I Wonder What Human Flesh Tastes Like Read Online Free Page A

her profile: its open mouth, lined eyes, the framing tresses of tea-coloured hair. His age, maybe older, he thought; probably an office worker, probably the boy’s mother. He took his hand off the railing and moved closer, taking the cigarettes from his pocket.
    — I’m sorry. Could I...
    She held out her lighter and he cupped his hand around hers.
    — There’s no wind, she said.
    He took his hand away.
    — Force of habit.
    The woman smiled and looked sideways at him before flicking her ash off the ledge. Something about her smile made him stop, and he looked at her again, meeting her eyes. Then he felt pointed and obvious and a little resentful, as if she’d noticed him without permission. He’d wanted to compose himself more, form his smile, affect the necessary carelessness. Now he seemed laboured and transparent.
    — I’m sorry, it’s Nanako, isn’t it? I mean, you’re...
    She looked at him.
    — You are, aren’t you?
    She called him by his name then, and in her smile, the way her lips settled against each other, he thought he saw a shadow of the smile he remembered. Then nothing: the same restraint he’d heard in her voice.
    — I thought it was you, she said. I wondered if you’d notice.
    — I’m sorry. Your flat is right here, isn’t it? I should have figured...
    She put out her cigarette.
    — Let’s talk inside, she said.
    He followed her to the door and took a last drag while she found the key.
    The apartment was larger than he’d expected. A wide table sat in the center of the living room, and next to the television was a wooden shelf lined with porcelain plates.
    — Do you collect these?
    — Un.
    He looked at one of them. Printed on its surface was a mountain range: the Alps, he thought.
    — Sit down, she said.
    He took a seat next to the shelf, across from the table. Nanako went to the kitchen.
    — You’re too early, I haven’t finished cooking.
    — Can I help?
    He looked at the wooden shelf, glanced around the room, shifted his attention to the kitchen, the television. There were no photographs anywhere. All that stood out in the room was the shelf, the television and the sliding door.
    — No, just stay there.
    He moved his seat over. From here, he could see through the sliding door: more chairs, the edge of a table, and, he realized, someone else in the apartment. All he could see was their bare feet.
    — Is anyone else going to be joining us?
    Nanako looked up from the sink.
    — No.
    She followed his eyes.
    — It’s just him, she said. He won’t be having anything.
    He stood and walked to the sliding door.
    — Your husband?
    Nanako made a little sound.
    — No, of course not.
    He slid open the door. The man was sitting at the table, bent over in a posture of concentration. He looked at least ten years older than he and Nanako.
    — I’m sorry to interrupt, he said, and introduced himself.
    The man didn’t look up.
    — You won’t have dinner with us?
    — Nn.
    Scattered across the table were the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Looking over the man’s shoulder, he saw that the completed section formed the outline of the Eiffel Tower.
    — You’ve almost finished that.
    The man looked up. His eyes were clear and unlined, almost those of a boy’s, but the thinning, greyish beard covering his chin gave the impression of an old man.
    — I’ve lost some of the pieces.
    — Well it looks almost complete to me.
    — You’re not going to be able to see the top. I’ve lost the pieces for it.
    The man stared at him, and he looked at the table to break his gaze. He was right: the polished black cherry wood shone through the gaps in the puzzle, patches of the Paris scene stripped away to show the void beneath. A child strolling at the base of the tower was missing a head; the irregular edges of the pieces made it seem as if a cloud of flies had engulfed her. The grey steel of the base flowed upwards into nothing.
    He heard the clink of plates behind him and turned. Nanako had already