Critique Page 8

“Your table, Monsieur.”

  Sandy flinched and nearly fell back down.

  Benoit was standing right beside him.

  “This way. Don’t worry yourself about dressing.”

  He escorted Sandy to the table and helped to seat him.

  “It isn’t too late,” said the maître d’. “It’s never too late. Back out, learn from the critique so far and stop this.” He stepped back. “There are always worse things to come.”

  Having had enough of the riddles that perplexed him, Sandy swatted the thin vase aside. It flew from the table and smashed against the wall, the rose landing in the shattered glass like a car crash victim.

  “Give it to me!” he shouted and pounded his fist on the table.

  Benoit nodded. “Very well.”

  The short man retreated into the kitchen and emerged with something cubic on a plate. He placed it before Sandy.

  Enfer had prepared him a small, modest cake, perhaps a couple of inches in length, width and depth. It was made of sponge and chocolate, and the chef had, perhaps playfully, written the words EAT ME in frosting on the top.

  “Curiouser and curiouser, is it not?” said Benoit and laid a napkin in Sandy’s lap. “It still isn’t too late.”

  Sandy grabbed the cake, too hungry and confused to deal with any cutlery.

  “I can back out any time I like,” he managed before he stuffed the dessert into his mouth whole. He quickly chewed and swallowed the moist sponge. It agreed with him the same as Enfer’s other dishes. He spoke through the crumbs and smears of exquisite, dark chocolate icing. “I’m not afraid of him.”

  The wind, now freezing and vengeful for the years of exclusion, blew the curtains higher. The rain, hammering against the empty balcony, gusted in. Sandy felt the fine spray and shivered.

  “That…” said Benoit, playing with his moustache. “That was a big mistake.”

  The temperature of the apartment plummeted.

  Sandy jumped in his seat as a picture fell from the wall, shaken loose by the relentless breeze. The shards of broken vase whispered as they blew against each other, swept across the floor.

  “A very big mistake,” said Benoit. “You should be afraid of him. You should worship him.”

  A shadow flitted through the storm, like something had flown past the weakened sun.

  Benoit shook his head. “You could have helped yourself…”

  Two heavy, hairy hands clamped down on Sandy’s shoulders. He screamed. The napkin slid off his lap, exposing his shrunken penis and testicles that desperately wanted to crawl back inside him.

  “I do not wish for your fear,” said Enfer’s deep voice. He growled into Sandy’s ear. “Merely your respect. Respect as both an artiste and as your own personal critic.” He paused. “I thought you could at least respect that last part, non? I thought we shared a common kinship on that score.”

  Sandy’s bottom lip quivered, yet his tongue still probed and scoured, keen for the slightest taste of Enfer’s modest cake.

  “I d-do, Enfer,” he said. “I r-really do!”

  The chef squeezed, digging his fingers hard into Sandy’s muscles, pressing the edge with his nails.

  Sandy cringed and tightened.

  “I do!” he cried. “Honestly, I do!”

  Enfer released him with a firm push.

  Sandy fell from the chair and curled up on the floor.

  The chef put his meaty hands together and popped his knuckles.

  Where did he come from? Sandy reeled. Where the fuck was he?

  “Maybe this is a matter of faith,” said Enfer. “I believe you, Sandy, that you do respect what I’m attempting to do. But then…I’m getting such reluctance from you, like I’m forcing you through these changes. Is that how you feel? Do you think I’m forcing your hand?”

  Sandy whimpered and glanced to Benoit for help.

  The maître d’ had seen the coming storm and had thus stepped out on the balcony despite the beating rain. He stood with his head down, clutching the guardrail. His clothes had already soaked through.

  “I asked you a question!” Enfer blazed, landing a stout boot in Sandy’s midsection.

  The blow caught him off guard and pain tore through his ribs. He wailed and folded his arms tightly.

  “Do you think I’m forcing your hand?” Enfer demanded.

  “No!” Sandy moaned.

  “Correct, monsieur. I did not force you to lay down with that boy, nor did I make you assist me with the soup. I certainly did not force you to taste my Eden apple pie, which I know you did.”

