Critique Page 3

  Sandy replaced the short glass on a coaster next to the monitor and ran his tongue over his lips. The taste of scotch had already passed, leaving behind the now-familiar flavours of mixed cheese, tangy tomato and resonant oaky pheromone.

  Sandy cursed himself. Until he saw the roaches, he’d been captivated by the dish and even now…the taste was seductive. He explored between his teeth with the tip of his tongue, seeking out an impossible surviving hint of flavour. Impossible, but there.

  A shadow flitted across the screen.

  Sandy spun the chair around to face his apartment.

  Nothing was out of place, bar his jacket, slung over the back of the sofa.

  The lamp cast a warm orange hue from the corner of the room. He’d left all the soft, sentimental keepsakes with Nicola, choosing to keep his private space neat and minimal. His only injection of personality sat on the bookshelves against the far wall: five rows packed with wine guides and dining appreciation books.

  Satisfied he remained alone, he turned back to the screen, reading his last few lines.

  “Bastards,” he said on conclusion. “I’ll put you fuckers out of business.”

  He hit return for a new paragraph, about to go to town on their Deception.

  Behind, a faint buzzing.

  Sandy swept around again, heart thumping. He traced the sound to the sofa, and relieved, walked over to his jacket. Digging into the pocket, he tugged out his still-vibrating phone. Without thinking, he accepted the call and raised it his ear.

  “Hello?”

  “Sandy,” whined the voice on the other end. “Where the hell where you?”

  “Shit,” he hissed. “Hey, Nic. What can I say? I’ve been busy.”

  “Too busy for your own daughter’s birthday?”

  He imagined the scene with pillaging kids, snobby mothers and that arsehole accountant lording over the whole show. And the food! Sausage rolls, pickled onions on sticks, fairy cakes, cheese sandwiches…and Nicola inevitably would have baked another cake. Perhaps eating roach pie wasn’t that bad.

  Sandy side-glanced at the computer screen.

  “Actually, yes, I’ve been very busy today.”

  “You mean you’ve been sat in a restaurant,” Nicola snapped. “That ain’t being busy, Sandy.”

  “That’s my job, Nicola,” he replied, feeling the last year of their marriage replaying. Same old shit, round and round.

  “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, but you don’t have a fucking heart, Sandy. Suzie spent all evening crying. She cried herself to sleep. That making you feel good? Not as good as a soufflé or lobster, but by Christ, doesn’t it feel good?”

  He heard what sounded like punching.

  “Down here. Feels good down here, right in the gut,” she stormed.

  In the background, a male voice muttered something. The accountant boyfriend, trying to soothe her probably.

  Nothing soothes her like a slap in the face, thought Sandy. Should be a man and step up.

  He saw her stood by his computer, the same computer that sat meters away, a look of confusion and disgust on her face.

  “What the hell is this, Sandy?”

  He snapped out of his memory. “What?”

  “What the fuck do you have to say about this?” Nicola continued to rave. “To forget it would be bad enough…but to remember and not bother? You didn’t even send a card!”

  “I told you,’ he said, voice raising. “I…was…busy! I divorced you to get away from this shit.”

  “I divorced you, Sandy.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair and approached the window.

  “You’d better make this up to her,” Nicola demanded. “She’s in pieces. You know, she went to bed and actually prayed, full-on kneeling by the bed with her hands together. Jeremy saw it when he went to tuck her in. He’s still in with her now. Are you happy, Sandy? This is all your fault.”

  “Someone suddenly developed a bit of spunk,” he said.

  “Then maybe I’ll have your attention,” she retorted.

  Sandy ripped open the curtains and stared at his sneering reflection.

  Bitch.

  Beyond the glass the rain pelted the bleak balcony. A strip of light framing Sandy’s shadow stretched across the water-blackened concrete.

  “You need to watch your mouth,” he said.

  “I’m not afraid of you anymore, Sandy. You’re just like the bully that picks on Suzie at the school. Goddamn. She’s a little bitch too.”

  In the shadows of the balcony, something moved.

