American Savage

by Matt Whyman

  ‘Joaquín?’ Amanda frowned. ‘Leave him out of this! He’s my date tomorrow, not dinner!’

  By now, Titus had slipped past Oleg to block the front door.

  ‘Take a breath,’ he said to his father, only to receive an upswing from Oleg’s walking stick smartly between his legs. Titus let out a yelp.

  ‘Let me show you how it’s done,’ muttered Oleg, who promptly shoved his son aside and threw open the door. ‘In my day, we weren’t so choosy about who we ate. We sat to feast and thanked our lucky stars for the privilege!’ He turned at the door, his eyes tight with rage, and addressed his whole family. ‘All this faddy food fussiness just tells me you’ve become spoiled. It’s high time we went back to basics!’ Oleg climbed on board his mobility scooter. ‘Not just for your sakes, but also for Priscilla’s. You’ll thank me for it when we finally sit for a real meal. And nobody leaves the table until I see clean plates!’

  ‘Not too fast!’ croaked Titus, but Oleg had given up listening. Ripping away the marker that Titus had applied to the dial, he had every intention of taking it to the maximum as soon as he was on the road.

  ‘What’s the point of limits?’ he yelled back, his blood still boiling, and pushed the scooter in a brisk semi-circle. ‘Aren’t we beyond all that as a family?’

  It was as he hummed away from the villa that Oleg felt a tug, seemingly from behind. Gasping in surprise, it felt like an embrace so all-consuming it could’ve come from everyone he had ever loved throughout his life, and even those he’d eaten. The moment caused this man who had lived beyond a century to snap his grip away from the handlebars and clutch at his breastplate.

  A second later, as his heart went into arrest, Oleg Savage’s scooter veered into the flowerbed and buried its front wheel in the soil.

  The back end kicked like a mule, causing the old man to launch into the air. In that split second, tumbling head over heels, he caught sight of his family watching in horror from behind. When the memory of every milestone in his life spooled through his mind, this cannibal elder knew his time had come. His diet might have kept him alive beyond his years, so he continued to believe as he completed a full somersault, but death, it seemed, came to everyone. The moment arrived with a backbreaking thud upon the asphalt. Above all, it opened up a view of the heavens, which Oleg faced with resignation before his gaze went slack.

  41

  At last, Joaquín Mendez felt as if he had broken the spell. If he thought about Angelica, his heart no longer pumped a sense of yearning through his system. Instead, his thoughts were filled with just one individual, and it seemed she shared his affections.

  ‘Amanda,’ he declared the next evening, addressing his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he dressed for his date. ‘My fate is in your hands.’

  The young fitness trainer had only visited The Lentil Rebel because he was worried about the consequences of ignoring his client’s invitation. Titus had been insistent that Joaquín would click with their lodger. She was smart, so he said, quick-witted and boasted strong views about ethical eating. Joaquín considered himself to possess no such qualities. It often took him a second more than most people to laugh at a joke, and while his appetite had returned at last he regarded food as fuel and nothing more. So long as it was low in fat and high in protein, Joaquín didn’t much care where it had come from.

  ‘Maybe opposites really do attract,’ he told himself, on setting out from his apartment the following evening, as the temperature cooled and stars began to prickle the sky.

  Joaquín felt refreshed but slightly strange. A thorough shower had washed away the sweat from another day of working out with his clients. The blazer jacket he had selected afterwards, together with the T-shirt and stonewashed jeans, should’ve created a look that helped him to relax and be confident. What put a stop to that were the canvas shoes. Ultimately, he just wanted to be himself, but even the young fitness trainer knew that showing up barefoot to collect Amanda for their date would just be weird.

  By now, Joaquín knew the way to the inlet community with his eyes closed. Earlier that day, he had picked up a bunch of deep-red carnations, earning himself a mystified frown from the florist when he checked that they were vegan. He had no intention of making a mess of things this time around. Angelica had awakened his capacity to love, but Amanda was surely the one for him. He only had to look at his phone to realise just how deeply he had fallen for her. Scrolling through the messages he had sent, he did wonder why her replies had stopped abruptly the evening before. Still, that hadn’t prevented him from thumbing out yet more declarations that she was The One. By the time he reached the loop road, even at walking pace, Joaquín’s heart rate had quickened. With no plans as to where they should eat that evening, he hoped that Amanda would recommend some place quiet and intimate. Anywhere they could spend time just getting to know each other. Despite the connection, they were effectively still strangers, after all.