  Sandy turned away in shame. He felt Enfer’s footsteps pound the floor.

  “But now I feel that your faith in me has been questioned, and that in turn requires a test. Just as God tested the faith of Abraham…”

  Please, thought Sandy, please leave me alone. I’ll do anything. Please, just feed me and then leave me alone.

  “Devanche!” said Enfer and stamped his foot once.

  The vibrations throbbed through Sandy’s head.

  “Get off the floor and dress. You have work to do. I shall prepare you something. You’ll need your strength for the coming hours.”

  Sandy, weak and shaking with sobs, pushed off the floor but fell straight back down, his arm muscles decrepit.

  Enfer landed a kick square on his bare buttock, the sole scraping the skin.

  “Now!” the chef screamed.

  Sandy frantically nodded and lurched to his feet, his backside burning.

  * * *

  The sickly atmosphere still hung in the bedroom, and Sandy left the door open, hoping to shift it. Already the cake in his stomach had given him a boost. He moved more freely, and his thoughts were more coherent.

  This is a nightmare. He rubbed his buttock with one hand and his side with the other. I’m dreaming that I’m back at school again and the big, bad bully’s here to get me.

  He paused to listen to the sounds coming from the lounge. Over the din of the rain, he heard the exchange of fast French, followed by the ring of a spoon in a bowl. It seemed Enfer was preparing to cook.

  Immediately, the pain in Sandy’s body subsided. He wiped his eyes, feeling a little foolish.

  Of course Enfer would get mad. He was an artist. A perfectionist. To mention backing out and to even discuss fearing the man was indeed an insult. Enfer was a master. So what if his methods were unorthodox? All the greats had been eccentric and passionate in their day.

  All that mattered was the food. The dishes had to be created. The world needed such brilliance and genius.

  Sandy began to salivate just from the thought.

  He slipped on underwear and socks picked up from the floor. At some point he’d tipped all his washed and ironed clothes all over the bedroom, an act he struggled to recall. Unsure what task lay ahead of him, he chose casual jeans, a T-shirt and a thick, black sweater. Even if Enfer’s request involved him staying inside to work on the computer or help in the kitchen, he’d stay warm. Enfer had a penchant for keeping the balcony doors open and allowing the chill of the city inside the apartment.

  As long as I don’t have to go out there, he thought. In the cold…so high up…

  A knock sounded at the door, and before Sandy could reply, Enfer slipped inside the bedroom.

  “Monsieur. Are you dressed?”

  Sandy inspected himself, feeling more human than ever. “Pretty much.”

  “Come here.”

  Sheepish, Sandy approached the bigger man, who wrapped his arms around him. The two men embraced, and Sandy pressed his face into Enfer’s firm chest.

  “Apologies for my strong words, mon ami,” said the Frenchman. “We are at such a crucial point…I don’t want things to spoil between us.”

  “I don’t think they could,” said Sandy, hugging him harder. “I only feel good when you’re here. When you’re gone…I fall to pieces.”

  Enfer laughed. “Then you know how I feel about God, except, he is never gone. He is always here.” He stepp
ed away from Sandy and patted over his heart. “Now, put on your shoes. Something light. Something nimble. I think you’ve been locked inside this place for too long. You must go out, embrace the city.”

  Sandy held such disdain for the city, but rather than upset Enfer, he nodded and hunted for his sneakers. Finding them under the bed, he sat on the edge of the mattress and slipped them on.

  “How are you feeling? Refreshed?”

  Sandy squeezed his fists, relishing the feel of his slender biceps tightening. He stood and bounced on his toes.

  “I feel like a million dollars.”

  “Well don’t burn yourself out,” said Enfer. “I’m going to prepare you something for the journey. I cannot stress how important this task is, Sandy. I wouldn’t entrust it with anyone else.”

  Sandy raised his eyebrows.

  “Not even Benoit?”

  “Not even Benoit.”

  Enfer handed Sandy a small envelope.

  “Put it in your pocket and don’t open it until you’re away from the building. I need an ingredient for a dish I’m considering. Nothing cloak and dagger, but something I’d prefer you to do.”

