by Irvine Welsh
— Well, maybe you should, Kendra says, slamming the papers she’d printed from the websites onto the desk, — because it’s well known that people in South Korea eat dogs and cats!
— We ain’t in Korea, miss. They don’t do that sort of thing here.
— How in hell’s name do you know that?
— Well, I guess it’s our different cultures. I see it as kinda about respect. Like, people in India do not believe in eating cows. They get horrified at the way cows are treated here in the USA. But they know we do things differently, so they accept it. Just like Korean folks accept that they can’t eat dog here. But it’s a valid point, in general terms, don’tcha think?
— No it is nat! The relationship between pets or even working animals and their owners is intrinsically different to that between humans and domesticated animals raised for food! Can’t you see that?! Kendra shouts, unable to believe that the police officer is even attempting to justify this.
The officer is not for backing down. — Dunno bout that. I guess the way they see it is that some animals are raised to hunt, others to fight, others to be eaten. Besides, pet breeds ain’t used for food back there in Korea.
— You don’t know! Kendra wails. — I’ve researched this! She points at the papers. — Because dog meat is expensive, the people in rural areas of Korea will raise and kill the dogs themselves; or steal them. That chef’s done something awful to Toto. I just fucking know he has!
— What kind of dog are we talking about?
— He’s a papillon.
— Right. No offence, miss, but a papillon dog don’t exactly constitute a banquet. Why, I doubt you’d get a decent portion of gyro outta one of them little guys, the cop smiles.
— I want him back! Will you fucking well help me find my dog!
The policeman’s voice grows firmer. — Now, miss, I realise that you’re a little upset here. Why don’t you just go home and see if that little fellow shows up and we’ll call you if anything happens this end?
— Thank you, Kendra sneers sarcastically. — Thank you so much for your help.
Outside on the steps of the station, she seethes in impotence. The only thing she can think of doing is to head home. Back at the apartment she stealthily creeps upstairs and listens outside the chef’s door. There is no sound. She goes back downstairs. Her despondency is compounded further by the mess of her apartment. A huge laundry has piled up but she can’t face going down into that basement right now.
Kendra decides to go and visit Stephanie at her workplace. She should be finishing up soon. Steph knows about animals and their behavior. She might be able to piece together Toto’s state of mind and his likely destination, if it wasn’t up the stairs and into the chef’s cooking pot. She heads to the practice on Clark. — Miss Harbison has just finished a consultation, the soccer mom receptionist informs her.
She goes into Stephanie’s office. Her friend is at the window, blowing cigarette smoke out into the street. — God, those people, Stephanie scoffs, looking below onto the Clark traffic, — they cannot seem to accept that they are nat my clients. They are merely the sponsors. Victor is the client.
— Who is … Victor?
— A Netherland dwarf rabbit with an eating disorder. I felt like saying to his stupid bitch of an owner, ‘Have you looked at yourself in a goddamn mirror lately? Ever stopped to consider that poor Victor might just be modeling behavior?’ Stephanie bellows in exasperation. Then she seems to regard Kendra for the first time. — But you look stressed out, honey. What’s up? she asks, then wariness sharpens her features. — Like, why are you here?
— Toto’s gone! The chef … upstairs, the guy from the restaurant; he’s done something terrible to Toto. He’s Korean. They eat dogs!
— You cannat be serious, Stephanie says, then she molds her face in that expression, the one she always thinks of as her ‘clinical, diagnostic’ look. It involves making her eyebrows almost collide. — Look, Kennie, Toto was – she corrects herself, — is … a very sweet dog, but let’s face it, he has several issues.
An arrow of filial failure thuds into Kendra’s chest. — You think I should have taken him to Dr Stark?
