After he had stacked all of the squares and pages, he gathered the entire pile and gently forced it into a parchment case. That, in turn, was slid sideways into a second case. The double packaging would allow Jacques to hammer the outside with vigor without disbursing the layers of gold inside.
Jacques stood and carried his valuable parcel toward the beating bench. As he went, he sensed his father’s gaze and once again looked at the man, whose pale skin and sunken cheeks made him seem so much older than his years.
“Son.”
“Yes, Papa, what is it? Am I doing something wrong?” Jacques paused in the middle of the room, ready for the expected reprimand. Ill or not, Papa was always correcting and teaching him. This time, however, the older man simply shook his head and spoke, his open mouth revealing the dark place where his newly missing tooth used to be.
“No, son. Now that we’re almost done, I was just thinking how thankful I am that you came out to help. I know you don’t love smithing as I do, but you have worked without error or complaint, and I appreciate it more than you know. You’ve done a good job.”
“Why, thank you, Papa.”
As the old man gruffly cleared his throat and looked away, Jacques felt his own face flush with heat. Papa did not dole out compliments often, but when he did he was sincere. With renewed vigor, Jacques continued toward the beating bench and set the package down on top of its marble square.
“Someday,” his father continued in a more lighthearted tone, “you will earn the title of master goldsmith for yourself and can carry on my mark. Who knows, perhaps you’ll even be named royal goldsmith. You would be invited to live at the Louvre, and all thoughts of station would no longer be an issue for Angelique’s parents.”
Jacques smiled at the dream, but that’s all it was. A man didn’t get to be a royal goldsmith without an enormous amount of talent, dedication, knowledge, experience, and hard work. Jacques was no stranger to hard work, and he had experience and knowledge, but in his heart there was no dedication, and in his soul, not nearly enough talent. His father spoke in grandiose ways, but they both knew the truth, that Jacques lacked any true artistic ability, certainly nothing approaching the skills of his father. He was good enough to serve as a technician and aid to a master but would never be a master himself. He could hardly sketch a pair of candlesticks, much less render them to the client’s expectations in three dimensions. The fact that he hadn’t yet created a masterpiece sufficient to earn him consideration as a guild member was proof enough of his lack of talent.
Still, warmed by the glow of his father’s compliment, Jacques did what he could do very well, taking care to center the parchment on the marble square of the beating table. He checked the leather apron that hung from the front, positioning it so that it would catch any gold that might accidentally escape the carefully-wrapped sheets, and then he reached for the large hammer. Jacques hefted the fifteen-pound tool in the air and then banged it down against the center of the package.
Hefting again, the beating began to take on a necessary rhythm as Jacques hammered the pile with his right hand and turned and moved it with his left. As a young man, beating had been a skill that Jacques had had trouble mastering—and he had had the blue thumbs to show for it. Now, however, his moves were done with such smoothness and dexterity that he was able to turn the pile after every second stroke without breaking his rhythm or missing a blow.
He had been beating gold leaf all month and now did it mindlessly, almost as if he were in a trance. Usually, he passed the time by thinking about Angelique, about her perfect hands and tiny waist and lilting voice. Were she not titled, they would have gotten married by now. As it was, though goldsmithing was generally considered the most genteel of the mechanical occupations, his station was still below hers, which meant that her parents would not even grant him audience for a proposal. The way he saw it, he needed to become so rich through his father’s shop that her parents would accept him as a viable match despite his lack of title.
But would Angelique wait long enough for that to happen? She said she would. She said she would do whatever it took to become his bride. That, of course, had led to an argument between them, for if she was really willing to do whatever it took, then she would simply defy her parents’ wishes and join hands in marriage now.
Ah, well, Jacques thought as he hammered and turned, hammered and turned. Perhaps the past month apart has convinced her to take such a bold step. He would know soon, as the moment this job was finished he was going to return to Paris, seek her out, and once again ask her to marry him. Perhaps this time her answer would be an immediate and enthusiastic “Yes!”
