by Kojo Black
She followed the man down the wide oak staircase and along a corridor she hadn’t been down before. There was an open door at the end. The waiter stopped, indicating with his hand to usher Lisa through. The room she found herself in was not so much small, but intimate. There was a long table, laid up with settings for two. A thick-pile carpet muted her footsteps as she walked in. The walls and upholstery were all deep red—the room seemed to wrap itself around her as the door shut behind her. And once again, a display of deep ruby lilies perfumed the air with their heavy, fecund scent.
There was no sign of Laurent, so she went across to look out of the room’s small, angular bay window. Its deep alcove was fitted with a cushioned love seat—a long, low bench upholstered in plump maroon velvet. She sat down and looked out over the parterre. Beyond it, over the hedge, she could see the top of the temple she’d discovered the previous evening. She quickly looked away, her cheeks coloring. That was the last thing she needed to have seen.
The door opened and Laurent came in, looking good enough to eat. He was dressed as simply as she was—black shirt, black trousers—but the perfect fit left nothing to her imagination. As usual, there was not a hair out of place. He was followed by the waiter, who carried a bottle of champagne and an ice bucket.
“Bonjour, Lisa. Did you sleep well?”
Was that a loaded question? No. She wasn’t going to let it be.
“Very well, thank you. And you?”
“Always when I’m here,” he said, indicating to the waiter to open the champagne. “I take a turn around the garden when I finish work to clear my head, then I sleep.”
Lisa wondered if he slept alone. She knew he wasn’t married, but that was all she knew of his personal life. And immediately regretted starting to think about his sleeping habits.
“Champagne?”
“No, thank you.”
Laurent’s eyebrows shot up but he didn’t say anything.
“This is a professional challenge, Monsieur Gillou. I don’t drink while I’m working.”
“I was hoping that you’d find it pleasurable, Madamoiselle Summers.”
The sudden formality was accompanied by a froideur between them that hadn’t existed before.
“That’s not why I’m here.”
Laurent smiled but there was no warmth. It made his features seem momentarily wolfish.
“I’m confident you’ll enjoy our splendid pudding. But first, a simple main course.”
The waiter took his cue and vanished.
Lisa looked out of the window again, turning her back on Gillou. She didn’t hear him moving—the carpet deadened every footfall—but she became aware of him standing just behind her shoulder.
“My intention here,” he said, so close to her ear, “is to enhance the pleasures of all of the senses. Not just taste. So, you see, my garden is a feast for the eyes and the nose, as well as providing produce for the restaurant.”
“And for the ears?”
“We hold opera evenings throughout the year. Intimate concerts, by invitation only.”
“They sound wonderful.”
“See beyond that hedge?” He stepped forward to stand next to her and pointed. “My little temple of Aphrodite. It makes the perfect backdrop for a romantic aria.”
Lisa turned away sharply. So he’d seen her. She felt sure of it now. This whole encounter was becoming increasingly awkward. She went towards the table to sit down, only to find herself exasperated when Laurent beat her to it, gallantly pulling out one of the chairs for her. The table was long and narrow, the other place setting was at the opposite end. At least it would put distance between them.
The waiter returned, followed into the room by two underlings, each bearing a silver-domed tray. With huge theatricality, the first waiter lifted each dome in turn to serve them their food.
“Steamed dover sole with raw asparagus,” said Laurent, as his staff left the room.
“This is very healthy,” said Lisa.
“I’m sure it is,” he replied, with a vague wave of his hand. “I took it from an article you wrote. It’s not something I would serve in my restaurant but I didn’t want to take any of the attention from the pièce de résistance to come.”
Lisa ate in silence. The fish, though beautifully cooked, had virtually no flavor. The asparagus was hard and crunchy. Certainly in no way a pleasurable experience compared to the food she’d eaten here so far.
“Asparagus is a power house of vitamins,” she said. “Keeping it raw preserves them.”
