by Nan Lyons
Professor Wladisczeucz looked to Natasha for help. “Airport Customs has threatened to kill all my chickens.”
“Naturellement! What would you have us do?” the mayor asked. “Put them in jail?”
“Not without a trial first!” Wladisczeucz shouted.
Natasha glanced at Millie. “I’d like you to meet Mr. Ogden. Professor Wladisczeucz. Mayor Caron.” While they all shook hands, Natasha tried to think of a solution. “Professor, let me call Maxim’s. I’m sure they’ll let you borrow a few — ”
The Professor shook his finger in the mayor’s face. “French chickens? Not in my zupa! Like French models, they are skin and bones. I must protect the solidarity of my team. We will march on the airport and save the chickens!” He turned and hurried away.
The mayor shrugged. “For all the good it will do. We have a consommé de vollaile that could win the Croix de Guerre.”
Natasha whispered to Millie, “Why don’t I meet you later?” But he wouldn’t let go of her arm.
“Come with me,” the mayor said, taking her other arm. “The committee is meeting at the Cuban café.”
Millie shook his head no. Natasha pulled away sharply. “Your Honor, I’ll meet you there.” She glared at Millie. “I have to straighten something out first.” The mayor nodded and quickly disappeared into the crowd.
“Now listen — ” Natasha began.
“No, you listen. You’re not going anywhere without me.”
“Hold it, bub. Don’t think you can boss me around like in the old days. These are the new days. Just because we’re together again in Paris and we’re in love again and someone is trying to kill me again, don’t for a minute think — ”
“Of saving your life?”
Natasha groaned. “Millie, I’m surrounded by a crowd. What could possibly happen?” She put her finger on his nose and smiled. “He’s a one-on-one killer. Just like you.”
Millie paused. “Do you mean what you said?”
“Every word.”
“That part about being in love again?”
She kissed him on the cheek. “Let’s talk about it tonight.”
“You asking me for a date?”
“My treat. The sky’s the limit.”
“Onion soup at Au Pied du Cochon?”
Natasha smiled as she began walking backward, away from him. “You remembered.”
Millie watched as she turned and headed down the aisle. Without taking his eyes from her, he raised his hand and pointed toward Natasha. A burly man in a raincoat who had been pretending to read the program followed her.
ALL THE WAITERS at the Café Castro wore beards, camouflage fatigues, and army boots. Seated under camouflage-cloth umbrellas were members of the organizing committee. A bearded waiter passed a grease-stained purple mimeographed sheet, the only copy of the menu, from person to person. There were six items listed: State Bebida No. 1, State Bebida No. 2, State Bebida No. 3, State Comida No. 1, State Comida No. 2, and State Comida No. 3.
Vera Rama Singh, credited with originating nouvelle Kashmiri cuisine, smiled and tilted her face as if to prevent the red dot on her forehead from slipping. “Can you tell me, please, what is State Bebida Number One?”
“Favorite of Hemingway,” the waiter answered.
“And Number Two?”
“No more left.”
“And Number Three?”
“Sold out.”
Herr Professor Dr. Klaus von Rieber, former chef de cuisine at Spandau Prison, whose memoir, Cooking for One, included many of Rudolph Hess’s favorite dishes, pointed to the menu. “You will tell me, please, what is State Comida Number One?”
“Hemingway favorite,” the waiter replied impatiently. “No more Two and no more Three!” He grabbed back the menu and handed it to Ingmar Oooaiie, director of the Royal Scandinavian Herring Council.
Ingmar leaned over and whispered to the mayor, “I told you we should have had a smorgasbord here instead.”
“I hate herring!” the mayor snapped.
“Ja, but he eats filthy little snails!” Ingmar shuddered.
“Chinese eat snails first,” said Uncle Ho, acknowledged as a Living National Treasure in the People’s Republic for his root- vegetable carving.
“Well, I’m dying of thirst,” Vera said, opening her purse. “This round is on me. Five State Bebidas, if you don’t mind.”
The waiter snatched the menu and left.
