It’s true, we were still very much in love, Luc and I. It was not like before, of course. Aside from the well-polished rituals we had established to relieve ourselves, we both kept twisting and turning to avoid any unnecessary contact with each other. Lips sealed in reaction to hurtful words, legs disentangled after sleep had unfortunately intertwined them, but we were used to it and that counts. So much dodging for some peace; marital art is a martial art, an art we had completely mastered: black belt, fourth dan. Okay even for KOs; we would crash painlessly on the tatami. The Chinese man hadn’t exactly agreed to the situation so he was in pain. It’s all in the head, I say! I thought he might be a bachelor and knew little about women. I hear they lack women in China.
When I had my fill of it, I felt very relaxed; I let him sleep and went to take a shower. Maybe I could keep my Chinese guy for a long time in that state—weeks, months, years even. Paris was a lot better than Milan, after all. All I had to do was feed him right and not mess him up too much. I could set up a TV and DVD player in his room to keep him entertained and then, little by little, he would learn French. That would at least be something positive.
I put on clean clothes. It was beautiful out; I watered my plants. I was happy that Luc let me live here. Our place was becoming
my
place, for years to come; that’s what he had said and that was nice, he didn’t have to. We had bought that first-floor apartment together fifteen years ago for peanuts with a loan from the bank, and we had fixed it up ourselves, quite nicely. All I needed to do was pay the mortgage every month. Nothing to worry about, I had the means, I couldn’t complain.
That’s when I fell upon my man’s backpack. As light as he was. I found his passport. In Chinese, obviously. One hundred dollar bills. A good-sized stack. It would be for our honeymoon. My honey bun had everything thought out.
All perked up, I sat down in front of the computer to play with the keyboard a little. I had a message from Jérôme:
Attachedare three recipes to return to me before this evening, baby
.
Was everything okay yesterday? How was he?
Great guy,
I answered.
You’ll have them back very soon
.
I clicked on the pictures. The first one was easy. A vegetable casserole. String beans, peas, carrots. I already had the recipe stored in my files. All I had to do was print it out. Same for the chocolate cake. The third one wasn’t so simple. I finally settled for veal shanks with mixed vegetables. I wrote down the recipe card from memory; I was used to it. I sent everything via e-mail by mid-afternoon. Jérôme would be pleased.
I made myself a cup of coffee and finished some leftover lasagna. I even treated myself to a little serving of raspberry sherbet. The veal shank stew had obviously whetted my appetite. I thought it would be a good idea to cook such a typical French dish for my little sweetheart. He’d like that.
So I went to rue de Belleville, near the Jourdain metro station, to the best butcher in the arrondissement.* I bought organic potatoes, carrots, turnips, and string beans, then I got a great cheese assortment at a cheese store that takes quality very seriously. My backpack was totally full when I walked back down rue de Belleville; I made a stop at a Chinese grocery—it wasn’t very hard to find as they’re all over the neighborhood—to get three cans of Tsingtao beer and some candied ginger.
When I came back home, not a stir. I got busy in the kitchen, humming away while I cooked. I may be a little rough sometimes but I have to admit that there’s nothing more satisfying in life than concocting fancy meals for a sleeping man. In fact, it felt as if we had already reached the pearly gates, my Chinese man and I. And that Luc who wanted me to take my pills! He was really screwed in the head!
I hadn’t had so much fun cooking in a long time. Everything was coming back to me: the exhilaration of the movements, the elation that smells and flavors give you. I had lots of fun cutting the vegetables into identical little cubes. I was using a ceramic knife Luc had brought back from Japan for me. Light as a feather and sharp as a razor blade. Asia sure was showering me with presents!
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 would feel more at home and it turned out to be a brilliant idea. I pushed forkfuls of meat and vegetables into his mouth. We had found a satisfying rhythm. He was as handsome as when we had first met, his wild strawberry smell lingering on despite the aromas of the meal and the almond-milk scent of the shower gel. My cute little soldier had a strong personality he hadn’t clearly revealed yet. But Luc was wrong: I could be patient.
My man had absolutely gorgeous hands and arms. I hadn’t seen such perfection up close since Eric, the young swimming champion in the 200-meter freestyle I had abused in the locker room. I had gotten into all kinds of trouble because of that, including being fired from the Swimming Federation and one year of scandalous chemical straightjacket. They talk about human rights for men, but what about the rights of women? No one gives a shit about them.
He accepted coffee without me dipping my lips into it first. Trust had been restored. It just goes to show, it doesn’t take much. Then we settled on the couch with small glasses of brandy. He let me do the job. At times, I even seemed to catch a flash of wonder in his weary eyes.
A great cook makesa great lover
: I knew the proverb and I was able to verify how surprisingly true it was.
