Fermentation by Angelica J.

want him to be?’
    ‘I don't know. I miss him.’
    ‘He's on your mind?’
    ‘Yes. He's on my mind.’
    ‘You talk to him in your head? You want to be with him? You imagine him coming back?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘The sex will be good if he does.’ The old man laughed at my expression. ‘Sex is always good when you don't know if it's going to be for the last time.’
    ‘This has very little to do with cheese.’
    ‘If there was a cheese shortage and you didn't know whether the cheese you were eating would be the last taste you'd ever get?’
    ‘I do miss him,’ I said. ‘But I can't decide whether I miss him because he isn't here.’
    ‘That's how it's supposed to be.’
    ‘Yes, and when they come back you're supposed to be happy because you no longer have to miss them. The hunger vanishes.’
    ‘And the pleasure gone?’
    I nodded my head.
    ‘As I was saying, excessive fermentation is not good. Now if you'll excuse me,’ he said, ‘I have to do some work downstairs.’
    When the old man had gone I asked the albino boy, ‘How many cheeses are there?’
    ‘Over one thousand,’ he said, ‘and new ones are being created every week. The smaller the world becomes, the more cheese there seems to be. You'll never taste them all, but try the Roquefort. It's the king of cheeses.’
    ‘The king?’
    ‘It has the blue blood of royalty running through its veins,’ he said, pointing to a tall cylindrical tower in the centre of the counter. When the boy cut into the cheese I could feel the knife slicing through the thin rind and then slipping into .the supple body of the piece as easily as if it were splicing me open. He cut a perfectly sized wedge and gently levered it out so that it balanced on the flat edge of his knife. Now I could peek inside the cheese and see, set against the darkness of the rind, how the greater mass was uniformly shot throughout with a light greeny-blue veining. It was exactly as the old man had described the perfect Roquefort.
    ‘Roquefort is a true cheese-lover's cheese. Its veins will run through you,’ the boy said, giving me a small piece to taste. ‘Test it against the tip of your tongue. Right there,’ he said, sticking his own tongue out and tapping the end of it. ‘It's very good, isn't it? A sort of complex flavour. Monsieur says this is the best month for Roquefort.’
    ‘Has he always owned this shop?’
    ‘No. Berthe's father used to own it. The shop could have been hers but she sold it to Monsieur. He was a friend of the family and used to be a carpenter by trade. He built sets for the theatre.’ The albino boy blinked and then handed me the package of cheese.
    This time I couldn't wait to get the cheese home and had to stop off in the park to taste it. I found a seat near to where some children were playing and sat down. The cheese had already begun to melt and I scooped up a large piece with my fingers and stuck them in my mouth. I could feel the soft mouldy tubes against my tongue, their penetratingly sharp taste, and it wasn't long before I had finished the whole piece off, even down to licking the wrapping where the cheese had oozed out against the paper.
    The house stood in isolation in the middle of wide lawns that stretched to the hills. Someone had built a huge bonfire which towered menacingly on the lawn at the back of the house. I could see it from where I was hiding. Whoever had built it had spent days on it. You could see where tree trunks had been dragged across the lawns and, as a final touch, a small stepladder had been propped up against it which led to the top.
    I stood on tiptoe and that way I could see straight into the house through the leaves of the bushes behind which I was hidden. A woman was sitting in a chair before a large mirror. She was a young woman, in her mid-twenties. Her skin was smooth and she wore her blonde hair in a bob that only just touched the nape of her neck. Next to the woman was a small table. That was all.
    A black Ford car