The Seven Turns of the Snail's Shell: A Novel (21 page)

C-C returned to the sofa. “In the south of France. He’s running Diamanté’s restaurant for him. No one knows where Diamanté is.
Grand-père
apparently called again yesterday asking about him. They’ve known each other for a long time. They keep saying not to worry. He’ll show up.”

“I know. I mostly worry about what happens if he does.” Anna smiled. “What is he going to think? Will he even believe my story?”

The phone rang again three rings.

“That’s Lucie for sure this time.” C-C got up to answer it.

“
Oui. Oui. Tout de suite
.” He put down the receiver. “We are wanted downstairs. Apparently there are visitors.”

They quickly put the items on the table back into the tin box. C-C placed it under his arm. “Do you want me to read the letters?”

“If you wish. It’s all old news now, though. Maybe you should just toss them into the trash…for once and for all.”

He didn’t answer her.

CHAPTER 35

T
hey were waiting with grins on their faces in the hallway at the bottom of the stairs.

“Charlie!” Léo La Bergère was the first to grab C-C and hug him. “So good to see you!” He shook C-C’s hand vigorously.

“
Bonjour
, Léo. It’s been a long time.” C-C turned to the other man. “
Père
Truette.”

The priest took C-C’s hand. “It’s good to have you home, my son.” His voice was soft and kindly.

C-C introduced Anna to them.

“
Enchanté
,” they said in unison as they each extended a hand.

Lucie bustled from the dining room. “Léo and Pierre are having dinner with us. Please, everyone, come in and be seated. Jacques specifically ordered that we open bottles of Château Haut-Brion. I chose 1936, a fine year…before the war. Jacques saved them from the Germans and from the bombs, you know.” She shooed them into the wood-paneled dining room and pointed to their places at a table set with white linens, fine crystal goblets, silver, and china. A silver candelabra with white lit candles twinkled in the center, flanked by sparkling crystal decanters of dark red wine.

“Too bad Jacques isn’t here to enjoy this celebration,” Léo lamented as the aperitif was poured. They toasted to good fortune and good food…and then to the young couple. “To Charlie and to Anna.”

Lucie took a seat at the table as her staff entered with the first course. “I’m putting my sous-chef in charge for the next two hours,” she announced. “I don’t want to miss any of the conversation.
Bon appétit
!”

The first course was
boudin blanc
, a delicately flavored fresh sausage made with veal.

“
Spécialité de Normandie
. Ah, there is nothing I like more!” Léo declared as Lucie glared at him. “Except, of course,
la pièce de résistance
, the duck. Did you know, Anna, that this
resto
is renowned for its duck?”

“I assumed by the name.”

Léo went on. “Ah, but such a duck! Le
canard à la rouennaise
has a story.” His eyes twinkled as he seemed to be warming up to tell it.

“Oh,
non
, not Jacques’ story, Léo. Leave it!” Lucie exclaimed. There was a collective sigh as they all anticipated what was coming.

C-C smiled. He knew it by heart. “My father,” he said, “entertains anyone who will listen with the story about how the duck is killed by suffocation so that the blood is retained, giving the meat a particularly rich flavor. Each time he tells it, he embellishes it so as to make the meal a memorable experience for his clientele. It’s a story of fear and terror, but only my father can tell it!”

Léo feigned a stab to the heart. “
Bon, alors
. Jacques tells it better than I do, anyway.”

Anna asked C-C, “Why did your father decide to settle in Rouen?”

“He never talked about it. I don’t believe that anyone ever knew.”

“He is correct,” inserted the priest. “Jacques had an air of
mystère
about him. We only knew him during the war. He was young, only in his teens, at the onset. He helped form
Les Amis Clandestins
. Originally, his interest in the Résistance movement was only in saving France’s wine. He joined forces with the local restaurateurs and the winemakers to protect France’s treasured commodity from plunder. The wine cellar of this
resto
, in fact, was concealed by a false wall. It held over ten thousand bottles of wine during the war, and it also provided a safe haven.
Les Amis
rescued people who were in danger, particularly American and British fliers who had been shot down. Eventually, Jacques became the sole owner. He only ever talked about his life since he married Nathalie, which also occurred, of course, here in Rouen.”

Léo La Bergère couldn’t help adding, “Nathalie was a native of Strasbourg. The way Jacques tells it, she spent all of her summers with her Norman relatives because her father, a banker in Strasbourg, originated from Rouen. She met Jacques literally over a
Tarte Tatin
.”

“Those from Strasbourg believe that they make the best
Tarte Tatin
,” C-C added. “The Normans, of course, credit their apples.”

“Exactly!” the rest of them chimed in.

C-C continued. “My mother was a good match for my father. She had a fine sense of cooking herself, being that she always claimed that she originated from the gastronomical capital of France.” He looked around the table with a mischievous grin. “A fact that she maintained is corroborated by most French citizens.” Around the table could be heard loud objections. “Everyone note!” He wagged his finger at them. “She eventually won out on the
Tarte Tatin
, and it was her recipe, not Papa’s, that the
resto
served.”

“And still does today,” Lucie added. “That’s one recipe I won’t change.”

“
Voilà
!” C-C put both his hands on the table in triumph.

Lucie thought for a moment and then added with a wink as she took them all in, “There’s another story about Jacques that we can tell since he isn’t here.” She hesitated, then began with a dramatic flourish. “Because he enjoyed his own cooking, he was from time to time submitted to
la régime de Madame Gérard
.” She emphasized each of the last words dramatically.

A collective “Ahhhhh!”