  Sandy pressed his face against the window, squinting through the trails of water cascading down the glass.

  “I gotta go.”

  “Yeah,” said Nicola and cackled a bitter laugh. “I thought you might.”

  “Seriously,” said Sandy, rubbing away the condensation his breath had caused. “I think…there’s somebody on my balcony.”

  He pulled the phone away from his ear and terminated the call.

  The rain refused to let up, and Sandy wished for the foresight to have bought an external light. The weather allowed rare occasions to enjoy the balcony he paid extra for, not enough to warrant a light fixture out there.

  Since Cameron, he guessed he’d never enjoy a balcony again.

  He stared into the darkness, trying to distinguish a shape. Something had moved. He wondered how someone could have reached this floor in the first place. A wide slab separated him from his neighbour and gave him a little privacy. No way someone could climb around it.

  “Probably just a bird,” he said.

  A knock echoed through the apartment, and Sandy flinched.

  Someone at the door.

  He laughed at himself and pulled the curtains. About to close the gap, he saw a large shape silently slip over the balcony railing and fall out of sight.

  Sandy stood frozen at the window. Had someone gone through the trouble of climbing to his balcony, only to jump off?

  The knock repeated, sounding more insistent.

  Outside, the rain continued to fall.

  “Coming,” said Sandy and quickly closed the curtains.

  A trick of the eyes, he promised himself. The rain, the dark, the reflections.

  Besides, if some nut wants to take a leap from my balcony, that’s one less nut in the world.

  Like Cameron.

  Sandy shook the thought away and walked through his apartment to the front door. The knocking had grown as relentless as the downpour outside.

  “Okay!” Sandy moaned. He unlocked the door and swung it open.

  Standing in the hallway, droplets still dripping from his coat, stood a short figure clutching a small, white cardboard box. A hood was pulled tight over his head, hiding his downturned face.

  Sandy swallowed and tasted the sultry flavour of the roaches. “Yes?”

  “This is for you,” said the figure and offered the box. It was tied with brown string. The cardboard had darkened in patches due to the rain.

  Sandy looked down his nose at the package and glanced at the figure holding it.

  “I think you have the wrong apartment,” he said, already picturing drugs and gangs and guns. “Don’t worry. I won’t say a word.”

  “You misunderstand, monsieur,” said the figure. He lifted his head and pulled back the hood. His comb-over was plastered to his scalp. The maître d’ from The House of Jacob smoothed his neat moustache with a finger, still wearing that god-awful mask. “I am on my way home from the restaurant. Chef feels terrible about earlier, said that you should have been warned, perhaps. Hindsight is such a powerful and useless tool, is it not?” He smiled.

  Sandy smiled back, more from relief than amusement.

  “I’m sorry to bother you at home, but your editor allowed us your address, and Chef wanted me to drop this off.” He handed the box over.

  The critic eyed it with suspicion. “What is it?”

  “Your dessert, monsieur.”

  Sandy nearly
dropped the box. The maître d’ must have read his expression.

  “I assure you, Mr Devanche, this is a perfectly ordinary dish. Chef created one of his more traditional courses. All the ingredients are man-made. Nothing…irregular.” He ran his finger along his upper lip again. “We have an Ile Flottante, or Floating Island, for your pleasure. Chef thought you’d prefer something simple after this evening’s little misunderstanding.”

  Sandy corrected the package, keeping it as horizontal as possible. Some Floating Islands were very thin and runny.

  “And we don’t have…I don’t know…rat piss as a binding agent or anything?”

  The maître d’ laughed. “Rat piss! Very good, Mr Devanche! No, this is a completely normal Ile Flottante, but made with utmost precision and skill.” He bowed slightly. “I’ve taken up enough of your time, and I must get home to my wife. She complains if I’m home too late.”

  Sandy wished him a safe journey and closed the door to his apartment. He carried the box to the tiny kitchenette. Despite his obsession with good food, his kitchen was barely used. After all, a collector of vintage motor cars doesn’t get greasy building them himself. He placed the package on the bare work surface and opened a drawer.

