Artwork: Public Utility Meatpile by Will Jacques

Moussaka
Charles David Taylor

 

A spring day in Novi Sad, Serbia, and the lunch crowd was lining up at Papadopoulos’s, one of several bakeries in the city that also served hot prepared food, cafeteria-style. Customers could eat inside, but most preferred to sit outside under the awning, joining the multitudes who relaxed in the many sidewalk cafes and coffee shops across the city.

Liana scooped a stuffed pepper onto the plate between mashed potatoes and stewed tomatoes and smiled as she handed the plate to the young man. He smiled back shyly as he fumbled for his card, and she wished he would say something, anything. He was cute, and she could tell he was interested.

But when she took a quick glance down the row of customers, her stomach tensed. Mr. Misko was third in line. Unlike the other customers who were carefully examining the various dishes, deciding which entree or side dish to order, Misko was staring straight at her, scowling. Every day when their eyes locked, he gave her the same menacing look, which caused her smile to fade quickly from her round cheeks. Sometimes the corners of his thin lips curled up ever so slightly, as though pleased with his effect on her.

The young man found his card and handed it to her, but he seemed taken aback by her change of expression. He apologized, apparently assuming she was impatient with him for taking so long. Liana said nothing as she ran the card through the reader, silently berating herself for letting Mr. Misko get under her skin, again.

She handed the young man his receipt and was disappointed when he turned quickly and left. Too late, she realized his rebuff was her fault. Then Misko was across from her, giving his usual order: pork chop, stewed tomatoes and okra. When she handed him the full plate, he shoved it roughly back at her.

“Not enough!” He spoke so loudly, the couple behind him in line looked up. “Why do you always give me such a little chop? And such stingy portions? Today I want some mashed potatoes. For a taste, you know.”

Giving customers a spoonful for tasting was a standard courtesy, but Misko regularly abused this favor. He expected a full serving. Liana should have charged for a third side dish, but she’d learned not to protest. The old man knew Ms. Papadopoulos, the owner of the bakery-cafe, and he often lodged complaints against Liana, whining that she was rude and gave him smaller portions. Ms. Papadopoulos would relay his complaint with a frown, sometimes asking, “Liana, what do you have against poor Mr. Misko? He’s such a loyal customer.”

Once, Ms. Papadopoulos told her confidentially that Misko’s wife died a few years after his retirement, and his three children moved away as soon as they graduated. He’d been left alone in his big house and couldn’t bring himself to clear out the furniture and mementoes and move to a smaller apartment. Liana tried to feel sorry for him, but his unfair demands and hostile demeanor made it impossible.

This noon, Misko grudgingly handed over a large bill and drummed his fingers impatiently on the counter as she made change.

“Come on, hurry it up,” he said in his gravelly voice. She suspected he was trying to make her nervous and miscount. After receiving his change, he stood there, holding up the line while he slowly and ostentatiously counted the bills and placed them carefully in his wallet. It was a pattern he repeated every day.

Sometimes he miscounted and accused her of short-changing him. In a loud voice he would threaten to report her “theft” to Ms. Papadopoulos. Liana made change all day and had done so flawlessly for years. She was confident in her mental arithmetic, and she counted out change faster than a bank teller. But she’d learned not to argue with Mr. Misko because he would have stood there, shouting and holding up the line. Instead, she gave him whatever made up the difference — usually it was only few dinars. Once, she got so rattled at his outburst that she made it up with her own money.

This morning Misko didn’t try to cheat her. “I’ll be back tonight,” he said.

That was worse news. Misko was known for coming in to eat late in the afternoon, when the bakery still offered bread and pastries but after the serving line for hot food was shut down — and Ms Papadopoulos had gone home. He would complain loudly that the food wasn’t as fresh and plentiful as in the morning, as though the staff should stop the cleanup process to cook an entire pan of moussaka or mashed potatoes for one thoughtless, tardy customer.

When Mr. Misko had shuffled off to find a table outside, the next man in line gave her a tired smile and shook his head. “What a grouchy old man,” he said. “How do you put up with him?”

