Paris Noir - Aurelien Masson [13]
While the meat and vegetables were cooking, I stirred up a mixture of chocolate, butter, and ground almonds which I poured on the pieces of candied ginger scattered on tin foil, and I put the concoction in the fridge. Ginger is an aphrodisiac, it’s a well known fact; same for the sage I had stuck inside the meat. The evening was promising.
I set the table with special care as if for a picture. The tablecloth, the matching napkins, my best set of plates and glasses … I had even bought two bunches of daffodils, the first of the season. I trimmed two candles with my Japanese blade and stuck them into the candle holder Luc’s mother had given us. The effect was fantastic, a true promotional ad for Foodgourmet.I was already missing my big teddy bear; quick, quick, I gave myself a vague facelift in the bathroom and went to see him …
Lying there on his bed, my loverboy was still a little sleepy, two narrow slits where his eyes were; as soon as he saw the Japanese knife, he opened them as wide as dessert plates. No reason to get upset, though, as the object was not much bigger than a steak knife, but impressive because it was very pointed, a real hole puncher. To show him I didn’t mean to hurt him, I sat down by the side of the bed, and scraped my knee with the tip of the ceramic blade, at the hem of my checkered skirt. Beads of blood formed right away; very carefully, I traced a thin red line, a C, meaning Chinese, since I didn’t know his first name. The result was very delicate but failed to reassure him. I tapped my heart to show I had feelings for him. He didn’t seem to believe me, so I even came up with I love you. He must have thought I was out of my mind.
But with one thing and another, my veal was running the risk of sticking to the bottom of the pot. I clapped my hands, Come on, let’s get moving, let’s go. He stood up, staggering; I pushed him under the shower, he didn’t respond. He was taking things the right way, the Asian way that is. Zen is Japanese, but they say that the Nippons stole everything from their neighbors of the Middle Kingdom. So Zen has to be Chinese.
I washed him with an almond milk shower gel that smelled very very nice. I was having a terrific time. It’s absolutely true: When a man’s hands are tied up, his penis becomes more important. He was being very sweet about letting me take care of him and we actually got along rather well. The poor man needed to acquire some experience: What one learns is always beneficial.
I dried him up with a bath towel that had been well heated on the electric towel rack. I dabbed all his little wounds with Q-tips soaked in hydrogen peroxide, smeared some ointment wherever it was needed, rubbed arnica on several bruises. I slipped one of my silk bathrobes onto him and combed his hair. He seemed happy. I was in seventh heaven.
When he saw the nicely set table, he was taken aback; he was probably sick of sleeping. I could read fear in his black eyes hidden under his slanted eyelids. The way experience can make an inexperienced man mature is absolutely spectacular!
I shook my hands frantically, like a mute, so he would understand once and for all that things were over, definitely over: The script was different now. Sleeping finished, now eating.
“It’s very good food, you’ll see! Wonderful French food!”
I went to the fridge to take out the hors-d’oeuvre plates: two slices of duck foiegras from the Gers, along with toast and a slab of fig jam on the side. I removed from his plate one of the slices of toast, spread the smooth paste on it, added a little bit of jam, and took a bite to show him there was nothing to be afraid of. When I brought the slice of bread to his lips, he gulped it down. On and on like that through the whole meal. But I allowed myself pauses so I could get some nourishment too; generosity has its limits after all.
He was going like Mmm, very good, great.And honestly, the veal was a complete success; I had slightly spiced it so my darling