Sandy eyed the new cloche, saliva gathering in his criss-crossed mouth.
“You’re beginning to sound like a terrorist,” he told Enfer.
“You’ll understand the majesty of God’s kingdom. Here.” The chef unveiled the next dish. A main.
On the plate sat a lump of meat. It appeared tenderized and formed and still bled.
Sandy picked up the accompanying knife and fork.
“Steak tartar,” he said with wonder. “I’ve never had the pleasure.”
Enfer nodded.
A couple of candles winked out with a particularly strong gust of wind, and a cold drop of rain struck Sandy’s cheek.
Enfer, his hair a blowing across his chiselled features, bent towards the table. With a magician’s sleight of hand, he produced a wine glass as if from thin air and stood it on the table.
“You may begin,” he said. “Unless you want to debate on religion a little more.”
Sandy dug in.
At first taste, his senses naturally recoiled from the odd flavour and texture. This was, after all, raw beef. The human condition had learned not to eat raw, bloody meat over a few millennia. As his teeth cut through the chunky strands, more blood splashed onto his tongue. He gobbled it up.
Exquisite.
Beside the table, Enfer slowly unbuttoned the top of his chef whites. As the first few popped free, Sandy glanced up and noticed tanned skin in the widening V at Enfer’s neck. It appeared the man wore nothing beneath.
I’m through the looking glass, Sandy thought, indulging in a second mouthful of the dish.
“This is my body,” said Enfer, still unfastening his whites.
Sandy dropped his gaze and concentrated on the meal.
More fat droplets fell from the heavens, dotting the tablecloth and extinguishing a few more of the candles.
Enfer lowered his arm towards the wine glass.
“This is my blood.”
As if cut by an invisible knife, a small gash opened on the chef’s wrist. Healthy, oxygenated blood poured from the severed artery, filling the wine glass like a dark cranberry syrup.
Sandy jumped back in his seat, nearly dropping the fork. He clamped his mouth shut, unwilling to lose a single scrap of this masterpiece through surprise.
“Some dishes are naked without a good red to accompany it,” said Enfer.
The glass almost filled, the cascading blood suddenly stopped. The skin at Enfer’s wrist was again clean and flawless.
Sandy chewed, swallowed.
“Am…am I dreaming?” he asked.
Enfer smiled. “Your dreams could never taste this good.” He lifted the glass. “Taste.”
Sandy took the slender stem between thumb and forefinger.
“I…I…”
“Don’t refuse me, Sandy Devanche.”
Catching that odd silver shine in the bigger man’s eyes, Sandy raised the glass to his lips and sipped.
Rather than the hot-metal tang of fresh blood, similar to that of the steak tartar, the liquid refreshed and cut through the taste of meat. The glass had been filled with a delectable red wine, dark and fruity and moderately dry.
Sandy groaned in satisfaction as the alcohol soured his throat.
“Good,” said Enfer, allowing Sandy to set down the glass and continue eating. He ran his fingers through the critic’s hair. The front of his unbuttoned whites fell open.
“Shit,” cried Sandy, jerking away.
Enfer’s slender and muscled stomach was marred by a glistening wound on his left side. The bloody pit throbbed, and crimson wept over the neat, expert edges.
Sandy stared into the depths of the atrocious injury, unable to look away from Enfer’s exposed, secret anatomy.
“You must always put a little of yourself into every dish,” said the chef. He took off his chef whites and stood topless.
Sandy washed down the over-chewed mouthful with more wine, downing most of the rich liquid.
The rain began to fall in abundance, soaking the tablecloth and running down Sandy’s head and face.
He shivered.
Another candle puffed out, the city drowning its heat.
This is the end, thought Sandy. The Last Supper.
His tears joined the waterfall across his skin.
Enfer watched him intently, like the night at the dining society, almost feeding from the pleasure he took from the food.
Sobbing, Sandy lowered his fork once more. The food was too good to waste.