  ‘Joaquín,’ he told himself, as the villa came into view, ‘this could be the making of you.’

  Rolling his blazer sleeves towards the elbow, in a bid to stay cool, the young fitness trainer approached the front door. He noted that the blinds on the ground floor were turned, which seemed a little early. Twilight was settling, but the street lamps had yet to switch on. It was at the porch that he heard a voice inside. Titus was speaking solemnly, but with his voice raised a little, as if addressing a room. It caused Joaquín to hesitate as he reached for the buzzer. The last thing he wanted to do was interrupt.

  Then Titus suddenly stopped talking, and Joaquín seized his moment.

  He took a step away on hearing a chair scrape back and then footsteps in the lobby. With just a second to spare, Joaquín Mendez smoothed his shirt and prepared for the door to open.

  ‘Yes?’

  The pleasant smile Joaquín mustered was at odds with the grave expression on the Savage boy’s face. Ivan was wearing a shirt and tie in a way that suggested this was the first time he’d ever had to knot one.

  ‘I’m here for Amanda,’ Joaquín shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘We’re going out.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  When Ivan moved to close the door, Joaquín reacted by placing his hand on the other side.

  ‘She’s expecting me.’ He glanced over the boy’s shoulder. With the blinds angled against the setting sun it was gloomy inside the villa. ‘Can I speak with her?’

  ‘No.’

  As Ivan stood his ground, Amanda herself appeared from the kitchen. She was wearing a black dress and a dark-blue cardigan. As soon as Joaquín saw her, it was clear from her red-rimmed eyes and the way she clutched herself that this wasn’t a good time.

  ‘We’ve suffered a loss,’ she told him. ‘Ivan’s grandfather died yesterday.’

  Immediately, Joaquín saw his chances of an evening in her company slip away.

  ‘My condolences,’ he said, and crossed himself on instinct. ‘I hope it was quick.’

  ‘It was really quick,’ said Ivan. ‘Those scooters aren’t safe.’

  ‘I should’ve called to let you know,’ said Amanda, which stopped Joaquín from blundering further into the realms of saying the wrong thing, ‘but we’ve been so busy since he passed.’

  ‘What a terrible loss. I’m so sorry.’

  Joaquín glanced back at the boy. If he was in mourning, it barely showed. Ivan simply stared at him, his lips pressed flat.

  ‘We’re holding a wake,’ he said. ‘And now here you are.’

  If Ivan intended to make him feel unwelcome, it was working.

  ‘I’ll leave you in peace.’ Joaquín addressed Amanda. ‘Whenever you’re ready, just call.’

  Amanda looked at him uncomfortably.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Joaquín, all those texts you sent after we spoke on the phone … They came as quite a surprise. I’m flattered, but it was all a little –’

  ‘Passionate?’ he asked, brightening considerably.

 
‘Intense,’ said Amanda, sounding pained. ‘I think under the circumstances we should call it a day. I’m sorry, Joaquín.’

  ‘You heard the lady,’ said Ivan. ‘It’s over.’

  ‘But … it hasn’t even begun!’

  Ivan rolled his eyes and then gestured at the trainer to remove his hand. It left Joaquín a brief chance to see Amanda smiling fondly at him, though it could’ve been in pity, before the door shut in his face.

  ‘That went well.’ Joaquín sighed to himself and looked to his shoes. It felt as if he had several blisters coming on. ‘What a moment this turned out to be.’

  It was then he realised that he still had the carnations. Under the circumstances, he thought, Amanda should have them. If not as a romantic gesture then as a mark of sympathy for the family’s loss. Once again, the fitness trainer reached for the buzzer, but stopped himself as his fingertip found the button. He really didn’t want to summon the boy again, or risk irritating his father. Joaquín turned away from the villa, only to come full circle, having decided to bypass the kid by popping around the side of the villa. Amanda had emerged from the kitchen. As soon as she saw him at the side window, gesturing with the flowers, no doubt she would get to the kitchen door before anyone else. Well aware of the gravity of the event taking place inside, Joaquín headed for the side gate, intending to be quick and respectful. Finding the blinds closed at the kitchen window, just as they were at the front, he crept to the sliding door that led out to the jetty and peeked inside.

