Critique Read online

  “What’s wrong with me?”

  His body had rejected the slightest morsel to pass between his lips for the last couple of days. It all tasted bland or spoiled. As flavoursome as air and nutritious as dust. He’d tried every possible food in his kitchen: meats, vegetables, fruit, cereals and more, even trying different methods of cooking as each one failed. His stomach had rejected every attempt, bringing it straight back up. His throat still burned with an acidic sting.

  Mr Big-shot-TV-chef arranged the sautéed vegetables onto a square plate, placed slices of duck on top and drizzled the sauce over. With it still steaming, the actress picked up a fork and dug in.

  Sandy felt a slow, dark wave roll in his stomach. He reached for the remote and switched off the television.

  Just gastro, he thought, or some other bug picked up at one dive or other. These things take time to incubate, don’t they?

  He sat up and sipped from a glass of water on the coffee table. So far, only water would stay down. His phone sat beside, its screen showing another missed call from Nicola. Neither Enfer, nor his delicious young friend, had called.

  Sandy checked the time. Quarter past eight.

  Plenty of time before he arrives, Sandy thought, about to settle back down. Sleep took away the sickness. I can just lie here a little longer…

  A heavy knock struck the apartment door.

  “Ah crap,” muttered Sandy, standing. He looked down at his open dressing gown and boxer shorts, considering not opening the door. Enfer’s opinion of him mattered, even if he had arrived early.

  He can’t see me like this!

  Weak and lightheaded from the sudden movement, Sandy lurched around the sofa, heading for his bedroom. A tasteful ensemble was already picked out in his head.

  The hard knocks boomed out once more.

  “Sandy!”

  “I’ll be there in just a moment!” he called. “Just hang on!”

  “Just open the door.”

  Sandy stopped, recognizing the voice.

  “Jeremy?”

  “Open the door, Sandy,” he called. “We need a talk. Right now.”

  The door rattled, followed by more rapid pounding.

  Sandy circled on the spot, gaze darting around his apartment, searching for options. His phone lay on the table, but who was he going to call? The police? As far as he knew, it wasn’t against the law to visit someone’s home without notice, even if that person was a money-hungry hippy like Jeremy.

  “I c-can’t!” he replied. “I’m sick!”

  “We all know that,” said Jeremy, raising his voice. God forbid the other residents of the building hear him. “I wouldn’t be here if you’d speak to Nic. You too ill to answer the phone?”

  His apartment caged him in. He felt like a kid backed into a corner by the schoolyard bully.

  “Come on, Sandy. Open the door!”

  He had only two ways out of the apartment—the front door, or the balcony and its twelve-storey drop. Neither appealed.

  Sandy swayed, the floor seeming to tilt beneath his feet. He looked at the front door. It split into faint twins and re-joined. Sandy pinched his eyes closed and shook his head.

  “Sandy, you piece of chicken shit! Be a man and open this door. I just want to talk.”

  “I told you!” Sandy screamed, pressing his clenched fists against his temples. “I’m ill. Go away. Go on. Fuck off!”

  A final, resounding thud struck the door.

  “You’re not getting away with this,” said Jeremy. “I’ll be back. Count on it.”

  “Please,” hissed Sandy and fell to his knees. “Just leave me alone.”

  Hunched over, he covered his face with his hands and lay on his side, curling up on the cold floor. His racing heart seemed to fuel his ever-growing hunger. He groaned and writhed.

  I can’t take this anymore, reeled his thoughts. Two days, I’ve starved. Two days…

  He shook with shivers, and swallowed the rising bile.

  It’s getting worse.

  His apartment had smelled of vomit since the first attempt at a meal, yet his senses responded to something unseen. Sandy felt the gastrin squirting inside him and swimming in his veins. His stomach responded to the burst in hormones and burned with extra acid. Sandy scratched at the skin below his navel.

  “What the fuck is happening to me?” he squealed.

  He rolled onto his knees and hands. With a tremendous force of will, he pushed himself up and back onto his feet. He tottered, threatening to fall back down at any second.

