Chez Henri |
Issue 7
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Simon dashes down Palmerston Place and takes the shortcut across Rutland Square. He sees Kate, in her red raincoat, leaning against a railing, one foot tapping the ground.
“Sorry I’m late.” He bends forward, hands on hips, to catch his breath. “I was held up at work.” “What’s new?” She gives him the full moue. “I work too, but I always manage to show up on time.” “Sorry. Nothing I could do about it. A difficult student…” He checks his watch. “Do we have time for a quick pint?” “No.” She steps away from the railing. “I’m not rushing a drink and spoiling my appetite because you’re late. Let’s go straight to the restaurant.” A soft April rain patters the pavement. Once they turn onto Frederick Street, the sign for Chez Henri comes into view. The raindrops grow heavier, the walkway down to the restaurant entrance slick with rain. Simon runs a hand over the wet sleeves of his jacket when they get inside. Kate pats her auburn hair and tucks a strand behind her ear. “Is it raining again?” the maître d’ asks in a pronounced French accent. “Of course,” Kate replies. “Springtime in Edinburgh.” They examine their menus though they know them by heart. Friday evening at Chez Henri has become a mainstay of their married life. They order different dishes, as they always do. Most Fridays, they swap plates during the meal to sample what the other has ordered. Simon unwraps the napkin from his knife and fork and arranges it on his lap. He looks around the room, scanning the ersatz French prints on the walls, and lingers on the image from George Méliès Le Voyage dans la Lune. “You seem very distracted,” Kate says. “Is anything wrong?” “Just a bad day at work.” He lifts the napkin from his lap and folds it. “Nothing important. How about you? How was your day?” Kate pours water from a carafe. “Remember I told you about one of my colleagues, Trevor Coulson, in the audit team?” “Yes… well, sort of. The name rings a bell.” A waiter approaches, holding out a bottle of wine. Kate goes through the motions of checking the label and waiting for him to pour some for her to taste and approve. |
MARK KEANE
has taught for many years in universities in North America and the UK. Recent short story fiction has appeared in Seppuku, Shooter, untethered, Night Picnic, upstreet, Granfalloon, Liquid Imagination, Into the Void, Firewords, and Bards and Sages Best Indie Speculative Fiction. He lives in Edinburgh (Scotland). |
Simon’s thoughts return to the difficult student: Antõnio Souza, rimless round glasses, pudgy sallow face and sculpted beard. In his mid-twenties, older than the other students, an added maturity that he flaunts. He had knocked on Simon’s door well after office hours. Simon told him he was about to leave, but that didn’t dissuade Antõnio. He had come to query his exam mark. There were extenuating circumstances—he was separated from his family and hadn’t been back to Brazil for over a year. Something about a sick grandmother and visa complications.
“It’s a really tragic story.”
Simon looks up to see Kate eyeing him. “Really?” he says.
“Yes. I can’t imagine anything worse.”
“What happened?”
“I told you before that Trevor was seriously ill in hospital.” Kate holds her glass by the stem and swirls the wine. “Do you listen to anything I say?”
“Of course I do.” Simon picks an olive from a plate of oddments served as an appetiser. “Trevor, your colleague—I remember you saying he was in hospital.”
“Our office manager, went to see him.” Kate spears a cornichon on her fork. “Trevor was in a coma, hooked up to a machine. She said he was barely recognizable, just skin and bones. Hard to believe. Trevor was such a fitness fanatic, always looking for sponsorship for 5K or 10K runs. You know, he ran five London marathons.”
“So, what happened? What landed him in the hospital?”
“Nobody is sure, not even the doctors. Exposure to some sort of toxin. They think it has something to do with his flat refurbishment. He was having it completely renovated. Something in the paint or the flooring. It’s being investigated.”
“Sounds strange.”
The waiter brings their first course: moules à l’étuvée for Kate and soupe à l’oignon gratinée for Simon.
“Bon appétit.”
Antõnio Souza is special. He always carries a briefcase. At the start of each class, he makes a big deal of laying it flat on the desk and snapping it open. He asks questions while other students yawn or check their phones. Questions that are intended to catch Simon out, like the anthropogenic question.
