The Ingredients of Love (26 page)

But first I needed to get on with the lamb ragout, because the longer it was braised in the oven at low temperature, the more tender the meat would be.

I washed the pink lamb meat and dabbed it carefully dry with a kitchen towel before I cut it into cubes, browned it in olive oil, and set it aside. Then I blanched the tomatoes in boiling water, skinned them, and took out the flesh.

The tomatoes would be put into the pot only at the very end, together with the white wine, so that their strong flavor wouldn't dominate the other vegetables too much. I got a glass and poured myself some of the pinot blanc I was intending to use in cooking.

Humming softly, I cut open the pomegranates and picked out the seeds with a fork. They rolled toward me like shimmering red freshwater pearls. I was used to cooking quickly, but when, as on that day, I took plenty of time in the preparation of the dishes, cooking almost became a poetic activity in which I could totally lose myself. With every action my initial tension relaxed more and more, and if at the beginning I had been imagining how the evening with Robert Miller would pan out, and thinking of the questions I wanted to ask him, after a while I was just there with my cheeks red from the heat of cooking, feeling totally at ease.

The delicious aroma of the lamb ragout filled the kitchen. It smelled of thyme and garlic. The little leaves of the field salad had been washed and were lying in a big, stainless-steel sieve; the mushrooms had been finely sliced, and the avocados cubed. I tasted the potato vinaigrette and put the little
gâteaux au chocolat,
which were waiting for their final bake, on the metal oven shelf. Then I took off my apron and hung it on its hook. It was just after half past six and everything was prepared. The bottle of champagne had been in the refrigerator for hours. All I had to do now was wait.

I went over into the dining room, where I'd set a table in a niche by the window. The lower third of the window was hung with a white net curtain to conceal my guest and me from inquisitive looks from outside. A silver candlestick with a candle was standing on the table, and a CD with French chansons was loaded ready in the sound system.

I took the bottle of pinot blanc and poured myself a little more wine. Then I went over to the table with my glass and looked out into the night.

The street stood lonely and dark. The few little shops that were on it had already closed. In the window I could see my reflection. I saw an expectant young woman in a sleeveless green silk dress who now slowly raised her arm to loosen the band that held her hair back. I smiled, and the woman in the window smiled back. It might well have been childish to put the silk dress on again, but I had felt that it was the only dress I wanted to wear that evening.

I raised my glass and toasted the woman in the window with her shimmering hair.

“Very best wishes for your birthday, Aurélie,” I said softly. “Let's drink to today being a very special one!” And I caught myself thinking: I wonder how far this evening might go.

Half an hour later—I was just standing in front of the stove with two big oven gloves and shoving the hot shelf with the lamb ragout back in—I heard someone knocking loudly on the restaurant window. Surprised, I pulled off the gloves and left the kitchen. Could Robert Miller have arrived for our rendezvous an hour early?

At first I could only see a gigantic bouquet of champagne-colored roses outside the window. Then I saw the man behind it, who was waving to me happily. But the man was not Robert Miller.

 

Fourteen

Since Aurélie Bredin had run waving over the zebra crossing two weeks before, to disappear a couple of seconds later down the street on the opposite side, I had both longed for and dreaded this moment. I don't know how many times I had run the evening of the sixteenth of December in my mind's eye.

I had thought of this evening as I visited Maman in the hospital; I had thought of it as I sat in the editorial meeting and doodled little stick men in my notepad; I had thought of it as I rushed beneath the city on the Metro, as I leafed through the superb illustrated books in my favorite bookstore, Assouline, and as I met my friends in La Palette. And as I lay in bed at night, I thought about it anyway.

Wherever I was, wherever I went, the thought of this evening accompanied me, and I anticipated it as nervously as an actor does the premiere of his new play.

More than once I had held the telephone in my hand with the thought of hearing Aurélie Bredin's voice and, on the off chance, asking her out for a coffee, but I'd always hung up for fear of getting the brush-off. And anyway, she hadn't been in touch with me since the day I had met her outside her house “by chance”; the day my friend Adam had rung her pretending to be Robert Miller to arrange the date in her restaurant.