Ingmar nodded at Vera. “Thank you. But I thought you had problems getting money from the Indian government.”
“Not a bloody rupee from those papadums,” she said. “They’re so behind the times they still wear Nehru jackets. I had to hit up Air India and Ismail Merchant.” As she saw Natasha approach, Vera opened her arms. “Darling, I didn’t think you’d come.”
Natasha embraced Vera. They had worked together in London, at the Connaught. “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away. Things must be going well,” she said, admiring Vera’s outfit. “You’re back to wearing saris.”
“Please! I look like something Krishna dragged in. Did you get my book?”
“And the video! What’s this I hear about your going into business? Importing caviar to Calcutta?”
“Oh, you Americans. You’ve got guts made of poori.”
All of the men were standing. Natasha greeted them with kisses on each cheek. “Herr Professor Doktor.”
“And my book?” he asked.
“If only the magazine reviewed books in German.”
“What magazine?”
“My magazine,” Natasha said proudly. “American Cuisine.”
Von Rieber shrugged. “Amerikanisch Küche? A magazine for hamburgers?”
Natasha ignored him and kissed Ingmar. “Your book was wonderful. I simply had no idea herring traders were responsible for establishing the Hanseatic League.”
Ingmar shook his head. “It is amazing what people don’t know about herring.”
“Dear Uncle Ho,” Natasha said, moving on quickly.
“You like my book?”
“It’s gorgeous. You’re the Michelangelo of vegetables.”
Vera sat Natasha next to her. “How are you doing, really? I’m absolutely distraught over those awful killings.” She turned to the mayor. “I think the committee should issue a public statement of outrage that someone is killing American chefs.”
The mayor sneered. “Actually, I am not certain it is even against the law.”
“And,” Vera continued, “we should express our gratitude that Natasha, at least for the moment, is safe.”
“Certainly it is not against French law,” the mayor muttered.
Vera glared at the mayor. “Apparently, the only thing against French law is good manners!”
“Or typing a menu,” said von Rieber. “The polizei should come in the middle of the night and arrest all the owners of bistros where you cannot read the menu.”
Ingmar leaned over toward him. “God knows they’ve locked up people for less.”
“You are telling me?” von Rieber shouted irately. “Everybody forgives everybody, but no one forgave poor Rudy.”
“I’d like to thank Vera,” Natasha said. “Three great American chefs have been murdered, all of them Olympic gold medalists.”
Grudgingly, the mayor agreed. “The least we can do is issue a statement mourning the loss of our fallen colleagues.”
“If it is the least, you can be certain it will be done,” Vera muttered.
“However,” Ingmar said, “I think we must first clarify the term ‘great chef.’ ”
Vera groaned. “It means they never cooked a herring!”
“A great chef,” Uncle Ho said, “can turn a cucumber into the Forbidden City.”
Von Rieber waved his finger. “A great chef shops for one portion as carefully as if he were feeding the entire Wehrmacht!”
“Jamais!” the mayor said. “A great chef charges the highest price.”
All conversation stopped as a bell chimed twice ov
er the public address system. A woman’s voice announced, first in French and then in English, the opening match in the ten-event decathlon in which contestants were judged on their ability to sauté, roast, deepfry, boil, steam, poach, bake, broil, braise, and flambé. “Ladies and gentlemen, the three-minute shellfish sauté will begin promptly at two o’clock.”
Vera glanced at her watch. “Shit! I’m one of the judges. I must go.” She stood up. “How do I look? Is my dot on straight?” As she kissed Natasha, she whispered, “How brave of you to come, darling. I’m just terrified you’re going to be next.”
Natasha was ready to scream. “Thank you.” She began to think Millie was right. They should have gone back to the hotel and made X-rated love all afternoon. At least it would have taken the taste of Alec out of her mouth. Besides, her nerves were shot to hell. Natasha could have sworn she was being watched.
“We must talk,” Vera said. “Why don’t you meet me at four o’clock under the marzipan Jesus in Aisle Six?”
