Critique Read online

  Sandy rolled away from him and faced the wall. He hoped the chef had not noticed the humiliated tears that streaked down his cheeks.

  “I said it is finished.”

  “I heard,” said Sandy. “Leave me alone. Get the hell out of my apartment.”

  “You know I can’t do that,” said Enfer. “What kind of friend would I be if I just left you in this state?” He sounded cool and kind once more. “Let me feed you.”

  Sandy’s stomach rolled, and he pressed his lips together until the feeling passed.

  “I’m not hungry,” he said.

  Enfer sat on the bed. “Nonsense. I know how much it starves you. I can’t tempt my new friend?”

  A smell filled the room: juicy, rich and delicious. Sandy salivated, and the drool trickled onto his pillow. He rolled onto his back.

  Enfer held a small cup, the contents steaming. He blew across the top, and an extra burst of the savoury flavour drifted across the bed. It caressed Sandy’s senses, as intoxicating as any perfume.

  “I knew you were hungry,” said Enfer. He sipped from the cup and sighed with satisfaction. “It’s nothing too intricate. A mere soup, but what better for a man full of…” He licked his lips. “Sickness.”

  He drank once more, and Sandy closed his eyes. He couldn’t bear to watch him eat, knowing what lay suspended in the liquid.

  Still, that smell…

  Enfer lowered the cup and wiped a tangerine line of soup from his upper lip. Some spots remained in his moustache, which was growing quite unruly.

  “It’s not quite the plush surroundings of my restaurant, but I did my best.” He stood and curled a beckoning finger at Sandy.

  The critic stared at him. “Go to hell.”

  “I believe you’re already there, Sandy. Some food will remedy your suffering.”

  He walked out of the room, leaving a trail of enticing aroma in his wake.

  Sweaty and shivering, Sandy lay spreadeagled on the bed, tangled in the clinging sheets.

  “Please,” he whispered. “Just get out of my home!”

  Yet he climbed from his pit of despair and stood on jellified legs, still wearing his dressing gown. The old Enfer had returned, loosened by the act of cooking maybe, or simply satiated as his will had triumphed.

  Better to keep him this way, Sandy reasoned, remembering the sudden blaze of anger. Would Enfer really blackmail him?

  He dragged his body out of the bedroom and into the lounge.

  Next to the sofa, the chef had set up the table and chair from the balcony, having towelled them dry. A bowl sat on a plate waiting to be filled. A candle, one of a few for blackout emergencies, had been placed into a wine glass, its flame meagre in the bright morning. A spoon sat on the plate at an angle.

  Enfer filled a tumbler with water from a jug and bowed.

  “Not perfect, but I do what I can.” He smiled. “Sit.”

  He stood the glass and jug on the table and pulled out the chair.

  Sandy nodded in defeat, his face pointed at the floor. He began the long journey unaided across the room and nearly fell into the chair. Enfer placed a napkin – a tea towel from the kitchen – across Sandy’s lap and slid the chair closer to the table.

  Sandy rested his head in his hands, looking down into the empty bowl.

  “Brighten your soul, Sandy. You haven’t tasted it yet. This soup has opened avenues into a whole new realm of experimental cooking.”

  Enfer stepped away from him and entered the kitchen.

  Sandy wondered if he really intended to eat the soup, knowing what it contained. He again thought back to Enfer’s anger, the burning face and piercing gaze. Eating the soup might be a better option than having to face that monster a second time. Enfer appeared more gorilla than man, and he could probably do some serious damage.

  So you’re taking humiliation over pain?

  Yes, he thought. I am.

  Enfer emerged, the chef looming over Sandy with a saucepan. He dipped a ladle inside and delivered a small helping of soup into the waiting bowl.

  Sandy had to look.

  The soup, on first inspection, looked like cream of tomato. It had a warm orange colour with speckles of red across the surface of oil on water. It smelled amazing.

  Sandy picked up the spoon and skimmed the surface. He scraped away the film of red dots, revealing diced vegetables floating in the soup: celery, onion and red pepper.

