But just as it happened with Luda, Aron never walked Milena all the way to her house. He would stop a few blocks away from her building and say that walking was getting harder and harder; he’d better head back. And just as it happened with Luda, come Monday, all the Friday intimacy was gone. He never gave any sign that they had formed some kind of connection, never spoke to either of them before or after class, hardly even looked at them. On Mondays, there was no indication that he wanted either of them, or that he ever would. On Mondays, Luda and Milena felt deflated and tired too, and perhaps even a little ashamed of their Friday excitement. But as the week was coming to an end, the memories of Aron at his best (or perhaps fantasies of what Aron could have been like at his best) grew more and more intense. Luda imagined how she would stroll with Aron on Manhattan Beach past all the other couples, and how if her daughter ever tried to push another piece of furniture on her, she would refuse, saying that her husband didn’t like it. And Milena thought of being in bed with Aron and how he would smile at her and tell her that she still had it. And as Luda’s and Milena’s fantasies flourished, so did their fear and fury at the thought that he could pick the other as the ultimate winner.
THE AFTERNOON before the last International Feast, Luda plugged in the food processor, pushed cubes of beef and lamb down the tube, and pressed the button. The mere image of Aron leaving with Milena after the last International Feast (with Milena’s allies rejoicing and Luda’s allies saying something unconvincing about Aron’s unsubstantial worth as a boyfriend) would send Luda into a state of murderous rage. For several weeks now, all her thoughts were concentrated on her final dish.
The food processor, another discard from her daughter’s pantry, was an old bulky thing with a crack on the side covered by a piece of duct tape. It whirred and vibrated and jumped all over the table surface, but it did its job well. Luda smiled as she watched how the meat cubes bounced under the knives. The onion got stuck in the tube, and she had to hit it with the wooden spoon handle to push it down. Luda stopped before reaching for a bowl where the bread had been soaking in milk; she wasn’t sure if the bread had to go into the food processor or not.
MILENA MOVED about her kitchen quickly and gracefully. She prodded the bread with her finger to check if it was soggy enough. She knew that when making meatballs you should never put the bread into a food processor. First of all, the bread was soft and soggy enough to be easily broken with a fork, but — most important — coarsely minced bread was essential for making meatballs fluffy and plump. She put the bread into the bowl with the ground veal, added some crushed garlic (a lot of it) and a couple of eggs, and started working the mix with the fork, enjoying the slurping sound.
AND NOW for the secret ingredient,” Luda thought, throwing small cubes of pancetta into the hissing skillet. “Pancetta,” The Food Network host had moaned, “So good, your guests won’t know what hit them!”
FAT, MILENA THOUGHT, all the flavor was in the fat, and people are just kidding themselves when they try to believe otherwise. She put a chunk of nice sweet butter and a smaller chunk of lard in the middle of the skillet and swirled it around. The rest was easy.
NO, THIS WASN’T hard at all, Luda decided. Especially if you found the perfect method. She shaped the balls and threw them onto the hissing skillet with her right hand while holding the spatula with her left. When the meat under her fingers got all warm and sticky, she rinsed her right hand under cold running water and started again. Her small kitchen was quickly filling with smoke and the smell of burning fat, but Luda didn’t pay any attention to that. She worked very fast. So did Milena. It was amazing how fast the bowl was becoming empty. As she was shaping the last meatball, Milena had a sudden urge to squeeze it. And she did just that, so hard that tiny bits of soggy meat came out between her fingers. She wiped her hand and went to open the window.
ON THE MONDAY after the last International Feast, Angie’s hands trembled so much she had to grip the wrist of her right hand with her left to be able to write on the board. Her legs trembled as well, so she went to sit down in the low chair that stood by her desk. She said that it would be nice if everybody said a few words about Aron.
One of the Dominicans said that it was too bad that Aron didn’t have a family. “That’s a wonderful observation,” Angie noted.
A man from one of the Chinese couples said that Aron taught everybody a lesson. “This is an excellent point.” Angie nodded and reached into her purse for a tissue.
She had never had a student die during her class before. Nobody she knew had ever had a student die during class. She had been plagued by ghastly flashbacks throughout the whole weekend. Bright and loud, the images of the last feast kept spinning in her head as if she were caught inside a horror movie. And now the movie was starting to play again.
They tune the radio to some nasty Latino music. They uncover the food. The smell! She is so sick of that smell. They stomp their feet to the beat of the music. Poor Aron, happy as a child. Moving closer to the table. Filling his plate. Gorging. Starting to choke. They all step away in horror. Angie pushes buttons on her phone. For the life of her she can’t remember which buttons to push. Jean-Baptiste rushes forward, grabs Aron from behind; his fist thrusts into Aron’s stomach. Thrusts again. Again and again. Finally! The fucking Russian meatball is out! Sighs of relief all over the room. Angie snaps her phone closed. And then Aron’s legs go slack and Jean-Baptiste starts to sway under Aron’s weight. For a moment it looks like they are dancing together to the loud beats of Latino music. Old Oolna starts to laugh, a horrible cackling laugh. And then, only then, they finally realize what has just happened….
Angie blew her nose and looked over her silent class. “Do you want to say something, Jean-Baptiste?”
“Yeah. Aron was a funny man.”
“Good, Jean-Baptiste, good,” Angie agreed.
Luda said that they would all miss Aron, and Milena said that his was an enviable death. Angie raised her brows at her.
“Quick and easy. And he died happy, didn’t he?” Milena explained in a calm patient voice.
Angie shuddered and pronounced the class over.
IT WAS COLD and very bright outside. Milena reached into her bag for her sunglasses, but Luda only squinted her eyes.
“Going down that way?” Milena asked. Luda nodded. They started walking down the street together.
“You know,” Luda said, after a while, “I don’t enjoy cooking that much.”
“Me neither,” Milena said, and they continued to walk.
Slicing Sautéed Spinach
FOR ALMOST A YEAR, Ru
ena had been eating spinach in restaurants. She’d eaten sautéed spinach in Italian eateries, creamed spinach in old-fashioned American diners, pureed spinach in Indian places, and once she even ate spinach dumplings in a dark and overheated Mongolian restaurant on East 12th Street. Ruena didn’t have any particular fondness for spinach; she ate it simply because her lover ordered it for her. “It’s easy,” he would say, urging her to order. “You pick what you want to eat and you say it aloud.”