  I must be crazy, he thought, pulling out a pair of scissors.

  His stomach growled, and he realised just how hungry he’d been. The first course eaten in the early evening had done little to fill the hole, and the few scotches seemed to dig it deeper. A nice creamy Ile Flottante would be a treat just before he retired to bed.

  A normal Ile Flottante at least.

  He snipped the string free and gingerly opened the cardboard flaps.

  Packed within balls of polystyrene sat a martini glass filled with a thick, off-white cream. A meringue floated on top, criss-crossed with vanilla pods. Sandy tilted the box a little. The chilled Crème Anglaise barely shifted.

  Good consistency. Shame I’ll have to destroy the thing first. Who knows what lies beneath?

  He lifted the glass from the box, placed it beside and picked a small spoon from a drawer.

  The surface of the dessert gleamed under the cold, functional kitchen lights. Sandy leaned in closer and picked off the pods. It smelled so fresh. He salivated, almost tasting the vanilla crème. With the spoon, he fished out the meringue float, laid it next to the pods and returned to the Ile Flottante. He scooped the crème aside, delving to its core.

  He found nothing but the bottom of the glass. Of course, Enfer may have mixed something nasty in the dessert itself, but that made no sense.

  He needs to get on my good side, thought Sandy. There’ll be no trickery here.

  He tapped the spoon on the side of the glass to clear it, leaving only a slight remnant of Crème Anglaise. He held it to his face and studied it as a botanist examines the leaf of a new plant. A deep sniff. It smelled normal.

  It smelled delicious.

  He popped the spoon into his mouth, and his taste buds seemed to sigh in a creamy vanilla heaven. Another helping, the spoon piled with Ile Flottante. He shoved it past his lips and swirled it around with his tongue.

  Perfection!

  Sandy stopped, holding the crème inside his mouth. While the texture remained unchanged, something had transformed. Slowly, he continued to roll it around his gums, on the edge of spitting.

  The clean, dairy tone had soured somewhat. While still sweet, it tasted slightly fishy. The comforting vanilla had been replaced with a hint of shaved metal. The combination created a familiar flavour.

  How? Sandy thought. If Enfer had…added it to the crème, it would certainly affect the composition. But this is too pronounced, almost pure.

  Standing stock-still by the kitchen counter, he imagined the sturdy form of Jacob Enfer. Surrounded by steaming pans and spitting griddles, the chef was hunched over a lone martini glass, one hand holding it by the stem while the other…

  Sandy pictured his movements, heard his grunts of pleasure, saw his ponytail swing with his rhythm. Enfer held his breath for a second before releasing a deep moan. He filled the glass with a few powerful spurts.

  Sandy swallowed the mouthful and attacked the dessert with the spoon. He shovelled the former Ile Flottante down his throat, and followed it with the meringue. Without a pause, he returned to the glass, picking it up and taking his tongue to the smooth inside. He licked it clean.

  More, he thought. So good.

  He spied a few dollops of crème left on the counter from the meringue. He licked them up and quickly chased them with the pods, chewing and swallowing, barely tasting the vanilla, just the dots of dessert still attached.

  More, he thought. More.

  MAIN COURSE

  The grey light of the glum city morning filled the kitchen window. It seemed to swell Sandy’s eyeballs in his aching head, and he squinted as he shuffled past. The coffee pot beside the microwave beckoned, the machine pre-set to fill it with steaming hot brew at seven a.m. sharp. Sandy yawned, selected a cup from the cupboard and filled it. An odd taste, like slightly spoiled milk, hung in his mouth. He took a deep drink.

  Shit!

  He spat out the cold, bitter liquid and wiped his lips.

  Damn thing…

  He tipped the coffee down the sink and placed the cup next to the martini glass and spoon in the basin.

  The phone rang.

  “What the fuck is going on today?” he asked the empty room and headed into the lounge. He dropped into the desk chair and noticed the computer had been left on. An empty glass, reeking of scotch, sat with the keyboard.

