Dream Paris (28 page)

The maître d’hôtel spoke in hushed terms.

“
Mesdames et messieurs, le plat principal est arrivé
!”

And, having announced the course, he turned and left at a dead run, quickly gaining on the retreating waiters. The diners erupted in a roar of French. The Count was shouting in German. He saw me looking at him and he took the time to translate.

“This is not right! We did not agree to this!”

“To what?” I said. A cold china hand pulled me back down into my seat.

“You can’t leave now,” murmured Kaolin. “Now we can see what you’re
really
made of.”

All the diners were sitting down now. We couldn’t help ourselves. Our gazes were drawn to the approaching meal. Six animals, the size of large dogs, trotting towards us with eager looks on their faces.

Something clattered on the table, thrown from the crowd. Six clatters. The Count took something, pushed it in my hand. We six remaining diners were now holding knives, long, thin, wickedly sharp knives that glowed in the blue light. I looked at my knife, felt the weight of it, the balance, the warmth of the bone handle. Were we really expected to use these knives on those amiably shambling animals? What were they anyway?

Calves. Little calves with woolly heads, hurrying eagerly towards us. One of them was looking at me with big black eyes. It almost looked as if it were smiling.

Fear rang through my body like a trumpet blast.

LE PLAT PRINCIPAL

E
ACH OF THE
calves had chosen a diner. Mine nuzzled gently at my knees, pushing me backwards, away from the table. It had such beautiful long eyelashes…

“Hello,” I said. I was holding the knife behind my back, out of its sight. I didn’t want it know that I was meant to kill it.

“
Hello
,” said the calf, its voice speaking in my head. “
How are (3)you, Anna?
”

“I’m okay,” I lied, “And how are you?”

“
Oh, I’m(3) fine. But what about (3)you, Anna? I don’t think (3)you’re fine. I(2) don’t think (2)you’re fine at all.
”

I heard the subtle shift in the way the calf addressed me. I looked around at the other diners for guidance. What were they doing? The man with the beard had pushed his seat back from the table, he was leaning forward so that his head was almost on a level with his calf.

“Oh, I’m fine,” I said. “Better than fine.” I thought for a moment and repeated myself, struggling to get the emphasis just right, putting myself in the superior position. “(3)I’m perfectly okay.”

The calf looked up at me, amused.

“
Well, if (2)you say so, Anna
.”

“(3)I do say so!”

“
Indeed (2)you do. Tell me, Anna, are (2)you hungry?
”

I gazed at the calf. It looked so pretty, with its curly woollen coat and its delicate eyelashes. And yet its unctuous manner unnerved me. Looking across the sawdust covered floor, I noted how the elegant old lady stood imperiously over her calf, leaving no doubt who was boss. She wasn’t hiding her knife, either, she was holding it between the calf’s eyes. I felt sick at the thought that I should be doing the same. How could I kill this innocent little baby creature?

“I’ve had a fair bit to eat already,” I said.

“
So I’ve(2) heard. They tell me (2)you performed admirably in the fish course.
”

I looked miserably towards the spectators. Francis was mouthing advice to me. Kaolin remained seated at the table, a china calf at her side.

“
Are (2)you a vegetarian?
” The veal calf seemed to be taunting me. “
I(1) am. Funny that, isn’t it? I’m(1) a vegetarian and (1)you’re a carnivore and so therefore my(1) wants automatically become inferior to (1)yours. Why is that, I(1) wonder?
”

“(1)I don’t know,” I muttered.

“
What’s the matter? Why do (1)you look so hesitant? (1)You wouldn’t have been so slow to eat me(1) if I’d(1) turned up on the plate, already dead. Is it because you’re(1) a vegetarian?
”

“I’m(1) not a vegetarian.”

Why was it so difficult to admit that?

“
Then you’re(1) a coward,
” said the calf, scornfully. “
You’re(1) someone who ignores reality. Too squeamish to wield the knife
.”

“No I’m(1) not! I’m(1) not squeamish! I(1) know where my meals come from!”

“
You think you could you(1) kill your dinner? (1)I doubt it.
”

I’d always thought that I could. I’d heard the argument before and, yes, I could hunt for my dinner, and, yes, I could pull the lever in the slaughterhouse. Or so I’d always said…

“No! There’s a difference here! There’s a difference between killing a dumb animal and killing something you can have a conversation with!”

“
Not from where (2)I’m standing.
” Across the table, the man with the pointed beard leant forward as his calf opened its mouth to reveal its teeth. Long, sharp teeth. Not the teeth of a herbivore, but long canine incisors, made for ripping flash. The calf bit into the man’s neck. A flash of red. The crowd gasped. There was a half cheer, half groan. The man slumped in his seat and his calf moved in, biting, tearing apart his clothes. That bowler hat that he had worn at such a jaunty angle rolled across the floor.

“I thought (2)you said you were vegetarian!” I was indignant, I was in command once more. The calf smiled at me, baring its teeth, baring those long, sharp incisors that were just made for ripping flesh. And I realised what I’d just said.
(2)You
, not
you(2)
. I’d put the calf in charge. No.

“(2)I mean, I thought you(2) said you were a vegetarian!”

The calf licked its lips, and now its teeth were flat again. Sweet little calfy teeth.