“Sir, I wish to seek clarification. I do not understand what you mean by anthropogenic. From my understanding it means man-made pollution. But the way you present it makes it sound like something natural. I am confused.”
At the time, Simon knew he’d made a mistake, which he tried to correct, and ended up contradicting himself. No one took any notice, apart from Antõnio.
“It’s easy to be confused.” Simon directed his response to the class, and not specifically to Antõnio. “The term is often misused and can be misleading. It very much depends on context. Strictly speaking, you should take anthropogenic as referring to non-natural phenomena rather than the natural environment.”
He moved on to the next slide, but couldn’t stop himself from glancing in Antõnio’s direction and seeing the knowing grin on that pudgy face.
“How’s your soup?”
Simon shifts in his seat. “Fine, same as ever.”
Kate drops an empty mussel shell onto her plate. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“What question?”
“You really are distracted this evening.” She wipes her fingers on her napkin. “I asked you about additives in paint. Can they be that toxic?”
“I don’t know. I’m not a medical scientist. I’m just a lowly chemistry professor.”
Simon considers telling Kate about Antõnio, the meeting in his office, even the mix-up with the definition of anthropogenic. He recalls Antõnio’s grin and decides not to say anything.
“Isn’t it dreadful about Trevor’s wife and daughter?”
“What about them?” Simon takes another mouthful of soup, then lays the spoon down.
“Are you not finishing your soup?”
“I have finished it.” He moves the bowl so it’s out of her line of vision, hidden behind the water jug. “What happened to the wife and kid?”
“I knew you weren’t listening. I told you. Trevor’s wife and daughter died.”
The waiter approaches their table.
“How is everything?”
“Perfect,” Kate answers.
The waiter turns to Simon. “Have you finished?”
“Yes.” Simon gestures to have the dish removed. “I need to leave space for the next course.”
He watches the waiter sidle between the tables, and avoids Kate’s stare.
“You really are acting strangely,” she says. “Very detached, like you’re not here.”
They sit in silence. The waiter returns with the second course.
“Boeuf bourguignon for madam. Steak frite au poivre for monsieur.” He smirks at Simon. “Bien cuit. Bon appétit.”
Simon waits until the waiter is out of earshot. “Bloody cheek. I never noticed that attitude before. Maybe it’s time to find a new restaurant.”
He waits for Kate to respond, but she keeps her eyes on her food. No exchanging dishes this time—if she suggests it, he’ll refuse. He cuts into his well-done steak and loads his fork with a chunk of meat and three thin frites.
Antõnio had demanded that Simon go over his exam paper and explain why he’d deducted so many marks.
“You’re the only one asking for this,” Simon said. “No one else haggles over marks. Just you.”
“It is my right, sir.” Antõnio sat with his briefcase propped on his lap. “I have read it in the student handbook.”
“I see.” Simon fiddled with a pen, anger fizzing in his veins. “If that’s what you want, send me an e-mail and I’ll arrange a time. But remember, it can go both ways. I’m quite certain I was very lenient when I marked your exam. If I find I should have given you fewer marks, then I may have to lower your grade.” Simon tapped the pen on the desk, and felt the urge to slam down his fist. “It can go both ways. Think about that.”
Antõnio shook his head. “I am not intimidated by you. I have learnt to be independent, living in a foreign country.” He adjusted his glasses and puckered his lips. “You do not care about your students.”
Kate says something that Simon doesn’t catch. He fills their wine glasses.
“Yes, terrible.” He shakes his head. “Both wife and daughter dying. That’s terrible.”
“Of the same thing that put Trevor in hospital. The toxin in the paint, or whatever.” Kate sips her wine. “But that’s not what’s so tragic. It’s tragic, of course, but what’s going to happen to Trevor is the real tragedy. That’s what I’ve been trying to explain to you.”
Simon cuts a fatty edge from his steak. “Yes, of course.”
He had shouted at Antõnio, releasing his rage in a surge of unbridled freedom.