* * *
“I hope you’re enjoying your meal so far,” said Enfer. He picked up the plate, which Sandy had licked clean, and the glass and carried them inside Cameron’s former apartment. Rain slicked the taut muscles of his back and shoulders.
Sandy remained sat at his table, chilled to the bone. He prayed for the strength to stand and simply walk out.
Perhaps it’s better if I do, he thought, at least then I can show some defiance, keep a little of the old me. He’s made sure I don’t have a life to go back to. Hell, let him hurt me.
Let him kill me.
“Dessert.”
Sandy closed his eyes. Enfer had returned, not even allowing Sandy the chance to arrange his thoughts and make his decisions.
The chef carried a small porcelain bowl. He covered the top with his wide hand, protecting the contents from the declining weather.
“A rare delicacy here,” said Enfer and placed it on the table.
Sandy glanced away from the grievous stomach wound to check the dish.
Coating the inside of the bowl was a fine sprinkling of icing sugar.
“Nothing is sweeter,” said Enfer.
His eyes gleamed silver once more, like his pupils had spat mercury. He blinked, and his eyes returned to normal. A trick of the candle light perhaps, or exhaustion playing its part.
“You have no idea how lucky you are, Sandy,” said the chef. “Do you know how many millions of people every day wish for this kind of redemption? This…critique. It’s unique.”
He stood behind Sandy, rubbing his shoulders.
Despite everything, Sandy still felt the slight spark of desire from his touch.
“How am I supposed to eat this?” he asked, studying the sugar. At least, it appeared to be sugar. A man of Enfer’s standing surely wouldn’t sprinkle icing sugar in a bowl and call it a dessert. This had to be something else. Rat poison…or some weird insect secretion. Nothing as simple as sugar.
Submitting to his fate, Sandy ran a finger around the inside edge of the unprotected bowl. Rain had already begun to dissolve the powder, and the sugar stuck to the critic’s trembling digit.
Cocaine? he thought, holding it closer to his face. He stuck his finger in his mouth, and sweetness instantly flooded his taste buds. It is sugar…
“How silly of me, monsieur,” said Enfer. “We’re not savages who eat with our hands, dipping in fingers like chimps at a tea party. Non non. We are cultured. We have manners.”
Sandy felt a heavy hand rise from his shoulder. A second later, Enfer held a narrow object in front of his face.
With the handle the same dull grey as the sky, only the blade had a little sparkle. Enfer placed the scalpel beside the bowl.
“There,” he said.
Sandy blinked droplets of rain from his eyes. They hung from his lashes like fat icicles.
“I…I don’t understand.”
“I shouldn’t have expected you to. This is the last meal I will ever prepare for you, Sandy. This is the last act, and what happens afterwards is up to you. I hope you have listened and listened well. And thought. I believe that since Cameron’s death, you haven’t done much thinking, just fed your ego and lived your lies.” He sighed. “I was asked to change you.”
Sandy picked up the medical instrument. He’d learned that Enfer loved his lectures and spewed them out with the gusto of a priest hell bent on converting those from a life of fire and brimstone. The chef would be distracted.
Sandy pushed the tip of
his finger against the blade. A pearl of blood swelled.
Good. Good and sharp.
“God listens to everyone who seeks him,” Enfer continued. “And sometimes…sometimes he answers.”
Sandy lowered the scalpel back to the table as Enfer leaned close behind him. The chef’s lips tickled his ear.
“Do you want to see God, monsieur?”
Sandy shook his head. He stared at the bowl of sugar, wondering if he’d been wrong. Religious freaks were particularly fond of mass poisoning. What was this?
A strong wind shot rain in his face.
“No!” he screamed. “I want…I want…”
Enfer growled. “What do you want?”
Sandy’s mind boggled. He saw Suzie as he remembered her: blonde hair halfway down her back, face smiling, not a care in her youth. He also saw Cameron, working hard at the office but taking the time to look away from his monitor, check the coast was clear and blow Sandy a secret kiss.
He saw…happiness. The way things should have been. Before the lies, before Jeremy.