  He sighed. This was a joke after all.

  He scooped out a generous spoonful, suddenly ravenous. His entire being was centred around his stomach, and he felt every second of the last two days without food.

  He opened his mouth and brought the spoon closer.

  Amid the autumn shades sat a small, brown nugget.

  Sandy paused, focused on the tiny morsel.

  “Go ahead,” said Enfer. He stood behind Sandy and placed his hands on his shoulders, starting his familiar massage. “Try it.”

  Sandy’s stomach roared, and before his logic could overthrow the urge, he shoved the spoon into his mouth, instantly swallowing.

  The special ingredient rubbed against the back of his throat before going down. Sandy gagged.

  “Keep it in, my friend,” said Enfer, quickening his circular motions. “Embrace it.”

  Sandy had been holding his breath. His lungs on fire, he gasped and sucked in a deep breath. Taste flooded his mouth, and he moaned in pleasure.

  “That’s it,” said Enfer, his voice low and soothing next to Sandy’s ear.

  The spoon plunged into the bowl again. Sandy took in a great mouthful, uncaring about the lumps that looked like chocolate nestled with the vegetables. He tasted the presence of the faecal matter, but like all of Enfer’s creations, it perfectly complemented the other flavours. Its slightly meaty and dark tone, mixed with the slender taste of sweet rotting, added another layer of sensation to an exceptional soup.

  This time, he chewed the floating bits, his teeth releasing new bursts of flavour.

  “That’s it,” Enfer said again, almost a sigh.

  Each spoonful drove back the hunger that nibbled his insides. He felt the soup splash into his stomach, coating it with warm, soothing caresses.

  “More,” he said between swallows. “Please. More.”

  “And they tempted God in their heart by asking meat for their lust,” said Enfer. He shook his head. “There is no more, my friend. Only that which remains sitting at the bottom of your bowl. However…there can be more.”

  “Hmm?” Sandy, sitting straighter and looking back at the chef, took notice. “More?”

  “You did well today. Perhaps you can help me again. In a few days’ time. Would you like that?”

  Sandy frantically nodded, his cheeks bulging with delicious soup.

  “Then it shall be another couple of days,” said Enfer. He leaned down and kissed Sandy on the top of his head. “Don’t leave the apartment. Don’t come to the restaurant and don’t call anyone. Me included.”

  Enfer headed for the door. Sandy watched him, noticing that the hamper had been packed up and waited next to the wall. The tall chef picked it up.

  “If you can be a good boy and do as I say, I may send Benoit to keep you…topped up.” He opened the door and turned back. “You’re part of a very exclusive club now, Sandy. It’s a pleasure to work with you. We have both been blessed.”

  Enfer bowed and, carrying the hamper, walked out of the apartment.

  Sandy watched him go and close the door. The soup had his undivided attention now he was alone. He fished around for any remaining lumps in the puddle of amber liquid, not caring that he sat so close to the open balcony. He thought little about what Enfer would ask him to do next…more what Enfer could create next. A taboo had been broken, and his mind opened wider still.

  He plunged the spoon into the soup, a string of saliva dangling from his bottom lip into the porcelain bowl.

  SIDE DISH

  “You not eating your pie, friend?”

  Car
los blinked, pulling himself out of the story. The guy was right, this was far from a Bible fable.

  “Er…sorry, bro. Guess I was too busy listening.” He used the edge of the fork to break the crust of the pie.

  The man watched him with interest.

  “That is some fucked-up story,” said Carlos, cutting away a small chunk of pastry and dipping it into the gravy-covered inside of the pie. “He made him eat his own-”

  “Yes,” said the man. “I hope this story won’t…affect your appetite. Be a shame to let good food go to waste just because of my fondness for detail.”

  Carlos eyed the contents of the fork, in particular, the dollop of brown filling. “I’ve heard worse.”

  He checked his watch. Plenty of time before the delivery was due.

  The box sat beside him, still on the stool under the counter. Carlos wondered what this God-fearing man would do if he knew what lay a few feet away.

  Probably buy this dump three times over with what’s in my Bibles, bro.