“It makes me very sad to eat food like this,” said Laurent.
They continued to eat in silence and neither of them finished their food. Laurent stood up and pressed on an old-fashioned bell button next to the fireplace. A moment later the waiter appeared in the doorway, making Lisa wonder if he’d been standing just outside the room.
“The dessert, please, and a bottle of the 2003 Tokaji Essencia.”
“Oui, monsieur.”
He cleared their plates.
“Thank you, Paul,” said Laurent.
Lisa’s heart pounded in her chest and her hand shook as she raised her water glass to her mouth. She looked up at Laurent to find him staring at her intently.
“So, Lisa, that was your kind of meal. It seemed a very frigid affair. If that was all the pleasure my life afforded me, I’m not sure I’d want to prolong it.”
“Eating isn’t the only pleasure, Laurent.” It was time to fight back. “Good health is a pleasure you don’t appreciate until it’s gone. And then it can be too late.”
“Your way offers no intensity, no sensation.”
“And yours too much. You can surely admit that overindulgence dulls any of your sensory pleasures.”
“For you, there would be no danger of that happening.”
Why did his words sting so much? Was she really so buttoned up that she couldn’t enjoy a few simple pleasures anymore? What about the previous evening? She’d abandoned herself to the sensual when she was alone, in the temple of Aphrodite. She watched him watching her. And it dawned on her that she’d been caught in a very clever trap. If she allowed her senses to be seduced by Laurent’s creation, he’d be proved right. He’d win and she’d lose. But if she resolutely held out against the sensuous in favor of the purely healthy, what would it tell the world about her? He would still be the winner. She would be the frigid loser.
Did she want to lose on her terms or his?
The door opened and Paul reappeared with his team. One of them placed a huge silver dome in the center of the table, while the other set down a crystal jug of cream, and then proceeded to show Laurent the bottle of Tokaji.
“Would you like me to open it, monsieur?”
“Leave it,” said Laurent.
They trooped out in single file, Paul last, closing the door slowly and deliberately behind him.
The moment was upon her. She made up her mind.
“I’d very much like to try that wine, Laurent. I understand that Tokaji is something special.”
“This Tokaji,” said Laurent, picking up the bottle as if it were made of something even more fragile than glass, “this Tokaji is exceptional. One of the most sought after wines in the world. To make Tokaji, the vintners wait until the grapes are rotten. The intensity of the flavor …”
Words seemed to fail him. Lisa watched in silence as he slowly withdrew the cork from the bottle until it came free with a resounding pop.
“This wine is from 2003 but a good Tokaji can be kept for up to two hundred years.”
He poured a small amount into two of the dessert wine glasses already on the table.
“Taste it.”
Lisa picked up one of the glasses and took a small sip. She let the thick, syrupy liquid flood her tongue and was rewarded by an explosion of honeyed sweetness that carried a bitt
er twist of burnt apricot in the tail. For a moment she forgot to breath. As she swallowed she became aware of a further complexity, flavors blossoming on her palate that she simply had no names for.
Still standing beside her chair, Laurent took a sip from his own glass. He watched her as closely as ever, but his eyes widened as he, too, succumbed to the flavor of the wine.
“It’s like … nectar,” said Lisa. It wasn’t but she didn’t have a better word.
“That’s what they call it.” He took Lisa’s glass from her hand. “Now, for our pudding.”
He returned to his own end of the table and unceremoniously dragged his chair back towards Lisa, leaving a gullied trail in the heavy carpet.
“You’re too far away from me. We should enjoy this together.”
While Laurent lifted the silver-domed platter to what was now their end of the table, Lisa fetched the remains of his place setting. She positioned them in front of his chair, which was now at ninety degree angle to her own at the corner of the table.
“Will it be a blind tasting?” she asked.
Laurent burst out laughing. “Certainly not,” he said. “Before you even taste it, I want you to devour it with your eyes. How food looks is as important as how it tastes.” He caught hold of the looped handle of the dome. “When you take a lover, Lisa, you appreciate him as much with your eyes as with your sense of smell, taste and touch, don’t you?”
