Critique Read online

  His aftershave wrangled with the body odour of his driver, creating an acid, dank combination. Sandy cracked the window a half-inch.

  The car hurtled away from the city, up a quiet two-way road on the outskirts lit by irregular patches of street lights. The dark fields either side gave little of their location away.

  Alone with his thoughts, Sandy felt another wave of disgust at his attempt to match Enfer’s skill. A recipe plucked from a cookbook could not match years of study and testing. He’d learned a harsh lesson on his knees, watching the crème drip from the kitchen wall.

  Enfer was indeed the master.

  The vehicle slowed, and the driver indicated. He swung the car left onto a driveway.

  Sandy sat up and stared through the window.

  They approached a large country house. Despite its size, the building was a far cry from a mansion or luxury villa, which Sandy had expected. Enfer was a man of status, with a very exclusive restaurant. Surely he could afford plusher accommodation.

  The two-story house had a light blazing in every one of its many windows: candles or lanterns glowing behind each pane. As the taxi drew closer, Sandy noticed that a section of gutter had broken, and a fast flow of rainwater surged down the front of the rustic house.

  It won’t be his house, Sandy reasoned. It’s probably just a meeting house. He wrinkled his nose at the moss growing in abundance on the front wall.

  The driver stopped the car. Sandy paid before climbing out and running across the short yard. He reached the front door, sheltered by a small porch. The car turned around and pulled away, the rear lights fading in the rain like dying embers.

  “I’m in the middle of fucking nowhere.”

  He pulled out his phone. Full signal. Full battery.

  “Thank Christ,” he said and stepped closer to the door. He heard voices from inside, yet the constant splashing of the water down the front of the house drowned their words.

  His throat suddenly dry, Sandy knocked on the door.

  What if they don’t like me? he thought, picturing a day in his twelfth year, sitting at the back of a classroom in his new school, the other kids staring at him. This shit is supposed to end when you’ve grown up.

  The voices had stopped.

  Sandy fixed his now-wet hair and stood up straight.

  The door creaked open in true haunted-house style. Sandy expected some haggard butler to peer around the decaying wood. Instead, the neat features of Benoit appeared in the shaft of light.

  “Ah, bon nuit, Mr Devanche,” he said and opened the door wider. “We were thinking you may not show.”

  “And refuse such a generous invitation?” Sandy replied. “I don’t think I could be so rude.”

  His nerves settled a little. At least this was the right place.

  “We’re about to start,” said Benoit and stepped aside to let Sandy pass. “Chef has prepared quite a meal for the society tonight.” He smacked his lips on his fingertips in a grand gesture of tasty food. “Come. Let us go to them.”

  Sandy entered the house, and Benoit shut the front door, locking out the sound of the rain.

  The hall contained a wide stairway, a lush burgundy carpet covering the steps. The floor was tiled in a stone akin to marble, but Sandy struggled to believe something so expensive would be used in a ramshackle country house. The wallpaper was the same as the foyer at The House of Jacob.

  “This way,” said Benoit, ushering Sandy to the first door on the left. “Do you require the bathroom first? Perhaps a towel? I guarantee that you won’t want to leave once you begin.”

  The door stood ajar, and low voices continued to converse. A tantalizing smell of freshly prepared food drifted out.

  Sandy, already salivating, licked his lips.

  “I’m good, thank you.”

  “Very well,” said Benoit. He opened the door and stepped through.

  The dining room was plainly furnished. The walls, painted a standard magnolia, contained a few large paintings, each depicting biblical scenes. Brass fixtures with gently glowing bulbs over the pictures lit the room.

  A few men sitting around a wide, oval table glanced at him, uninterested. They resumed their hushed discussions.

  Jacob Enfer, dressed in a blue sweater, sat at the head of the table.

  “Sandy!” he said and clasped his hands together. “You made it after all. Please, sit with us.”

  Sandy nodded. Benoit pulled out a chair and the critic quickly sat. With the maître d’ assisting, he tucked his chair in.