  “Sir? Your food?”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  Carlos shoved the piece of pie into his mouth.

  The man peered past him, as if checking the empty diner for something. “Would you like me to continue?”

  “Sure. Knock yourself out, guy,” mumbled Carlos. It sure beat the Jesus lecture he’d thought was coming. “But easy on the gay stuff, right?”

  Removing his paper hat, the man dragged his fingers through his grey hair, tired, like a worker at the end of a double shift.

  “Sandy couldn’t help being gay any more than you can help being black. Remember that the Scriptures say be ye kind one to another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ’s sake hath forgiven you, and all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to another.”

  Carlos swallowed the pie. “The Bible says being queer was a sin. Sorry I ain’t got a quote or nothin’.”

  The man considered this.

  “With homosexuals…maybe the good book is a little out-dated in that regard.”

  “Listen, bro, I ain’t here to argue Bible with you, right? I don’t know all that John thirteen and Genesis shit, you hear? But I do know that God hates the fags as much as I do.”

  He huffed, irritated by the company. At least the food was good.

  Damn good.

  “You don’t like to hear about the love between two consenting men?” asked the man. “Fine, I shall tone down on the details, but you still want to hear what happens?”

  “Yeah, I wanna hear what happens,” said Carlos, jabbing the fork. “Hope that motherfucking chef get what coming to ‘em.” He poked a few fries into his mouth. “Please, continue.”

  The man smiled, and after returning to the coffee machine, topped up Carlos’ mug.

  BACK TO THE MAIN

  The kisses were delicate, trailing a meandering path from the corner of his mouth, down his neck and onto his chest, lips as light as butterfly wings. Sandy moaned in his lover’s embrace. Nicola never had such tenderness. As the man, he was expected to grunt and pump, force his kisses on her to redden the skin in a brand of affection. This level of sensuality was brand new…and he loved it.

  Lying on his back, he stretched and placed his arms under his head. His lover continued the slow, roaming path, exploring Sandy’s chilled, goose-fleshed skin with his warm, light tokens of affection. The fact this was his guilty secret heightened the pleasure.

  “You like that?” his lover asked, pausing.

  Sandy smiled in bliss.

  “You comfortable for me to go…lower?”

  “Lower?” said Sandy, raising his eyebrows and faking shock. He smirked. “Oh, please do.”

  A hand reached up and stroked his face.

  “I love you, Sandy.”

  “What?” His eyes flicked open. “Cameron?”

  The dream ebbed away, leaving Sandy naked and sweaty, tangled in the sheets and alone in his bed. He gasped, breathing in the foul, baking air. The bedside clock showed a quarter past one, but with the blinds and curtains shut and the door closed, day or night eluded him.

  The room had been saturated with the scents of sickness radiating from the bed. The air held the dank smell of old sweat mixed with new, of urine and of ragged, dry breaths. His clothes, usually dry-cleaned, pressed and hung in the closet, littered the floor. He’d torn them all from the hangers in a delirious fit.

  Rain pounded the hidden window.

  The mysterious stomach condition had returned with a vengeance following Enfer’s visit. Now, Sandy struggled to keep even water down. Sealed in his apartment, he’d paced and thrown tantrums until too weak to do so. The presence of his phone laughed in his face. Even his computer felt off limits. The proximity of the world outside belittled.

  He’d staggered into the kitchen, overjoyed to find Enfer hadn’t cleaned up. He’d licked the bowls, saucepans and utensils clean, hoping the combination of parts would equal the whole. It fell far from the mark, but at least it had stayed down.

  Now the pots and pans lay strewn around his neat, ordered kitchen.

  “Damn you, Enfer,” Sandy muttered, his throat dry.

  The mighty chef had not kept his promise. Several days, it seemed, had gone by and he was yet to call. Benoit had also been absent.

  So damn hungry…

  The depths he’d plummeted before Enfer’s visit were a taster, the starter even, for this main course. He’d never known such emptiness. Voices spoke to him from the shadows of the bedroom, and the confusion…he struggled to comprehend even the most simplest of thoughts. Shaking and ranting, he’d lain for hours staring at the ceiling.