  The apartment rocked, and he fell against the back of the sofa, leaning into it.

  “Help me,” he moaned.

  Other than his ragged breathing, the apartment was silent.

  He held in a lungful of tainted air and, pushing himself, he staggered along the sofa to the coffee table. He picked up his phone with a trembling hand.

  “Doctor,” he croaked and searched through his contacts.

  No, he thought, his thumb pausing on the keypad, they won’t come here, and I can’t get to his office. Not like this.

  Nicola?

  He almost laughed. But without any friends or family in the city…

  Realising he had at least one new friend, he closed his contact list. An operator would have the number to the restaurant. Benoit said not to go there as they were fully booked, but surely a phone call was allowed…

  Someone knocked at the door; a light, soft beat.

  Sandy released a sob.

  “Go away!” he screeched. “I told you, I’m sick!”

  “Sandy?” called a kind voice from outside. “Is everything okay?”

  His heart sang. Enfer!

  “Just…just hang on,” he said. “I’m coming.”

  The void of his stomach widened, seeming to encompass a great vacuum. Holding his breath against the growling pain, he gritted his teeth and prepared for the long journey to the front door.

  Each step brought fresh shudders that shook his body, and hot flashes to sweat his face and scalp. He focused on the light wood of the door and the metal handle. Enfer stood on the other side. Enfer, his friend. Enfer would help.

  He collapsed against the door and glanced back, surprised at the distance he’d covered.

  “Sandy?” asked the chef. “Are you hurt?”

  Sandy gasped, the trek sapping the last of his reserves. He pushed a hand against the handle and tipped towards it. The metal turned, and Sandy clutched it to stay upright. His weight swung the door open.

  On the threshold, Enfer stood in his chef whites, holding a wicker basket. His eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to speak—

  Sandy’s vision blurred, his knees buckling.

  Enfer dove forward, his colossal arms embracing Sandy and pressing him close.

  “I got you,” he whispered and scooped him off his feet. A father nursing a child, he carried him back into the apartment and eased him onto the sofa.

  Sandy stared up at him, riding on his odour, heat and touch.

  Enfer smiled down, every part the gentle giant.

  “Stay there,” he said. “I’ll get you a blanket.”

  Sandy closed his eyes to stop the world spinning. His body seemed to sink into the soft cushions of the sofa like they were quicksand. He listened to Enfer close the apartment door, and the slight creak of the wicker basket as he carried it inside. He left it on the coffee table.

  “I’ll be one second,” said the chef and bent over him. He brushed Sandy’s slick fringe off his forehead and stroked his cheek. “Can I get you anything else?”

  Sandy shook his head.

  Enfer straightened and walked to the patio doors. He spread the curtains wide, and Sandy squinted against the sudden light. As always, rain pattered against the glass, pushed by a slight wind. The canvas back of the chair by the table inverted back and forth, the furniture seeming to breathe.

  “Let’s get some fresh air in here, my friend,” said Enfer. “I can smell the sickness of the room.”<
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  “No!” cried Sandy, somehow finding the strength to sit up. “Don’t open the balcony. Please.”

  “It’s okay,” said Enfer, unhooking the lock and grasping the handle. “It’s only a little rain and the breeze will help freshen the apartment. You act like there are hungry wolves out there.”

  He slid the patio doors open, and the chilly air burst into the room. A few sheets of loose paper by the computer took to the air and fluttered to the floor.

  “I’ll get you that blanket,” said Enfer, walking away.

  Sandy stared at the balcony. He hadn’t ventured out onto the concrete ledge in close to two years. He’d learned how easy a fall could be. One moment of petty selfishness and a second of climbing…

  Enfer returned with a red woollen shawl. He’d been in the wardrobe in the single bedroom. Sandy hoped he’d stayed out of the top drawer, which contained his socks, underwear and some other items.

  Sandy lay down and allowed the big man to lay the shawl over him and tuck in the edges.

  “Please. If you’re going to leave the patio open, can you please shut the curtains?”

  Enfer stroked his cheeks again and nodded. He strode over and pulled the curtains closed. They billowed like sails.