AT THE OTHER END OF THE CAFÉ, a waiter stood impatiently while a dowdy matron wearing a floppy Borsalino that nearly covered her face stared at the menu.
“My good man, would you mind telling me what State Bebida Number One is?” Beauchamp was careful to keep her features hidden from the woman she had vowed to kill.
ROY ARRIVED at the service entrance to the Grand Palais. His mouth was dry and his hands were shaking. He walked up to the burly guard, smiled anxiously, and said, “I am here to see Etienne.”
The guard’s eyes narrowed. “Comment vous appelez-vous?”
Roy cleared his throat nervously. “Louis Quatorze.”
The guard opened his palm before allowing Roy to pass.
“Welcome to France.” Roy reached into his pocket for some money. “Merci,” he said, stuffing bills into the guard’s hand.
The basement of the Grand Palais had been transformed into a series of prep rooms filled with ovens, refrigerators, fish tanks, and cages with small fowl and rabbits. There was one room for dry provisions and one with misting units suspended over fruits and vegetables. Room after room was filled with flowers. An arsenal of wine and liquor was protected behind locked steel fencing. But most of all, there were hundreds of chefs all shouting at once. A gastronomic Tower of Babel. The noise was nearly deafening as they hurled greetings, insults, and instructions to one another. Roving photographers and a TV crew clogged the narrow hallway as Roy made his way to Room 301.
“Etienne?”
“Louis?”
“Yes. I mean, oui.”
“Your accent is not so bad,” Etienne said, shaking hands. “You should hear them at Euro-Disney.”
“Well,” Roy said, “why don’t you show me — ”
Etienne shook his head and held out his palm.
“Right you are,” Roy said, reaching into his jacket for the envelope filled with money. He handed it to Etienne. “Merci.”
Etienne frowned as he opened the envelope. “I should have known there would be trouble.” He looked up at Roy. “The accent is on the second syllable. Mer-CI!”
“Mer-CI!” Roy repeated.
“Bon. Mer-CI!” Etienne handed Roy a small detonator. “If the bomb doesn’t work, you can always kill her with your accent.”
“What do you mean, ‘if the bomb doesn’t work’?”
“A joke, mon ami. You press the button, and the minute she opens the top of the truffle . . .”
AS MILLIE WALKED into the American Good Foods booth, he stopped dead in his tracks. “Mrs. Nakamura?” He stood at attention, ready to begin the customary three bows. “Nakamura-san.” But as he leaned over, she threw her arms around his neck.
“Cut the crap. Why didn’t you return my calls?”
Millie tried to disengage himself. “I was too busy returning your gifts.”
“I have yet to give you the best gift of all, Ogden-san. Come with me. I have the most expensive suite at the Bristol. The kitchen is fully stocked with seaweed and eel. We never have to leave.”
He still couldn’t pry her arms loose. “So what brings you to Paris? A little shopping?”
“Yes. I bought the Bristol. But we can talk about that in the tub.”
Millie shook himself free. “Not tonight, Nakamura-san.”
“I warn you. I am not the type to sit and hum ‘Un bel di.’ One way or another, I get what I want.”
“Me too,” he said.
“Is it still this woman on your Dupont lighter? This Natasha?”
Before he could respond, this Natasha ran screaming into his arms. “Millie! Oh, thank God you’re here.”
“Nat, what the hell happened?”
Natasha was trembling. “Someone’s been following me.” She looked over her shoulder at the man in the raincoat and whispered, “Him!”
Millie began to laugh. “I hired Alphonse to protect you. He’s on our side.”
She pulled back from his arms angrily. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Babe, chill out,” Millie whispered. “I’ve got someone I want you to meet.” He turned around to introduce Mrs. Nakamura. “Where the hell did she go?”
Mrs. Nakamura had seen all she could bear. While Natasha was still in Millie’s arms, she had left the booth to make a phone call. Dialing slowly, with bitter tears streaming down her cheeks, she knew that she had dishonored Fuji Food and, even worse, dishonored herself. She had no choice. In the old days she would have had to kill herself. But these were modern times.
