Dinner With Andre

I never expected Andre to call, never mind anything else. When I met him, he seemed aloof, like the world was beneath him and he interacted with us only because he had to. Our brief chats at work in the library about books and movies left me thinking he found people, myself, boring. I had no idea.

I sat at my desk in the library, intent on the screen in front of me while my fingers clicked on the near-silent keyboard. Andre wandered past the desk for the third time lost in thought, absorbed in a novel from the fantasy section. I glanced up, smiling and got his attention with a quiet hello, "Not Voltaire tonight? I almost expected to find you in the Renaissance section looking at sculptures."

He glanced up, smiling when he saw me, "Csilla! Shouldn't you be grading papers? What is a beautiful thing like you doing at the Library, tonight, lesson plans, no?”

I blushed, surprised that he had noticed my routine; teaching assistants tend to be invisible. He bowed, a tilt of the head and apologized.

“Je suis désolée, petite. I tease. How goes your studies? Your professor gives you too much to do.”

Statement, not a question. I nodded in agreement. “There’s a fair bit of work, true, but most of it, I enjoy. It is quieter here than at home.” I shifted in my chair leaning forward, trying to keep my voice quiet. “The books are good company.”

He smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners and took a step closer in conspiracy. His streak of silver through dark hair always caught my attention, like an exotic accent, but for my fingers. “The books, they speak”, he shrugged and continued, “I have the happy luck to listen. I have a question for you, s’il tu plait.”

I raised an eyebrow and took a deep breath, not sure if I wanted to hear the question or not. I felt my cheeks flush again as I nodded, waiting to hear what he might ask. My fingers played with a tress of honey brown hair; not breathing.

“Mes amis”, he began, he leaned on my desk sharing a secret with me, “my friends and I have decided on a, how do you say? A dinner party.” He shifted a bit, looking off down a book aisle, thinking. “Perhaps, you would care to join us for dinner. It will be a small gathering, nothing fancy.”

I licked my lips as I thought about the suggestion, a chance to eat and spend an evening with an older man who gave every appearance of being attracted to me, even when I wore baggy sweats and tied my hair back in a pony. Dozens of questions came to mind. I had no idea where to start or what would be appropriate to ask. I settled on two, trying not to sound excited, “What should I wear? When?”

He shook his head, frowning and thinking, “I have no idea. Soon. I do not think the details are quite worked out, yet. I am still waiting to hear from several of my friends.” He reached for my hand then, strength in his fingers, confident. “I’m sure they will like you.”

My pulse quickened as he stroked the inside of my wrist. His baritone voice soothed as he thought out loud, “Maybe you will want to wear something easy to remove, no?”

I’m sure my heart skipped several beats while my imagination ran away with me, trying to imagine what he had in mind and what I expected would happen over dinner, or after. I had no illusions; Andre had to be 20 or so years my senior. As much as I found myself attracted to him, I struggled with the little voice in my head asking, “Why me?” Maybe he asked himself the same thing. I must have looked like a fish with my mouth moving but no sound coming out. The older man came to my rescue and continued in a playful tone, “There is a jacuzzi, how you say an hot tub? Oui. I think you might enjoy. “

With that, I felt a bit more at ease, but wondered to myself whether a swimsuit was expected. I did a mental shrug and smiled. “Sure, I could be okay with relaxing in the hot tub.”

“Bien,” and he smiled, those crinkles inviting me where words could not. I found myself nodding and scribbling my cell number down for him. I handed the slip of paper to him, fingers trembling. He took it, grinned again, winking. “I will let you know when. Do not forget.”

Forget? Like that was possible! I cleared my throat, wishing my cheeks would stop burning.

He disappeared and three weeks went past and I neither heard from the man, nor saw him in the library. It’s possible he travelled or had out-of-town business. I made excuses to myself that it wasn’t me, he had a life. Several tubs of ice cream and more than a couple of nights watching cheesy movies belied that. He only toyed with the idea of me. Probably, the blushing had turned him off. C’est la vie, he would have said.

I was leaving the lecture theatre on a Friday afternoon, sipping coffee gone cold as I glanced at my watch; my cell started chirping. I almost ignored it until I saw “Andre Calling” on the screen. I wiped my mouth, ran fingers through my hair and cleared my throat before answering on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Csilla, cheri, you remember me, Andre?”

“Yes, of course! I haven’t seen you at the library for some time. I thought you had moved.” While I spoke, I stepped out of the flow of students and covered the opposite ear to help concentrate.

“Mes excuses. I have been away, helping someone.” I nodded while he spoke, listening to the rhythm of his voice, more than the words. He changed gears a moment later, “You are free this evening, for dinner, yes?”

Dinner? It took a second to digest his question. My silence was pregnant with triplets. Tonight? My mind raced as I planned what I needed to do and how fast.