As I made my way to Le Temps des Cerises with my bouquet and a bottle of Crémant, I was more nervous than I had almost ever been before. And now I was standing at the window trying my damnedest to put on a relaxed and not too solemn expression. My idea, to drop in at the restaurant totally spontaneously after work to wish Aurélie Bredin (briefly) a happy birthday (having remembered the date purely by chance), was supposed to look as natural as possible.

So I knocked quite loudly on the windowpane, knowing full well that I would find the beauteous cook alone in the restaurant, and my heart was knocking at least as loudly.

I saw her surprised expression, and a few seconds later the door of Le Temps des Cerises opened and Aurélie Bredin gave me a questioning look. “Monsieur Chabanais, what are
you
doing here?”

“Wishing you a happy birthday,” I said, holding out the bouquet to her. “I wish you all the very best—and hope that all your wishes come true.”

“Oh, thank you very much, that is really very kind of you, Monsieur Chabanais.” She took the bouquet in both hands and I used the opportunity to push past her into the restaurant.

“May I come in for a moment?” A swift glance established the fact that a table was set in the niche near the window, and I sat down on one of the wooden chairs near the entrance. “Do you know, when I looked at the calendar today, I suddenly thought … the sixteenth of December, that means something, that definitely means something. And then I remembered. And then I thought you might be pleased if I brought you a bunch of flowers.” I smiled winningly and put the bottle of Crémant on the table beside me. “I did threaten you that I'd visit your restaurant one day, do you remember?” I stretched my arms out. “
Et voilà
—here I am.”

“Yes … here you are.” Her expression showed that she was not exactly over the moon at my sudden appearance. She looked embarrassedly at the sumptuous roses, and sniffed them. “This is … a wonderful bouquet, Monsieur Chabanais … it's just that … the restaurant is actually closed today.”

I slapped my forehead. “Well there's a thing, I'd completely forgotten that. Then it's very lucky that I found you here at all.” I sat up. “But what are you doing here then? On your birthday? You're not working secretly, are you?” I laughed.

She turned and got a glass vase out from under the bar.

“No, of course not.” I could see a light shade of pink coloring her face as she went into the kitchen to fill the vase with water. She came back and stood the vase of roses on the counter near the cash register and the telephone.

“Well then … thank you very much, Monsieur Chabanais,” she said.

I stood up. “Does that mean you're throwing me out before I even have the chance to drink a birthday toast with you? That's hard.”

She smiled. “I'm afraid there's hardly time for that. You really have arrived at an awkward moment, Monsieur Chabanais. I'm sorry,” she added with a regretful expression, and clasped her hands.

I pretended to see the table that was set by the window for the first time. “Oh,” I said. “
Oh là là!
You're
expecting
someone. That looks like a romantic evening.”

I looked at her. Her green eyes shone.

“Well, whoever it is can count himself lucky. You look particularly lovely tonight, Aurélie.” I stroked the bottle, which was still on the table. “When does your guest arrive?”

“At eight o'clock,” she said, pushing her hair back.

I looked at my watch. A quarter past seven. In a few minutes Adam would ring. “Oh, come along, Mademoiselle Bredin, a quick glass to toast your birthday!” I pleaded. “It's only a quarter past seven. In ten minutes I'll disappear. I'll just open the bottle.”

She smiled, and I knew that she wouldn't say no.

“All right,” she sighed. “Ten minutes.”

I rummaged in my trouser pocket for a corkscrew. “See,” I said, “I've even brought the right tools with me.” I pulled the cork out, and it left the neck of the bottle with a soft pop.

I poured the sparkling wine into two glasses that Aurélie fetched from the cupboard. “Then once more, very best wishes. I feel honored,” I said, and we clinked glasses. I drank the Crémant in great gulps and tried to remain calm even though my heart was hammering so wildly that I was afraid she might hear it. The countdown was running. The telephone would ring very soon, and then we'd see if I was really condemned to leave. I looked deep into my glass, and then once more at Aurélie's lovely face. Just to have something to say, I remarked, “You can't be left out of one's sight for two weeks, can you? I just turn my back once—and you already have a new admirer.”