“Of course.” A blush rose to her cheeks.
He lifted the dome and Lisa gasped. The pudding had been turned out of its bowl and sat, glistening like a giant cabochon ruby in center of a silver platter. The intensity of red, the sumptuous surface of the juice-soaked brioche, the tart smell of the fruit that she could taste at the back of her mouth … When her hands gripped the edge of the table, the pudding quivered as if it were alive. Bright juices bled from it onto the silver like blood from a beating heart.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, barely a whisper.
“Ah, but wait until you see the inside,” said Laurent softly.
He picked up a silver cake slice and plunged it into the center of the pudding. He breached the outer layer of brioche, then Lisa heard the serrated blade rasp as it plowed through the berries within. A quiet click as the tip of the slice touched the plate beneath. Laurent extracted the cake slice and made another cut, separating a wedge from the whole. Deep dark red, ruby, scarlet, crimson, black, white and purple, the berries tumbled out in a wash of magenta juice. Lisa’s mouth flooded with saliva. She heard Laurent’s sharp intake breath.
Seizing a deep-bowled serving spoon, Laurent lifted the slice of pudding onto one of the plain white dessert plates, piling it high with excess berries and drizzling it with a flood of juice. He reached for the crystal jug and, with a flick of his wrist, a dollop of thick white cream ran in an avalanche down the outer slope of brioche.
He put the plate down in front of Lisa.
“Voila! C’est magnifique, n’est-ce pa?”
Lisa understood but she was speechless.
Laurent dropped into his chair, angling it away from the table to face Lisa. He took the white linen napkin which lay crumpled beside her place setting and held it up to her.
“Allow me?”
“Yes … of course.”
With deft fingers, he secured the napkin around her neck.
“It’s so juicy …” he said, by way of explanation.
Lisa didn’t care. She fervently wanted to taste the pudding. She was literally panting for it in a way that she’d never experienced before. She picked up her spoon but Laurent put his hand over hers. His touch was warm and firm. A sly shiver slipped up the back of Lisa’s neck.
“Not so fast, chérie,” he said.
Lisa raised her eyes to his face.
“Look at it first, drink in the colors, taste the scent of the berries. Imagine the textures of your first mouthful.”
His thumb rubbed the back of her hand and goose bumps blossomed up her arms. Her breath caught in the back of her throat. Her mouth, watering a moment ago, now seemed dry.
“Please …”
She didn’t miss the momentary flash of triumph in Laurent’s green eyes as he took the spoon from her fingers and dug it into the purple mound between them. He raised it to her lips with a single, blood red strawberry on it.
“The strawberry gives the base note of the flavor,” he said. “And look, it’s a cupid’s bow, the pout of a young girl who’s never been kissed.”
She opened her mouth as he let it slip from the bowl of the spoon. It landed on her tongue and she immediately tasted the familiar flavor. But there was so much more—a hint of raspberry, the sharpness of the currants blunted by the sweetness of sugar, a wave of vanilla from the brioche. She crushed it against her palate with her tongue and, as she breathed in and out, the scent of summer was overpowering.
“Now these beautiful loganberries,” said Laurent, raising the spoon again to her mouth. “They lift the taste with a cut as sharp as a razor blade across your tongue. Without sugar, you’d bleed.”
It was true. They carried an acidic kick that sliced through the sweet juice, making Lisa’s breath hiss.
“Something sweeter to make up for it.” Raspberries. “The top note of the bouquet, standing to attention like bare nipples in a cool breeze.”
Their eyes met as Lisa slowly drew the berries into her mouth. Dark hair drifted across Laurent’s forehead. As she bit into the raspberries, Laurent’s other hand tugged off the napkin from her neck. He dropped it and then his fingers brushed, quite deliberately, against one of her breasts. He held her gaze and Lisa felt her nipple pebbling beneath his touch. She swallowed and took a deep breath.