  In his moments of clarity, he thought only of Enfer and the treat that would eventually come.

  “Is a shame,” said a voice from the corner. “The strong man I see a few days ago is no more. He is gone.” It sighed. “He is dead.”

  Sandy scanned the shadows. He knew the difference between the fevered voices in his head and one spoken from an actual being.

  “Who…who’s there?” he wheezed.

  “Why, it is me,” said the voice, and the door swung open. A sickening blast of sunlight poured in, and Sandy blocked his eyes. A short silhouette stood in the bright doorway.

  “What a sorry state,” said the figure.

  “What the hell is this?” said Sandy. “Am I dead?”

  “Non, mon ami. Not yet. Bet you feel like it though, oui?”

  Benoit walked up to the bed and sat on the edge, watching Sandy, fascinated. He held a small package wrapped in brown paper.

  “This room,” he said. “I can smell the disease.”

  “You…came…” said Sandy.

  “Oui, Monsieur Devanche. I was told to.” He looked down at the critic, biting his lower lip and looking sympathetic. “And we have to do as we are told.”

  Sandy snatched at the package.

  “You brought it,” he said, his fingers scraping the paper. “You brought it. Give it to me.”

  Benoit stood from the bed and allowed the small box to dangle playfully from string hooked over his finger.

  “You want this?” he asked.

  “Yes!” roared Sandy, rolling around on the bed in frustration, wrestling with his sheets. “Please, give it to me!”

  Benoit shook his head and clicked his tongue.

  “He really has you in his pocket, monsieur. I’ve seen them bad, but rarely this desperate. Sometimes I think we would be more human by handing out heroine, but then again…” His words trailed off. Sandy didn’t care.

  “Give it to me!”

  Benoit sighed.

  “Very well, though Chef was very adamant on presentation. He is a master of the culinary arts after all, Monsieur Devanche, and not some burger jockey content on his customers eating straight from the box.”

  Sandy took a deep breath and made to grab the box, diving forwards.

  Benoit, easily the quicker and more alert, merely stepped back and clicked his
tongue again.

  Sandy fell to the floor. His body curled up, and he wept into the carpet.

  “Naughty boy,” said Benoit. “When you choose to behave, your meal will be served in the lounge. Lucky for you, you have a reservation.” He smiled and curled the tip of his moustache before walking out of the room.

  “No!” Sandy wailed, smelling the faint trace of the vanishing food.

  He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, his narrow chest struggling to drag in the warm, moist air.

  What did I do to deserve this?

  How long did it take? A few days? A week?

  Sandy tried to think back to when all this started. The review, Deception, had started this cruel ball rolling. No matter how much he tried, the pieces would not slide together in his mind. The hunger and dehydration had oiled each piece of information that floated in his consciousness, and no matter how hard he forced them to make sense, they slid over each other and refused to link. It left him drifting in delirium, his head as empty as the stomach that gnawed and pulsed.

  Benoit called from another room.

  “Your apartment is such a mess, Monsieur Devanche! I imagined you to be a neat, tidy and respectable man, yet this abode is more akin to the rats and insects! I have tidied a little, but this is far from my level of acceptance. One really should take more pride in one’s home. It is a reflection of the soul, after all.”

  Sandy groaned and, like a newborn baby learning its limits, he managed to roll onto his front. Dragging his light frame across the bed and falling onto the carpet, he reached the open door. Using the handle, he eased himself up and stood trembling on the threshold to the lounge.

  Benoit had done a phenomenal job of cleaning up. The furniture from the balcony, which Sandy vaguely recalled kicking over in a fit of rage, had been righted. A pure white cloth covered the table, and an elegant glass vase containing a rose had been placed on top.

  The rest of the lounge was generally cleaner, with some of the vomit stains gone from the carpet. Benoit had opened the patio, and again, the curtains billowed out on a cold breeze. The murk of the day did little to brighten the room, and the sound of the rain stole what comfort the apartment offered.