At 3 a.m., having had my fill, I took him back to his room, certain he would sleep: I had fixed his second glass of brandy with three pills.
As I was going to bed, I thought I recognized the same feeling of ecstasy I’d had with Luc at the beginning of our relationship. Spring had come. I had no doubt about us being able to form a happy couple. Such a thing does exist, whatever they may say; pushing your luck a bit is all it takes.
The next day, I washed and checked my e-mail. No news from Milan. I felt reassured; it’s always when everything is going smoothly that the worst happens. I know that well.
I fixed breakfast. When I went into the bedroom, he was asleep. I didn’t want to bother him; I just stayed there and watched my little angel without a peep, without pulling the blanket off the bed, an inch away from being the submissive woman, lost in admiration before her man and scared to death at the idea of disturbing his sleep. Finally, I couldn’t stand it any longer and my hand shot out. Maybe I wasn’t completely stabilized yet.
When he woke up, I was holding his penis firmly in my right hand, with the tip of it in front of my mouth like a mike, and I was singing,
Stranger in the night, I’m so excited …
He gave me a funny look. Okay, I don’t sing very well, it’s true. I put an end to my recital and gave him his breakfast.
In the bathroom, I filled the tub with water warmed up just right and added a Chanel N?5 bath gel. A pure delight! I sat him up on the edge of the bathtub, what with his feet tied up and all … Then
splash!
I was wondering if I would join him right away when the doorbell rang. Bummer!
After the first moment of panic, I decided I wouldn’t open the door.
And then: “Sonia, it’s Luc, open up, I know you’re there!”
Locking and bolting the door had been a good idea. I had to, our home was his home after all.
“What the hell are you doing?” he yelled as he came in.
And who says
I’m
not polite? Not even
Hello, thank you
, nothing. The poor guy wasn’t doing so great, actually. He sat down on the couch; there was this scent of wild strawberries and I was wondering when he would notice, but he didn’t care; besides, I had already forgotten: Luc has no sense of smell!
“It’s all over with Georges!”
What? Over with the macho physical therapist who gave him such beautiful bruises? I had never believed in their story, actually. A massage that turns into marriage, that can’t work. So what that I knew it for both of us—it didn’t help!
“Any way we look at it, Luc, we can’t make it work. We’re too different,” I said in a soft woman-victim tone of voice that went with my white blouse …
“I’m coming back, Sonia, I’m moving back tomorrow …”
“Oh! That won’t be possible!”
“We have no other choice, Sonia. This is my home.”
“It’s too late!”
“And why’s that?”
“There’s someone else in my life!”
He looked at me like
Keep talking, don’t even think I’m gonnabelieve you
. What chutzpah these guys have! They always think that girls are incapable of managing without them. That girls are only good for whining and for begging them to come back home. Boy, did he have the wrong scenario!
“Stop that nonsense, Sonia. You took your pills, right? I think you’re weird.”
That was pretty incredible! The guy I had was more handsome, younger, fresher. He had traveled thousands of miles to jump into my arms. He was now relaxing in my bathtub, fragrant with Chanel N?5, and the guy who’d just been dumped was putting on macho airs and acting as if he had recently killed the wooly mammoth to save his tribe! The jerk had spoiled my babe’s bath! There are limits, after all, limits I cross with gusto, and when I scream, it gets pretty loud.
“Get the hell out of here, you schmuck! I have someone else in my life now, so fuck you, asshole!”
I was starting to turn red. He remembered what that meant so he left, slamming the door behind him.
I remained in the middle of the living room for a good while, just to calm down; even when you are stabilized, sometimes certain people are good at making you fly off the handle. Leaving me for a physical therapist? You had to be really dumb.
Being dumped for a man and not for a woman wasn’t actually as tough, but … I failed to see the connection! What with one thing and another, I was getting all mixed up. Too many things were happening to me in too little time. I had reached the point where I needed a pill. That was smart! Luckily, there was no risk of an overdose as I had only one pill left in my last bottle. The Chinese man had eaten all of them.
As soon as I opened the bathroom door, I was struck by the absence of the wild strawberry scent. Chanel N?5 had punch, true, but still, I was scared. And rightly so: The foam was all alone in the tub, with no Chinese head sticking out. I saw red. Gone? No, he was all slumped in there, white in the red water. My poor baby! I grabbed his head; the stupid idiot was looking up at the top of his head. I pulled him up some more: The handle of the ceramic knife was sticking out of his stomach which was pouring red into the Chanel N?5 … Some people sure know how to annoy you! Why go through so much trouble just to die when it’s the one thing nobody can escape from? Because really, he did go through a lot of trouble to find that fucking knife and put it through his stomach without swallowing it first. I thought this hara-kiri stuff was Japanese but as it turned out, even that was Chinese!