“You know what? You’re a slimy arse-licker and a cheat.”
Antõnio recoiled in his seat, mouth open, cheeks wobbling. Simon was sure he’d start crying, blubbing like a fat beardy baby. Instead, Antõnio stood and puffed out his chest.
“You have no right to speak to me in this way. I will take the matter higher. I will go to the university administration.”
“Go ahead. Be my guest.” Simon waved him away, making the gesture as dismissive as possible. “Just get out of my sight.”
“Attention, please.” Kate pings the glass with her fork. “I’m trying to tell you the real tragedy.”
“Sure, sure. I’m listening.” Simon chews his last piece of steak without tasting the peppered meat.
“When Trevor went into a coma and was taken into hospital, his wife and daughter were fine. Nothing wrong with them whatsoever.” Kate pauses, and runs a finger along the rim of her glass. “Trevor came out of the coma yesterday. The doctors think he’ll make a full recovery. He’s still very weak and in no shape to deal with what’s happened. The doctors are monitoring his condition, deciding when he can be told. That’s the real tragedy. When he’s strong enough, someone will tell him his wife and daughter are dead. He survived and they died, and he never even knew they were sick. He’s been brought back from the dead to face that.”
Chances are Antõnio will go to the university administration. After all, he’s so mature and knows his rights and deserves to be heard and coddled and rewarded. Or he’ll go to the students’ union and they’ll encourage him to kick up a fuss. Or else he’ll back down, too cowardly to act on his threat, worried his plan will backfire. Simon can see no alternative but to wait and see what happens.
“So, what do you think?” Kate pours more water for herself. “Can you imagine anything worse? Doesn’t it put things into perspective?”
“Yes, it’s terrible, no question about it.” Simon empties the wine bottle and wants more. “Are you having dessert?”
“No, I’m full.”
“How about coffee?”
“Nothing for me. You have something more if you like.”
Simon signals to the waiter and orders one espresso and one Cognac. He turns to Kate. “Are you sure you don’t want anything?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
Simon sits back in his chair and looks over at the Méliès print, taking in the moon’s disgruntled expression and the space capsule embedded in one eye. He swallows what’s left of the wine, aware of Kate’s watchful glare.
The waiter returns with his coffee and digestif. Simon sniffs the Cognac, and holds the glass aloft. “Puts things into perspective.”
“You know what?” Kate wads her napkin into a ball and drops it on the table. “It’s not that you’re detached. You’re self-absorbed and insensitive.”
Simon shrugs. “Maybe so.”
“No maybe about it.” Kate turns to take the red raincoat from the back of her chair.
“Leaving so soon?”
“You really don’t care about anyone but yourself.” She buttons the coat with exaggerated slowness. “I suppose you’ll stagger home at some point.”
“Hmm… probably.” He nods his head and smiles. “You may be right. I’m insensitive. But I can appreciate tragedy.”
“And I’m not particularly interested in what you can appreciate.”
Simon watches her walk away, and stop for a moment to share some banality with the maître d’ on her way out. He finishes the Cognac and orders another.
Monday morning beckons, the ten o’clock class, Antõnio snapping open his briefcase.
The waiter brings his drink. He gathers the cutlery, plates and wine glasses, and brushes crumbs from the tablecloth.
Alone at the table, Simon thinks about Trevor and savors the burn of Cognac in his throat as he imagines that moment when Trevor is told.
“It’s a really tragic story.”
Simon looks up to see Kate eyeing him. “Really?” he says.
“Yes. I can’t imagine anything worse.”
“What happened?”
“I told you before that Trevor was seriously ill in hospital.” Kate holds her glass by the stem and swirls the wine. “Do you listen to anything I say?”
“Of course I do.” Simon picks an olive from a plate of oddments served as an appetiser. “Trevor, your colleague—I remember you saying he was in hospital.”
“Our office manager, went to see him.” Kate spears a cornichon on her fork. “Trevor was in a coma, hooked up to a machine. She said he was barely recognizable, just skin and bones. Hard to believe. Trevor was such a fitness fanatic, always looking for sponsorship for 5K or 10K runs. You know, he ran five London marathons.”