“This diet that Nathalie claimed to have invented herself consisted of vegetables, lots of water, and no bread, cheese, wine, or sugar!”

A collective “Oh,
quelle horreur
!”

The unified audience’s support for Lucie’s story was amusing to Anna. She looked at C-C. He seemed to be enjoying himself.

Lucie continued, “This put Jacques in atrociously bad humor, and everyone could tell by the booming of his voice when
Madame
had submitted him to yet another round of her famous
régime
. It was impossible for Jacques to live without his Camembert!”

Collective shaking of heads all around.

C-C looked over to Anna as the conversation paused. “Our Anna here is a
raconteur
. She has published several books. One was just introduced in France.”

Admiring glances and a collective “
Ah bon, ah bon! Félicitations
!”

“What kind of books do you write, Anna?” The question came from the priest.

“Novels. Fiction. They’re stories. I like to tell stories.”

Lucie beckoned to the sommelier to fill the wine goblets. “Tell us a story, Anna.”

Anna glanced around the table. They were all looking at her with anticipation. She thought for a moment, made a personal decision, and then cleared her throat.

“This is the tale of three men,” she began, “one American, one French, and the third Corsican. Each of them has a story.” She paused for dramatic effect. “The American was a handsome young flier during the Second World War. He flew bomb runs over northern France. The Frenchman left his farm in Normandy and eagerly went off to fight in the war in Italy. After his leg was badly wounded, he returned to France. The Corsican also left his native Corsica at a young age and joined the
maquis
. He was said to have a lethal gaze and magical powers of survival. One day, during the worst of the fighting, the American flier’s plane was shot down over France. After landing his parachute, he was found and hidden by the Frenchman and the Corsican who were with the Résistance fighters working against the enemy. He called them his liberators. The Corsican became his good friend. They wrote to each other after each had returned to his respective homeland after the war. Each married. The American had an only daughter; the Corsican had an only son. One day, the Corsican wrote to the American that his son was coming to the United States for military training. Would the American entertain junior on weekends so that he wouldn’t get homesick, he inquired.”

Anna paused to take a sip of the wine. It tasted smooth and rich from decades of aging.

“The American’s daughter was seventeen,” she continued. “She fell in love with the Corsican’s handsome son. He in turn was enchanted by her and returned her love. When it was time for the young man to leave, he promised her that he would come back to get her. But he never came back. Several months later, the old Corsican fighter sent another letter to his friend, the American flier. His son, it said, had been sent to yet another war…the Algerian conflict… and he was killed. The Corsican was heartbroken. So too was the American’s daughter, for she had just delivered his baby. The little girl’s complexion was light olive. She had black, curly hair, and she resembled her Corsican father. The American flier didn’t hear from the Corsican again, and he never told him that he had a grandchild. The granddaughter grew up, tragically without either her mother or her father, and went to study in France, never knowing that she was half Corsican.” Anna paused again. The group around the table gave the impression of a photo at a family reunion. They were all looking her way, chewing on their food and listening intently. Finally, the priest spoke.

“But,
Mademoiselle
, you said the story was about three young men? What about the Frenchman?”

“I’m coming to that. Thirty-five years later, after the American flier had passed away, the granddaughter was going through his mementos. As if by magic, an old Christmas card from the Frenchman caught her eye. It had been sent from France five years after the war. The granddaughter set off on a quest. She traveled to France and tracked down the Frenchman, who by this time was almost ninety years old. One day, she knocked on his door. She found out many things about her Corsican grandfather, except his whereabouts. To this day, the granddaughter does not know where he is, but she continues her quest with the anticipation of one day finding him.”

C-C was looking intensely at Anna. Her eyes locked on his.

“The moral of the story is, whatever the quest, it is the journey itself which in the end makes the story interesting. The American was my grandfather. The Frenchman is—” she was still swimming in C-C’s gray eyes. “I didn’t know it before I visited him, but he is Charles-Christian’s
grand-père
, Guy de Noailles. And the Corsican? I believe you all know him as
le loup
.”

“Diamanté?” They gasped in unison.

Anna nodded her head as she pulled her eyes away from C-C’s and looked at the others.

Léo La Bergère was the first to speak. “But this incredible story, it is true?”

Anna laughed. “As with all stories, there is an element of fiction and an element of reality. For example, it is not known whether the young man ever promised to return to California. What is true is that I am the granddaughter with the quest, and Diamanté doesn’t know of my existence.”

“Whew!” There was a collective wind, and the candles flickered as they blew through their lips in unison.

Lucie looked at her, tears glistening in her eyes. “But this is
étonnant
, an astonishing story, Anna. I hope you find the old
mec
. That fellow’s a hard one. We all know that.” They all indicated that they agreed with her. “It will do him good to have a granddaughter such as yourself. He could use some softening up.”

Anna thanked them for listening to her. She had told the story in French. C-C leaned over to her and whispered, “You told it well.”

The meal was just as promised. The duck, strongly flavored and redolent of herbs, garlic, and spices, was superb, and there was apple
Tarte Tatin
for dessert. They were all stuffed and happy as they sipped on strong coffee afterward. The laughter and stories continued, some from the war days, prompted by Anna’s story. Finally, Léo and Pierre said their
au revoirs
, and Lucie excused herself to return to the kitchen to check up on her staff.

C-C leaned into Anna. “How about a walk?”

They put on their coats and headed out the front of the restaurant down the rue du Gros-Horloge. As if by habit, as she had done so many times in the past without thinking, Anna slid her arm under C-C’s elbow. It was midafternoon, and already the December sun was low in the sky.

“How did Lucie come to be your father’s sous-chef? Is there a story there?”