Soul

It was dark, of course. Very dark. There was a blade of light coming from somewhere. It would have been a window to the sunset over the hills if there were any hills. Or sunset. Or windows. It must have been… Maybe a roaring pit of fire? Does fire does that kind of light? I don't know, it was hard to focus. Hard to think. I have been drunk, and it was not like that. I had been on drugs (hey, that was a long time ago) but it was different also. I felt ethereal. I wasn't really there, I couldn't keep all the details, all I could think of was how the warm light framed him against the counter. Maybe that's one of his tricks, shine the light at what he wants you to see and hide everything else…

And it worked too. 

I can describe every little wrinkle in his dark felt pants. I can describe how many times he folded his white silk sleeves. How can I describe silk? I've never touched silk. Never had the money for it. Yet, he made me know it, somehow. He also wore suspenders. The first button is his shirt opened, showing chest hairs. The thick white beard. The candid blue eyes. All of it I could describe in details so rich you could probably paint a Caravaggio out of him.

And he had his back to me.

You see, he made me know it. Somehow. It was hazy, I don't know. I was hazy. Maybe I was drunk. I can't tell. I can tell you he worked hard, clenching fists and folding the dough over and over. He added water sometimes. More flour. His forehead sprinkled with sweat. But he wasn't panting. He just doesn’t breathe, I think… He was calm and in his calm voice he ushered me in. It was an invitation. Gentle, but not exactly polite, as if he never had guests. As if mom was mad, but still made dinner.

It was warm in there, but that’s no surprise, right? 

I could smell cinder and yeast.

I sat at the only chair there, at the end of the long table. Chair and table were made from worn planks of thick wood. Smooth, but veiny. Plates and silverware were battered metal and so was the wine cup. Yes, cup. Not glass, not crystal. Nothing fancy. I took a sip and he smiled, still working kneading.

I though he would say something like “I was expecting you” or some punch line. But he didn’t. It was obvious I was his only guest. Soon he covered his bowl with a damp cloth and turned to me, a wine cup in his hand and a gentle smile. All about him was gentle, really. The sound of his voice, the way he carried himself, the manners. 

He began by telling me he was glad to know me finally, but that’s just cheap flattery. There’s really nothing special about me. I’m, you know, somebody. The guest for the day… night… whatever. He was being a good host. Next que tells me he’s sorry the way the world is. So much evil these days, people are aggressive, selfish, greedy. You can’t disagree with him there. So we talk morals, ethics, politics, current affairs and he has this strange way of making his case that humanity is doomed. But he was delicate about it. As if he was really, really sorry it had to turn out that way… I found myself agreeing with him. He has a good point, even though you know - deep down you know - he just wants to skew you his way. It’s a loaded discussion, come to think of it. Oh, no, I don’t notice that then. It’s when you look back, you know, the signs were all there. Or maybe I did and part of me wanted to agree with him. Go figure. He’s that good.

So he opens the oven and the the cozy smell colors the air ocre. He looks very pleased as if he had just learned how to bake. Happily, he joins you at the table. Now, I don’t really remember it going into the oven in the first place, nor the time it took to bake. 

At first, I bask in the warm smells, but I keep my hands to myself. I prefere to watch him bury his fingers into the crust. It caves in, releasing a dim curtain of vapor. Smells like a hug. Like a blanket. Like the end of a summer afternoon.

He handed me the rough piece and I took a bite. All of his gentle demeanor made no effect on my table manners then. I stuffed my mouth like a barbarian, tearing half of my portion. 

The crust is noisily brittle. It crumbles sharply, like very thin wood, and softens very quickly. It has a burned undertone to it, but it's not bitter at all. Then I taste all the rest. It was obviously smooth, firm, moist and vapors continued to decorate my mouth with a symphony of tastes. I first noticed a marine saltiness, then a sutil herb scent. Then a buttery note even though there was no butter anywhere to be seen and finally a blossom of sour layer, a taste of fresh and wild.

I only realized I had my eyes closed because a last taste me open them in surprise. It was not supposed to be there! It’s something fresh and rich, if you can imagine. Like a gust of wind, if wind came burdened with tears and laughter and love and joy and anger and envy and pride and… life. I met his eyes at the other end of the table and he looked pleased, resting his chin in his hands. I must have looked scared or surprised because he answered my look with another look of his own, aiming the only jar in the only shelf above his counter, which I hadn’t seen before.

I followed his gaze and in that jar something stirred, restless. It looked liquid at first, dense, bright, blueish in color. It moved heavily as lava, but it didn’t flow smoothly. It bursted around itself, in a different direction each time. It went up, then left, then down, then around and back again, shinning brighter, then softer. Then it calmed down, and then it twirled again. I even thought it made the jar budge a little. It was slow, but it wasn’t happy. It was alive.

I covered my mouth, both trying not to hurl and shielding any more of that coming into my mouth. I was appalled that something so evil could be concocted. And then fed to someone!

I must have run. Or I could have passed out. I don’t really remember. I do remember that thing stirring inside of me. I grew, still angry. And then, it faded. And then I felt hungry. And as you have guessed, it was not your everyday hunger. I’ve never felt hungry again. Nor I felt thirsty. Or sleep. I don’t sleep anymore and I suspect I don’t age either. All I feel is that weird hunger, an appetite for the taste of tears and joy and pride and spite and love an anger. I know, I know, it sounds absurd. Maybe I’m just going crazy. Maybe. I don’t know.

But here, try it. While it’s hot. Don’t look in the jar.