Vanilla Salt (36 page)

He had to wait a whole week before he could return to Barcelona, enduring seven days of being almost asphyxiated by remorse. Finally Monday came around and he drove into the city centre, obsessed with finding the Brazilian prostitute. When he approached her she shrank away, looking around for help. She went pale and, just as she was about to start running, Àlex grabbed her arm. She screamed and shook her head, but he showed her a handful of notes and said, “This is for you, princess. Let’s go to a bar and talk.” She couldn’t resist the temptation of the money he was offering and, since he’d suggested an open space, surrounded by other people, where he’d have problems if he attacked her again, she agreed to go with him.

She asked for a Fanta and they started talking, although it ended up being a kind of interrogation in which she hardly dared to speak, except for timid answers to his questions. Her name was Gladys and she’d
arrived quite recently from Brazil, where, as the second of twelve brothers and sisters, her chances of bettering herself were less than remote. She had a baby son, whom she’d left with her parents. She wanted to study and become a nurse, but at present she was hard put to get enough to eat every day. The night he attacked her, she’d been in Barcelona for just two weeks and had only begun working as a prostitute a few days earlier. She was nineteen years old when he invited her to a Fanta in the bar.

After that Àlex went to see her every Monday. He always paid her double the agreed rate, saying, “Half of that is for food and the other half is for your nursing studies. Save it.”

Their relationship had little in common with the typical whore-client encounter. Àlex treated Gladys like his girlfriend, his sweetheart, his friend. Of course they had sex, and a lot of it, but they also talked and freely exchanged confidences. Monday was a delightful day. Until early afternoon Àlex busied himself with all sorts of jobs to help the nuns at Cottolengo, which he left happy and satisfied at having been able to see his son and do something for the nuns. Gladys was waiting for him towards evening, with the sweet, chocolatey, delicious, firm breasts he’d been dreaming about. He loved listening to her melodious voice, rich with the music she’d learnt on the streets. They talked and talked and Àlex slept naked in a bed which Gladys rented by the hour, in the disgusting room, in dirty sheets in which at least a dozen men had wallowed.

“The day you threw me out, the day when I wanted to die, after wandering round the streets not knowing where to go or what to do, I went to see Gladys, who took me in. Life is full of surprises! I was taken in by a whore! A few months earlier she’d been able to rent a tiny flat two doors away from where she worked, so now she could live alone and was at last spared the farts of the old pros in the house where she’d had to share a room because she couldn’t afford anything better. What with the rent and having to buy food, Gladys didn’t have enough to pay
the fees for her nursing studies, the only course that didn’t require a certificate in primary education. I felt indebted to her, so I gave her the rest of the money from the sale of the house and the advance. Now you know everything,” Àlex concludes. “If you want to get something back, you’ll have to take on a whore and several nuns. I wouldn’t advise it.”

“What you tell me is very typical with you. I can imagine this. I really sorry for death of your son. You no tell me this before. But I remember the day you come back after party you chop many onions and close you inside you. I understand this as clear sign that you guilty for the poison, but you silent because Laiex die. I make big mistake.”

“I didn’t tell you because you didn’t ask me what was wrong.”

“We no start argument round and round same track now, because it no lead us nowhere. We have this situation of no have money and problem of debts. We have scenario: we must pay rent and loan of Òscar. If we no return advance pay for business, plus fine, we no have restaurant in two weeks. We must make decision. We go and speak with bank for credit or—”

“We’ll sell the restaurant.” Àlex is categorical.

“But, Àlex, this your life, and now it my life also.”

“Our life isn’t in this restaurant.” He’s categorical.

“But… you cooking. You love this most.”

“What I love most is you and I don’t want to lose you. We can do lots of things together. We have plenty of experience, ideas, energy, dreams and time. Let’s not blow this chance by getting into debt up to our ears, fretting our lives away in one small corner of the planet when we have a whole world to discover.”

Caught up in their conversation, they haven’t been watching the clock. It’s late and they have less than an hour before they open. They have tables reserved and Àlex hasn’t had time to cook all the dishes featuring on the lunchtime menu. He dashes into the kitchen to throw together whatever he can to save the situation.