  Sandy obediently shoved the envelope into his pocket.

  “That a boy, mon ami.” Enfer slapped him on the shoulder. “Now, it’s a cold day. Come and have a hot drink with Benoit and myself before you start your journey.”

  * * *

  Sandy walked down the street, feeling better than he had all week. The rain hitting his face washed away the memory of sickness and disorder. A new man, he smiled against the cutting breeze.

  Passers-by cast him cautious side glances; this man without a coat or umbrella, actually accepting the frigid embrace of the city streets.

  The envelope remained untouched in one pocket of his jeans, while in the other, the top of a plastic gym bottle poked out, hidden by the sweater. It had been Enfer’s parting gift—another soup or broth.

  “Something to keep the wolf from the door,” the chef had said.

  Sandy assumed he’d meant the weather, as the bottle sent a comforting heat through his leg.

  He walked back into the park, eager to make the most of his day while he had the strength. Spying the coffee stand, he considered buying a cup to give his insides a warm-up and to save Enfer’s brew. Hand in his pocket, he realised he’d left the apartment without any money. He sat at one of the sheltered tables, choosing to go without than asking for a free handout. He’d spent enough at the stand to warrant a free coffee from the vendor, or even to owe him for one, but he’d never resort to begging.

  He pulled the envelope from his pocket. His jeans had done a fine job of protecting it from the rain. Sandy held it between his fingers, studying the elegant script of Enfer’s handwriting.

  SANDY

  He wondered what ingredient he’d been asked to pick up. Nothing as mundane as vegetables or standard meats. Enfer wanted him to learn. Perhaps this test involved more than his faith? Maybe Enfer was also testing his ability.

  I think he’s seen something in me, thought Sandy, his heart soaring. He thinks I’ve stagnated long enough. Why simply taste and critique when you can…create!

  He wants me as his apprentice, and part of the job is to obtain only the best ingredients.

  And to be left to wander the city in search of these wondrous flavours? What a fitting test.

  Sandy carefully opened the envelope and pulled out the small piece of paper contained within. Enfer’s neat, looping handwriting covered one side. Smiling, Sandy set to reading.

  Mon Ami,

  It saddens me to test your faith so soon, but alas, I feel I must. A new dish refuses to sit just in my mind. It demands to be made flesh. I look forward to us sampling this recent brainchild together. You and I.

  The dish requires a very exotic meat—liver, to be precise. Oh to work with good liver and fat to grind up into a pâté fit for the Lord himself! That is our task, Sandy, and not one to be taken lightly.

  The person you need to see is in apartment 587 on the corner of Swanston and Collins.

  Don’t disappoint me.

  Your friend,

  Jacob Enfer.

  Sandy reread the letter. It was a straight forward instruction. Go to the address, meet the guy, get the liver and bring it back. He assumed Enfer had already bought the meat, as no money had been mentioned. Simple.

  He returned the paper to the envelope and replaced it in his pocket. Whistling a merry tune, he left the table and the lone vendor selling his coffee and muffins and headed back into the grid of skyscrapers and towers. The corner of Swanston and Collins was a few blocks away in the richer part of the city.

  Ignoring the rain, he smiled, rubbing his hand for warmth against the gym bottle and imagining his reward for completing such a menial task.

  The beast of the city stomped the streets with its millions of feet. Sandy weaved between the faceless hordes, stepping around a fat guy in a suit, a mobile phone glued to his ear while he berated some poor sap on the other end. The critic leaned from the path of a teenager, who clutched a skateboard like a life preserver and bobbed his hooded head to the beat of his iPod.

  Sandy sniggered. These unfortunate drones had reverted, using technology to stay hidden in their caves, cowering from the outside world. It was so much easier to deal with a disembodied voice or line of text than a living, breathing being. Sandy realised that he too had been one of their kin: locked away in his apartment, his only company the television and the sporadic emails from John at the paper. What a world. You can go to work without actually going to work!

  He laughed again, drawing uncomfortable glances from the people walking towards him. No one likes a wet guy laughing to himself.