  Some moments later, without blinking, Joaquín retreated by a step. Having just caught sight of Angelica at the hob, he dropped the bouquet and calmly retreated. This time, it wasn’t her powerful presence that claimed possession of his soul, but what she was cooking. Back on the driveway, having stopped for a second to stare into space, he slipped off his shoes and placed them in the family’s garbage bin. Without once looking back, he set off for his apartment at a jog and from there booked a taxi. Within hours, he had boarded a flight from Miami to Ministro Pistarini Airport, some fourteen miles southwest of the Argentinian capital of Buenos Aires. Joaquín Mendez never told his mother the real reason for his sudden return home, but she was delighted to have her son back in her embrace. It came as a surprise to her when he found work as a humble cattle hand, but a source of great pride when he went on to buy his own ranch some years later in the remote wilderness of Patagonia. There, the former fitness trainer and committed bachelor devoted himself to raising quality livestock. The welfare of his cows was a priority, and he would go on to secure a reputation as one of the country’s benchmark beef producers. Indeed, Joaquín Mendez became as celebrated in the trade for the quality of his meat as he did for his arrival at the abattoir with every laden truck, having clearly wept all the way.

  Nobody had seen Joaquín peek into the kitchen and pale visibly. At the time, with Ivan and Amanda back at the table, Angelica had served the first of what would be many dishes. Titus looked on with pride when she set the steaming bread bowl on the table. He smiled at her, and then at their guest beside him.

  ‘It’s what Oleg would’ve wanted,’ he told Priscilla, and patted her hand.

  Titus had been the one to break the sad news to her, having personally called round to the Fallen Pine and pulled up a chair by her bedside. Priscilla had reacted to their loss with grace and dignity. She hadn’t choked up or shed a tear but simply nodded as Titus explained the circumstances. Then he had leaned in to find her ear and proposed that she join them for the feast Oleg had been so desperate for her to attend.

  ‘A celebration of the dead,’ she had said in response, and her face lit up in his eyes. ‘He told me it was customary once upon a time.’

  Now Priscilla sat at the table with them, tucked in tight in her wheelchair with the oxygen cylinder stowed behind the seat. For someone who was close to following in Oleg’s footsteps, he noted, she was a game and spirited old bird. Like the rest of the family, Titus was in a solemn mood. And yet the sense of anticipation that accompanied this, the beginning of a feast, was enough to lift the spirits. In this case, having passed on those too tubby, too sinewy or too fit for Titus, what they had here wasn’t just a fitting tribute, but the perfect choice for the table.

  ‘This is a traditional starter with a twist,’ said Angelica, as she slipped a serving spoon into the soup.

  ‘A solianka,’ observed Amanda, who grinned at their guest. ‘It’s a kind of soup made with mushrooms, vodka and three different cuts of beef. Only in this case there is no beef.’

  ‘Oh, I understand that,’ Priscilla said brightly. ‘It contains cuts of Oleg, right?’

  Every member of the family beamed at the old lady.

  ‘I think you’ll find it unforgettable,’ said Angelica, who sat and reached for her glass. ‘It means he’ll be with you for the rest of your days.’

  ‘And may those days be longer and happier than you ever believed,’ said Amanda.

  ‘Wait.’ This was Titus, who raised his hand. ‘Aren’t we forgetting something?’

  ‘Ketchup?’ Kat was sitting beside her mother, swinging her feet as she waited to be served.

  ‘Not with a feast,’ said Angelica, crinkling her nose. ‘You can’t have ketchup with everything.’

  It was Ivan who caught his father’s eye.

  ‘I know,’ he said, and held his gaze for a moment. ‘May I?’