“So, what happened? What landed him in the hospital?”
“Nobody is sure, not even the doctors. Exposure to some sort of toxin. They think it has something to do with his flat refurbishment. He was having it completely renovated. Something in the paint or the flooring. It’s being investigated.”
“Sounds strange.”
The waiter brings their first course: moules à l’étuvée for Kate and soupe à l’oignon gratinée for Simon.
“Bon appétit.”
Antõnio Souza is special. He always carries a briefcase. At the start of each class, he makes a big deal of laying it flat on the desk and snapping it open. He asks questions while other students yawn or check their phones. Questions that are intended to catch Simon out, like the anthropogenic question.
“Sir, I wish to seek clarification. I do not understand what you mean by anthropogenic. From my understanding it means man-made pollution. But the way you present it makes it sound like something natural. I am confused.”
At the time, Simon knew he’d made a mistake, which he tried to correct, and ended up contradicting himself. No one took any notice, apart from Antõnio.
“It’s easy to be confused.” Simon directed his response to the class, and not specifically to Antõnio. “The term is often misused and can be misleading. It very much depends on context. Strictly speaking, you should take anthropogenic as referring to non-natural phenomena rather than the natural environment.”
He moved on to the next slide, but couldn’t stop himself from glancing in Antõnio’s direction and seeing the knowing grin on that pudgy face.
“How’s your soup?”
Simon shifts in his seat. “Fine, same as ever.”
Kate drops an empty mussel shell onto her plate. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“What question?”
“You really are distracted this evening.” She wipes her fingers on her napkin. “I asked you about additives in paint. Can they be that toxic?”
“I don’t know. I’m not a medical scientist. I’m just a lowly chemistry professor.”
Simon considers telling Kate about Antõnio, the meeting in his office, even the mix-up with the definition of anthropogenic. He recalls Antõnio’s grin and decides not to say anything.
“Isn’t it dreadful about Trevor’s wife and daughter?”
“What about them?” Simon takes another mouthful of soup, then lays the spoon down.
“Are you not finishing your soup?”
“I have finished it.” He moves the bowl so it’s out of her line of vision, hidden behind the water jug. “What happened to the wife and kid?”
“I knew you weren’t listening. I told you. Trevor’s wife and daughter died.”
The waiter approaches their table.
“How is everything?”
“Perfect,” Kate answers.
The waiter turns to Simon. “Have you finished?”
“Yes.” Simon gestures to have the dish removed. “I need to leave space for the next course.”
He watches the waiter sidle between the tables, and avoids Kate’s stare.
“You really are acting strangely,” she says. “Very detached, like you’re not here.”
They sit in silence. The waiter returns with the second course.
“Boeuf bourguignon for madam. Steak frite au poivre for monsieur.” He smirks at Simon. “Bien cuit. Bon appétit.”
Simon waits until the waiter is out of earshot. “Bloody cheek. I never noticed that attitude before. Maybe it’s time to find a new restaurant.”
He waits for Kate to respond, but she keeps her eyes on her food. No exchanging dishes this time—if she suggests it, he’ll refuse. He cuts into his well-done steak and loads his fork with a chunk of meat and three thin frites.
Antõnio had demanded that Simon go over his exam paper and explain why he’d deducted so many marks.
“You’re the only one asking for this,” Simon said. “No one else haggles over marks. Just you.”
“It is my right, sir.” Antõnio sat with his briefcase propped on his lap. “I have read it in the student handbook.”
“I see.” Simon fiddled with a pen, anger fizzing in his veins. “If that’s what you want, send me an e-mail and I’ll arrange a time. But remember, it can go both ways. I’m quite certain I was very lenient when I marked your exam. If I find I should have given you fewer marks, then I may have to lower your grade.” Simon tapped the pen on the desk, and felt the urge to slam down his fist. “It can go both ways. Think about that.”