Before Jacob Enfer and his damned restaurant.
“It’s never too late,” said Enfer, the wind whipping his hair around his head. He strode to the side of the table. “You can see things, Sandy, but you must see God first!”
Sandy slammed his fists on the table. The vase and its orchid, already living precariously in the harsh wind, toppled and rolled off the table, smashing on the dirty tiles below.
“I don’t understand!” he cried.
“Your eyes,” said Enfer. “A dessert like no other when rolled in sugar. Aqueous humour has such a unique taste. And the texture…”
Sandy blinked. “What?”
“Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own. Corinthians 6:19,” said Enfer. “Your eyes, Sandy. You must give your eyes to God so that you can see him!”
Sandy shot up, knocking away the table and chair. He brandished the scalpel.
“Stay…the fuck…away,” he snarled. “Come anywhere near me or my family again and I’ll…I’ll…”
Enfer raised an eyebrow.
“You’ll what? Cut out my liver?” He shook his head. “And your family. You don’t have a family. Not anymore.”
Sandy jabbed the blade, intending to force the chef backwards, clearing a path to the patio doors.
“I’ll tell the police what really happened,” he spat. “They should give me a fucking medal for what I did to that sick bastard!”
Again, in his mind he saw Suzie the way she had been, free and shining with innocence. Jeremy had stripped her of that forever…and Sandy knew he’d played his own part. Evil happens when good men do nothing. He no longer considered himself a good man.
“Indeed they should,” said Enfer. He refused to budge, or even raise his hands in defence. He radiated a serene confidence, like a protester poking a flower down the barrel of a rifle. “But they won’t. You’ll be left to rot, Sandy. You know that. Don’t I offer a better alternative?”
Sandy laughed, the sound of a rusty hinge squeaking from his mouth.
“Cutting out my own eyes for another of your weird food experiments? Enough is enough, Jacob. This stops. Now.”
Enfer’s head drooped.
Sandy’s heart soared. This was the first time the giant had shown any type of weakness. The critic was back, putting the chef in his place.
“I…cannot force you to do anything,” said Enfer after a moment. He raised his face; his expression had softened. “I never have. Not really. They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, and with you, this really was the case. Cameron’s death had built a fortress around your heart, and no one could get in. Not even Suzie.”
Sandy gritted his teeth and raised the scalpel.
“Don’t you even say her fucking name.”
“She prayed for you, mon ami. She prayed for Jeremy to stop. She prayed for you to change. She prayed for happiness.” He leaned forwards, his throat brushing against the blade. “And God answered.”
“You’re insane,” said Sandy. “I’ve had enough of your games.”
Enfer stood up straight, his voice booming across the rooftops.
“Does this look like a game?”
Light exploded from the sky, parting the washed-out clouds in a brilliant beacon. Enfer raised his hands in glorious rapture, bathing in the radiance of the spotlight from Heaven.
Sandy backed up a step, the hand holding the scalpel across his face to block the glare. It did little, as if the light was made from gamma, penetrating flesh.
“See me, Sandy Devanche,” said Enfer. “See me.”
The critic fell over the toppled table in his retreat, his tail bone striking the balcony floor hard. He barely felt the lightning bolt of pain, unable to look away from the miracle before him.
Only a ghost of the man Sandy had grown to love remained. His jet-black hair shone a magnificent silver that matched his eyes. The wound on his stomach had vanished, replaced with pale, taut, perfect skin.
“See God,” he said, face expressionless. “See me. Nephalim!”
Enfer clenched his fists, and almost shyly, great wings of white feather and glistening bone spread from his back.
Sandy shuffled back on his hands and feet like a panicked crab. He slammed into the railing.
“No…” he cried and squeezed his eyes tight. They burned in the heat of an atomic blast. Still he saw Enfer, the Nephalim, the angel spreading its wings. He rolled on the floor, screaming. “Please!”
Enfer moved towards him, radiating his own sunlight that penetrated Sandy’s blindness. He stood, holding out the scalpel.
