The Fatted and the Fleshless

I was lucky enough to find a job fairly soon after suffering a sudden layoff. I had to move, but I made up my mind to do so without looking back. It would have been hard to imagine anyone more available than I was. In order to seize the opportunity I’d been offered, I would have relocated to the other side of the planet. As for the job itself, well, I’d worked in fulfillment before. Names to memorize, slips and forms to process: nothing to worry about there.

My belongings all fit inside a minivan. I’d never owned much anyway, besides a few hardwood odds and ends, some worn-out clothes, and some books. Intoxicated with freedom, I left most of these behind, not really wanting to encumber my future apartment in a brand-new building with the bric-a-brac of my former life. I moved in one spring afternoon. By four o’clock I’d settled in, at home among my bare necessities. My studio seemed all the more spacious for being almost empty. I enjoyed the sobriety of the bare walls, the light that bathed them through the still-curtainless window. I was to take up my post the next day. I seized upon the remains of the day to scout out the warehouse where I’d be working on the office side of things. Even in this modest position, I counted as white-collar. The actual substance of the merchandise did not concern me. I would not have to know anything about it but reference numbers and destinations. I was satisfied, even delighted, with being but a tiny cog in a vast machine. After the disarray in which my layoff had left me, I’d now rejoined the ranks of the elect.

Beneath my window stretched a lawn most likely seeded two days earlier and trimmed just the night before. Everything conspired to make me feel reborn. The warehouse rose at the edge of the port. I thought I detected, as I walked by, a hivelike bustle. A satisfied smile spread across my face: the next morning, I too would be a part of it.

On my way back, I noticed a restaurant whose prices, listed on the slate outside, seemed very reasonable, especially given the photos of appetizing dishes in the window.

Around eight, well rested and refreshed, I went into the restaurant. The dining room, of modest size, was deserted, which didn’t worry me at first. Not seeing a soul, I was about to beat a retreat, but a waitress came up and greeted me with a smile so inviting that I didn’t have the heart to turn my back on her. She led me to a well-situated table, playing up her smile. She was an attractive young woman, zaftig yet svelte, with thick jet-black hair, very pale skin, a very red mouth, and that smile, which added a fleeting felicity to all my small talk. Almost tenderly, she laid the menu in my arms. I found this treatment, which I was tempted to regard as special, almost irresistible. To conceal my emotion, I immersed myself in the menu. I opted for a beet-and-endive salad and a slice of leg of lamb with a side of flageolet beans. A carafe of Côtes du Rhône to go with it, and maybe, to finish things off, a rum baba. I could afford to indulge. The thought filled me with cheer, even when weighed against my worries over the past few weeks. The waitress returned and jotted down my desiderata, seeming to approve of them personally. I settled deeper into my chair and turned my attention to the decor. Sideboard, coatrack, tables and chairs of dark wood, banquettes upholstered in caramel suede, brass sconces and pendant lighting, red-and-white-checked napkins and tablecloths. Though switched off at the moment, the radiators doubtless gave off a pleasant warmth when needed. I saw myself in the future, enjoying them when winter came.

It wasn’t long before the restaurant filled...