Elizabeth Black
I’m quietly humming Tom Jones and prodding a round of ashed chèvre on my plate. Richard is dissecting the carapace of a modest lobster with a series of implements that look like dental or perhaps gynaecological tools. I imagine them crawling over my skin with abrupt, investigative pokes. The dark eye of the lobster stares bleakly at me from the tip of an antenna. Richard snaps it off and digs into the cavity with a pair of long tweezers. I wince. How is the fish darling? he says. Actually it’s a crustacean, I say absently. It’s a fish darling, says Richard patiently. Pesce, pescatore, remember? Mm, I say, looking down at my plate. A sardine coils, en colère, around the cheese, warden of the fortress, like a shining moat around an ivory turret. An angry sardine.
Richard has two moods. This one, this endless expansive patronising patience, and another which is more clipped and fussy, and which I like to draw out on occasion. Tonight he is in his element, running an authoritative finger down the menu, arguing jovially with the sommelier, pulling out my chair and waving a napkin over my lap with a flourish. People are looking. The lobster is not large, but cunningly arranged to extend over the breadth of the plate and propped high to look as imposing as possible. Much as it would have done in life, I imagine. I heard the mermaid scream, I mutter under my breath. What’s that? says Richard. I wish you wouldn’t mumble. Richard is slightly deaf in one ear and refuses the concession of a hearing aid.
I said is it a garlic cream? I say loudly, pointing with my fork to a small dish of white stuff teetering on the edge of his plate. It’s allioli, he says smugly, using the Catalan pronunciation. Never mind that this is a French restaurant. People in glass houses. The sardine is surrounded by a second moat of olive oil, and from slashes along its side spill crisply fried breadcrumbs and parsley. The effect is slightly disturbing, reminiscent of a last meal of seaweed and tiny shrimp, perhaps. The tail is thrust into the mouth in a final act of aggression. Is this what it means to eat one’s dreams? What do sardines dream about? Grazing happily on seaweed and shrimp, probably.
Aren’t you going to eat it? You’re making a mess of it. Richard’s tone is peevish. I look down. The turret has been demolished by my wayward fork and lies in two as though struck by lightning. The dragon at the gate, I murmur, watching the shimmering skin of the fish, round and round, eternally watching, waiting, guarding. What? Says Richard. I said you were late, I say, irritated at being caught out. This is not quite true, as I set my watch ten minutes fast so that I am never in danger of running out of time. Richard thinks this is ridiculous, and I can see him puffing up in preparation to say so. I hum a little Tom Jones. Richard dislikes Tom Jones. Richard likes jazz and something he calls ‘Afro-fusion’.
I’m thinking of becoming vegetarian. I say this to Richard. He stops with the point of a tiny spear poised over part of the lobster. You can’t be serious, he says. There is a waver of doubt in his voice. You love meat. Oh you love it, says a little voice in my head. No Richard, I say firmly, you love meat.
In fact what Richard loves is the visceral quality of flesh; he loves to dwell on the oozy unctuousness of it all, the palpitating wriggle of an oyster in his throat, the demented wanderings of the lobster like a showgirl cut in two in a magic box, the hiss of protest as tiny crabs descend into bubbling oil.
You can’t. Be. Serious. He says again, brandishing an antenna, or leg, or tusk. Can’t I? I say lightly. Why is that Richard? Why can’t I be serious? Let’s get serious, why not? A little strain of Olivia Newton John runs through my head and I giggle (Richard dislikes Olivia Newton John. He is not patriotic).
You’re drunk, says Richard. I am not in the least drunk, I say. In case you haven’t noticed the sommelier hasn’t bothered to pour either of us a second glass. The wine is still sitting on the sideboard with a little silver collar around its neck, to catch drips. I’m very good at catching drips, I say aloud. I don’t know what’s got into you tonight, Richard says. You’re not yourself, he says.
My dear Richard, I say, mimicking his lofty manner, I have never been more myself. This is true, I realise. I think I should take you home, he says. On the contrary Richard, I say, I think you should leave. Off you go. Toddle off home for a nightcap. Richard stands. You’re making a scene, he says. Come on. I haven’t had my pâtes aux truffes, I say. I’ve been looking forward to it all day. You go, I say, and I won’t catch up later. I don’t understand you Sandra, he says angrily, only he pronounces it ‘Sondra’. Oh well, I say airily. Never mind. C’est la vie.
The sommelier has been fluttering anxiously around our table. People are looking. I hand him Richard’s glass. You can take this, I say. The gentleman won’t be dining with me tonight. Is there anything … er … says the sommelier, shifting from toe to toe. I trust there is nothing …
No, says Richard shortly. I have a prior engagement. He flops a couple of hundreds onto the table. His pocket book is snakeskin. The sommelier edges away, embarrassed. Richard walks to the door, fumbles with his coat and scarf, waiting for me to run after him I suppose. I beckon the sommelier over. Please clear it, I say, indicating the mass of shards and spent lemon wedges opposite. I realise I am hungry. I fork up the creamy turret and push the plate to one side. Then I pull it back again and release the tail of the sardine from its jaws. I don’t know what I expect. For it to spring back like an elastic coil. Instead it lies bent, like a broken toy, forever stretching to complete the circle, chasing a dream it can never devour.