Antõnio shook his head. “I am not intimidated by you. I have learnt to be independent, living in a foreign country.” He adjusted his glasses and puckered his lips. “You do not care about your students.”
Kate says something that Simon doesn’t catch. He fills their wine glasses.
“Yes, terrible.” He shakes his head. “Both wife and daughter dying. That’s terrible.”
“Of the same thing that put Trevor in hospital. The toxin in the paint, or whatever.” Kate sips her wine. “But that’s not what’s so tragic. It’s tragic, of course, but what’s going to happen to Trevor is the real tragedy. That’s what I’ve been trying to explain to you.”
Simon cuts a fatty edge from his steak. “Yes, of course.”
He had shouted at Antõnio, releasing his rage in a surge of unbridled freedom.
“You know what? You’re a slimy arse-licker and a cheat.”
Antõnio recoiled in his seat, mouth open, cheeks wobbling. Simon was sure he’d start crying, blubbing like a fat beardy baby. Instead, Antõnio stood and puffed out his chest.
“You have no right to speak to me in this way. I will take the matter higher. I will go to the university administration.”
“Go ahead. Be my guest.” Simon waved him away, making the gesture as dismissive as possible. “Just get out of my sight.”
“Attention, please.” Kate pings the glass with her fork. “I’m trying to tell you the real tragedy.”
“Sure, sure. I’m listening.” Simon chews his last piece of steak without tasting the peppered meat.
“When Trevor went into a coma and was taken into hospital, his wife and daughter were fine. Nothing wrong with them whatsoever.” Kate pauses, and runs a finger along the rim of her glass. “Trevor came out of the coma yesterday. The doctors think he’ll make a full recovery. He’s still very weak and in no shape to deal with what’s happened. The doctors are monitoring his condition, deciding when he can be told. That’s the real tragedy. When he’s strong enough, someone will tell him his wife and daughter are dead. He survived and they died, and he never even knew they were sick. He’s been brought back from the dead to face that.”
Chances are Antõnio will go to the university administration. After all, he’s so mature and knows his rights and deserves to be heard and coddled and rewarded. Or he’ll go to the students’ union and they’ll encourage him to kick up a fuss. Or else he’ll back down, too cowardly to act on his threat, worried his plan will backfire. Simon can see no alternative but to wait and see what happens.
“So, what do you think?” Kate pours more water for herself. “Can you imagine anything worse? Doesn’t it put things into perspective?”
“Yes, it’s terrible, no question about it.” Simon empties the wine bottle and wants more. “Are you having dessert?”
“No, I’m full.”
“How about coffee?”
“Nothing for me. You have something more if you like.”
Simon signals to the waiter and orders one espresso and one Cognac. He turns to Kate. “Are you sure you don’t want anything?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
Simon sits back in his chair and looks over at the Méliès print, taking in the moon’s disgruntled expression and the space capsule embedded in one eye. He swallows what’s left of the wine, aware of Kate’s watchful glare.
The waiter returns with his coffee and digestif. Simon sniffs the Cognac, and holds the glass aloft. “Puts things into perspective.”
“You know what?” Kate wads her napkin into a ball and drops it on the table. “It’s not that you’re detached. You’re self-absorbed and insensitive.”
Simon shrugs. “Maybe so.”
“No maybe about it.” Kate turns to take the red raincoat from the back of her chair.
“Leaving so soon?”
“You really don’t care about anyone but yourself.” She buttons the coat with exaggerated slowness. “I suppose you’ll stagger home at some point.”
“Hmm… probably.” He nods his head and smiles. “You may be right. I’m insensitive. But I can appreciate tragedy.”
“And I’m not particularly interested in what you can appreciate.”
Simon watches her walk away, and stop for a moment to share some banality with the maître d’ on her way out. He finishes the Cognac and orders another.
Monday morning beckons, the ten o’clock class, Antõnio snapping open his briefcase.
The waiter brings his drink. He gathers the cutlery, plates and wine glasses, and brushes crumbs from the tablecloth.
Alone at the table, Simon thinks about Trevor and savors the burn of Cognac in his throat as he imagines that moment when Trevor is told.