  Titus considered the request and then sat back with a nod. After all the failed attempts to prove himself, it seemed that with this simple gesture his son was set to become a man at last. In the pit of grief, it was a moment that caused Titus’s heart to swell with pride. Here he was, surrounded by family, and with the jointed remains of the one they had gathered to commemorate laid out across the kitchen counter. Everything from top to toe had been cooked exquisitely and was now resting to draw back the juices.

  ‘Go ahead,’ he told Ivan, and bowed his head.

  The boy waited for everyone to follow suit. Then, with great reverence, he rose to his feet.

  ‘For what we are about to receive,’ he began, with his eyes squeezed shut and his hands clasped in prayer, ‘may God have mercy on us all.’

  DIGESTIF

  Two days later, on the cusp of spring break, three boys swaggered through the doors of The Lentil Rebel. They had to look around to find a free table, which they promptly filled with elbows spread wide and loud, invasive laughter.

  ‘This is too funny,’ said one, and gestured at his friends to look around. ‘If these hippies knew we ate meat, they’d freak out!’

  Chad, Bryce and Ryan had decided to pay a visit to the café on their way to the beach. The place had fast become a fixture in Jupiter, earning a favourable review in the local paper as ‘a refreshing break from all the flesh-heavy rib joints’. As soon as the trio heard about it, they had decided that it should be a target for abuse. On the way, they had come across the Hispanic kid who had just joined the year below and left him on the sidewalk with a grazed elbow and a hot, tearful face. It was the kind of thing the three soccer jocks would’ve directed at new girl, but ever since the thing with the sandwiches they had come to regard him with a degree of caution. At the table just then, however, as they messed about with the saltshaker, all thoughts of the incident were far from their minds. Ryan, like Bryce and Chad, wore skate shorts, an oversized T-shirt and sunglasses, which he pushed up over his buzz cut when the waitress approached.

  ‘What can I get you?’ she asked – a little abruptly for their liking – and handed out menus printed on chlorine-free, recycled card.

  The waitress, an English girl, wore her hair in a bob that she seemed to be growing out. She was poised with her notepad to take their order, but looked more like she was ready to write them a ticket for a parking violation.

  ‘Lighten up,’ said Bryce, grinning at her. ‘We don’t bite.’

  ‘You know what would put a smile on your face?’ Chad swapped a smirk with Ryan. ‘A good serving of pork.’

 
As the three laughed, none of them noticed the boy at the till who pointed them out to a shaven-headed man before slipping away into the kitchen. It was only when the man cleared his throat, having crossed the floor to stand over the waitress, that they fell quiet.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, and nodded at them in turn. ‘If nothing on the menu appeals, I can go through the specials.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Ryan, who stifled the amusement in his voice, only to share a smirk with his two friends. ‘Special food.’

  ‘I can recommend the vegan chicken Caesar salad,’ the man offered, as the waitress left them to serve another table. ‘The croutons come fried in chilli oil for that special kick.’

  ‘Dude, can I level with you here?’ Bryce was the first to look up from his menu. ‘We’re not talking about real chicken, are we?’

  ‘It’s a flavoured soy product,’ said the man patiently. ‘But I can assure you it’s very … chickeny.’

  ‘That’s what I don’t get about you guys.’ Bryce was addressing his friends now, as the grin returned to his face. ‘You reject meat and then bust a gut to rustle up something that tastes the same. Why?’ He shook his head for their benefit, looking highly amused with himself. ‘If you crave chicken that badly, eat chicken. It won’t kill you.’

  The man considered his point as he waited for them all to stop sniggering, which they did when he rested his hands on the back of Chad’s chair and leaned in.

  ‘I think we all know you’re not here to enjoy what’s on the menu, right? I can practically smell when a carnivore comes through that door, and I’m going to let you into a little secret here. I’m a meat eater myself.’

  Bryce, Chad and Ryan exchanged nervous glances.

  ‘You’re kidding,’ ventured Ryan. ‘Do your customers know?’

  ‘Well, I don’t make a big song and dance about it!’ The man was alone in chuckling at this. ‘But that doesn’t mean I disrespect their values. In fact, I’ve come to rate the vegan approach to life. They care about what they consume more than most. Rather than be a part of the herd, they consider every morsel that enters their mouths. It might not be my personal preference, but at least they think about what they eat.’