At last Chrissie emerged. She was wearing a pink dress, very nearly a ball gown—she’d spent the week in her sweater and jeans, and now she was a movie star. She was wearing makeup too, and her face seemed heavy beneath the weight of it all; nail varnish, pink like her dress, and Donald was no expert but even he could see she hadn’t put it on right, he saw the uneven patches, he saw the streaks bleeding onto the fingers. She looked beautiful. She also looked like a little girl who’d raided her mother’s wardrobe.
Donald wished he’d packed something smart too, but the only jackets he had were the ones he wore to school, and he didn’t want to be seen in those.
“You look nice,” he said.
Chrissie smiled widely, and that made her face crack. “Merci bien,” she said. She walked over to Donald, and he got up from the bed, stood to attention. She took his arm. “Shall we go, Monsieur MacAllister? J’ai faim!”
They reached an obscure metro stop in the eighteenth arrondissement. It was deserted. Donald was surprised—when they had left the hotel, it had still been quite light; somehow while they’d been underground night had fallen hard. There were a few stars out. There were streetlamps too, though many of them weren’t working, were they broken? A few shops and houses, all had their curtains tightly drawn. It had been raining.
“Is it far?” Donald asked, and Chrissie didn’t exactly answer. She got out the map her friend had drawn, studied it for a moment, and then set off confidently.
She turned them down a narrow side street, and Donald supposed that meant they must be nearly there, but the side street ran into another side street, and that one into another narrower still. They walked arm in arm, and that was a little romantic, but it also forced them to walk slowly, and the pools of light cast by the streetlamps seemed to be getting farther and farther apart. But he held on to her tightly regardless; the rain had made the cobbled streets look slippery, at every footfall he expected them to slip him over. Best not to look at the cobbles at all. Yes, that was sensible.
“What’s this restaurant called?”
“All I’ve got is an address.”
There were high stone walls flanking them on either side, and it seemed to Donald they were getting taller and thicker; they looked as if they’d been built to withstand some medieval siege. “This friend of yours wasn’t having you on?” he asked. “Got a sense of humor, has he?”
“Stop,” she said, and so they stopped, and she pulled him out of the lamplight and into the darkness. She kissed him hard on the lips.
“Yes, that’s very nice,” he said.
“We’re in Paris.”
“I know.”
“This is an adventure. Enjoy it!”
“I am enjoying it,” he said. “I know I’m in Paris. I’m enjoying the whole thing.”
She flung away his arm, and he wasn’t sure whether that was out of irritation or some new urgency in their search for food. His stomach growled at him, and it was only the latest part of his body to ask what the hell he thought he was doing.
“I think,” said Donald, “you know what I think? I think we should just stop at the first restaurant we come to. I mean, this is farther out than we imagined, isn’t it? And we’re getting hungry. You must be hungry, you haven’t eaten since breakfast! What do you say we just stop at the next restaurant?” And it was such a good plan, except they hadn’t passed a single building for at least ten minutes. Chrissie was striding on so fast now, maybe she couldn’t hear him. At last he tried again. “We should turn back. Yes? Chrissie? Do you agree?”
“This is it,” she said suddenly, and he shut up.
There was a door set into the stonework of the wall. It was made of thick, black wood. There was no handle to open it, no knocker, nothing as frivolous as a bell. It was ridiculous that it was there, with no hint of a building behind it—worse, it was wrong, it felt wrong.
He expected Chrissie to be disappointed, and he was about to reassure her, tell her it didn’t matter; they’d retrace their steps, go back into the city, find a McDonald’s if nothing else was open—but she was beaming, she was so excited. “We found it!” she said. “At last!”
“Darling, if there ever was a restaurant here, it’s long gone. Your friend, this friend of yours”—and he didn’t like the way his voice became so sarcastic whenever he mentioned him—“this Parisian expert friend, you know, he must have been here years ago.”
“I’ll knock,” she said cheerfully. And he was about to stop her—there was no point in knocking—and don’t touch it, don’t touch the door—but it was too late, she was thumping upon it with her fist. But the wood was so thick she barely made a sound.