  He sat in a quartet of guests. On his right sat an older man, perhaps in his late fifties. Between crazy clouds of white hair and a hooked nose, he surveyed Sandy with beady, suspicious eyes.

  On the left: a severely obese man with tiny glasses and closely cropped hair. He dabbed sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief and stared at the table.

  The final guest was about Sandy’s age, with blond hair and a sharp suit. He peered around his fellow diners with a smug air of self-importance, like he could smell the shit each carried inside them.

  Sandy chose to look at Enfer. The friendly, handsome and towering chef would make him feel at ease as opposed to the company of strangers.

  “Now that we’re all here,” he said, “let us begin. Apologies for the late time. It was a busy night at the restaurant.” He clapped his hands three times.

  Benoit bowed slightly and left the room through another door.

  The men stayed quiet. Their anxiety and apparent shyness pleased Sandy.

  I’m not completely alone in this, he thought.

  The fat man used his damp handkerchief to dab away a glob of spittle that had formed on his bottom lip. Sandy noticed the blond guy ran his tongue over his teeth.

  They know what’s to come. They’ve experienced Enfer’s genius.

  Benoit wheeled in a trolley covered in a white tablecloth. Four small cloches sat on top, and he carefully placed one in front of each man.

  Sandy wiped the saliva from his own lips.

  “Gentlemen,” said Enfer, proud as a ringmaster before the show begins. “Your starter. We have a small salmon Ceviche with mango for your delectation. Not too much. We have a ways to go before the end.” Hands palm up, he slowly raised them.

  The men lifted off the silver covers.

  The thinly sliced salmon lay in a neat line, segregated by similarly sliced mango. Sticks, like sharpened bone, held the construct together and poked out in all directions, giving it the look of some spiny worm from the depths of the ocean. Sandy scanned it, seeking out the secret ingredient that would elevate it to a masterpiece. He guessed the white sauce that streaked the surface was the missing piece of the puzzle.

  He glanced up at Enfer.

  “What’s the secret?”

  The three men snapped away from their starters and glared at Sandy. Even the obese diner next to him, with his round, jolly face, looked ready to tear him limb from limb.

  Enfer laughed and clapped his hands together.

  “You must excuse out newest member, gentlemen,” he said, and then directly to Sandy, “These men are a food appreciation society. They appreciate the food, not the method. You don’t go to a magic show and demand to know the secret after every illusion. We can discuss the preparation another time, in private. For now, we must enjoy what lies on the plate, not what came before.”

  “Are you…eating too?” asked Sandy.

  Enfer smiled. “I am a perfectionist, as you know. Should I taste these creations again, I should only wish to reconfigure, to adjust the balance, to tamper with the texture. Does a writer read his own work for pleasure? No, for he sees his mistakes and weaknesses. I wish to reap my reward by watching my creations appreciated by others.”

  Sandy listened intently. The chef’s softly spoken words avoided the stern tones of a lecture.

  “So without further ado,” said Enfer, “feel free to appreciate.”

  The other three men, having waited long enough, picked up the cutl
ery that accompanied their meal.

  “Just a moment,” said Enfer.

  The men paused, clearly rattled by the further interruption.

  Enfer closed his eyes. “For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful. Amen.”

  Sandy caught a wink from the chef, and after smiling back, picked up his own knife and fork.

  “Amen,” muttered the men in unison. They began their dissection.

  * * *

  The plates, scoured clean by each diner, were taken away by Benoit to be replaced with the next course. A main of roasted guinea hen with a medley of vegetables and a smoky sauce. The men ate this in resounding silence, the only noise the occasional scrape of cutlery. Sandy picked the gamey meat from the small hen with his fork and placed each scrap onto his tongue. He ignored his company; they didn’t exist. Only the meal demanded attention. Not even Enfer, who sat watching them, garnered a single moment.

  The main done, Benoit wheeled out the dessert. Cloche pulled back, Sandy examined the modest dish of three Fleur de Sel Caramels sitting in a small bowl. The first one in his mouth, he detected a very subtle tang of metal beneath the salt and sugar.

  Amazing.