He looks around and is dumbstruck. While he was talking with Annette, Eric has done the cooking. It’s not exactly what Àlex had in mind, but he’s done a good job. All by himself, with the few ingredients he’s found in the fridge, the scraps of culinary knowledge he’s managed to pick up from Àlex and the arrogance of youth and inexperience, he’s produced six dishes. Àlex is pleasantly surprised. The kid’s got talent. He’s acquitted himself very well.

Annette and Graça get the dining room ready. They’re expecting quite a few people today. Annette’s troubled, upset by her conversation with Àlex and saddened by the prospect of selling Roda el Món. She barely speaks. The Can Bret people are only concerned about making money and couldn’t care less about good cooking, culinary culture, gastronomic sensibility and fine products. When they look at a customer, they only see the bulge of his wallet. She imagines what they’ll do to Roda el Món. They’ll wreck the place, reduce the kitchen to half its size so they can cram in more tables, change the format of the menus, smothering them in plastic so they’ll last for ever, send back the fine wines so they can offer cheap ones with a high markup, and sack Graça because she’s black. Annette can’t bear the awful reality of what will happen in less than two weeks if they sell to the Can Bret people.

She grabs the phone and calls Eric’s father, the fish supplier, to ask for an appointment. He immediately agrees, since he fears that this must be about his son’s less than satisfactory behaviour, although he’s had the impression for a while now that the lad has stopped hanging round with those pothead friends of his. He tells her to come later this afternoon.

Annette takes the bus to the industrial estate and Eric’s dad is punctual in receiving her. It’s clear from the sweat pearling on his forehead that he’s worried. Annette reassures him.

“Please you no worry about your son. Eric he work very well and he even like his job. He prepare today all the menu, himself alone. We are happy with him. His attitude also change, and now he not so aggressive but more tolerant. It hard for him to control the impulses of young person, but he try.”

Eric’s father is greatly relieved. This is the best news he’s had since he signed the deal with the biggest hotel chain in the country. If his business is booming and his kid’s not getting up his nose, he’s the luckiest man on earth. As long as his wife lets him go to see the young ladies in Thailand a couple of times a year then life’s a bed of roses.

“I’m very happy to hear that. In fact, he’s a good lad, and I can say it even if he is my own son,” he boasts. “He just had to find a job that interests him. I really had a great idea when I had to decide what to do about your debt. Sometimes I surprise myself with the things that occur to me,” he says, glancing in the enormous mirror covering a good part of one of the walls in his office and rearranging the remaining few strands of hair across his bald dome.

“Yes, he is very good boy, and true also that he like cooking. But your son he would not be fine in any restaurant. The good principles in Roda el Món, the workmates, the freedom Àlex give him to create new dishes, the discipline in timetable… all these things important for your son so he can to work well.” She employs all her shrewdness to save the business. “There are many different kinds of restaurants and most too big or impersonal or not enough disciplined… some are incredible. Depending on kind of cooking you need lot of serenity and many skills to deal with the tension. It very important for Eric to have good training before he try other restaurants.”

“But why are you telling me all this? Do you want to sack him? Remember, this is impossible, because you signed a contract that is very clear about this. You can’t sack my son.” His tone is now threatening.

“No, no, for Heaven sake! No, I no want to sack Eric. We love him like he is our son.” She looks at the ceiling, trying to hide the fact that she’s lying, although it’s true that they’ve grown quite fond of Eric.

“So what’s all this about then? Why are you telling me it would be better if he didn’t leave Roda el Món?”

“We no have money for to pay a debt from when we start the restaurant and that get worse after scandal of poison food. I think you know we were not responsible. You know that?” She’s speaking slowly, to make sure he gets everything she says.

“Yes, of course I know. I have followed the case with great interest – after all, my son works with you! I’ve read all the newspapers and my son’s even told me a bit… well, a bit, because you know what these young people are like. They don’t talk much.”

“Well, he talk very much in restaurant. He feel happy with us. I want to tell you we cannot pay the debt and we must sell restaurant. Can Bret make us very good offer, so in fifteen days Roda el Món will belong to them and we all lose our job: Eric, us and the waitress. We have two weeks only. Unless—”

“Unless what?” Eric’s dad is clearly irked.

“Unless you buy restaurant.”

“Now you’re floored me, girl. You mean you think I should buy the restaurant. Then what?”