On the other hand, a beautiful, eligible, titled young woman in Paris had many opportunities to find a more suitable husband than a mere goldsmith. For all he knew, her love had already begun to fade, her dedication to wane, and her affections to seek out another. He wouldn’t know for sure until he looked into her eyes. Until then, he would have to content himself with the knowledge that, from the moment they had met in the Tuileries Gardens two years ago, it had been love at first sight for both of them. His love had never wavered since. He only hoped hers hadn’t, either.
Jacques worked on the package for what felt like hours. When he was finished with the beating, he carried the package over to Papa’s table and waited patiently as the man pulled out the contents and used his loupe to examine the leaf.
“Perfect,” Papa finally pronounced, and Jacques heaved a deep sigh of relief. He would be happy if he didn’t have to pick up another beating hammer ever again.
“So, Papa,” he asked, wiping the sweat from his brow with his forearm, “any guess yet as to what these statuettes are for?”
“I already told you, son, what they are or how they’ll be used isn’t our concern. We’re being paid to make them and to keep quiet about it.”
Jacques didn’t reply but instead retrieved his agate. Despite Papa’s comments, as Jacques held the stone firmly in his hand and began the final polishing, he kept wondering about the palace’s need for two hundred gilded fleur-de-lis statuettes. If the royal orders had been for statuettes of solid gold, at least then Jacques might better understand the importance of discretion. But these were merely gilded—gold leaf on brass—and worth infinitely less. Given that, why such secrecy over mere trinkets?
What was the palace planning to do with them?
Furiously polishing the shiny surface, Jacques could only hope that someday they would learn the answers to those questions. Given that the quicksilver poisoning was going to cost Papa his life, Jacques felt he was owed that much.
FOUR
The detective pulled out a pen and a notebook and asked me to tell him everything from the very beginning. I tried, starting with my mother’s phone call at the TV studio yesterday and ending with the drive from the airport to the French Quarter. Beyond that, I said, everything was rather foggy, though it was coming back to me bit by bit.
“Why don’t you take a few more minutes to think about it,” the detective said, patting me on the arm. Then he excused himself to go next door, saying he would be back soon.
“But maybe you can help me,” I objected as he stood to go. “Do you know anything about what’s going on here?”
“Sorry. I’m still trying to get up to speed myself. Let me take a look next door. I’ll be back and we can talk some more.”
Alone again except for the uniformed cop at the door, I closed my eyes and tried to recall more of last night, to remember what had happened after my mother told me I had to go to the restaurant to sign papers before I could come to the hospital to see my father. I remembered driving down the interstate toward the French Quarter, my hands clenched around the steering wheel like a vise.
As I had passed the exit for the hospital, a slow-building anger had begun pulsing through my veins, anger and hurt at thirty-two years of rejection from the two people on earth who were supposed to love me unconditionally. What a joke! Nothing had changed
here, nothing at all. Even in their darkest hour, my parents cared more about some stupid signed papers than they did about me.
Why was I even surprised? My whole life I had been nothing to them but an afterthought, a mistake, an inconvenience to be handled. No wonder I craved rules. I had grown up watching two parents ignore the most basic rule of all: that the one thing they most owed me was themselves.
Furious, I felt like pounding the steering wheel and railing into the dark, empty quiet of the car. I wanted to yell at a nonexistent passenger as if my father were sitting right there and ready to hear the cries of my heart. I held it in, though, lest passing drivers see and think I was crazy. It wasn’t easy, as this whole situation had managed to push every single one of my buttons. I may have been an adult with a well-rounded life and a successful consulting business, but things like this reduced me to that same little girl who spent her life quietly watching from the sidelines as the world revolved around her parents and their needs. Rounding the broad curve at the Superdome, I couldn’t help but think what a perfect metaphor the massive, looming structure was for my parents and the way they dominated their surroundings at every turn.
Taking the next exit, I left the Superdome behind and made my way south toward the river. As I went, I did the breathing routine I’d learned in exercise class, trying to get my heart rate down. By the time I turned on to the narrow, even streets of the French Quarter, I was finally calm enough to think straight. I could do this. I could meet with Mr. Peralta, sign his papers, and maybe even take a minute to talk with Sam, the restaurant’s former manager and probably the closest thing I’d ever had to a loving father figure. Though Sam had retired from Ledet’s several years ago, he still lived behind the restaurant in a second-floor apartment that overlooked the courtyard. Spending time with Sam was always the highlight of my trips home.