“You tried,” he said. “Let’s go.” He offered her his hand.
The door opened.
For all its weight, for all its age, the hinges were silent. Maybe that was what horrified him, that it could just swing open so stealthily, like a beast that had only been pretending to sleep—and the blackness of the door was replaced by an altogether thicker blackness pouring out from within. Donald stepped back instinctively. And out of the blackness, his head shining in the little light of the alley, emerged a man, an old man, Donald couldn’t see him well but he knew he was old, and the man stood firm on the threshold and stared out at them. Donald stared back, he had no choice. The man seemed to be dressed in a smart black suit, and that only meant the light fell into him and was smothered. He cleared his throat. He looked at them quizzically.
Chrissie spoke in French. The old man inclined his head and stepped backward to let them in.
“Don’t,” said Donald.
“Merci,” said Chrissie, and she went through the door, and Donald followed.
Down a long corridor, and at last, into the light. And Donald realized that the man wasn’t merely old, he was ancient—and not just with age, that was the oddness of it, he was sick, and you could see the bones beneath the skin, he was wasting away in that waiter outfit hanging around him so loosely. Hardly a good advertisement for a restaurant, Donald thought, and he wanted to nudge Chrissie, make a joke, share a laugh—and he actually made to do that, but in an instant he felt such a wave of revulsion, he didn’t want this man touching food, he didn’t want him anywhere near food, touching anything they might want to put into their mouths—and yet here he was, he was touching them, he was taking the coats from off their backs and they were surrendering them to him, willingly! It wasn’t a quizzical expression he had on his face, the eyebrows had just set that way.
And then into the restaurant itself. More a cavern than a room, the stone floor studded here and there with tables and chairs. No real order to it, some clustered close together, some out on the fringes like little islands. There was light, yes, but it was a heavy light, Donald thought it was slightly green—and he couldn’t see where it came from, there weren’t any lamps, the light seemed to leak from the bricks and the rocks and the earth.
It was empty. Of course it was empty. Who would come here—? No, in the distance, on one of those islands bobbing about, there sat a man on his own, fork in hand, tucking into something Donald couldn’t make out in the gloom, reading a book. He looked up briefly at the newcomers and without apparent interest, and Donald saw he had one of those silly pencil-thin mustaches only suave sophisticates from France are able to get away with.
“Are they open?” Donald asked Chrissie. “Ask them if they’re open. I don’t think they’re open.” But their coats had been taken, hadn’t they? The waiter had now draped them over his arm and seemed to be clinging on to them hard, he wasn’t going to give them up easily. The waiter led them to a table. It wobbled on the uneven floor. He pulled out a chair so that Chrissie could sit down, but he didn’t have the strength to accomplish the task with any grace; the coats he was carrying hardly made the operation any easier. Chrissie thanked him nicely. Donald sat down without help.
Chrissie took out a cigarette. Donald began to tell her he didn’t think she could smoke here, but the waiter didn’t
seem to mind, and with his free hand, he took out a lighter for her. With the same flame, he lit a blunt candle squatting unhappily in the middle of the table—the little light it gave off was quickly quenched by the greenish glow of the room.
Then the waiter strode away without even looking back at them, and Donald wondered whether they would ever see their coats again.
“Jesus Christ,” he said.
Chrissie puffed and grinned. “Isn’t it wonderful?” she said.
“Is it?”
“You don’t think it’s romantic?”
“Are you sure they’re open? You should ask if they’re open.”
Then the elderly waiter was back, sloping to them across the floor with renewed energy and confidence. He carried a bottle of red wine and two glasses. He set the bottle down upon the table.
“We haven’t ordered that,” said Donald.
Chrissie said, “But we do want wine, don’t we?”
“Yes, but we haven’t ordered.”
The waiter fixed Donald with his not-quite-quizzical look, then set to work on the cork. It released from the bottle with a subdued pop. The waiter picked up the bottle with both hands and aimed its contents somewhere toward Chrissie’s glass.
“Parfait, merci,” she said, and sipped.
