I eat things I have in my cabin.
Gino had grimaced, a look of physical pain like Romero had punched him.Things? You eat shit from a packet instead of my food? No wonder there’s nothing of you.
He’d looked away from Gino, into the dark window to see his own face, pale from the residue of his stage makeup and the ever-gnawing hunger in his belly.One day, he thought,this chewing, chomping monster that lives inside me and feeds only on crackers, dried apple rings and secrecy will consume me completely.
But what does your mother say about this skin and bone?Gino had softened his voice and leaned towards him.And don’t tell me all you dancers are skinny. I’ve been cooking for these people for twenty-two years and I can tell the skinny from the starved.
He looked back to Gino.My mother’s dead.
Your father then, what does he say about what you’re doing to yourself?
Romero gave a wry, bitter grin.
Right. I see. Well, I understand this thing can be hard when you’re suffering but you need help. Come to the dining carriage after the show tomorrow night and I’ll show you what beauty there can be in a plate. And if you don’t come I’ll show up at your cabin and drag you here.
After the show, Romero went to the dining car shaking, his palms clammy. The man would shove food into his face, he would sit him down and spoon revolting things into his mouth, and if he refused and clamped his lips shut like a baby he’d find himself in front of Cecile and Belinda, their disappointed stares boring craters of shame in his skin.
He stood in the gangway avoiding the gaze of anyone who’d been friendly to him so far, trying to breathe through his mouth. Already the smells were disturbing him, making it difficult to think. Onions to make his toenails smart; pepper to make him think of drownings at sea; anchovies to make his stomach swoop at the thought of falling from a great height.
Later, he realised that more people than Gino had noticed that he didn’t eat. Belinda, for certain, probably Cecile, maybe someone like Mara, Stuart or Greg. Your misery is everyone’s else’s here. Just look at the way Michael is making everyone suffer.
Gino had seen him hovering by the gangway that night and smiled, flicking a wave of silvered hair out of his eyes. It was impossible for Romero not to notice the way his beard petered into silver as it covered his neck, the way his green eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, the way his shoulders filled his white chef’s coat making him think of the boulders on the shoreline that never wavered, even with the sea crashing against them all day and all night. It added an extra layer of humiliation, to be reduced to wreckage by this thing that squatted inside him in front of a man like this.
Come here. He took Romero by the shoulders and guided him through the serving hatch and into his kitchen to deposit him in front of three small chopping boards, each with a pile of fresh herbs lying on it. Romero wanted to gag, so close to these fresh things all spewing scents like some primordial soup. The monster started to agitate.
Gino pointed to the one on the left.
Crush the leaves between your fingers and tell me what your senses say.
Romero took a coriander leaf and squeezed it. He put a finger to the tip of his tongue and tried not to shudder. He could just about bear the assault of the smells – he was used to blocking his sinuses and leaving his lips a little agape to breathe – but to taste this thing the chef had given him made him want to cry. He shut his eyes to stop the tears spilling over his eyelashes. He would have to break his pledge and leave, no matter Belinda’s dire warnings. The monster was pounding at him, roaring to get away, there was no way he could bear this.
What do you taste?
There had been nothing else to say. The monster raved in his belly but a small voice, a surprising voice of mercy that he now recognises as the Crow’s whispered,Just tell him the truth.
Jealousy, he said, and opened his eyes.
Gino frowned and looked down at the tiny flecks of green on the chopping board. He picked up the slim stem of a chive and handed it to Romero who nibbled on the end.
The feeling of being so drunk you can’t feel your legs and you’re not sure if you’re standing up or not.
Gino folded his arms and leaned against the counter.
How long have you experienced food like this?
All my life.
And it’s worse here?
Romero nodded. Since taking his pledge it was as if the dial had been pushed past the maximum. He found himselfweeping with terror from the smell of a pinch of cinnamon in a bowl of porridge, or trying to hide a painfully swift erection from a single sip of orange juice.
Okay, said Gino.Is there anything that doesn’t make you feel bad when you eat it?
Crackers and apple rings.
Gino suppressed a shudder.Anything else? Any real food?
Romero had shrugged. The monster made it too difficult to try.