  I knew I had a few drinks, but Christ…

  He snatched the phone up, desperate to be rid of the shrill blare that chiselled at his skull.

  “Yes?” he snapped.

  “Sandy!” said the jolly voice at the other end. “You alive?”

  Sandy closed his eyes. “Barely, Jack. What’s up?”

  His editor laughed. “Guess all that Italian wine took its toll, right?

  Sandy frowned. Italian wine? Oh, Giordana.

  “There’s no rush, Sand, just you normally have your column emailed in by nine every week,” Jack continued. “Thought you might be ill or something.”

  Sandy yawned and leaned back. He glanced at the time displayed at the corner of the display.

  “It’s after eleven?”

  “Sure is,” said Jack, sounding a little unsure. “Everything okay there, Sand?”

  He sighed. “Guess I slept in.”

  “Hope that’s not the start of something. You know how it goes, you get a dose of something and it slowly drags you down…”

  “I know, Jack. Nicola was giving me shit last night. I think my system just needed a reboot.” He yawned again. “I wrote the column. I’ll email it in.”

  “Again, no rush,” said Jack, “as long as we get it by tonight.”

  Sandy rolled his eyes. “No problem.”

  The editor chuckled. “Always knew one day you’d eat something that didn’t agree with you!” He hung up, laughing all the way to the click.

  Sandy replaced the phone and stared at the time. Even without an alarm, he rose religiously at seven every morning.

  “So I slept in. Big fucking deal.”

  On the monitor, his current column was minimized. He restored it for a quick check before emailing.

  A virtual piece of blank paper filled the screen.

  “That’s not right,” he moaned at the screen. “It was saved. I remember saving it!”

  A few minutes searching revealed nothing. His column draft had simply disappeared, like he’d highlighted every last word and hit delete. Yet, the file was there, on screen.

  I’d never start it and not finish it. He shook his head. I can remember writing the fucking thing!

  He pushed the keyboard away.

  * * *

  Into each life some rain must fall, some days be dark and dreary.

  Umbrella handle propped on his shoulder like a soldier’s rifle, Sandy peeked from under
the rim to study the sky. The grey sheen, a blind eye forever focused on the city, stripped the day of any soul-brightening colour. Hard to seek the silver lining without the end of a single cloud. Only dull murk existed above the horizon.

  The park, with its lack of cover, was mostly neglected, except for the small coffee stand at the centre. A few customers, office workers judging from the suits, sat underneath the green-and-white parasols, quietly talking in pairs or reading the paper.

  Taking his time, Sandy headed for the humble coffee stand. Despite standing in the cold and rain all day, the proprietor was usually a sunny fellow with exceptional attention to detail. At times Sandy wished his column would stretch to coffee houses to give the guy a much-needed edge over the big boys.

  Attention to detail and a pride in one’s work must be rewarded, he thought. Just like Jacob Enfer.

  The walk and chill had cleared his mind, sweeping aside the fuzziness that had plagued him on waking. Sandy Devanche was back on track, walking with confidence in a sharp two-piece suit and jacket. He’d turned his phone off. Nothing would spoil his walk, and a coffee, as tailor made as his suit, would be the icing on the cake.

  He passed the playground. Not even the hardiest of children were game enough to play out in the downpour. The swings and slides appeared to be melting like garish candles. The rain dimpled the sand.

  He wondered if Suzie had ever played there, and looked away.

  Enfer had taken up most of Sandy’s thoughts during his walk, his mind lulled by the constant pattering of raindrops hitting the umbrella. He realised his mistake: the scotch had tainted the surprise dessert, spoiling an otherwise magnificent Ile Flottante. The crème had only tasted of semen because of the alcohol.

  The roach issue, while disturbing, was inventive. Many cultures perceived insects as a delicacy. Could Enfer be blamed for the narrow-minded reaction?

  He entered the small square, walking between the sheltered tables. Nobody looked his way. A man in a dark blue suit was buying coffee, his golf umbrella closed under the slanted roof of the stand.

  Sandy slowed his pace and stopped, standing in a puddle.