“
Oh I(1) am. I(1) am now. But what about (1)you, Anna? What are you(1)? Are you(1) the predator or the prey?
”

I didn’t know any more. I heard another cheer and I looked up to see that the old lady had plunged her knife into her calf’s head, right between the eyes. The calf was convulsing, its legs were kicking, but still the old lady pushed the knife in deeper and deeper. The crowd rose to its feet, applauding loudly, and a cook moved forward, pushing a trolley. There was a little flame on the trolley, a selection of shiny copper pans. Oils and fresh herbs. The cook bowed to the old lady, and then he began to point out various parts of the animal.

“She’s selecting cuts,” I said, half to myself.

“
It’s the civilised way to eat
,” said my calf. “
Perhaps that’s what gives the old lady dominance. For her eating isn’t just about consumption. It’s about the right cut of meat, the correct oils and herbs, it’s about the right sized portion, cooked to perfection. Not like us(1) calves. We’ve(1) got no culture. Look at (1)my colleague over there, head pushed deep into that man’s stomach. Where’s the grace in that?
”

I didn’t want to look, but I couldn’t help myself. The veal calf in question was tearing at the body, its fur matted with blood.

“
And now, Anna. What are we going to do? We can’t stand here all day, just looking at each other.
”

As the calf spoke, the crowd cheered again. The Count had elegantly dispatched his calf with a flick of his knife.

“Tartare!” he loudly proclaimed to his cook.

“I(2) don’t want anything to do with this,” I said.

“
Few people do
,” said the calf. “
Come on Anna, (3)I can tell your(3) heart isn’t in this. Why don’t you(4) just put down the knife. We can talk about this.
”

“Why should I(2)? I(2) didn’t ask to be involved in this.”

“
You’ve(3) been involved in this since the day you(3) were born. Everything you have ever consumed has been a statement that your(3) body is of more importance than the food you ate. Every piece of meat, every piece of fruit. Every vegetable.
”

“We all have to eat.”

“
Everything you(4) own. Those clothes you(4) wear are a statement that they are better on you(4) than as the wool on the back of an animal.
”

I sat down. I was only dimly aware now of the roar of the crowd. Somewhere I could hear Francis shouting. Ahead of me I could see the Count, arms folded as he gazed at me appraisingly, his cook busily mincing veal at his side. The Count saw he had my attention; he raised his knife and waved it slowly through the air.

“I(3) don’t want to kill (3)you.” I could hear how weak my words were. This was the thing about Dream Paris. French here had evolved far
be
yond
tu a
nd
vous
. Here, all the shades of relative importance were reflected in the vocabulary. You could measure the success of the Revolution, of
Egalité,
by listening to what people were saying.

“
Listen to (5)me, Anna. You(5) know the world is not fair. Look at the Count. He knows that Dream Prussia must become strong or it will be overrun by Dream Paris, and so he has become what he has become. But that’s not you(6), is it Anna? You(6) marched with the bands. You(7) believe in equality.
”

“I(4) believe in equality.”

“
But here, in the dining room, where it really matters, there is no equality. Here, there is only the consumer, and the consumed. Which are you(8), Anna?
”

The calf looked at me with its big black eyes. I saw those long black eyelashes, the woolly tufts on its head. This was only a child. How could I kill it?

“You(9) were willing to sacrifice yourself(9) in the parks to save the children, weren’t you(9) Anna?”

I was. The Count wouldn’t have done that. The Count commanded armies. He sent other people to their deaths. And as for the old lady, what did she do? I was barely aware of my hand relaxing, of the bone handled knife slipping to the floor.

“
Lean forward, Anna. Let (10)me kiss you. That way, (10)I get to go back home. (10)I will see (10)my mother again.
”

See its mother again. That poor little calf wanted to see its mother again. I shook my head. Mother. What was it about mothers?

“I(3) have a mother, too,” I said slowly. I shook my head again, bent down. Picked up the knife. Just holding it was enough to reinstate some of my sense of my own importance

“I(1) have a mother. And what about all the lost people?”

“
What lost people?
”

“The people brought here to Dream Paris? The ones who are waiting for (2)me to show them the way home? What about them?”

The knife felt good in my hand. The knife was power. The knife was the difference between the hunter and the hunted. Tears welled in the calf’s eyes.

“
Don’t kill me(3), Anna. Please don’t kill me(4).
”

“(5)I don’t want to do any of this. But it’s like you(7) said, it’s consume or be consumed. And (9)I’m not squeamish.”

I placed the blade between the calf’s eyes and pushed it forward. I felt the crunch of bone, the surprisingly pink welling of blood. The knife began to twitch in my hand as the calf convulsed. I gripped the handle with both hands and pushed deeper.

My cook approached, wheeling his trolley.

“
Quelle cuisson
?” he asked.

“
Saignant
.” Hell, I was hungry. Ravenously, bloodily hungry. My stomach was a hollow, aching space. I needed meat.

The Count was at my side.

“Well done. I thought you had it in you.”

“So did I,” I said. “But it’s nice to have it confirmed.”

“You see?” said the Count. “You belong here.”

I looked around. The old woman joined us, her right arm covered in blood. She held it out, I took it and shook it.

“
C’est un plaisir de vous rencontrer,
Anna,” she said. “
Bienvenue à la Révolution
!”

BONE

I
LEFT THE
meal as a hero. Men and woman patted my back as I walked by, they shouted out good wishes and congratulations in hearty French and occasional broken English. A hero? People want heroes, they will make people into heroes despite the evidence of their lives. I would be a hero by the end of this story.

Ah, but whose hero?

There were no lights in the rubble-filled ground around the abattoir; we walked beneath a night sky filled with spiralling galaxies. The city was a distant band of light.