Stephanie flicks her cigarette out the window, sits down, crossing her legs. She regards her own fishnets, enjoying what she thinks of as ‘the coiled-springed sexuality’ of them. They were pantyhose but guys never knew for sure. You just reeled in the catch, like she’d most certainly done last night. A fortuitous chance meeting in the street on the way home, then a late drink, after the others had departed. She regards Kendra, who was just a little too quick to wind up the evening, and something approaching shame bubbles up inside her. Then she slips back into her professional mode. — Phil Stark would have identified Toto’s abandonment/rejection complex straight away and drawn an appropriate behavior modification program, she briskly informs her friend. — I also think it was a no-no calling him Toto. By identifying him with the dog in The Wizard of Oz, you subconsciously factor in the state of his being lost and searching for home as an inbuilt element of his psyche.
— But he has a home, Kendra cries, — our home!
— Course he does, princess, Stephanie agrees, — Toto’s a very loved little dog, she coos, realizing that Kendra is too distraught to be left alone. She calls Stacie, telling her to meet them back at Kendra’s apartment. They leave the practice and walk down Clark without speaking to each other. As well as the intense heat, they are now assaulted by thunderous roars in the skies above them, as four jets, like birds of prey in a mechanized flock, slash through the clear blue sky.
Back at the apartment, Stacie appears and they sit together on the couch, comforting a distraught Kendra with a glass of wine. — I can’t go out … I just feel so helpless, waiting by the phone, she says. Then there is an almighty roar from outside, the jets flying so low that the window bellies inwards. — Shit, Kendra barks in a galled enmity, — Can they not go to Iraq and do that? Is that not what it’s for?
— It’s just a show of strength. I find it pretty reassuring, Stephanie says. — I like the idea of us burning loads of gas in these trials.
— It must be terrible living in a war zone, Stacie shudders.
— It’s kinda what they choose, Stephanie asserts. — If they don’t like it, they can get off their butts and leave, like our forefathers who came here did.
Stacie seems to consider this for a while. Then she casts her eyes around Kendra’s apartment. It’s a mess, but it’s exactly what she needs. — I’ll bet this place is really expensive, she eventually says as she registers the empty spare room she has long harbored designs on moving into. — Can you afford it? she asks Kendra.
— Jeez, you don’t get it, Stace. That question should be reframed: can I afford not to have it? Get with the Breaking News: princesses live in palaces, she shrieks, sliding a Xanax into her mouth, and washing it down with a sip of red wine.
Stephanie fidgets, looks at her watch and tries to get onto the subject of work. — Real estates’s booming, right, Kendra?
Kendra would normally breezily chirp, ‘More than ever,’ even if the market was slow, aware that expectations drive everything and therefore need to be talked up. It was the professional way. Now she can only distractedly moan, — Toto was an angel in the body of a dog.
— She’s so upset, Stacie whispers to Stephanie, as she squeezes Kendra’s knee.
Some people just shouldn’t try to understand this world, Stephanie thinks wearily. Then she leans forward and touches her friend’s hand. — Kennie, I’m worried about you.
— No need, sugar, I’m fine, Kendra protests in a small, reedy voice.
Oh God, compassion fatigue is kicking in, Stephanie considers, trying to convert a yawn into a smile. She just about succeeds but the strain of it makes her consider exit strategies and she’s already thinking about a future engagement.
Stacie offers to stay in the spare room, but Kendra is absolutely insistent that she’d rather be alone. When th
ey depart, she waits up, channel-hopping with the sound turned down. She can hear somebody entering the apartment complex. It’s Chef; she’s already gotten to know the plodding, deliberate pattern of his footsteps on the concrete stairs outside. Who else could it be at this time?
She heads out to intercept him on the stairs. — Hey, you!
— No sign of dog? he cheerfully asks.
— No … I’ve even been to the pound, she shakes her head. — I can’t sleep. I don’t suppose you’re in the mood for another one of those medicinal drinks you gave me yesterday?
— Very tired, long day. Chef raises his dark brows in what she takes to be a plea.
— Just a little one? Kendra purrs, thinking, for some reason, of Chef naked.
— Come, says Chef, pointing to the stairs. At his apartment, he opens the door and ushers her in.
When he moves into the toilet, Kendra waits until she can hear his urine splash, then takes her chance and goes to the kitchen. She looks through some of the cupboards. Nothing. Then she moves to the refrigerator. She looks at it, hesitating in the face of its cold, immutable form. Then the thermostat clicks suddenly, and her heart misses a beat. Steeling herself, Kendra moves over and grabs the handle of the refrigerator, yanking the door open. Squints under the light as a small carcass greets her. She almost screams.