Liana didn't answer but simply shrugged. What choice do I have?

The humiliation stayed with her. If he was this mean-spirited at home with his children, it's no wonder they moved away as soon as they could. The chief cook commiserated, joking that his wife had probably died because her crotchety husband stayed home after he retired. “Sometimes death is the best, the only escape plan,” she said. Liana had pretended to be shocked, then erupted in giggles. The cook was a wonderful cynic.

Liana could not imagine leaving her own family. Her responsibilities had increased after her father died from lung disease two years before, and his pension decreased accordingly. Her mother’s knees had given out, and she was unable to climb stairs and continue her apartment cleaning business. Liana’s older sister and two children had moved back home when her husband, an army recruit, had been shipped to the south. At twenty, Liana’s meager salary provided the bulk of the family income, and her dreams of going to university and studying literature were fading away.

Liana was grateful for her job at Papadopoulos’s, but she wasn’t content to remain a server. She was developing an interest in cooking, and when she had a moment free, she shadowed the chief cook, studying her technique. As a result, she impressed her family with moussaka, stuffed peppers and lamb chops, when they could afford to buy lamb.

The day sped by, and she did not complain when Ms. Papadopoulos asked her to stay late to close up the cafe. There was plenty of work to prepare for the next day — scraping pans, storing food and mopping the floor. Without customers, she could relax and let her thoughts drift.

The chief cook thanked Liana for staying late and was unwrapping her apron when the bell on the front door jangled. “Uh-oh, lucky you. Margot forgot to lock the door again, and some clueless dummy didn’t read the sign. Get rid of them, but be nice about it,” she said. She winked. “Sorry, I have to scoot now.” And she was gone.

When Liana pushed through the swinging door into the front, she froze. It was Mr. Misko.

“Mr. Misko, I’m so sorry, but we’re closed.”

“No you’re not. The door's open.”

“I’m sorry but someone forgot to lock the door. The food's put away. I’m cleaning up.”

“You won’t get away with that little lie. Do you want to keep your job, little girl?”

She flushed with irritation. In the same breath he had accused her of lying and threatened to have her fired. Moreover, she hated people calling her 'little girl’. She’d always been the baby of the family, and her round cheeks made her look younger than she was.

Before she could reply, he snarled at her. “I’m hungry, dammit! Shut up and get me some food, girlie. Warm up some lamb chops, and three vegetables. Don’t forget the bread this time.”

Rather than argue with him, she made an abrupt about face and left him standing there in the dark cafe. She fought down her annoyance at his audacity and hurried into the walk-in refrigerator. She would find him some tough, cold meat and cold potatoes, or whatever leftover food was available.

She fetched a tray of leftover chops, a bowl of mashed potatoes and some stewed tomatoes. She could warm them up in the microwave. As she backed out holding the trays, she was startled to find Mr. Misko standing there in the kitchen, staring at her. Customers were never allowed behind the counter, much less in the sanctum sanctorum of the kitchen – that was rule number one. Just last month, Ms. Papadopoulos — imperious but always placid and under control — erupted in anger and abruptly fired one girl on the spot for sneaking her boyfriend into the kitchen for a free meal.

“Mr. Misko, customers are not allowed behind the counter. I’ll bring you some food, but…”

His ugly grin silenced her. She almost dropped the pan.

Misko advanced toward her, slowly. She was suddenly aware that the two of them were the only ones in the cafe. His look was diabolical, and she instinctively backed away.

“Put down those trays, little girl. I don’t want those old chops.” His harsh, deliberate voice carried such authority that she dropped the steel pans on the countertop. The clatter was so jarring she turned to check she hadn't spilled anything. When she turned back to Misko, he had moved much closer. Then, so quick she didn't have time to react, he grasped her arm and pressed it down onto the steel counter.

Her voice caught in her throat. “Mr. Misko, what…”

His grin broadened to show yellowed, cigarette-stained teeth. “Yes, little girl? Can you guess what I really want?”

She shook her head. She couldn’t speak. Fear had frozen her face, and Misko seemed to be drawing pleasure from her terror.