  “Is that better?”

  “Yes,” said Sandy. “Very much.”

  “My apologies for the early arrival. Some restaurant business came out of the blue, which has tied up most of the day. I had to see you though.” Enfer sat on the edge of the sofa.

  Sandy reached for his hand. The chef didn’t stop him.

  “I was going to call you. I wanted to come to the restaurant and see you so much…”

  “Of course you did,” said Enfer and squeezed his hand. “But you were a good boy and did as Benoit instructed. You don’t look too good. Sick, you say? Hmm.” He lifted Sandy’s hand and kissed the back. “Not my doing, I pray.”

  Sandy smiled weakly. “I doubt it. These things take time to incubate. It was probably something from Giordana or the Emerald Palace or Le Grand Fete. Never from your marvellous food.”

  “Have you been eating well?”

  Sandy swallowed. “I’m having difficulty with that.”

  Enfer rested Sandy’s hand back on the sofa and gave it a pat. “Then it’s a good job I came.”

  He reached for the wicker basket and undid the belt-like clasp.

  “I couldn’t possibly…” started Sandy.

  Enfer hushed him and rummaged through the contents of the basket.

  “Jacob, please. I don’t want you to prepare something just for me to bring back up. It’s an insult to your talents.”

  “Nonsense! I give you my word. Your stomach can’t reject any of my creations.” He sniggered before tapping his closed lips, thoughtful. After a moment: “You’re under the weather, which isn’t surprising in this city. What’s perfect for a man sinking in the swamps of sickness, mon ami? Why, a soup! A good, hot soup. Although…” The finger resumed its tap-tap-tap. “There’s something I’m missing. An ingredient. It was one of the reasons I needed to see you today. I was hoping you’d do me a very big favour.”

  From the basket, he removed a small Tupperware container. He handed it to Sandy.

  “Do you need a hand walking to the bathroom?”

  Sandy blinked. “What?”

  “The bathroom,” said Enfer. “I doubt you’ll want to fill it in here.”

  Sandy sat up and waved the plastic box.

  “What exactly do you want me to fill this with?”

  Enfer sorted through the contents of the basket, lifting out the occasional vegetable. He sniffed and squeezed them.

  “Cecotrope,” he said, “in a way. It’s an experiment.”

  Sandy’s stomach gurgled. He tried to ignore it.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Enfer took a deep breath.

  “Mammals in the family Leporidae of the order Lagomorpha, or rabbits, as you’ll know them…” he winked “…produce these cecotropes in order to re-digest their food and have a second chance at absorbing more nutrients. It’s an interesting biological process, and that got me thinking…if that is the case with nutrients, why not with flavour? And what you put in must affect what comes out.” He checked his watch. “And it should be about time now. Go ahead, Sandy.”

  The critic sat rigid on the sofa, unsure if Enfer was playing some sick joke. The chef pulled out a string of small tomatoes on a vine and gingerly tested each one for ripeness.

  “You want me to…no, this must be some mistake.”

  “No mistake,” said Enfer, not bothering to look at him. “I want you to take that into the bathroom and fill it with your…refuse.”

  Sandy laughed and lay back down, letting the Tupperware container sit on his chest.

  “At least you’ve cheered me up,’ he said. “You know, it might be the fresh air, but I’m feeling a little better already.”

  Enfer dropped the tomatoes into the hamper and slowly faced Sandy.

  “This is no joke, monsieur,” he said. “I have asked you to do something for me and I don’t have all day.”

  Sandy stared at him, seeking the slightest trace of humour. With his mouth set in a grim straight line, Enfer revealed none.

  “Jacob. I appreciate your revolutionary approach to cooking, but seriously?”

  Enfer closed his eyes.

  “And thou shalt eat it as barley cakes, and thou shalt bake it with dung that cometh out of man. Ezekiel, four twelve to four fifteen. See? Even the Bible recommends it.”

  Sandy sat up and swung his legs off the sofa, placing his feet on the cold floor. He held the shawl around his shoulders and shivered. He dropped the container onto the coffee table.

