Bobby swallowed. “So, have you… did you…”
“There is only a single piece left of that mellified man,” said Aziz, ignoring the question. “The last piece after 45 years. Just the tip of a finger, no larger than a thimble. I have been saving it for the last five years. I think I have been saving it for you, Mr. Jenkins. I think you are the right person.”
“Me? What would make you think that I’d want to… eat part of a dead body?”
Aziz smiled. “Is cheese just spoiled milk? Is an aged bottle of wine just grapes that have gone bad? No, the process they go through makes them more than just that, just as the mellification makes the flesh more than just flesh.”
“Neither wine nor cheese was ever a dead guy. No, thank you.”
He rose from the table, turned to find the way they’d come in.
Aziz remained seated, poured more coffee. “And here I thought we were of a kind.”
“Me, too,” Bobby answered. “Just not that kind.”
“I thought you were an epicure of sweets, perhaps the one man who could appreciate the last remaining bite of something rare… something sacred.”
Bobby stared at him, said nothing.
“You said you wanted something new, something you couldn’t get anywhere. Did you not?”
“I was talking about an everlasting gobstopper or gum that tastes like a four-course meal. Not a chunk of sweetened corpse. Thank you, Mr. Aziz. But no thanks, not for me.”
Mr. Aziz still didn’t move, and for a crazy, sweating minute Bobby thought that there might be repercussions for saying no. But Aziz merely motioned with his hand. Instantly, Haran appeared.
“Take Mr. Jenkins to the front.”
Haran bowed, motioned for Bobby to follow.
They went several steps down the stone path, and Mr. Aziz called to him.
“Mr. Jenkins… think about it… think long and hard. It is a singular honor I offer you,” he said. “Oh, and don’t forget your case of Coke. Haran will help you to your car with it.”
* * *
Two weeks went by.
Bobby buried himself in his work, stayed long hours at the office, put off going back to The Alhambra as long as he could.
But he knew he had to go back… because he had been dreaming about it.
In his dreams, he is at the table in the garden, Mr. Aziz by his side, smiling… smiling…
Before him, on a golden plate is a hand, an entire human hand, severed at the wrist, laying palm up, the fingers curled slightly inward. The hand is a curious deep amber color and sits in a pool of thick liquid the same shade.
In his dreams, he pins the hand to the plate with his fork and slices a thin piece from the mound of flesh under the thumb. It carves like cold butter, the meat draping over onto itself as if carved from a turkey breast. The flesh is golden underneath, dense, almost creamy.
In his dreams, he lifts his fork, golden fluid dripping to the plate, dripping like sparks in the sun, lifts it to his mouth, slides it in…
Just as he begins chewing, the dream ends.
He is left with the ghost memory of its texture, firm like meat, yielding to the gentle pressure of his teeth, liquefying in his mouth…
He is left with a strange taste in his mouth, haunting, evocative, sweet and thick and…
… but it fades… fades…
He has this dream three times before he returns to The Alhambra.
* * *
“Ahh, Mr. Jenkins,” Aziz greeted him as he walked into the store. “How nice to see you again. It has been too long. Did you enjoy the Coke?”
Bobby nodded, sweating even though the air inside was, as usual, frigid. “Yes, it was great… delicious. But that’s not… I mean… it isn’t why…”
Aziz turns to him, and Bobby sees the sparkle in his eye, a slight twitch of his upper lip beneath the fringe of his mustache.
“Of course not. You are here for the mellified man, as I knew you would be,” Aziz said, smiling.
“Look,” Bobby said, making sure they weren’t overheard. “I have questions. I mean… is it… legal? Dangerous? Can I afford it?”
Mr. Aziz’s smile grew wide, and he threw back his head and roared in laughter. “Yes, yes, and yes. All yes. Now, come, upstairs. We make arrangements.”
* * *
Mellified man was perhaps the only candy Bobby had ever heard of that required a course of preparation to eat. It wasn’t a rigorous course, really… strange, but not rigorous.
“You must take care of your body, keep it in shape,” Aziz had said, patting Bobby’s gut, which jiggled with the 15 or so pounds he’d put on since discovering The Alhambra. “Especially over the next 27 days.”
“The next 27 days?” Bobby had asked. “Why?”
“Because for the next 27 days, you will eat nothing but honey and water. No bread, no meat, no alcohol. Only honey. I will provide all that you require.”
“That can’t be healthy.”
“Bees do it,” Aziz had answered. “Honey is the perfect food, perfect. That is why your body must be full of it, saturated with it, before you can ingest the mellified man.”
“And how much is this going to cost me?” he’d asked, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Aziz blinked, frowned, as if he had not considered this.
“Let’s say… a thousand dollars.”
“A grand? That’s it? For something so rare, so unusual? And the last piece of it?”
Aziz had smiled, avidly, like a drug dealer.
“Only because I know you will bring me much business in the future.”
* * *
Day 10 came and went, and he felt great, better than he’d have thought; better than he’d ever felt, for that matter. Initially, he’d been worried about getting enough to eat, keeping his energy up, but that seemed to be no problem. He carried a jar of honey in his briefcase, a new one each day, spooned some out each time he felt hungry.