“Csilla?”

“Yes, I’m still here. Just multi-tasking and forgot to talk. I have nothing going on this evening. I would love to.” A blatant lie. I had papers to grade, a thesis to work on and I hadn’t planned on having to wear anything fancier than slippers and a hoodie.

“Bien! I will send a car around for you, say deux heures?”

Two hours? Again, trying to plan while I threaded to the carpark, rather than the library I had intended. Would that be enough time? A new thought suddenly occurred to me. “Sure. Umm, wait. I’m on campus still. I need to go home. Your car won’t find me here.” He hasn’t been stalking me, I chewed my lip, worried.

“Qu’est-ce que je pensais? I am sorry, cheri. I did not think. Where would you like me to send the car?” I could almost see him bowing, begging forgiveness. I gave him my address as I unlocked the door to my Volkswagen Beetle. We agreed to an extra half hour and I sped home, blushing and ticking through a mental to-do list.

Andre’s place turned out to be a spacious loft, overlooking the bay, wall-sized plate glass windows, soft music; instrumental and relaxing, not the Barry White I had imagined in the shower. The lights were low, not quite candlelight, but creating an intimate ambience all the same. Andre looked more debonair than usual dressed in a black ensemble with burgundy undertones, a Nehru jacket buttoning in a diagonal of silver buttons. I felt under-dressed in my avocado sarong. I patted myself on the back, mentally for having shaved my legs, hoping I looked presentable.

He sighed, a faint fire glinting in his eyes, “Incroyablement délicieux!”

For a short moment, my knees trembled, caught between his accent and tone. I curtsied, clumsy and blushing. A waiter passed near and Andre plucked a pair of flutes of champagne, passing one to me. “Très magnifique!”

I sipped the champagne, willing myself to be more composed and raised an eyebrow, “You know I don’t speak a word of French, yes?”

“Convenu, I have moments when the English word escapes me. This is one such. Come, join us. You are going to be … mmm.” And for a moment my eyes glazed, and my knees almost gave out.

He continued talking, quiet and close, as he led me about on his arm, introducing me to his friends, the names passed out of mind almost as soon as I heard them. We passed near the balcony and Andre directed me to the jacuzzi. I blushed again, a deeper red as he motioned me to settle in and relax. I tried to be demure as I stepped through the sliding glass and into the pool.

Andre spoke, conversational and relaxed, a lecture, but more like a friendly discussion, I felt a bit fuzzy as I listened, disoriented but comfortable. “Vous savez –” he addressed the assembled friends at the dining table. “You know that we give ourselves away by the way we eat, yes? The way you cut your meat reflects … quels sont les mots ... the way you live.”

“For instance,” he indicated someone out of my vision, “Bjorn, here, likes to ravenously devour his food, a viking through and through. He ignores the petty things like utensils. If you ask, he will tell you about the wild days when no one needed such things. While he spoke, I felt a tug on my ankle, and the dullest sensation of something on my calf.

From my vantage, Andre stood on the wall, looking down at me, smiling, sipping more champagne. “Louisa? You favor what?”

The raven-haired woman I remembered meeting answered by caressing my ribs. I heard Andre again, “Oui, not as much to chew on as one might think, non?” She pulled and I felt an ache in my side, I couldn’t place. It hurt, but not enough to complain. “She speaks only a little. She likes to appreciate meat in silence, sucking it from the bones like … watch, you will see.” To my eyes it looked like she was nibbling and sucking marrow from a long rib. I tried to shake the fuzziness from my head. My mouth worked, I could feel it, but no sound came. I raised my head but my vantage never changed. I wondered, for a second, about the chandelier on the floor I stared at.

Andre glanced to his left a moment before a cacophonous rumble destroyed the peace of the table. “Maru, here, likes to wreak his way through his meal, he has no patience for subtle or gentle. Careful, and quiet, please?” My elbow felt like someone struck it, a shearing buzz and I caught a spray of red across the lowest part of my peripheral. What the crap, that hurt!

“Pour moi,” Andre caught my eye before bending near and kissing me gently, “I think all should be consumed like a lover, savoring in small bites those magnificent morsels made for us. Silver sparkled above my brow and I watched as Andre grew taller, leaning over my head. He stared, licking his lips as he cut delicately along the curve of my breast.

“We are all of us happy you came for dinner. Merci.”

While I stared, unbelieving, my brain cleared enough for things to register. I struggled, barely able to move, catching glances and gestures from others gathered around me. The strange angle they stood or sat at refocused and I opened my mouth, to protest, scream, something. My arms and legs felt like lead, but worse, I could sense, gaping parts where someone had feasted.

“Friends. Mes chers amis. I give you, Csilla. Salut.”

“Salut” echoed around the dining table, shared bonhomie in their voices.

“Bon Appetit!”

CKK2020