  He pictured slivers of iron or copper sitting in his guts, slowly rusting and poisoning over years, and ate another.

  After the men had finished their meals, Benoit cleared away the bowls and cutlery. The men around the table appeared content and sluggish. The older man sat back in his chair, his face tilted up, eyes white. He sighed.

  Enfer finally spoke.

  “On first impressions, it would seem the courses were a success. Mr Devanche, I will be especially interested in your…critique. However, I would not want to seek initial and undeveloped opinion. We can meet again tomorrow to discuss our findings. Is this agreeable?”

  None of the men replied, each one left in their own savouring reverie.

  “Then it’s decided. Benoit has prepared your rooms for the night.”

  Sandy blinked. “Rooms? I didn’t expect to be staying…I have a deadline…”

  Enfer gently shushed him.

  “You can’t possibly return to the city at this time of night,” he said. “Benoit and myself must attend to things here, and it will be murder trying to get a cab for a pick-up.” He pushed back from the table and slowly walked around it towards Sandy. “You have accepted my hospitality thus far. Allow this final thing. Besides, do you feel able to travel?”

  Sandy opened his mouth to argue the contrary, but the chef was right. A satisfied low ebb had descended, pulling him down like an anchor had been tied around his neck. He yawned. A hearty feed and several good wines always made him feel this lethargic. He wondered if Enfer had snuck some strong alcohol into his food.

  “I don’t know,” he said, sluggish. “I should really be getting back…”

  Arriving behind him, Enfer placed his strong hands on his shoulders and began to massage. His thumbs caressed bare skin either side of his neck.

  Sandy seemed to sink further, into a pool of hot, relaxing water. He tilted his head to the side and smiled dreamily.

  “Nonsense,” whispered Enfer. “Your boss will understand. We have a modest but comfortable bedroom all made up for you.”

  The others paid no notice. The old man at the side had fallen asleep.

  “I…I suppose,” said Sandy. “It is rather late.”

  “Come. “I’ll take you.”

  He helped Sandy to his feet, and the critic leaned against the bigger man, seeking comfort in his heat and scent. The chef laid a hand around his shoulders, and Sandy snuggled into him further.

  “Goodnight, gentlemen,” Enfer said. “God bless and may angels watch over as you sleep.”

  He led Sandy out of the room and back into the hall. Rain lashed the windows and door. The dreary weather had escalated into a ferocious storm.

  “Come,” said Enfer again and guided Sandy up the stairs.

  A little giddy, the critic grabbed the front of Enfer’s sweater and pushed his fingers against the taut muscle beneath.

  “Are you taking me to bed?” he asked, the words slipping out.

  “Yes,” said Enfer.

  The two men reached the unfurnished landing, which stretched away in both directions. Enfer headed left and paused at the first door.

  “Did you have fun tonight, Sandy?” said Enfer, his voice low and deep. “My food seems to have had a pleasing effect on you.”

  His ponytail hung over his shoulder and down his chest. Sandy, smiling, toyed with it, dragging his fingers through the dark, silky tip.

  “It did,” he said. “It was amazing, just as amazing as the man that cooked it. It must be the European charm.”

  He closed his eyes and leaned forwards, lips ready…

  “Stop,” said Enfer. “Do not waste your affection on me tonight. Save it for your gift.”

  Disappointed, Sandy blinked. “Gift?”

  Enfer eased the door open.

  The room housed a wardrobe, dresser and four-poster bed, all crafted from rosewood, which lent the room a strong, sweet smell. Clean, white sheets had been used to make up the bed.

  Within, his tanned face stark against the pure white pillows, lay a young man. He sat up, supporting himself with toned arms.

  Standing in the doorway, Sandy stared at the scene.

  “What the fuck is this?” he demanded.

  Enfer stroked his back. “Your gift. A welcome to the society.”

  Sandy shook his head.

  “What are you running here, Enfer? Some kind of brothel? I came for the food, not for…not for this!”

  The young man looked back and forth between them, his face a show of nerves. The sheets flopped down, revealing a hairless chest the colour of mocha.

