in their food. There was an old fellow in the corner, a regular, to whom the tavern owner referred as "Abe", who spent the evening muttering on in an endless negotiation with himself as he played with his food. He appeared to be preoccupied with counting the number of righteous souls inhabiting Penatrata.

There were several rooms on the first floor, in a row above the restaurant. One had to climb a steep, exterior metal stair to get there. The room was clean, and the bed lumpy but soft, as if the mattress was filled with something that oozed into position around you as you lay down. Really comfortable, cradled in a jelly womb. I imagined that it was filled with leftovers from dinner. I slept well, like a rock. I dreamt of flatness contradicted by nobby hills. I was woken at sun up, by the gonging bell on the workers barges as they crossed the bay to the other side.

There was only one other client in the place, a travelling salesman, selling dental equipment, whom I met over breakfast. He said that he had stuff that would revolutionise the dental profession. No sign of Abe, he had disappeared into the night when the place shut the previous evening. Apparently he lodged with his brother.

About the picture on the card. This is the first view that one has of Penatrata when one arrives. A road looping down a barren mountain, towards a deep fissure far below sea-level ("which sea?", you ask!), filled with a black lake. The cliffs above are eyebrowed with light. A moment of déjà vu, I might have been going down the Vence Pass over the stony hills above Nice, the French Riviera a shawl of lights at sea's edge, vertiginously spread out before me. But no comforting sea this, here and there enormous fires burn directly off the water, fueled by the gas that bubbles to the surface, and which, incidentally, is responsable for the smell of Penatrata.

The drive down the steep mountain was really spectacular, especially with the Tyson twins at the wheel. Both of them together, quarreling for control, cursing the other a useless driver. At the bottom, we skidded to a stop outside the tavern, I found myself ejected from the car before it had stopped. "Come visit!", they called as they roared off in a cloud of greasy fumes, leaving no address to oblige themselves.

One cannot call it a town. An autonomous industrial installation would be more appropriate. Or inhabited machine. It is a town and mine in one, people toil and fall into bed exhausted. The cliffs are riddled with caves, abandoned parts of the mine which have been taken over by troglodyte living quarters. They are lit up like fairy christmas all year round. Electricity is the one thing that is not in short supply, it is generated directly off the lake.

Should I say that this place reminds me of those two biblical towns?... that I should not name, for the postal clerk is the unofficial town censor, sensitive about references which might tarnish Penatrata's reputation.
 

Yours truly,