“I feel sick,” he said in a blank voice.
“You’ll be better soon,” I replied with a shrug.
To tell the truth, if he kept on popping all the pills instead of me, chance was he wouldn’t.
He closed his eyes. Not a fighter. Quite a fatalist. It’s supposed to be an Oriental thing. Back in China, he was used to being mistreated perhaps. He was really calm for someone being held in confinement, I thought.
When I pulled the blanket off him and brandished the whip, he looked at me with an imploring expression, but pity is a feeling I loathe. And please, no bullshit: His dick was half stiff, and that never lies. He must have understood; he turned slightly to present his ass, or rather to protect his more fragile parts. His buns were a lot more fleshy than Luc’s, who loved to be spanked, something I never refused him in fifteen years, something he couldn’t complain about. The jerk should never have left, we had our little ways together, and that’s not easy to lose all of a sudden, especially for someone unstable like I am, and when spring is on its way.
It’s true, we were still very much in love, Luc and I. It was not like before, of course. Aside from the well-polished rituals we had established to relieve ourselves, we both kept twisting and turning to avoid any unnecessary contact with each other. Lips sealed in reaction to hurtful words, legs disentangled after sleep had unfortunately intertwined them, but we were used to it and that counts. So much dodging for some peace; marital art is a martial art, an art we had completely mastered: black belt, fourth dan. Okay even for KOs; we would crash painlessly on the tatami. The Chinese man hadn’t exactly agreed to the situation so he was in pain. It’s all in the head, I say! I thought he might be a bachelor and knew little about women. I hear they lack women in China.
When I had my fill of it, I felt very relaxed; I let him sleep and went to take a shower. Maybe I could keep my Chinese guy for a long time in that state — weeks, months, years even. Paris was a lot better than Milan, after all. All I had to do was feed him right and not mess him up too much. I could set up a TV and DVD player in his room to keep him entertained and then, little by little, he would learn French. That would at least be something positive.
I put on clean clothes. It was beautiful out; I watered my plants. I was happy that Luc let me live here. Our place was becoming my place, for years to come; that’s what he had said and that was nice, he didn’t have to. We had bought that first-floor apartment together fifteen years ago for peanuts with a loan from the bank, and we had fixed it up ourselves, quite nicely. All I needed to do was pay the mortgage every month. Nothing to worry about, I had the means, I couldn’t complain.
That’s when I fell upon my man’s backpack. As light as he was. I found his passport. In Chinese, obviously. One hundred dollar bills. A good-sized stack. It would be for our honeymoon. My honey bun had everything thought out.
All perked up, I sat down in front of the computer to play with the keyboard a little. I had a message from Jérôme: Attachedare three recipes to return to me before this evening, baby. Was everything okay yesterday? How was he?
Great guy, I answered. You’ll have them back very soon.
I clicked on the pictures. The first one was easy. A vegetable casserole. String beans, peas, carrots. I already had the recipe stored in my files. All I had to do was print it out. Same for the chocolate cake. The third one wasn’t so simple. I finally settled for veal shanks with mixed vegetables. I wrote down the recipe card from memory; I was used to it. I sent everything via e-mail by mid-afternoon. Jérôme would be pleased.
I made myself a cup of coffee and finished some leftover lasagna. I even treated myself to a little serving of raspberry sherbet. The veal shank stew had obviously whetted my appetite. I thought it would be a good idea to cook such a typical French dish for my little sweetheart. He’d like that.
So I went to rue de Belleville, near the Jourdain metro station, to the best butcher in the arrondissement.[4] I bought organic potatoes, carrots, turnips, and string beans, then I got a great cheese assortment at a cheese store that takes quality very seriously. My backpack was totally full when I walked back down rue de Belleville; I made a stop at a Chinese grocery — it wasn’t very hard to find as they’re all over the neighborhood — to get three cans of Tsingtao beer and some candied ginger.
When I came back home, not a stir. I got busy in the kitchen, humming away while I cooked. I may be a little rough sometimes but I have to admit that there’s nothing more satisfying in life than concocting fancy meals for a sleeping man. In fact, it felt as if we had already reached the pearly gates, my Chinese man and I. And that Luc who wanted me to take my pills! He was really screwed in the head!
I hadn’t had so much fun cooking in a long time. Everything was coming back to me: the exhilaration of the movements, the elation that smells and flavors give you. I had lots of fun cutting the vegetables into identical little cubes. I was using a ceramic knife Luc had brought back from Japan for me. Light as a feather and sharp as a razor blade. Asia sure was showering me with presents!
While the meat and vegetables were cooking, I stirred up a mixture of chocolate, butter, and ground almonds which I poured on the pieces of candied ginger scattered on tin foil, and I put the concoction in the fridge. Ginger is an aphrodisiac, it’s a well known fact; same for the sage I had stuck inside the meat. The evening was promising.
I set the table with special care as if for a picture. The tablecloth, the matching napkins, my best set of plates and glasses... I had even bought two bunches of daffodils, the first of the season. I trimmed two candles with my Japanese blade and stuck them into the candle holder Luc’s mother had given us. The effect was fantastic, a true promotional ad for Foodgourmet. I was already missing my big teddy bear; quick, quick, I gave myself a vague facelift in the bathroom and went to see him...
Lying there on his bed, my loverboy was still a little sleepy, two narrow slits where his eyes were; as soon as he saw the Japanese knife, he opened them as wide as dessert plates. No reason to get upset, though, as the object was not much bigger than a steak knife, but impressive because it was very pointed, a real hole puncher. To show him I didn’t mean to hurt him, I sat down by the side of the bed, and scraped my knee with the tip of the ceramic blade, at the hem of my checkered skirt. Beads of blood formed right away; very carefully, I traced a thin red line, a C, meaning Chinese, since I didn’t know his first name. The result was very delicate but failed to reassure him. I tapped my heart to show I had feelings for him. He didn’t seem to believe me, so I even came up with I love you. He must have thought I was out of my mind.
But with one thing and another, my veal was running the risk of sticking to the bottom of the pot. I clapped my hands, Come on, let’s get moving, let’s go. He stood up, staggering; I pushed him under the shower, he didn’t respond. He was taking things the right way, the Asian way that is. Zen is Japanese, but they say that the Nippons stole everything from their neighbors of the Middle Kingdom. So Zen has to be Chinese.
I washed him with an almond milk shower gel that smelled very very nice. I was having a terrific time. It’s absolutely true: When a man’s hands are tied up, his penis becomes more important. He was being very sweet about letting me take care of him and we actually got along rather well. The poor man needed to acquire some experience: What one learns is always beneficial.
I dried him up with a bath towel that had been well heated on the electric towel rack. I dabbed all his little wounds with Q-tips soaked in hydrogen peroxide, smeared some ointment wherever it was needed, rubbed arnica on several bruises. I slipped one of my silk bathrobes onto him and combed his hair. He seemed happy. I was in seventh heaven.
4
Paris is divided into twenty arrondissements, which serve to delineate municipal administrative districts within the city. Th e arrondissements are further subdivided into four administrative quarters, each of which with its own police station. sure I was really stabilized, so big trips were not particularly recommended in my case. I felt I was turning red: Worries always make my cheeks glow. I found the prescription in the drawer of the nightstand. Luc was right. I had to start taking my meds again.