  “I told you,” said Enfer. “We do our research. It didn’t take long to find out about your divorce, nor the reason.”

  “Lies!” spat Sandy. “Lies made up by my bitch of an ex-wife. This is slander.”

  Enfer leaned in close, his lips close to Sandy’s cheek.

  “It wasn’t slander about twenty seconds ago.” He took Sandy by the shoulders again and resumed his tender movements.

  Sandy’s body sagged at his touch.

  “You’re among friends here. You’ve lived alone for far too long. You thought that the solitude would cure you, oui?”

  “I don’t need to be cured,” said Sandy, his anger soothed out by Enfer’s pliant fingers. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

  “Exactly,” said Enfer. “There’s nothing wrong with you that can’t be fixed and improved. Just like a recipe.” He sighed. “You need to let your hair down. Live a little. Be the person you’ve always needed to be…”

  Sandy stared at the fit young man, who pouted and gradually pulled the bed sheets back.

  “That’s right,” Enfer continued to purr in his ear. “You have my guarantee that no one will hear a word about this tonight. No risks. No danger.”

  He led Sandy through the doorway.

  His gift lay naked, beckoning with a curled finger. At the bed, Sandy became enfolded within the Latino’s embrace. The young man smiled and kissed him, pulling him onto the mattress.

  Sandy fell into his caresses, pleasure shattering his resolve.

  As his heart opened for the first time in years, the bedroom door closed. Alone with his new lover, he unbuttoned his shirt.

  * * *

  “Mr Devanche?”

  Sandy, rambling in the corridors of sleep, groaned and tried to sink back into the darkness. He rolled onto his side, but hands held him back.

  “Mr Devanche, you have to wake up now. Bon matin.”

  Gradually opening his eyes, Sandy yawned, his mind struggling to catch up.

  Benoit, his hair combed rigid and his moustache still immaculately trimmed, sat on the bed and smiled down at him.

  “Welcome to the world of the living, Mr Devanche. Your car is waiting.”

  Sandy snapped aw
ake. The memories of the previous night came to him like a wet dream. His young lover slept on, oblivious to the intrusion. On his front and his arms folded beneath his head, he sighed in his sleep. He’d performed much sighing through the early hours. And grunting. And groaning.

  While the youngster was obviously inexperienced, his stamina and willingness to learn more than made up for it….just like Cameron.

  “What?” Sandy asked, turning back to Benoit.

  “You must get dressed and leave,” said the maître d’. “Chef has arranged for a cab to take you back to the city, monsieur. It is waiting outside. I advise you to hurry.”

  Sandy nodded, his head fuzzy from sleep. “What about him?”

  Benoit glanced at the sleeping figure.

  “Leave him. I’m sure you’ll be hearing from him again. Come. Mr Devanche. Chop chop!” The short man stood from the bed and walked from the room. At the doorway, he paused. “And before you go, Chef would like to speak with you in two days’ time. At your apartment. He will visit at ten sharp. Make sure you are home.” His eyes bored into Sandy. “Don’t come to the restaurant. We’re fully booked.”

  He closed the door.

  Sandy slid his legs from between the sheets, searching for his clothes strewn about the floor, listening to the soft snores coming from the bed.

  * * *

  Sandy lay on his sofa, a pillow propping up his head. With glassy eyes, he watched a cookery show on television. The male model in chef whites flipped a pan of chopped vegetables, tossing the colourful ingredients in the air. Stirring a bowl of brown sauce, the movie actress, a guest on his show, blabbed on and on about what her new role meant to her. That’s the problem with cookery; it’s fashionable, and thus sits comfortably in the network of actors, musicians, celebs and anything else the idiot populace latched onto.

  “Whereas the geniuses go unrespected,” Sandy told the morons on screen. “Like Jacob Enfer. Da Vinci was scorned in his lifetime too.”

  He rubbed his stomach. His entire body seemed to be a mere carrier for this dominant organ. It pulsed, it spoke, it complained. His stomach demanded to be fed, the newly opened cavern in his midsection screamed to be filled.