“Everything go on like now. You will be owner and Eric will have safe job. You can think about it this night and telephone me tomorrow? We do not have time, because the Can Bret man he is pushing us, every day more.”

A very determined Annette hands him a document showing all the conditions of the sale of the restaurant: the price, the deadline for payment and the clause clearly stipulating that the new owner must respect the way the business is being run by its present owners. Annette’s sure she’s won the day. Eric’s dad is bound to buy the restaurant and, since
the only thing he wants is to make sure his son learns some kind of trade, keeps busy, stays out of trouble and stops giving him headaches, leaving him in peace to get on with his trips to Thailand, he won’t interfere in the running of the restaurant.

That night, after they close, Àlex and Annette have a frugal dinner at the kitchen table. Wanting Àlex to try the foods that came to Spain from the Americas, she has made guacamole. He doesn’t want to be rude, but he doesn’t like it. The texture and taste put him off. She tells him that the main ingredient, avocado, was the last of the American foods to be accepted by the Spanish people, who, like Àlex, didn’t take to it at first. It didn’t grow well in Spain and, since it ripens fast, it spoils very easily when transported, so it was never widely distributed and didn’t appear even on the tables of rich folk, although it was a staple in its natural environment. The Aztecs believed that it was an aphrodisiac because of its shape, which is why the tree was called
Ahuacuatl
, testicle tree.

“You need taste new food at least ten times so you get used with it. I no surprise you no like it the first time, because it have really a strange taste. But if you try more times, I am certain you will like it in the end.”

“And if I insist that you come upstairs to our room now, I am certain I will like you in the end,” Àlex mocks her affectionately.

Annette has given Eric’s father until the end of the morning to respond to her offer, and he doesn’t make her wait. At one minute past eight the phone shrills hysterically. She flies out of Àlex`s room, leaps down the stairs and gets there before it rings off. In her mad rush to take the call, she shouts “I’m coming, I’m coming”, as if the person on the other end of the line could hear her.

As she imagines, it’s Eric’s dad and, unsurprisingly, he accepts all her conditions. She hangs up, and the argument between her head and her
heart immediately begins. She’s really happy, of course, but she’s also deeply sad. She knows how hard it will be to recover Roda el Món, but at least it won’t fall into the obnoxious hands of the Can Bret man.

With the money from the sale, they’ll be able to settle their debts with the suppliers, pay back Òscar’s loan and return the advance of the Can Bret man plus whatever they are fined. They’ll have enough left over to get the flavoured-salt business off to a good start. Only one small detail remains. She has to break the news to Àlex.

She doesn’t beat around the bush. “Àlex, I sell Roda el Món to the father of Eric.”

She expects shouts, a bawling-out and a heap of arguments against her plan, but he is perfectly calm and thinks it an excellent idea. The only surprise for him is the identity of the buyer.

“We’re not leaving. Like this we can to work peacefully and put this money in Vanilla Salt,” she adds.

“Yes, yes, I get it, and if everything goes to plan we’ll never again be slaves of our overheads as we are now. We’ve got to make sure that everything works well, because our income depends on it, but at least we’ll be relieved of that never-ending pressure. You’ve done very well, Annette.”

A very cheerful Àlex gets to work on the day’s menu and, listening to him singing, Annette hears the tender tones she heard when she first came to work here. Everything will be easy today at Roda el Món. She starts getting the dining room ready, but then, on the spur of the moment, she rushes outside and gives Can Bret the finger. She’s learnt that this silent but eloquent “Up yours” is called a
botifarra
in Catalonia, and doing it makes her feel even more relaxed. She goes into the kitchen and, inspired by the cheerful atmosphere, makes a large, generous apple cake, like the ones she used to make when she was a rich woman in Canada. She’s like a cat on hot bricks, excited and relaxed all at once. While she’s waiting
to take her cake out of the oven and for the future owner of Roda el Món to arrive, she amuses herself by dusting the wine shelf and then decides that a drop of Priorat red would be a good thing, so she pours herself a glass from an open bottle of Embruix. “To the eternal good health of our love,” she toasts, all by herself. She’s got till mid-morning before Eric’s dad comes in his Porsche Cayenne and takes her to the notary’s to sign all the papers.