At that moment, she had an unreal experience: time slowed and she left her body. She was looking at the two of them from high on the ceiling.

“On your knees, girl,” he said.

She didn’t understand. “What?” His command made no sense.

His face distorted into an ugly grimace. “You heard me. Get on your knees, you little whore.”

Her lower lip quivered. “What? Why? I don’t understand…”

His snarling smile was hideous. “A little slut like you? Pretending not to know what men want? Then I’ll teach you.” He slid his right hand up her arm and gripped her shoulder painfully hard. “Down! Get down, god damn it.” Her body obeyed, seemingly beyond her conscious control. Her knees buckled until she was kneeling in front of him. With his left hand, he began undoing his belt and unzipping his pants.

As understanding dawned, she was no longer floating on the ceiling but back in her body. She fixed her gaze on what was happening right before her eyes.

He fumbled with his pants, and the thing was out, at eye level.

“Suck it. Suck it, you little whore,” he said, holding it toward her mouth. His powerful grip still held her shoulder, and she instinctively drew back in revulsion. She turned her head away, looked under the counter, toward the wall — anywhere but at the ugly thing he was stroking in front of her face. Her gaze fixed on the shelf below the countertop. At eye level lay a row of knives. A chef’s knife with a twenty-centimeter blade was next to her nose.

“Suck it, damn you!” Misko let go of her shoulder and slapped her face, hard.

No one, not even her parents, had ever done that to her. The violence of the slap, the sting on her cheek flipped a switch in her brain. The torment from Misko that she’d withstood for months, this humiliating violation culminating in sudden violence, broke through her dam of reserve. A mindless rage surged through her body.

“Open your mouth, you little slut. If you know what’s good for you…”

He never finished his sentence. Liana grabbed the chef’s knife and rammed it into the old man’s gut, right at the navel. She slashed left, then right, opening the cavity and exposing the intestines. She withdrew the knife and slashed downward at the object of disgust, sending the flaccid organ and its testicular apparatus flopping onto the floor. As she jumped to her feet, Misko’s right hand spasmodically tightened its grip on the back of her head, and she hacked at his arm with prodigious strength, almost severing it at the elbow. Everything happened in seconds.

She raised the knife high above her head. The two stared into each others' eyes, but Mr. Misko was no longer confronted by a young girl. Before him stood a primal beast, teeth bared in a hideous snarl. In response, his mouth formed an enormous “O”, as though from a ghastly cartoon. He hardly made a sound, only a gasping inhale of breath that produced a weakened croak.

Liana plunged the knife over and over into all parts of his torso, his bony chest, throat and wizened face, feeling little resistance. The cook, for all her laziness, kept her knives razor sharp.

Misko’s wide eyes were the last target. As she stabbed the blade deep into an eye socket, he collapsed backwards from the force of her blow. She fell on top of him, forcing the blade farther and deeper, through his brain to the back of his skull. His body quivered beneath her in the tremors of death.

Blood was everywhere, pulsing from more than a dozen mortal wounds. Liana pushed herself away from the repulsive, blood-soaked carcass. She leapt up, gasping for air, then collapsed back against the counter. The world went dark as she slumped to the floor.

#

She woke staring at the ceiling. Why am I on the floor? Was I asleep? At work? Was it seconds? Hours? Is this a nightmare? She raised her head and looked toward her feet but was shocked to see the soles of Misko’s shoes, covered in blood. The tile floor, her hands, her arms, her brown and white uniform — everything was covered with sticky blood. Even her name badge was splotched red.

She slowly raised herself on one elbow, almost slipping on the wet tile. She covered her mouth in horror and tasted blood — his blood. She had killed the man. This was murder.

She stood on shaky legs, leaned against the counter and began to sob.

Her first thoughts were of her family. Arrest and prison loomed. Her paltry salary, the main income for her family, would disappear. Life as she knew it was over. Shame and guilt would stain her family forever. She bent double, gasping, convulsed with sobs. Time slipped again, crushing her.

She felt faint, would have welcomed the oblivion, but it didn't come. She fought for control, forced herself to think. She could not, would not, let her family go through this. Desperation drove her thoughts as she fought down the panic.