He went to the gym now every day, worked out for at least two hours. In a week, most of the candy weight he’d put on since discovering The Alhambra had come off. Another week, and he was in the best shape of his life.
Where his muscles were noticeable before, now they were prominent, even through clothing. Everything on his body was chiseled, sculpted, from his pecs to the deep ridge of his abdominal shelf, flaring across his lower stomach from his hips, dipping below his navel.
His boss called him into his office to tell him that several people noticed him working through lunch, eating nothing but spoonfuls of honey and a bottle of water. Everyone knew of his sweet tooth, but he thought there might be something seriously wrong.
But Bobby assured him, assured them all (his mother, included) that he was fine… better than fine. He was great. He was in fantastic shape, feeling spectacularly healthy.
“Just a diet, then?” his boss had asked.
“Yeah, just a diet,” he said, smiling.
“Okay, well take care of yourself. You’re too valuable.”
Neither he nor Bobby had any idea how true that was…
* * *
Bobby was shaking so badly by the time he arrived, he couldn’t tell if it was anticipation or the fact that every molecule in his body felt like it was vibrating at high frequency.
Haran was there to open the door for him, lead him to the garden on the roof. It was a cool night, summer starting to give way to early fall. Already the sun was low in the sky, painting it roses and blues and dark, bruised violets. Just as in his dream, Mr. Aziz sat at the table under the stone gazebo.
“I am so glad you are here,” he said, pulling him into an embrace. Bobby took the man’s hug, confused all over again, hugged back. He smelled his aftershave, redolent of sandalwood and leather, his breath of cloves and mace.
Aziz waved him to a seat, sent Haran away, and they were alone.
“So, you are ready for this?”
“Yes, I feel great.”
“Excellent. Well, then let us begin…”
“Do you want me to pay you now? I brought cash.” Bobby produced a plain envelope.
Again, Aziz seemed surprised. “Of course, that’s fine.” He took the envelope and secreted it as deftly as a magician in some pocket within his dark suit. He produced a small box from the same pocket, set it onto the table.
“The last remaining piece of the mellified man.”
The box was simple, unadorned brass, hinged on one side, about the size of a matchbox. Bobby touched the smooth metal of the box, placed it in the palm of his hand, lifted it. He opened the lid. It took him a second to figure out what he was looking at.
Nestled in crushed velvet was a small, wrinkled thing about the size of a gumdrop.
The intact nail gave it away…
It was the tip, the very tip of a human finger.
It was golden-brown, the color of a well-cooked French fry, moist looking, gelid. The nail was a bit longer than the finger, but it had softened, drooped over its tip.
The smell was larger than the box: rich and aromatic, flowery and almost resinous, sharp.
Bobby was shocked that it made him salivate.
Reaching in, he touched the thing tentatively. It was soft, but not jellied; moist, but not wet; sticky, but not adhesive.
He lifted it from its velvet nest, brought it to his nose.
It was intoxicating, the aroma of every sweet he’d ever smelled—chocolates and licorice and almonds and caramel.
Almost without volition, he opened his mouth, placed it on his tongue, closed his lips, his eyes.
He didn’t move, didn’t chew, simply let it sit on his tongue and melt…
The taste was indescribable. It warmed in his mouth, sending delicious trickles over his tongue, trickles that tasted of honey, yes, but also of something earthier, something more substantial.
Meat… that was it… meat…
His stomach might have forced him to spit the fingertip onto the table, but he didn’t… he didn’t because it was so damned delicious.
It tasted of everything, everything sweet, everything salty, everything savory…
… and nothing… like nothing he’d ever tasted before.
Then he bit down, and the mellified flesh gave way, parted under his teeth with something like the texture of a caramel, dense, resistant at first, but softening.
His eyes still closed, he chewed. His mouth filled with saliva, and he had to force himself not to swallow, lest he swallow the remaining piece of the fingertip and then this would be over too soon.
Then it was over, as the last sliver of it trickled down his throat. There was an aftertaste of musky, spoiled meat that lasted for just a moment. But it was overshadowed by a last, brief explosion of sweet flowers—tasting of sugared violets.
And he thought, thought in that last moment, that this is what flowers tasted like to the bees that made the honey; the essence of the flower, pure and bright and sugary with its perfume.
He swallowed the last of it, looked at Mr. Aziz.
There were tears in his eyes.
“Thank you… good lord… thank you.”
“Thank you,” Aziz smiled back. “You have no idea the joy this gives me.”
Bobby had lost all track of time, had no idea how long he’d sat at the table.
“I feel like… nothing can top this experience. Like this might be it for me and sweets.”
“Oh,” Aziz smiled, taking the brass box, closing its lid and secreting it back into his jacket. “I wouldn’t say that…”
* * *
The next morning, Bobby woke up, feeling strange.
He sat in bed for a few moments, trying to figure out what it was, what didn’t feel right.
Then, it dawned on him; the strange, exciting, buzzing energy that had filled him for the last month was gone. It was replaced by a thickness, a kind of turgidity inside him, as if his blood were sluggish, too substantial for his veins.