  Sandy was a butterfly crawling from his self-imposed chrysalis, and now it was time to spread his wings.

  Even his secret didn’t seem such a big deal anymore. He promised himself that should his relationship with the great chef blossom, it would be out in the open. No more hiding.

  He waited at the intersection, rocking on his heels while his colleagues, heavy and glum, stared at the crossing signal with pleading eyes. The green man flashed, and swept along by the eager denizens of the city, Sandy crossed and turned right onto Collins.

  * * *

  Like a shard of ivory poking out from the ground, the apartment building on the corner of Swanston and Collins stood apart from its grey, moribund neighbours. The rain, rather than darkening its almost marble walls, made it gleam, lending it a palatial grace among dark, sombre sentinels.

  Sandy checked the address for the third time. This was definitely the place.

  “And I thought my apartment was nice,” he muttered and headed up the stairs to the entrance. He pushed through the glass doors and entered a tasteful foyer with lush red carpeting and wood-panelled walls adorned with wide, colourful canvasses. Thankful for no doorman or reception, he strode past the post boxes to the elevators. The doors slid open and Sandy stepped inside. He again checked the letter from Enfer, and pushed the button for the fifth floor.

  The elevator ascended, and Sandy’s insides lurched. He rubbed it. Suffering more from hunger than inertia, his stomach refused to settle. Sandy stroked the bottle, which still radiated its comforting heat.

  Just a quick sip? he pondered. A little fix?

  He stared at his reflection in the shiny bank of buttons and shook his head.

  “No,” he told the haggard, bristly face before him. “This is a treat. A reward. Keep it for now.”

  The elevator doors slid open, and he walked out into a corridor.

  On his left, sullen clouds filled every window. To the right, the apartments. The first door was numbered 560.

  He walked on, his footsteps light.

  561…562…563…

  He wiped a hand across his forehead, removing the rainwater that felt like a cold sweat. The hunger grew stronger, gnawing at his stomach with the tenacity of a hungry rat.

  564…

  S
andy stopped.

  Something had flown past the closest window, winking out the dull glow from the bleak sky.

  He watched the dark shape glide past the building, the light from each window blinking out for a second as it silently passed.

  That’s too big for a bird, Sandy thought, gazing at the windows, seeing if it would return. A drunk seeking comfort from his bottle, Sandy removed the flask from his pocket, unscrewed the top and took a drink. The brew, rich and thick, instantly centred him. He focused on the flavours, the texture…the boost that rivalled the strongest caffeine. Satisfied, he thought nothing more of the thing outside and concentrated on the task at hand.

  He walked down the corridor, studying each door. He turned at the corner and followed the ascending apartment numbers.

  585…586…

  Lying on the floor in front of the door marked 587 sat another small, white envelope. In black ink and a looping script, Sandy’s name was written on the front.

  He frowned and stooped to pick it up. Enfer’s writing was quite apparent.

  Sandy glanced back and forth along the corridor.

  Why would Enfer send me to this place if he’s already been here?

  Confused, he opened the envelope and tugged out a letter.

  His stomach groaned.

  Mon Ami,

  It pleases me to see you have made it this far. Are you feeling strong?

  God tested the faith of Abraham, just as I am going to test your faith in me. Bring forth the ingredient I have requested, and together we shall feed our Lord.

  Consider this a gift. You’re about to reclaim some quality time.

  Like all good chefs, I advise a visit to the kitchen to start you on your way.

  Your friend,

  Jacob Enfer.

  Sandy reread the note, but some of the words failed to sink in. He rubbed his stomach, suddenly ravenous.

  I can’t concentrate like this, he thought and again took the bottle from his pocket. His intended few sips deepened. The broth glugged inside the bottle as Sandy drained it. A trickle ran from the corner of his mouth. The liquid too good to waste, he wiped a finger up his chin, catching every drop. The bottle emptied, he sucked his finger clean.

  He sighed, content, and leaned back against the wall beside the door to apartment 587. For the moment, he didn’t care about Enfer, his ingredient, Nicola or even Jeremy. He became lost in a labyrinth of flavour…yet…