She’d always been the calm one when bad things happened, but this was different, a new reality. Her life was now divided in two: before tonight, and after.

Don't freak out, she thought. Don’t panic. Don’t cry. Be calm, calm, calm.

The panic subsided and she looked around, avoiding Misko’s ghastly face, the knife still protruding from an eye socket. Blood was everywhere, but that could be cleaned up. The clock showed eight-thirty. She had all night to deal with this… this horror.

Liana calmly washed her face, hands and arms to remove the blood. She could change her blouse, pants and apron later. She peered through the little window in the kitchen’s swinging doors. The cafe was dark and empty. She removed her blood-soaked shoes and, stepping carefully, walked to the front and locked the doors. Outside on the street, a few people hurried by. All normal. The world was oblivious to the carnage inside.

She returned to the kitchen and stopped to take in the ghastly scene. Then a strange thing happened: familiar memories surfaced from her past. She recalled her grandparents’ farm, where she and her older sister spent their childhood summers. Her grandfather raised small herds of hogs, sheep and cattle, but his primary income was from his special sausage, which was famous across Serbia.

Liana loved life in the countryside, exploring the woods and fields, even though her domineering older sister insisted on controlling their activities. Most fascinating to her was learning how the farm worked, especially the sausage-making operation. As soon as she and her sister were old enough, they were assigned simple chores to help out. Liana didn’t mind, even when the chores were boring.

Everything changed when it came time to slaughter the pigs. Tension filled the air. Pigs are intuitive and intelligent animals, and their horrendous squeals could be heard as far away as the nearby village. Her older sister always ran away and hid under the bed.

Liana forced herself to stay and witness the entire gruesome process. As the youngest, she took any opportunity to prove her mettle against her overbearing sister. She was proud when her grandfather praised her strong constitution, just as she secretly thrilled when he shook his head at her sister’s timidity.

After the slaughter, the process was dully mechanical: a messy tedium of hacking, chopping, grinding, cooking, mixing in his special seasoning and ingredients, stuffing the skins. Tijana learned quickly and became adept at all the steps, while her sister recoiled and complained nonstop. Liana's tolerance for hard, messy work, her ability to work fast without complaining, as well as her calmness under stress, had impressed Ms. Papadopoulos and her coworkers.

She would have to call on all these qualities to help her through the horrific task she now faced.

I know what to do and how to do it, she told herself. The slaughter is over. It’s time for the rendering.

She made a plan and mentally organized the tasks required. First, clean up the mess. She fetched a pair of rubber boots and put on an old apron. There was so much blood, it had to be removed in stages. She uncoiled the high pressure hose, sprayed the tiles, mopped and sponged the walls and floor. End-of-day cleaning had been her first job at Papadopoulos’s, and she’d learned to work fast.

Most important was to turn off the part of her brain that thought of the future. Focus on what you’re doing right now, nothing more. She considered disposing of the body in the public bins, but even dismembered, the pieces would be far too heavy and bulky to carry on her bike. Best to disguise and store it for now.

She took a deep breath as she began the grisly job. Thanks to her tutelage by the chief cook, she knew how use the various machines and tools, from the fancy new electric bone saw to the slicer and grinder.

In two hours, she had cut up the body into manageable slabs. The pelvis and thigh bones were large and awkward, but the bone saw took care of them. She packed everything resembling meat into neatly-wrapped packages identical to those received from the butcher. She labeled some as beef and some as pork, but in a corner of each package, she marked a tiny “m”, for Misko. She carefully stashed these in the freezer behind the other packages.

The head, feet, hands and entrails had to be disposed of separately, because their shape resembled nothing else in the freezer. That problem was solved by using two plastic, ten-kilo lard buckets with tight-fitting lids. There was a stack of the buckets in the storeroom, and two would not be missed. She could drop them in the public garbage bins she bicycled past on her way home.

She washed the tiles again and mopped until the kitchen was clean and tidy. The mop strands were thoroughly blood-soaked and impossible to clean. She decided to dispose of it along with the head and entrails. Again, one mop wouldn’t be missed.