  “This is…ridiculous! There’s no way…”

  Enfer huffed, deep and menacing.

  “So you think my creations are ridiculous now, oui? You take my hospitality, and now I ask you for help, you throw it all back in my face?” He muttered something low in French, his face burning the colour of the tomatoes.

  Sandy stood, the sudden atmosphere giving him strength. Still he swayed, clutching the shawl.

  “Jacob, please! Be reasonable.”

  Enfer growled and squeezed his fists, his shadow falling over Sandy.

  “You owe me, Devanche,” Enfer demanded, pointing a meaty finger. “Think of all the things I’ve done for you. The doors I’ve opened!”

  “I know,” Sandy shouted back, “and I’m grateful, but there’s no way… This is just so…”

  Enfer studied him and sighed. A little of his heat seemed to evaporate.

  “I see. Demeaning, oui? Then consider this the next part in your own personal critique.” He turned and dug back into the wicker basket, returning with a sheet of A4 paper. “Ici.”

  Behind Enfer, the curtains billowed out, buffeted by the wind.

  Sandy reluctantly took the paper, hoping to avoid another flare of Enfer’s temper. The man had changed so suddenly, and here, in Sandy’s own home. Bad enough having Jeremy pounding on his door and making him feel like a trapped animal. Sandy realised he had nowhere to hide.

  Better keep him happy…to a point.

  I just can’t do as he asks.

  He turned over the piece of paper and frowned.

  The young, tanned face of his recent lover smiled out from the home-printed job. MISSING in bold black letters titled the flyer, with his name beneath, Enrique Barbarez.

  “Missing?” Sandy asked and glanced up. “When did this happen?”

  “About a week ago,” Enfer replied, smirking.

  “This can’t be.”

  “Believe it, although I would say found and hidden rather than missing now. Check the date. I also believe the other date is of interest…”

  Sandy read past the title, name and photograph to the print at the bottom of the page. Sure enough, the date he’d gone missing was a week ago. The second date showed his birthday.

  He read and reread the numbers,
yet they refused to change.

  “How’s your math?” said Enfer and returned to the meticulous sorting of vegetables.

  “Fifteen?” said Sandy. “He was fifteen?”

  “Next time, I think you’d better ask for ID, oui?” Enfer laughed. In a flash, he picked up the plastic container from the table and flung it at Sandy. It painlessly bounced off his shoulder and onto the floor. “Go to the bathroom.”

  “You fucker,” Sandy seethed. “You set me up.”

  “I did nothing,” said Enfer. “Just like Eden, the temptation was laid before you and you failed, Sandy Devanche. Just like Adam and Eve were knocked from their perches in paradise, so must you be toppled from your high tower. Do you understand me? Demeaning. What’s more demeaning now? Complying with my small request or… Well, no one needs to know about your little sin if you so choose.”

  Sandy licked his lips and took a deep breath.

  “You set me up,” he said again.

  Enfer rolled his eyes. “I did nothing. This was your choice. You could have said no at any time.”

  A spark of memory fired in Sandy’s head.

  “That night, you said no one would hear about it.”

  “I’m very careful with my choice of words. I said that no one would hear about it that night. This is a brand-new day.” He smiled. “So, Sandy, what’s it going to be?”

  * * *

  Like a child scared of the shadows, Sandy pulled the sheets over his head. He wished for the bed to split in two, and for his weak body to plunge down into a dark recess, hidden from the world…hidden from Enfer.

  He listened to the chef merrily singing a song in French while he cooked in the kitchen. Sandy’s kitchen.

  The critic closed his eyes, wishing it would all go away.

  The first scents of frying vegetables seeped into the bedroom. Sandy’s stomach responded. He pushed his hands into his midsection and winced. Even the thought of the Tupperware container and its ghastly contents sitting beside the microwave did little to quell his sudden appetite.

  He wondered how Enfer planned to cook it.

  He also wondered what it would taste like.

  * * *

  “It is finished,” said Enfer, appearing in the doorway.