The waiter nodded, poured Donald a glass. Donald sniffed it. It smelled good.
Chrissie drank deeper, and the waiter stood beside her and watched, as if needing further confirmation that she enjoyed it. She turned to him, smiled, nodded. He nodded in return. And then he reached out that skeletal hand of his toward her neck, and he brushed away a few stray hairs from her shoulder.
“Hey,” said Donald.
And then he left.
“Hey. Did you see that?”
“What?”
They both worked on their wine. Chrissie worked on her cigarette too, taking shallow puffs and turning her head away to exhale the smoke. Donald tried to think of something to say. He wondered why it was so hard. With all the many other problems they’d had to face, right since that first date cuddled together in the car park, conversation had never been a difficulty.
Maybe it was because there was no music. Every restaurant played music; without it, the pauses seemed longer and burdened with meaning. “I love you,” he said.
“I love you too.”
“I’m hungry.”
“I’m hungry too.”
She finished her cigarette, but there was nowhere for her to stub it out, so she set it down upon the table, standing it upright on its filter. The table wobbled. The stub refused to fall over.
“We should call the waiter,” Donald said at last. And he suddenly thought, Perhaps he’s died, and that made him laugh, just a single bark that sounded too loud and too rude. “I can call the waiter. What’s the French for menu?” But on cue the waiter appeared, and in both hands he was carrying a single dinner plate, and, in his breast pocket, a knife and fork. It was only when he set the plate down in front of Chrissie that the couple could see what the meal was.
“Non, non, non,” said Donald. He pointed at Chrissie. “Vegetarian. Veg-e-tari-en. Um. Legumes.”
Because there in front of her, proud, unabashed, was a hunk of steak. There was nothing to disguise it, or to distract from its obvious meatiness; there were no greens around, no scattering of pommes frites. It was rare, it was pink. “It’s all right,” said Chrissie. “Just this once. I’m on holiday, aren’t I?”
“But we didn’t order it. Tell him we didn’t order it. Tell him we want the menu.”
Chrissie said something brief in French, the waiter said back something briefer, Chrissie nodded, smiled. The waiter walked away.
“Well?”
“They don’t do menus here,” she said.
“Well, how does that work?”
“Do you mind if I start?” she asked.
And he watched her as she sliced off strips of her steak, as she speared them with her fork, as she lifted them to her mouth. “Is it really all right?” he asked.
“Mmm, juicy,” she said, and she spoke with her mouth full, and he could see a fat ball of meat roll around her tongue wetly, and she grinned at him. Then her attention was back to the dead animal on her plate, she tore into it so eagerly, and the farther into the carcass she ventured, the pinker it got. Bright pink, but not quite as pink as her chipped fingernails, nor as pink as the pink of her stupid pink suitcase sitting in the hotel wardrobe.
He watched her, unhappily, hungrily.
And without any music all he could hear was that chewing.
“I love you,” he said.
She nodded, chewed on.
“I thought we could stay here in France and be farmers. What do you think?”
At last the waiter reappeared, and this time he was carrying Donald’s dinner, and he swooped it down in front of Donald with a flourish that was almost elegant.
Donald looked down at his steak. It quite brazenly stared back up at him.
“Non,” he said. “I want it well-done. What’s the French for well-done?”
“Bien cuit.”
“I want this bien cuit, oui?”
And the waiter shrugged, and Chrissie shrugged, and Donald said, “I can’t eat this.”
The steak was thicker than Chrissie’s piece had been—it looked not so much like meat, more something newly hacked off a living animal and dropped straight onto the dinner plate. It wasn’t even pink; it was blue. It lay there, dead, or dying, and dribbled blood.
“You could at least try it,” said his vegetarian girlfriend. So Donald prodded it with his fork, he tamped it down with the flattened underside of the prongs, and the steak felt spongy and soaking wet, and an almost acrid smell like copper came off it.
He turned it over. He thought it might look better if he turned it over. He prized it from the plate; it pulled free from its moorings with a low reluctant squelch, and then he let it splash back down onto its belly. He looked at the underside. He wished he hadn’t turned it over. He wished he’d left it as it was.