At 3:30, she was done. The bakers would arrive in an hour, so it was time to leave. She triple-checked the kitchen and customer area for anything out of place. Exhausted, she mounted her bike and pedaled toward home. The wind in her face was exhilarating.

A few blocks away, she skidded to a stop. She had left the buckets with the head, hands, feet and bloody mop head sitting by the back door. In her exhaustion, she had lost focus, too eager to escape the reality of the last several hours. She couldn’t let that happen. Think, think, think, you idiot!

She returned to the building, strapped the buckets and bags onto the bike’s rear carriers, and wobbled off toward the first dumpster.

#

The next day, having slept for less than an hour, she stumbled through her job and made many mistakes. She lost count when making change. She mixed up customers’ orders. More than once, she rushed back into the kitchen to get a full pan of chops or moussaka and then forgot what she had come for. The cook winked and accused her of partying too late, and she grinned nervously.

A black-humored thought occurred to her: At least Mr. Misko won’t be here to catch me messing up.

But in the middle of the noon rush, as she was spooning mashed potatoes onto a plate, she froze. Out of her side vision, she caught a familiar stooped form pushing his way through the far door. Oh God – it's him! She braced herself against the wall to keep from fainting, which drew an alarmed look from the customer waiting to pay.

"Are you okay, miss?" he said. "You’re shaking. Don’t drop the plate."

She smiled weakly. "I'm fine. Cash or card?"

As she fumbled the man’s card into the reader, she glanced across the room and understood her mistake. It was a different man. He was frowning, but not at her. Misko had reserved his scowls for her alone.

All these old men look the same, she thought.

#

Days passed, then the weekend. On Monday, no one had commented on Mr. Misko’s absence. He always ate alone, and she’d never seen him with friends. Did an old grouch like that have any friends? Maybe he won’t be missed. Maybe.

Tuesday was delivery day for meat, and Liana volunteered to store the packages in the freezer. She didn’t want anyone else near those marked with an “m”.

But there was no delivery that day. The butcher called to say the freezer truck had broken down, and he couldn’t deliver until Friday. Ms. Papadopoulos asked the cook, “I’m worried about the ground beef and pork. Do we have enough stock?” The cook glanced at the stacks of frozen meat packages in the freezer and shrugged. “I think so,” she said carelessly.

Liana froze. Don't look, don't look, she thought. The cook made no move to do an inventory, but Ms. Papadopoulos insisted. “Count them up to be sure,” she said.

The cook sighed. “Tomorrow. I’m too busy today.”

Liana was relieved. Thank God she’s lazy. But I have to do something to get rid of that… evidence.

That night, after everyone left for the day and the doors were locked, she pulled out the packages marked with an “m” and ran the contents, bones and all, through the big meat grinder. She re-wrapped everything to resemble the packages from the butcher. Again, she marked each with an “m” before storing them with the other items in the freezer.

The next day, she helped the cook do an inventory, and now, of course, they found plenty of stock. Then Liana volunteered for "ground meat duty”, which meant preparing the hamburger patties and filling for the moussaka and stuffed peppers. She mixed some “m” meat with the butcher’s ground beef and pork, hoping the taste would pass muster. She used only a small amount of “m” meat for the patties and peppers, afraid the change in taste would be obvious, but she used a much larger proportion for the moussaka. She hoped the rich blend of spices and ingredients in that dish would disguise any unusual flavor. At this rate, she figured Mr. Misko would completely disappear within a couple of weeks. She allowed herself a glimmer of hope.

She had a pleasant surprise during the noon rush. Several customers came up and told her how much they liked the moussaka. Compliments were rare, and that day she got more than she had in weeks. When she passed the accolades along to Ms. Papadopoulos and the cook, her boss beamed. The cook laughed, “From now on, Liana, you’re in charge of the moussaka.” The cook, long past the point of pride in her work, was serious; preparing the moussaka was a lot of work and she hated making it.

