Emile's First Man

CHAPTER 2

Joe was a reserved man. Four acres of land and some two hundred francs profit a year, that was what he had managed. It was good, but it was never what his mother, nor his late wife, had expected from him.

Today's harvest had not been bad, but it had not been good either. After the late snow, most of his potatoes had come up half-rotten and useless. He finished early. With a basket of what could still be saved, he went home.

After unloading outside, Joe was hungry and called for Emile. Hearing no answer, he served himself.

In the lean-to kitchen he put a big pot of water on for a shower later. The kitchen was little more than a shed against the courtyard, a low mud stove built against the back wall, a plank table, and barely room for one man to turn between them. The stove had a round mouth on top where the pot sat straight over the flame, held only by the clay rim. He set the pot in full to the brim and left it to come to the boil.

He ate what was, for him, dinner. He was planning to go to the small town nearby the next day, to sell the harvest where prices ran a little higher. For that he would have to pack that night and wake at four in the morning.

He needed clean clothes. He looked through his old wardrobe and found most of it missing, especially his jacket. He went outside to check the line and of course, his jacket was there, still damp from washing.

What was left was in his son's room. Emile wore now the clothes Joe no longer used. Among them was a blue sweater, once Joe's. He could use it, since it still looked new.

Joe went into Emile's room and opened the wardrobe to look for it. As he pushed the clothes aside, something caught his eye: an old box, and tucked half under the folded shirts, a photograph of a man naked to the waist.

Joe frowned. What was it, and why would it be hidden between his son's clothes?

Curiosity got the better of him. He lifted the lid and opened the box.

---

Emile was on his way back home, walking happily.

It had been pleasant talking to the young seller, who was polite as always and had given him an extra piece of meat. What excited him more was what he said:

"You know, me and my friends are going to the opening festival next week."

"The festival?"

"Yeah. The village next to us is celebrating its sixtieth anniversary, they say. People from all around are coming. You can bring your wife and come with us."

Emile wanted to accept immediately but that would be suspicious.

"I'll talk to her."

Remembering that conversation still put a smile on Emile's face. The paper-wrapped meat was warm in his hand. He could cook something special for his father tonight.

Emile had loved cooking since he was a child. His father used to take him to the fields all day and they would come back to an empty house and a tasteless dinner or whatever was left from lunch. A growing boy is always hungry, and some nights his empty stomach would not let him sleep.

So while his father slept, he would slip into the kitchen to look for something to eat. At first he took whatever was edible. But one night he found nothing, so he made rice himself from what he remembered seeing his father do. Contrary to his expectations, it came out burnt and sticky. He ate it anyway.

Little by little he learned how much and how long it took until the food turned good. It didn’t happen all the time, maybe 3 times a week? At that time, Emile didn’t like cooking but his stomach forced him so he got used to it because, you know? Hunger makes the poor the best learners.

When he was around 13, one night his father caught him at the stove.

Emile confessed that he was hungry. Joe did not scold him. They just shared the pasta soup together in silence.

Times changed, and Emile eventually became the cook of the house. He learned to like it. Liked the quiet in the kitchen when everything was in its place.

It was late now, but he could still manage something for dinner with the gifted meat, and his father could take the rest for the morning. Joe would leave at four for the town market, and Emile wanted him to leave with something warm in his stomach.

He only hoped his father was not home yet. Joe turned grumpy when he was hungry.

It was already 6:20 and the sun was setting.

The house was dark when he got in, and for a moment he thought his father had not yet returned. When going to the kitchen, he saw a light inside and heard the hard chatter of a lid on boiling water. It seemed like his father had arrived.

He was heading straight to cook when out of the corner of his eye saw his own bedroom door open.

That was strange. He remembered closing it.

Maybe the dog pushed in?

He walked over. Something felt off.

The door was not empty. Someone was inside. His father.