He looked around to see whether the other diner in the restaurant had been given raw meat, whether he cared, whether he was shoveling it in under his pencil mustache quite cheerfully. But the other diner had gone.
Back down at the steak.
There, across the whole breadth of it, ran a single vein. The vein was raised off the flesh, like a tapeworm, Donald thought, or an elongated leech—it didn’t look as if it had grown out of the meat at all, he could have grasped it between thumb and forefinger and peeled the worm off—it was thick, and rubbery, and gorged with blood.
He looked back up at Chrissie. For some sort of help, any help—but she wasn’t even watching him, she was fully occupied by her own dinner. And there was a rhythm to the way she ate her steak now, the slicing, the forking, the ceaseless grinding of her teeth as she tipped a new gobbet of flesh past her lips and into the machine—and the swallowing, oh, the utter remorselessness of that swallowing.
She pushed the plate aside; at last she was done. She smiled. There was blood on her teeth.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” she asked.
“Please,” he said. “Please.”
“You should eat.” She continued to smile. “Come on, Monsieur MacAllisteurrr.” She elongated the accent; it made him sound like such a silly man.
So he picked up the fork once more. He put the merest pressure onto the meat. At contact, the vein began to bulge. He watched it; a small bubble began to swell from it. It was round and thick like a balloon, and it was a perfect dark red, shiny with blood. He took the fork away. The bubble stayed firm, bobbing up at him. He approached with the fork again. A different angle this time, he’d be careful. He’d attack it more stealthily from the side. The first bubble deflated, yes, he watched the blood drain away from it, he couldn’t help but sigh with relief—and then, there it was, another bubble, closer by, rising out of the vein loud and proud, bigger and juicier than the last. And he knew, he k
new if he pressed down any harder that the balloon would burst.
Chrissie frowned, sighed. She picked up her cigarettes. And in an instant the waiter was back by her side with a lighter. She exhaled smoke away from Donald, but not so carefully this time. “Come on,” she said. “I enjoyed my meat. Why can’t you?”
“We could be farmers.”
“Yes, yes.”
They were both watching him now, his girlfriend and the waiter. And the waiter somehow contrived to contort that quizzical look he had, he strained his forehead and bent the eyebrows into something more angular, something more mocking.
The waiter idly picked a few more hairs off Chrissie’s shoulder, and this time he let his hand stay there, and those bony old fingers began to play at the nape of her neck.
“Just one bite, baby,” said Chrissie, “just one bite for me,” and she smiled, and she made her voice light and encouraging, but Donald thought he could hear the anger behind it. And she looked older than her fifteen years, all made up, smoking like a grown-up, her own eyebrows arched into an expression of oh-so-mature disappointment.
Donald plunged his fork into the dead animal, and it was too much for the vein to take, the bubble burst, it sprayed blood across his hand and a little on his face—mostly red, a dark red, but also some blue, and also something that seemed white and speckled.
“One bite,” she said, and she nodded, and the waiter nodded too, and they were both leaning forward now in anticipation, the waiter was biting down hard upon his bottom lip and he was making it bleed—and so Donald did it, Donald raised a forkful of raw flesh to his mouth, and for a moment it wasn’t in his mouth and in the next moment it was, and he was chewing frantically, and he did it, he did it, he did all the chewing and all the swallowing too, it was out of his mouth and down his throat and that chunk of meat was gone for good, he would never have to see it again.
He sat back, panting. He looked at her, and he winked, and he half expected a round of applause.
Chrissie stubbed out her cigarette on her plate; there was a quick fizz as the lighted end touched the wet blood. She said something to the waiter in French—it must have been French, surely, but the words seemed so hard and clipped. The waiter’s eyes still burned, he hadn’t yet recovered from the excitement of watching Donald eat—now he calmed down, he wrenched his face back into a more professional, more skeletal pose. He nodded, he licked his lips, he wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, he wiped the blood on his suit, he went to fetch their coats.
Seize the Night Page 39