He was feeling depressed that day, although the weather was wonderful. The sun was shining, and it was hot enough for some of the kids to put their swimsuits on and head for the small lake. He was intrigued too, but he could not get used to the lake’s water and its color. He wanted the blue of the sea, not that opaque greenish water, which reminded him of a swamp. So, he grabbed his cup of coffee and headed for the kitchen to arrange the menu.

As he entered the big room, he noticed the open windows and how the sun rays burst in, with an intensity that was almost blinding. The stained glass window was closed, and the rays were filtered through it, projecting vivid, lucid blues, greens and reds, a peacock. Everything in the kitchen was made of wood and the combination of light and wood produced a dreamy warm spectacle. He found the scene beautiful, but also unfamiliar. He felt that the pleasant site couldn’t give him any joy because it was not his. He’d been feeling this way since the day he was hired to work as a chef in this French mansion by this wealthy but lonely woman in her fifties. She was feeling depressed too, despite all of her events, her formal dinners, her charities.

She had first seen the man last summer in a restaurant in Greece. He worked there as the head chef, but he was also one of the three owners. Although she was there for her holidays, she was depressed again. It seemed that her feelings were getting uncontrollably heavier and darker as time went by, changing and oppressing her. She was carrying a tombstone she felt, and no one could relieve her.

Her friends knew the man, and he had been expecting them; he welcomed them, and hugged all but her; he kissed her hand instead, and drew the chair for her to sit. He had chosen the menu too, and gave them the best table, a bit remote, with an incredible view of the sea. Although she felt flattered by his behavior, she couldn’t stop thinking that she now looked old enough for a man to act this way. That tombstone in her mind was getting heavier; while they were eating the man often came by their table, asking if they were enjoying their meal, the wine, the view, making witty remarks to his friends, and always making funny jokes, which poured from his mouth without him taking even a moment to think. When he left he always looked at her with a warm and genuine smile on his face. She liked his eyes and his smile. She liked everything he was proposing that day, and while she was eating, and he was away, her eyes tried discreetly to find him. She observed the way he was talking to the other customers, always accessible and pleasant. And it seemed that the customers wanted him at their tables to have a drink, or to chat with him a bit more. He refused politely, or, to some closer friends, even rudely. She was amused by his jokes and she enjoyed his company; she felt nice. It had been a long time since she’d felt this way. So, she went back to the restaurant a few times again with her friends, and the last time she went alone to offer him a job; a chef in her impressive mansion in France, to take care of all the event menus and the guests’ gastronomic demands. She had understood that it was not only his talent in cooking that provoked her to ask him, but his character, the way he made her laugh and take away all those dark thoughts. But she also found that having an attractive man in her house was alluring. He would be staying in the mansion too, and he would also have a very generous salary. If she had guessed right, he would accept her offer. And he did.

So, here he was now looking around the big room that was the mansion’s kitchen. He had to make those cakes he had promised to the kids. He thought of all the chocolate and the sugar and felt disgust. Why go to all this trouble when, first, all this amount of sugar would be bad for them, and second, they could be just as happy with a chocolate bar? He felt sad for being so miserable. It was his job to cook, and, after all, he wanted to see the kids’ eyes opening wide with wonder at the sight of all the inviting cakes on the table. He would start with a chocolate mousse with strawberries. He placed the pieces of dark chocolate in a bowl over a pan of simmering water and cooked until it melted. He loved the smell of chocolate. He took the double cream out of the refrigerator and poured it into another glass bowl. He whipped it and then stirred in the fresh lemon juice. He gently folded in the melted chocolate to give it the marble effect. He liked playing with all the ingredients, with all the smells. He cut the strawberries in half and placed them on the crystal serving plate, and then he spooned the chocolate cream and levelled it with a palette knife. He would then refrigerate it, afterwards dust it with cocoa sugar and finally blend some strawberries and spoon the juice around the edge of the plate. He would also make his speciality; chocolate soufflé. He liked it so much that he would always make extra, because he could get carried away and eat what he had prepared for the guests. He would make tiramisu, his refreshing ginger and chocolate cake, delicious orange and chocolate cheesecake, and finally a light fruit salad. He looked around the counters and saw all those luscious fruits he had ordered; bananas, peaches, pears, sweet grapes, and red apples so perfect that they seemed plastic. He also had to cook for dinner, and he had chosen something that was acceptable even to the most demanding palates, beef with beer and red pepper sauce.

He had some preparations to make, which was the boring part of his cooking. At times like this, when he was feeling troubled, he needed to do things that would not allow him to think, and slicing vegetables did not help. He got his small but razor-sharp, steel knife and de-seeded and sliced the red, spicy peppers, and then the baby leeks with steady, but rapid movements of his hands, like a butcher ripping out intestines. After he finished that, he took the beef out of the refrigerator and started cutting it into strips. The kids were running around outside, wet from their swim, laughing and shouting. He felt awkward, irritated, and, his hands still bloody from the meat cutting, he turned on the radio to avoid hearing more. “My son would be their best friend, he is adorable. Everybody loves him,” he thought. His hands used the knife to cut almost mechanically. His eyes, fixed on the meat, didn’t even blink. He saw nothing else at that moment but his son as his mind travelled to his estranged past. He saw his arms as he was holding his son in the maternity hospital for the first time, he saw his son’s blue eyes, remembered the intensity of his love and his pride in something that was his. Then rapid images of fighting, shouting, crying, flashbacks of anger and hurt. An acute pain brought him back. He had cut his finger deep and was bleeding. He went to the sink and held his finger under the stream of water and squeezed it hard. It had been five years since the divorce, and five years since he’d seen his son. His wife had moved to America, taken the boy with her, and forbidden him to see the boy again. He used to call frequently though, only to hear the baby say, “da, da”. He had every legal right to visit his son, but at that point he found it hopeless, and didn’t fight over him. So, he left the country too, and wandered like a fortune-hunter in Europe, in Africa and in Asia. The years had passed and he now regretted his actions. He felt that he didn’t own anything, that he didn’t even have a country he could call home. Always renting, buying and selling apartments, houses, and restaurants and travelling, travelling, and sending money to his ex-wife. He was attractive enough to have many erotic adventures, but that was about it. He was very social too, and as a result he had many friends, but he couldn’t connect to anyone, he found everything superficial. “I’ll grow old, lonely, and miserable,” he often thought lately. “I had to show her that I didn’t care; that she didn’t hurt me, that I was strong enough and insensitive enough to never see my son again. How could I be so selfish? She made me act that way.” Although all those years he had thought he was having fun, doing the things he liked and being free, living like Don Juan, now he felt as if he had committed crimes. He didn’t enjoy the fun, he didn’t do anything with a thought for his future, he was selfish after all, no matter what he had believed. “At least I have my son. Can I make up?” He tried to find a bandage for his finger, but couldn’t find anything. He didn’t ask anyone to give him one, he just grabbed a tissue and rushed to the phone, dialling twice with his trembling fingers a wrong number, in his agonized attempt to change his life with a phone call. Finally, he waited for a few seconds, almost petrified, looking at his hand still bleeding and soaking red through the tissue, … “Ann, are you there? Pick up, if you’re there, pick up, pick up….”