But it’s only a chicken.
She can see that. Kendra leaves the kitchen and moves across to the giant scratching post in the corner of the lounge, the one Chef uses for sword practice. Behind it is a small cupboard. She bends over and reaches for the handle.
— Do not do that, a voice comes sharply from behind her. She turns quickly, and Chef is standing in the doorway with a samurai sword in his hand. She freezes, mimicking the expression on his cold, immobile face.
The week passed without Kendra returning any calls, but Stacie was not unduly perturbed. Kennie could be a moody girl, she reasoned. A lost dog, new boyfriend, bad menstrual cramps, running out of Xanax; anything could do it, she’d joked to Stephanie. Besides, they knew where she would be come 12.30 p.m. on Friday. Stephanie, however, was a bit more concerned. How would she break the news to Kendra about her seeing Trent? It would be a tough spin. She worried that her friend had already somehow learned of this burgeoning romance, and that this was what the big sulk was all about.
Stacie and Stephanie meet on Clark. It is still hot, but the temperature has fallen a little. Smoky clouds hide the sun and the air feels heavy and muggy. When they get to the restaurant, the closed sign is up. The place seems deserted, but then the door swings inwards, and a grinning Chef emerges to greet them.
— Are you, like, open? Stacie asks.
— Always open, but only for special customers, Chef points at them. — Min go sick, in heat. Fall sleep at music concert in park. Have bad sunburn. Akiro back in Japan for funeral for one week. Only me here, but I cook very special dish for you.
Stephanie looks at Stacie, then at Chef. — Eh, have you seen Kendra?
— Oh yes, Chef smiles, — she will be here. Come!
The girls go into the restaurant and sit down, Stacie feeling more privileged than Stephanie that Chef has opened up exclusively for them. However, by 12.45 Kendra still hasn’t appeared. — It isn’t like her to be late, Stephanie muses, checking her watch, thinking that sashimi would be a good call in this heat. No rice; carbs after noon was a disgusting habit. — Probably a crisis at work. She said that bitch Marilyn had been bending her flaps, she snorts, as her thoughts turn to Trent. One more makeout session would probably close the deal and consign catwoman Pallister to the trash can of dating history.
— It’s terrible when you don’t get on with your co-workers, Stacie says.
How the fuck would you know? Stephanie thinks. — Well, condo developments. I ask you, she acridly observes. Trent pops into her mind again. An architect’s practice; a serious upgrade on Todd. No more twentysomething loser musos, their numbers as prolific as sparrows as they hopped around the city from apartment to dive bar to gig. No more feigning interest at unsolicited disclosures of ‘exciting projects’. And Stephanie and Trent had a ring to it. At family gatherings, perhaps a Thanksgiving up at the cabin in Wisconsin. Trent and I can make it in a couple of hours if we take the convertible. Poor Kendra. But omelette, eggs, breaking.
Chef appears with a large platter of meat. — For you to try. Very special dish.
— All protein, says Stephanie.
He watches as they prepare to take a bite.
Closing her eyes as her lips part around the morsel on the fork, Stephanie lets the buttery meat slowly dissolve in her mouth, inducing a rapturous response from her taste buds. An aura of hovering sunlight seems to melt through her. — My God, this is fantastic! So succulent. What is it?
— I love it, Stacie agrees, — it’s got a really tangy, almost salty taste, but it’s so subtle.
Chef contemplates her large eyes. His tongue darts over his lips to remove a layer of sodium that has frosted there. — Old recipe. They say this meat can be stringy but all is in marinade. Have to pulverize it to tenderize it first. That is secret.
— Is it pork? Stacie asks. — It sorta tastes like pork, but the texture’s more like chicken …
— Finish meal, I show you later, he points to the kitchen door and follows his own finger through to his den.
Stacie and Stephanie sit back and enjoy their meal, as they wait for Kendra to show up.
