The Ingredients of Love (17 page)

“The famous Indian lamb curry?” Mademoiselle Bredin said. “I've never heard of that. Is it really that good?”

“No idea,” I replied. “You as a chef will probably be better able to judge than most people. And Robert Miller found it absolutely superb the last time he was here. After every mouthful he said, ‘Delicious, absolutely delicious.' But the English aren't exactly spoiled when it comes to cuisine—you know, fish and chips! I imagine they go totally overboard when someone puts some curry and some grated coconut in the food, hahaha.” I wished Goldberg could have heard me at that moment.

Aurélie Bredin didn't laugh. “I thought Robert Miller loved
French
cuisine.” She obviously felt that her honor as a chef was being impugned.

“Well, you can ask him all about that yourself,” I replied, in order not to have to discuss our author's culinary predilections any further. I doodled a line of little triangles in my diary with a ballpoint.

“Has Monsieur Miller actually received your letter now?”

“I think so. But I haven't had an answer yet, if that's what you wanted to know.” She sounded a little piqued.

“I'm sure he'll write to you,” I said. “At the latest after he's met you in person on Friday.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“That you are a totally enchanting young woman whose charm no man could resist for long—not even an unworldly English writer.”

She laughed. “You're bad, Monsieur Chabanais, do you know that?”

“Yes, I know,” I replied. “Worse than you think.”

 

Nine

Post Nubila Phoebus.
I softly whispered the inscription engraved on the white boulder, and ran my fingers tenderly over the letters. “After the clouds, the sun.”

It had been my father's motto—and he had been, something you might not automatically expect in someone in his profession, a man with a humanist education who, unlike his daughter, had read a great deal. Rain is followed by sunshine—how wise he had been!

I was standing in the Père Lachaise cemetery and above me white clouds were scudding across the sky; when the sun finally broke through it was actually quite warm. I hadn't been to Papa's grave since All Saints' Day, but today I had felt a very strong urge to come here.

I took a step backward and laid the bright bouquet of asters and chrysanthemums on the flat rectangular surface carved into the ivy-covered grave for that very purpose.

“You can't imagine all that's happened, Papa,” I said. “You'd be amazed.”

The week had begun so unhappily, and now I was standing here in the cemetery, in a strange way happy and excited. And above all I was looking forward impatiently to the following evening.

The sun that had shone so brightly into my room that Tuesday after all the recent dull and rainy weather had been a kind of harbinger. All at once everything had changed for the better.

After I'd unloaded my shopping in the restaurant that Tuesday, discussed three possible pre-Christmas menus with Jacquie, and then thought a couple of times about the red coat and its wearer, I'd gone home again and decided to fill this not exactly glorious day with an even less glorious activity before returning to the restaurant for the evening.

So I sat down at my computer and set to dealing with a pile of long-overdue bills by electronic transfer.

First, however, I glanced at my e-mails and found a friendly—you might even say totally charming—letter from André Chabanais, in which he not only answered all my questions but, to my great surprise, made a suggestion that immediately changed my mood to one of joyful anticipation.

I had the opportunity to meet Robert Miller, even if only for a short while, since Monsieur Chabanais was going to meet with the author and had invited me to come along as if by chance.

Of course I accepted his offer, and unlike my first telephone conversation with the bearded editor, this one was quite amusing and almost flirtatious, which, in the mood I was in, I found quite pleasant.

When I told Bernadette about it, she of course immediately began to pull my leg and said that she was starting to like this editor more and more and that if it ultimately turned out that the author was not quite as wonderful as his novel, I would have another option.

“You're impossible, Bernadette,” I said. “You keep trying to set me up with one man or other. If I take anyone at all, it'll be the author—first of all, he looks better, and then he is after all the one who wrote the book, or have you forgotten that?”

“Is the guy as ugly as sin, then?” Bernadette wanted to know.

“How should I know?” I retorted. “No, probably not, I've never really looked. André Chabanais doesn't interest me at all. And he has a beard.”

“What's so bad about that?”

“Come on, Bernadette! You know that men with beards just aren't my thing. I won't even give them a second glance.”

“A mistake!” Bernadette threw in.

“And anyway, I'm not looking for a man. I'm not looking for a man, d'you hear? I just want an opportunity to talk to that author—for the reasons you are well aware of. And because I'm very grateful to him.”

“Oh, divine providence, fateful entanglements wherever you look…” Bernadette sounded like the chorus in a Greek tragedy.

“Exactly,” I said. “You'll see.”

That same evening I told Jacquie that I would not be coming in to the restaurant on Friday. I'd called Juliette Meunier, a very good and very professional waitress who had previously been head waitress at the Lutetia and who had already stood in for me a couple of times. Now she was studying interior decoration and only took waiting jobs by the hour. Fortunately, she had nothing planned and accepted the offer.

Jacquie, of course, was not exactly delighted. “Do you have to? On a Friday? Especially now that Paul is ill,” he grumbled, banging the pots and pans around as he cooked the meal for our little team.

We always used to eat together an hour before the restaurant opened: Jacquie, the chef and the oldest of us; Paul, the young sous-chef; the two kitchen hands, Claude and Marie; Suzette; and I. These meals, where we discussed all sorts of things, and not just restaurant business, had something of a family atmosphere. We talked, argued, laughed—and then everyone went to their posts refreshed.

“Sorry, Jacquie, but something very important has just cropped up,” I said, and the chef gave me a piercing look.

“Seems to have cropped up very suddenly! This lunchtime when we were discussing the Christmas menus you knew nothing about it.”

“I've already called Juliette,” I said quickly to stop him probing any further. “She'll be happy to come, and for December we still need to decide whether we're going to need extra help in the kitchen. If Paul continues to be ill, I can help you in the kitchen and we can ask Juliette if she'll take my place in the restaurant on weekends.”