There was also the taste in his mouth, an unpleasant taste, rotten and carious, as if he had an infected tooth.
It tasted of sweet, dead flesh.
Throwing the covers off, he rose, went to the bathroom, looked in the mirror over the sink. His face looked puffy, his eyes bleary, hung over.
There was something wrong, though… some problem with the bathroom lights.
His skin was a deep, amber yellow. Even the whites of his eyes looked golden, his palms, his finger nails…
Shaking his head, he stepped to the toilet and tried to pee.
Nearly a minute passed. He opened his eyes, looked down. He was not, had not been peeing.
He felt something in his bladder uncoil, and there was a rush of fluid.
Then pain, pain so instant, so powerful that his legs swayed, his knees buckled. His guts cramped, and he felt as if he was passing a rope of fire.
He expected to see blood in the toilet, but what he saw was worse…
Peeing, yes, finally, but it was not the thin, arcing, rushing stream of urine he was accustomed to.
It was a thick, slow-moving, golden stream that didn’t so much jet from him as pour like syrup.
And it hurt, dear God, it hurt… too thick, to substantial to pass…
It plopped into the toilet, hit the water and congealed there, forming a golden squiggle that twisted to the bottom of the bowl, curling on itself like piped icing.
As sweat beaded on his forehead, the odor hit him; musky and heavy and sweet…
Shaking as much in agony as in fear, he put a finger in the flow, brought it to his mouth.
Honey… he was pissing honey.
Just as this realization hit, another shockwave of pain rippled through his guts, crumpled him to the cold tile floor.
As he faded into unconsciousness, he thought of the thousand dollars he’d given Aziz.
How he’d thought that was too small a price…
* * *
The candy store wasn’t open yet, but he didn’t care. He jerked his car to a stop in front of awning, climbed out slowly, lurched to the glass door. Peering through the bars over the windows, he could see that it was empty, the lights off.
“Aziz!” he shouted, pounding on the steel bars and rattling them. “Aziz! Open up!”
People passed on the street, staring. He’d been unable to dress himself, so he still wore the loose shorts and t-shirt he’d worn to bed.
Haran, his eyes wide, unbolted the lock, threw open the bars.
“Mr. Jenkins?” he asked in alarm. “How can I…?”
“Aziz,” mumbled Bobby past a bloated and uncooperative tongue. “Must see him.”
He pushed past Haran, who drew down the bars, closed and locked the door.
Bobby stumbled through the dark store, bumping into displays, knocking pieces of candy and entire displays over.
“Here,” Haran said, taking his arm. “Let me help.”
* * *
In the garden, Bobby moved as quickly as his stiffening legs would take him. Toward Aziz, who sat there under the stone gazebo, drinking coffee.
As Bobby approached, Aziz looked up, not surprised at all to see him.
“Atheeth,” Bobby yelled, through a hoarse and constricted throat. “Wha ha you done oo mee?”
Mr. Aziz regarded him with delight, his eyes twinkling as they had when he’d first met Bobby.
“Why, you truly were the right person, weren’t you, Mr. Jenkins,” he said. “We are of a kind.”
Bobby found breathing difficult now, his lungs felt as if they were filling with thick fluid.
“Wha?”
“The candy maker and the candy. What… you mean you never knew… never suspected?”
Bobby felt syrupy tears squeeze from his eyes, dribble down his cheeks. When they touched his mouth, he was not surprised that they were sweet.
“The last piece of a mellified man is used to make a new mellified man,” Aziz explained, rising and approaching him. He took Bobby’s hand. It was puffy and golden-brown, so engorged with honey t
hat drops of it dewed atop the pores of his skin.
Bobby saw Aziz take a long, wickedly curved dagger from his jacket, hold it to the light.
“This will not hurt… not a bit, you will see.”
The knife slipped into his chest slowly, deliberately, and while Bobby could feel it penetrate him, he felt no pain, as Aziz had promised. And from the wound, honey seeped like amber treacle.
Vaguely, he saw Haran wheel in a wooden box, felt Aziz’s hands on him, Haran’s hands as they eased him down, eased him into it.
“Excuse me, but the wooden casket is temporary only,” Aziz apologized. “A few days, after the transformation is complete and you are dead, we will place you in a stone sarcophagus, cover you completely with honey. There, you will steep for an entire year before…”
Aziz reached out, stroked his cheek.
Bobby felt tears track down the sides of his face, pool near his ears.
“You will help so many, so very many other people,” he said, his eyes large and moist and almost loving, almost sympathetic.
Bobby tried to say something, to plead, but nothing came out of his mouth now; not words, at least; a gout of honey poured over his chin.
Aziz managed a final smile. “You were a sweet customer, Mr. Jenkins, perhaps the sweetest. Now, you are to become the sweetest thing that I make, the most dreadful thing.”
The lid fell over Bobby’s face, and darkness enclosed him, darkness thick as honey…
BOX OF ROCKS
Dumb as a box of rocks, my old man used to say. My old man. Yeah, he really wasn’t my old man, more like my mom’s old man or she was his old lady, as they said in the day.
Little Deaths Page 25