She blushed and shook her head.

“What?” I said. “Do I know him by any chance?”

“No,” she said.

And then the phone rang. We both looked at it on the counter, but Aurélie Bredin made no move to pick it up.

“Probably someone who wants to make a reservation,” she said. “I don't need to pick it up, the answering machine is switched on.”

We heard a click, and then the restaurant's message. And then Adam's voice rang out.

“Oh, good evening, this is Adam Goldberg with a message for Aurélie Bredin,” he said without beating about the bush. “I'm Robert Miller's agent, and I'm calling on his behalf,” continued Adam, and I saw how Aurélie turned pale. “I would have preferred to tell you personally, but Miller has asked me to cancel your meeting this evening. I am to tell you that he's very sorry.” Adam's words fell into the room like stones. “He … how should I put it?… He's totally rattled. Yesterday evening his wife turned up unexpectedly and … well … she's still there and it looks as if she's there to stay. They have a lot to talk about, I should think.” Adam paused for a moment. “I find it very embarrassing to have to tell you about these private matters, but Robert Miller felt that it was important that you know that he … well … that he's calling off for a very important reason. He wants me to tell you that he's very sorry and hopes that you'll understand.” Adam listened for a couple of seconds and then he said good-bye and hung up.

I looked at Aurélie Bredin, who was standing there frozen to the spot and clasping her wineglass so tightly that I was afraid it would shatter.

She stared at me, and I stared at her, and for a long while neither of us said a word.

Then she opened her mouth as if she wanted to say something, but she didn't say anything. Instead, she emptied her glass in a single gulp and pressed it to her breast. She looked down at the ground. “Well…” she said, her voice trembling revealingly.

I put my glass down, and at that moment I felt like a total rotter. But then I thought,
Le roi est mort, vive le roi
and decided to act.

“You were going to meet
Miller
?” I asked in bewilderment. “Alone in your restaurant? On your
birthday
?” I said nothing for a moment. “Wasn't that going a bit over the top? I mean, you hardly
know
him.”

She looked at me without saying a word and I saw the tears welling up in her eyes. Then she quickly turned away from me and stared out of the window.

“Oh my goodness, Aurélie, I … I don't know what to say. This is simply … awful, completely awful.” I went and stood behind her. She was weeping softly. I put my hands very carefully on her shaking shoulders.

“I'm sorry. My God, I'm so sorry, Aurélie,” I said, noting to my surprise that I actually meant it. Her hair smelled faintly of vanilla, and I would have loved to push it to one side and kiss the nape of her neck. Instead, I stroked her shoulders reassuringly. “Please, Aurélie, don't cry,” I said gently. “Yes, I know, I know … it hurts when you're let down like that … it's all right … it's all right…”

“But Miller called me. He just had to see me and said such nice things on the phone…” She sobbed. “And then I … get everything ready here, keep the evening free … After the letter I thought I meant something special to him … He gave such hints, you understand?” She suddenly turned round and looked at me with tear-stained eyes. “And now his wife suddenly returns and I feel … I feel … I feel terrible!”

She covered her face with her hands, and I took her in my arms.

It took quite a while until Aurélie calmed down again. I was so glad to be with her to console her, handing her tissue after tissue and hoping devotedly that she would never find out why I had been there at the precise moment that the answering machine in Le Temps des Cerises clicked on and catapulted Robert Miller into the unattainable distance.

At some stage—by then we were sitting opposite each other—she looked at me and said, “Have you got a cigarette for me? I think I could do with one now.”

“Yes, of course.” I took out a pack of Gauloises, and she took a cigarette and looked at it thoughtfully. “The last time I smoked a Gauloise was with Mrs. Dinsmore—in the
cemetery
!” She smiled and said, more to herself than me, “I wonder if I will ever find out what the novel is really about.”