“
Ah, non.
I don't like working with women in the kitchen,” said Jacquie. “It takes balls to grill properly, and women just can't do it.”

“Now don't be so cheeky,” I said. “I certainly can do it. And you're an old chauvinist, Jacquie.”

Jacquie grinned. “Always have been, always have been.”

He chopped up two large onions on a wooden chopping board at lightning speed and scraped the pieces into a large pan with the knife. “And anyway, you're not really much good with sauces.” He waited till the onion was golden yellow in the butter, poured some white wine over it, and turned down the gas a little.

“What on earth are you saying, Jacquie?” I was enraged! “You taught me how to make most of the sauces yourself, and you've always said that my fillet steak in pepper sauce is absolutely delicious.”

He smirked. “Yes, your pepper sauce is wonderful, but that's only because you know your papa's secret recipe.” He threw a handful of fries into the fryer and my protest was drowned by the hissing of the hot fat.

When Jacquie worked at the range he became a juggler. He loved to keep several balls in the air at once, and was breathtaking to watch.

“But you do make very good desserts, I'll grant you that,” Jacquie went on, unimpressed, and shook the pan. “Well, let's hope that Paul's back in the saddle on Saturday.” He looked at me over the fryer and lowered an eyelid. “Something very important, eh? Who's the lucky guy, then?”

The lucky guy was Robert Miller, even though he had no inkling of his good fortune. He didn't know that on Friday he'd be going on a blind date in La Coupole. And I wasn't sure if he'd be so madly delighted if an uninvited guest disturbed his conversation with André Chabanais.

But then came Thursday, and with it a letter, which filled me with certainty that I had done everything right and that it was sometimes good to follow your feelings, no matter how absurd it seemed to other people.

I took a letter out of the mailbox. It had nothing on it but my name. Someone had stuck a note on the envelope that read:

Dear Mademoiselle Bredin, this letter arrived at the office yesterday, congratulations! Robert Miller accidentally destroyed the envelope with your address and so he sent it to us. I hope it's in order to deliver it directly to you. See you tomorrow evening.
Bonne lecture!
André Chabanais.

I smiled. It was so typical of Chabanais to congratulate me as if I'd won a bet and wish me enjoyable reading. It had probably surprised him that his author had answered me in spite of everything.

Not for a single moment did the question enter my mind: Where had André Chabanais actually got hold of my private address?

I couldn't wait but sat down in my coat on the cold stone steps in the stairway and tore the letter open. Then I read the sentences that had been literally jabbed into the paper in a spiky hand in blue ballpoint.

Dear Miss Aurélie Bredin,

I have been very happy to receive your nice letter. Unfortunately my small dog Rocky also licked the letter, especially the envelope. When I realized that, it was too late, and Rocky, this greedy small monster, had already swallowed the envelope with the address. I must apologies for mine dog, he is still very young and I send my answer to my trustful editor André Chabanais, who will give it to you, hopefully. I would like to say you, dear Mademoiselle Bredin, that I have received much fan mail but never one so lovely and exciting.

I am really glad that my little Paris novel did help you in a time when you were so unhappy. Thus it has been of use and that is more than you can speak of most books. (I hope also that you in the long run could escape from the police!) I think I could understand you well. I was also been long unhappy and feel with you from my deep heart.

I am not the man kind who is liking to be in public, I prefer to stay incognito and I fear I am a bit boring because I really like to be in my cottage, to walk in the nature, and to repair old cars, but if that does not scare you I accept the charming invitation to your little restaurant when I will come back to Paris.

My next time is only very short and stuffed full of appointments, but I would like to come with more time so that we can talk nice and calmly. Yes I know your restaurant, I falled in love with it at the first look, especially the red-and-white-check tableclothes.

Thank you very much a lot for the lovely photo what you sent me. Dare I say without being intruding that you are very sexy?

And of course you are right—the sameness between Sophie and you, dear Aurélie, is astonishing—and I think I owe you an explication of my small mystery! Just one thing: Never in my boldest expectations did I thought receiving mail from my heroine from my book—it is like a dream that is becoming truth.

I hope so very much that you feel yourself better now and are freed of your unhappiness. I really look forward so much to seeing you in the flesh.

Forgive me, my French is not very good! But I wish you was still pleased that I writed back to you.

I can not wait to sit in your lovely restaurant and in the end to speak to you about ALL.

Friendly wishes and
à tout bientôt!

Yours faithfully,

Robert Miller

*   *   *

“Do you have a watering can, mademoiselle?” said a croaking voice behind me.

I gave a start and turned around.

There in front of me was a little old woman in a black Persian lamb coat with a matching cap. She had bright red lipstick and was inspecting me curiously.

“A
watering can
!” she repeated impatiently.

I shook my head. “No, I'm afraid not, madame.”

“That's bad, very bad.” She shook her head and pursed her red lips crossly.

I wondered what the old lady wanted a watering can for. It had after all rained so much in recent weeks that the ground was definitely damp enough.

“Someone's stolen my watering can,” the old lady explained. “I know exactly that I hid it behind that gravestone”—she pointed at a nearby grave standing under the gnarled branches of an old tree—“and now it's disappeared. Things get stolen everywhere these days—even in a cemetery, and what do they do about it?”

She rummaged in her big black handbag and finally pulled out a pack of Gauloises. I was quite taken aback. She lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and blew the smoke up into the blue sky.

Then she held out the pack to me. “Here, do you want one too?”

I shook my head. I sometimes smoked in cafés, but never in cemeteries.

“Go on, take one, my child.” She waved the pack around in front of my face. “We'll never be as young as this again.” She giggled, and I covered my mouth with my hand, smiling in amazement.

“All right. Thanks very much,” I said. She gave me a light.