“It doesn’t have to be this way,” said the Nephalim, each word pounding Sandy’s chest like a heavy bass note.
Sandy shook his head fast and whipped the blade back and forth.
“It’s your choice,” said the angel. “It always was.”
Sandy’s retinas scorched with Enfer’s light. The pain shadowed even the hunger, which slowly crawled from Sandy’s depths, curling empty fingers around his guts.
He brought the scalpel closer to his face, resting it on his left cheek.
Will it work?
Will it stop this?
Enfer nodded.
“You ate of my flesh, drank of my blood. God is inside you.” He drew nearer, his outstretched wings spanning the entire balcony. “The perfect meal. The last supper.”
Sandy tilted his face up to the pouring rain and screamed, plunging the scalpel up into his eye.
“Hallelujah!” sang Enfer.
Half-blinded, the radiance inside Sandy’s skull dulled a little. He felt the short blade inside his socket, the eye deflated around it, a burst balloon. With little pain, he wiggled the scalpel, digging deeper. He severed the optic nerve, and his eye slid free, sticking to his cheek like a renegade contact lens in a stream of blood.
Wasting no time, he pinched it from his skin and popped it into his mouth to drive away the fresh thunderhead of hunger.
Enfer smiled, and more of the holy light glowed from between his lips. He began to recite the Lord’s Prayer.
Sandy swallowed and thrust the scalpel tip into his right eye.
The balcony, the table and chair and candles, the rain, the twinkling lights from the surrounding buildings. All were gone. Only Enfer’s radiance remained, still powerful, still dazzling.
Once Sandy had devoured his second eye, Enfer finished his divine recital.
The city had fallen quiet. Sandy gasped, listening to the soft patter of the rain.
The hunger had withdrawn, and the pain from his severed eyes was a faraway throb. His eyelids, without support, inverted. Sandy shook his head, weeping through the blood.
“Do you see God, monsieur?”
Sandy wailed and pushed back, but he bumped into the balcony wall. Cornered, he threw down the scalpel and felt along the top railing. He heaved himself up
and sat on it.
“You…” he croaked, his throat sore from screaming. “You wanted to redeem me. Wanted to…critique. Am I fixed now, Jacob? Am I now the man you wanted me to be?” He smiled. “How can an angel bring so much hell?”
“God works in mysterious ways.”
Sandy took another moment to listen to the rain. The goddamn rain in this goddamn city. He wouldn’t miss the rain.
“I’ve learned one thing,” he said, shuffling back on the railing. “You take everything from a man…what is he left with?”
He leaned back, arms out, ready to embrace the city one last time.
* * *
Carlos leaned closer.
“So…what do you have left?”
The man in the diner held up his hands. “What else? God. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Carlos dropped his fork. It clattered on the plate of half-eaten food.
“So after all that, your guy just…jumped off the fuckin’ building?”
“He gave himself to God,” the man explained. “He walked the path of redemption and did everything which God asked of him. He was saved.”
Carlos ate a cold French fry. “So, he didn’t die?”
The man shrugged and hopped from his stool. The story over, he busied himself, wiping the counter.
“But you see, the path we choose is the path we walk. It might take a little persuasion to make the right choice and find the right path, but the potential is there in us all. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to in life.”
Carlos nodded, making the right choice and choosing the right path in this conversation. With his story over, the man had indeed turned preacher. Just like a rapist waits for a victim to wander through the park alone, this guy probably waited for lone travellers to walk through his door before he pounced with ideas of God and redemption.
Actually, no. Fuck this shit! Life ain’t that easy.
“The world I come from ain’t got no choices. It got bad-ass fuckers, and if you ain’t got the goods on time? Bro, you better be thinkin’ which of yo’ fingers you like the least. Know what I’m sayin’? They don’t believe in angels, redemption and shit.”
He plunged the fork into the pie, stabbing a succulent scrap of meat.
“Everyone has a choice,” said the man, sounding a little sad.
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