“More …” Her voice sounded as thick and heavy as the cream.
Laurent took his hand from her breast and she looked down to see a crimson fingerprint on the white silk. Behind it, the dark purple shadow of her nipple showed through. Laurent’s breathing quickened, but he turned his attention back to the pudding. He used the spoon to cut through the bread, scooping up a juice-soaked strip of it, smeared with a white crest of cream.
“The best part,” he said, feeding it to her. “As soft, as delectable, as the flesh between your thighs, Lisa.”
The cool, velvety brioche melted in her mouth, buttery and elastic, its sweetness infused with the flavors of the berries, tempered by the luxurious curve of cream against her tongue. She savored the texture and clung to the taste. She didn’t want to swallow. She wanted to keep it in her mouth for ever. One perfect mouthful of joy.
Laurent got up from his chair with quiet deliberation.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I have to do this.”
He went around to the back of her chair and stood behind her. She felt the pins that held her bun in place being slowly withdrawn. She heard the sigh as they were dropped to the floor. As she finally swallowed, she felt her hair cascading around her shoulders. Laurent’s hands ran through it, sweeping it to one side as he bent to kiss the nape of her neck.
He slipped one hand into the front of her blouse, cupping her breast. Lisa sighed. Heat flooded between her legs and she bent her neck as his lips traversed it.
“I knew as soon as I saw you in Dexter Dixon’s studio that I had to make this pudding for you.”
He leaned forward over her shoulder and reached for the spoon. A cherry stranded in a ruby pool. As Lisa took the piece of fruit, Laurent’s hand trembled. Juice ran down her chin and dripped onto the front of her blouse, spreading like bloodstains through the fine weave of the silk.
“A cherry nestled between the folds of brioche.” He took a deep breath. His meaning was quite clear to her and, high up inside, her muscles clenched against nothing. “I need to taste you, Lisa,” he whispered.
She hardly knew what she was eating now. Spoonful after spoonful, ever more seductive in fl
avor and texture. White currents, like tiny pearls of pre-cum, red currents that burst sharply on her tongue like a lover’s bite, strawberry kisses, silken swirls of cream, rich and satisfying …
“Do you surrender?”
“I surrender.”
“Again.”
“I surrender.”
He was mesmerized.
“I surrender.”
As she uttered the words for the third time, Laurent swept the pudding, the plates, the glasses, the jug of cream, the bottle of Tokaji, silver candlesticks, all of it to the floor with the arc of his arm. There was a tremendous crash. He pulled Lisa up from her chair, kicking it away behind her. Juice and wine soaked into the carpet at their feet.
“I need you. Now.”
Lisa’s leg hardly had the strength to stand. She had to put a hand on his shoulder for support.
“You want me, too.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes.”
Laurent pushed her back so she was leaning against the edge of the table. He ripped her blouse open and dragged it off her shoulders as she kicked of her shoes and undid her trousers. Ten seconds later she was lying naked on the gleaming mahogany. She felt a rogue berry bursting under her shoulder as she shifted her position.
“Mon dieu, I …” He didn’t get any further than that. His hands were at the hem of his shirt to pull it off but he didn’t manage to.
He sprawled full length along her body, his mouth finding hers, then moving to each breast in turn, kissing her neck, biting her shoulder until she winced with pain. His hands explored her torso, tracing the outlines of her ribs, delving into her navel, caressing her stomach, skimming the soft mound that rose at the apex of her thighs. He pushed her arms above her head roughly so he could first breathe deeply of and then kiss her armpits.
He slipped off the table, sliding her along it until she was in the perfect position for him to bend his head low and taste her. He pushed her legs apart, dipping his tongue between them. Lisa started, smacking her heels on the hard table, but Laurent held her hips steady. His tongue roamed into and across the darkest, most intimate spaces of her body.