— God, Kennie will be so jealous, Stacie purrs, — we got to try something new and she didn’t!
They eat with a ravenous enthusiasm, captivated by this mystery dish; the meat tender and succulent, yet with a gamy strength to it, and it makes them temporarily forget about the absence of their friend.
Then, after a while, Chef reappears at their table. — I have something very important I must show you. Come! He beckons the girls into the kitchen. Bemused, they get up and follow him. — Secret ingredient in there. Then I have other surprise for you! Picking up a huge filleting knife from the sushi bar, Chef holds the heavy, swinging door open with his free hand and ushers them in, grinning as he lets it thump shut behind them.
Marilyn sits in the office and looks at the empty chair by Kendra’s desk. She thinks: Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. A sentence escapes her mouth: — How long is that little bitch going to be ill over her freakin sister? she says, possibly to herself, although Greg and Cassandra can hear her.
About ten minutes after this Kendra Cross bursts purposefully through the door and heads toward her workstation.
— So, you’ve decided to grace us with your presence, Marilyn smiles caustically. — And how is your sister?
— Never mind my sister, Kendra hisses, looking over her shoulder and putting some personal effects into her bag.
— Oh, so I take it you’re leaving us, Marilyn sneers. — Had a better offer?
Kendra turns around and regards her, hand on hip. — Yes I have, she lies. — You know why? she asks, and without waiting for an answer bursts into a rant: — I’ll have you know that you played a big fucking part in murdering my dog, you miserable cunt, and you know why you did this? Huh? Because you’ve never loved anything in your fucking pathetic life. And that’s because you are so inherently fucking unlovable.
There is a three-second total silence in the office.
— You fucking spoiled little … Marilyn breaks the impasse with a gasp, then whines painfully, — You don’t know me, and she looks around at her subordinates in appeal, — you know nothing about me … Kennie, you’re upset, I …
— I know that you’re so fucking lame. She looks around at the others. — All of you are! Get with the project: the real-estate market here is dead! They cannot make the pre-sales to keep constructing those horrible fucking condos and you’re all gonna be out on your lazy fat asses soon! And another thing, she focuses on Marilyn again, — you are always the laughing stock on our nights out, right, Greg?
Greg reddens an
d turns away sharply, as the front door opens and Stephanie, flanked by Stacie, steps into the open-plan office, carrying Toto in her arms. Seeing Kendra, he lets out a short volley of excited yelps. — Hey-ey-ey! Guess who showed up! Stephanie sings.
Kendra turns to face them, her mouth in a quivering spasm in response to the evidence of her eyes and ears. Her first thought is: could she be hallucinating? She’d gone up to her parents’ place in Highland Park for a few days to regroup, retrench, wait by her cellphone in hope, and then, when nothing happened, to mourn Toto. In the sleep deprivation, the Xanax, and the mind-mashing heat, she no longer totally trusts her senses.
— Chef found him trapped in the vent shaft down in the laundry room, Stephanie smiles, to Kendra’s bemused delight. — He must have opened that grille in your front room behind the couch and fell down there. He was okay, just a bit startled, hungry and thirsty. Chef gave him a good feed and he’s fine. She pushes the dog into Kendra’s arms. — Where have you been?
— Oh my God, I … I … I went to my mom’s, I was so depressed … but he’s back! My baby is back! She gasps as the tears of joy flow. — He came back …
— You don’t make fun of me, do you? Greg? Cassie? Marilyn pleads. Then she fixes Kendra in a poisoned glare. — Get out of here! Get the fuck out! Take that fucking little rat with you!
— I gotta go, Kendra smiles at her friends, walking to the door, with Stephanie and Stacie in pursuit.
Stephanie stops, turns around, and fixes the ranting Marilyn with a look of disdain. — Advice: try cock. Or at least find a bitch with a tongue that works.
— Ooh-hoo! Hell, yeah, sister! Stacie choruses in black girl’s voice, high-fiving Stephanie.
Marilyn screams at their backs as they go through the exit doors, — You fucking do not insult me in my place of work! I’m calling the police! It’s trespass, is what it is! Trespass!