There was something special about their moussaka. It was a complex dish requiring several steps: pan-frying the eggplant and potatoes exactly right, preparing the homemade tomato sauce, gently layering in the cooked ground meat. It had to be watched carefully while baking, so the crust was golden brown and didn’t burn. Finally, it was slathered with bechamel sauce, also difficult to make. To the cook’s chagrin, it was one of their most popular dishes.

Word spread, and each day more people came in and specifically requested “that special moussaka”. Liana, of course, shunned the moussaka, as well as the hamburger patties and stuffed peppers. Once, when she tasted a spoonful of the cooked ground meat for saltiness, she rushed to the toilet and vomited.

An article appeared in a popular citywide magazine about Papadopoulos’s Bakery Cafe. It featured a glamor shot of Ms. Papadopoulos, described her Greek roots and lauded her achievements as a female emigre and entrepreneur. But there was also a flattering picture of a smiling Liana scooping out a serving of moussaka, which the article described as their “signature dish”. Ms. Papadopoulos beamed at Liana when the article appeared and, for the first time, gave Liana a fond hug.

After the article, customers began lining up from late morning to afternoon. Once, when Liana emerged from the kitchen with a pan of the now-famous moussaka, someone shouted, “It’s her, the moussaka girl.” She stared, baffled, as everyone laughed and applauded. She blushed and grinned when she understood what the fuss was all about. Customers chattered and made jokes as she slipped the tray into its slot on the steam table. Liana reveled in her new celebrity status.

Two weeks later, when she checked the refrigerator shelf to prepare the daily meat blend, she noticed only one five kilogram package remained of “the Misko”, as she thought of it. She was relieved; in a few days, the old man would be completely removed from existence.

One morning few days later, she got a late start. The last package of Misko was frozen solid, and she was forced to use the standard meat mixture, beef with pork. To her surprise, some customers complained about the bland taste of the moussaka. One rude woman accused her of cutting corners, using lower-grade ingredients.

The realization hit her full force: the Misko was the key to her success.

The following day, she had to use a fourth of the remaining Misko in her blend. As she returned the diminished package to the refrigerator, she felt a creeping anxiety in her gut. If she couldn’t create her prize moussaka, customers would complain to Ms. Papadopoulos, and she, Liana, would get the blame. She wouldn’t lose her job, but she had come to treasure her elevated status, her newfound celebrity. She’d overheard Ms. Papadopoulos discussing making her the assistant manager, despite her youth. She had been feeling more confident, stronger — the kind of person she always wanted to be.

All next day she pondered what to do. Some customers had begun requesting large orders of moussaka to take home for family gatherings, which would have emptied all pans within an hour. She received Ms. Papadopoulos’s permission to limit customers to one serving each. Nevertheless, she barely had enough of the Misko to make it to the weekend.

As she dished out the last squares of the day's moussaka, an elderly man, whom she knew as Mr. Vladimir, pushed his tray into view. He was a regular who had ordered moussaka every day for years and wasn’t pleased when his favorite dish had become a hit and was sometimes unavailable. He was also the same man Liana had mistaken for Mr. Misko the morning after the “event.” He wasn’t as wickedly sadistic as Misko, but he was consistently unpleasant. He complained his portions were not as large as they used to be, and Liana laughingly explained they had used the same pans for years. The moussaka was always cut three across and five down, so portions had to be the same size. He didn’t buy it.

Today he made a fuss when she restricted him to one serving. “I promised to bring some to my neighbor ladies. Don’t they matter for anything?”

She smiled. “Rules are rules, Mr. Vladamir. Now, which side dishes…”

He interrupted her. “You’re getting too big for your britches, young lady. Just because you got your picture in a magazine, you think you can ignore your regular customers.”

She smiled with newfound confidence and winked at him. “Don’t worry, Mr. Vladimir. We always take care of our loyal customers.”

His wrinkled scowl softened. “I’ll be the judge of that,” he said. “So what are you going to do about it?”

“Tell you what,” she said. She leaned across the counter and whispered conspiratorially. “Come around later tonight, after we close. Just knock and I’ll let you in. I’ll have something special waiting for you.”

 

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