Hacking free a chunk of Parmareggio, I smash it into fragments with a meat hammer and use the same hammer to flatten the strip of buttock, then crumble stale
pain campagne
and mix the breadcrumbs with the crumbled cheese, adding black pepper, because I tend to add black pepper to everything, and some shredded sage. I dip the flattened meat into a saucer of beaten egg, shake off the excess and dredge through the
parmareggio
mix. As I heat butter in two pans, I shred an apple. The back, sliced fine, I fry simply, as is and without any seasoning at all. It tastes like pork. The buttock cooks quickly, no more than four or five minutes each side, and tastes as I would expect – of sage and black pepper and a good Italian cheese. The shredded apple cuts through its richness nicely.
The tastes of France are changing and we are the last of the banquet. After us, the table will be swept clear as surely as the Chinese plates I use will be smashed by the men and women at my door. A new meal will be laid for them, and the first course will taste pure and clean after what has gone before. I write up my final notes, close the book and smile. My work is done. All that remains now is to end this story as it should be ended; and to do that I need to go upstairs again, to my chamber and then to my study. In my chamber I wash as well I can in the cold water of a jug on the side. Stripping off my clothes, I stand naked on a Persian carpet and scrub every part of me. My body is old and wizened, my arms thinner than I remember and my belly small but low. Fearing that I haven’t scrubbed myself thoroughly enough, I find a second jug in another room and wash myself again, removing my wig to wipe sweat from my scalp. I shave my head quickly and rinse it as if readying for a fresh wig but leave my head bare. This will have to do. Finding the silk banyan Manon bought me with her own money, I drape it over my frame and look round my room. I took Virginie on that bed, Manon too. I have waited out fevers and written letters there to my son and reluctant daughter. It has, in its way, been the centre of my little world.
Tigris looks up as I enter my study, her head to one side as she waits for my voice but I give her only silence. The noise of the sans-culottes is louder now. They are inside the chateau, outraged at finding all the doors from the hall locked. I hope that I have left enough time and decide I have. It would have been good to be able to say a proper goodbye to Tigris but then what would be the point of washing so thoroughly? And I should have done it earlier if I wanted to do it at all.
Now,
I think,
do it now.
But first there is this to say. This is where I have to stop writing and let you imagine the rest.
Putting down the pen I pick up the razor I used to shave my head and check the edge, already knowing it is sharp.
Then I check that my study door is locked and slip the robe from my shoulders and return to my chair, pulling it a little further into the middle of the room. I’m sitting naked in my chair with the razor in my hand, and Tigris is restless and growing upset. Her tail twitches and her eyes flick in irritation at the noise outside and the silence in here. Opening the razor, I watch it gleam in the candlelight, because it’s getting dark now and I’ve lit a candle. Virginie liked candles, Manon also. Women do. I smile but not sadly. I’ve lived too long and been too lucky to die sad.
Tigris and I have shared what came to me from Versailles, and the offal from the bullocks killed to feed guests at my chateau. It occurs to me, what should have occurred to me before this: she is my closest companion. They say every man – and, for all I know, every woman – has one great love. I have always thought Virginie was mine, and Manon the peace that came after. Now I wonder if Tigris is not the greatest of my loves. The only one that’s really lasted. Men are killed for tasting human flesh and so are tigers. I have tasted this flesh, and Tigris has not. It will not matter to her if this is a meal she has eaten before in the way it matters to me. But she is hungry and I am ready. There is courage in resignation but what I do now takes little courage. If I had free choice of how to end my life, this is how I would have chosen that it ends. Years ago I made a
ragoût
from meat cut from Tigris’s mother’s flank.
The meat needed slow cooking for several hours to make it tender, and strong seasoning to make its sourness palatable, but I fried it first with onions and that seems to work for everything from tiger to rat.
Now it is Tigris’s turn. The poor animal is hungry and I can see no reason why she should not have one last meal.
Drawing the razor diagonally across my wrist so that blood wells but I don’t bleed out too fast, I let blood drip to the carpet and watch Tigris’s nose twitch. She freezes for a second the way she always does when she smells food. She’s puzzled. She thinks it’s me in here with her, but she’s no longer entirely sure. Most of my smell is gone and I’m not talking to her as I would usually do, and now there’s the smell of blood, and she’s hungry. I at least have been hungry my entire life. I cut again a second time and a third, wincing at the pain, which is sharper than I imagined. The fur along her back has risen now. Her head has turned to face me directly and she sinks low to the ground. I know what she looks like resting. This is not Tigris resting.
We are here, where we were always destined to be. Some of this book is written on paper, some of it is simply the wash of my memories, much of it you have filled in for yourself. I thank you for listening to the ghost of a life now gone from a world that is dying. And though it pains me to believe it, deserves to die. The mob will ransack my chateau, rebuild it in time and one of them will become me. I wish it was different but suspect this is the truth of it. I want, more than anything, to say goodbye to Tigris. I want this more than I want to say goodbye to Manon or Hélène or my son. It cannot be. Gripping the razor one final time, I dig deep into my flesh in a vertical cut that opens an artery in the second before Tigris pounces. I fed on her mother, she feeds on me. Justice is served and the circle closed. I would live it all again.
Endnotes
Note 1
This work, reputedly the journal of Jean-Marie,
soi-disant
marquis d’Aumout, was found among the possessions of Citizen Duras, mayor of Limoges, following the execution of the Citizen Mayor for treason.
Note 2
Returned to Admiral Laurant d’Aumout, marquis d’Aumout, trusted confidant of l’empereur, on the orders of the president of the General Council of the Gironde.
A Note on the Type
Baskerville was designed in 1757 by John Baskerville, a master type-founder and printer. With it's crisp edges, high contrast and generous proportions, Baskerville reflects simplicity and quiet refinement. Its admirers include Benjamin Franklin, who used it as a standard type for Federal publications.
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