“Find the ninja,” she whispered into the phone.
A modern, Westernized woman no longer had to kill herself to save face. Instead, she would kill Natasha.
* * *
GERTA HEIL, editor of Guten Appetit magazine, stood on stage in the Bocuse Bowl and called the audience to attention. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to welcome you to the Cold Platter Competition. Each competing chef will bring out his platter for inspection by the judges. Factors to be considered by our panel are composition, method of preparation, originality, and degree of difficulty, for a maximum of forty points. Olympic rules also state that all decorations and garnishes must harmonize in taste and color with the main dish displayed, and of course, everything on the platter must be edible.”
It was standing room only. Looking around at the audience, Natasha saw Millie in the back, scanning the crowd nervously. She smiled and waved at him, wanting desperately to believe her own lie that she had nothing to worry about. But she had a lot to worry about. For starters, where the hell was Alec?
“As picked in a random drawing, our first entry is from Brazil. It was prepared by Humberto Vilfrido, master chef of the members’ dining room at the Carmen Miranda Museum in Rio. His platter is entitled Bananas Brasileiras.” Natasha took out her pen and opened the scorepad as she glanced into the wings expecting to see the chef appear. Instead, she heard anxious voices and people running. Heil continued to read. “The platter comprises peppered shrimp and peas wrapped in banana leaves and is surrounded by — ”
“Stop!” Vilfrido, a short man with a handlebar mustache, rushed on stage carrying an empty platter. “I have been eaten!”
Chefs from Denmark, Hungary, Scotland, and Italy stepped out from both sides of the wings. Stunned, they stared blankly at their empty platters. Only bits of aspic and stalks of parsley were left. The judges rose from their seats.
Heil didn’t know what to say. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am certain there is an explanation.”
The explanation stood outside the door, hiccuping as he peered in through a small circle of glass that framed his face. Achille stared at Natasha. It was either her or him. With Natasha out of the way, he could suppress Alec forever. He’d never be hungry again. The only question was, How to kill Natasha?
* * *
IT WAS A CLEAR NIGHT. Stars shone brightly as Natasha and Millie walked along the Seine, heading for the site of the old Les Halles just as they had done early in the morning after work at Chez Auguste. All that was long befo
re Les Halles was torn down, the Marais restored, and the minimalist extravagance of the Beaubourg recast the landscape.
They had walked into Au Pied de Cochon expecting to be recognized. But no one did, not even Louise, who had taken their order for onion soup with a shot of cognac so many times in the past.
“She looks just like she used to,” Natasha whispered, watching Louise glide through the aisles with the grace of a dancer. “Why do you think she didn’t recognize us? Have we changed that much?”
Millie put down his spoon. “No. But the soup has.”
“I thought it was just me. Maybe you can’t go home again.”
“Maybe you can’t. But you can go to La Coupole.” Millie left some money on the table and guided Natasha to the door.
“Oysters,” she sighed.
THE CAVERNOUS LA COUPOLE was just as she remembered it. Artists to the left, dilettantes and dealers to the right. Natasha headed for a table under the posters. She looked over at Millie and took his hand. “It’s still the same as it used to be.”
“Exactly.”
“I can’t believe it. There’s our waiter. Antoine. But he’s so thin. Hunched over.”
“Bonjour,” Antoine said, cleaning off the table with his dirty rag. “La carte?” he asked.
“Antoine?” she said hesitantly.
“Oui.” He looked directly at her. And through her.
“Je voudrais mille Belons,” she said, hoping to jog his memory.
Antoine paused, smiled, then shook his head. “Pardon, je crois que . . . Qu’est-ce que vous avez dit? Des Belons?”
Natasha tried again. “Mille Belons. Don’t you remember? A thousand oysters?”
Antoine rolled his eyes. “S’il vous plaît.”
“Just bring us two orders of Belons,” Millie said, grabbing Natasha’s trembling hand. “And a bottle of Les Clos ‘89.”
Antoine stared at him for a moment and then turned away.
“Nat, it’s been ten years.”
“Not in my dreams.”