(based on true events)
Paris, 1981. You walk into your class at the Sorbonne. He is seated in the back, an empty chair on either side. He never speaks, if he can help it.
You can’t remember his name, but he doesn’t seem to notice when you walk up the carpeted steps to ask if he is free tonight. He stares at you in what seems like awe. You’re flattered, a little unnerved. He hesitates before he answers. You’re not sure if this is good or bad. You’re not sure if he will get on with the rest of the group, but you’re an exchange student and so is he and it is important to go out and see the city and converse and make new friends.
He drinks. He samples the cheese plate. He tells stories about his childhood, about his brother and his wealthy, loving parents. You see his mouth part to smile, for the first time. The girls like to poke his ribs. They order extra bread and pass it to him. They tell him “eat! eat! You’re wasting away! You need a woman to take care of you!”. He blushes, and you can tell it’s mostly embarrassment. He is one of the oldest in the class and only 4’9” and thin as a rail. You don’t mind it. That’s why you feel safe around him. That’s why you show him kindness at every turn.
That’s why you accept his invitation to read poetry at his apartment. Also, you accept because he says it is “urgent”, that he needs help reading German before an exam, and he has mentioned “payment”. He writes all of this in a note to you, because of his terminal, unshakable shyness. You find it endearing. You nod across the classroom. You accept, not much caring the amount you will be paid or how long it will take, because you’ve never heard that “no good deed goes unpunished”. That idiom is foreign to Holland, where you were raised to be compassionate and tender toward whomever you meet.
You knock once. The door swings open. He looks surprised, then overjoyed. He stands in the doorway for too long. The apartment is spotless. He’s an organizer—boxes and bins on shelves neatly labeled. He points to a desk with two small chairs. He pulls the pink one out for you, explaining that he’ll need you to recite the poem aloud, so he can hear German with the proper enunciation. The words are an old photocopy from an even older book. Something about need, no wait, about food. About feasting…
You continue to read, unaware of the way he is watching you, unaware that the adoration in his eye has chilled and congealed into ice-cold envy. You hadn’t known about his feelings, the lust that had been growing with his appetite since the first time he saw you—the second day of class, when he drew a sketch of your face from memory.
You knew he was quiet, but you hadn’t known that he was quiet for a reason. He is unwell, but not so unwell that he speaks his perversions. He is unwell, but he is smart. You continue to read, unaware of the fact he has left your side. You continue to read, unaware of the long, black nose of the rifle pointed millimeters from the back of your neck (because he cannot bring himself to disturb such a lovely face).
You, Renee Hartevelt, age 25, accept the invitation to read poetry at Issei’s apartment one sunny afternoon. You accept, because you’ve heard tales of his happy childhood in Japan, but not of his uncle, the man who would playfully scoop Issei and his brother into a large pot and pretend to boil them into a stew. You haven’t heard of his premature birth or his awkward years as a skinny teen or his festering hate of his own smallness. You accept, because you haven’t heard of his preoccupation with healthy, beautiful, Western women. You accept because you hadn’t known of his desire to consume you and chew your flesh in an attempt to digest and absorb your youthful radiance.
You accept, because you hadn’t heard of the incident. You hadn’t known that, years earlier in Japan, a fair-haired Dutch woman had moved into his neighborhood. You hadn’t known how he attacked her or how she had been strong enough to fight him off. You hadn’t known about the hush money from his father’s deep pockets. You hadn’t known he would learn from that experience. You hadn’t known he would plan it differently the next time, so that he wouldn’t have to lose to a woman again.
You accept, because you thought it would just be an afternoon. You hadn’t known you’d be in the apartment for two days. You don’t know that his first morsel will come from your raw, unspoiled buttock. You don’t know you’ll be skinned and filleted like Sea Bass and stored in the fridge near his French mustard. You don’t know the rest of you would end up in bags in a river, like so much trash.
You accept, because you are young and kind. You accept, because you don’t know the quiet man from your prestigious university will murder and dissect and eat you. You accept, because you don’t know that after all of this he will walk free, later to be gainfully employed as one of Japan’s most infamous food critics.
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