World-famous Ledet’s restaurant was on Royal Street near Toulouse, squeezed between an antique shop and an art gallery. My parents used to call it their “first child” as a joke, but to me it was their only child—and I was just a visiting distant relative. I pulled right up front but saw no valet to take my car, so I continued on toward a hotel parking lot half a block away. Soon, I was strolling through the warm April night, still wearing the linen Theory suit I had put on earlier for the TV show.
When I reached the door of Ledet’s, a surge of emotion filled my throat. How many times had I walked through this very portal, feeling like an outsider in my own family’s restaurant? Pushing that thought away, I tried to open the door but it was locked.
Surprised, I stepped back to look at the sign over my head, just to make sure I was in the right place. I was. I tried the heavy glass door again and then peered inside. The front hallway was darker than usual, but I thought I could detect light and movement out in the courtyard. I knocked but no one responded, so I decided to go around and try the service entrance off of the side alley. As I turned to go, I saw a man coming toward me on the sidewalk, briefcase in hand.
“Chloe?”
“Yes?”
“Kevin Peralta. Your parents’ attorney? I don’t think we’ve ever met.”
Jolted from the memory of last night, I gasped, my eyes popping open.
Kevin Peralta.
My parents’ attorney.
The man who now lay dead on the couch in the suite next door.
Leaning forward, I rested my elbows on my knees, closed my eyes again, and tried to recall what had happened next.
In front of Ledet’s restaurant last night, I had been startled by Kevin’s appearance because he wasn’t the Mr. Peralta I had been expecting. Seeing the confusion on my face, Kevin explained that I was probably thinking of his father Ruben, who had died of cancer the year before.
“I’ve taken over his practice,” he added.
I expressed my condolences, and in turn he tried to offer words of comfort about my own father’s precarious state.
“I know it’s scary right now, but it’s going to take more than a gunshot wound to stop the great Julian Ledet,” Kevin said. “He’s too stubborn to take this lying down. I guarantee you the feisty old guy is going to be back on his feet in a couple of days, shouting at the nurses about the hospital food.”
“Maybe.”
“No, really. Can’t you just picture it?” Suddenly, he put one hand on his hip, puffed out his chest, and began bellowing in a perfect imitation of my father. “Nurse, you call this Jell-O? My dog could make better Jell-O than this! The fleas on my dog could make better Jell-O than this! Get it out of my sight! Bring me some flan!”
By the time he was finished, I was nearly crying with laughter. You had to know my dad to get that imitation just right. Obviously, Kevin knew my dad very well.
“Chloe? Is that you?”
Kevin and I both turned in surprise to see a man standing in the open doorway of Ledet’s. It was the fill-in bartender, the guy Ledet’s always called in to sub when the regular bartender couldn’t make it.
“Hey, Graze. How are you? Long time no see.”
“Hi, Chloe. I’m sorry,” he replied, holding the door wide so we could step inside. “Your mom told me to leave the door unlocked for you, so I opened up the back. I thought you’d be coming in that way.”
“We would have tried that next. Don’t worry about it.” We stepped inside and waited as he again locked the door. “So what’s going on? Is the restaurant closed tonight because of my dad’s situation?”
Looking surprised, Graze said no, that Ledet’s was always closed on Mondays.
“Oh, right,” I relied, feeling stupid.
Graze led us away from the elegant entranceway and through the main dining room, which was dark.
“If you’re closed, what’s going on out there?” Kevin asked, gesturing toward the courtyard.
Just as I had thought, there were about ten or fifteen people milling around among the greenery and fountains and café tables.
“Private party. A wedding shower for two Ledet’s employees who are getting married. That’s why we’ve got some staff here tonight, a cook and a waiter and a dishwasher. And I’m running drinks.”
He named the happy couple, saying that one was a captain and the other was a sous chef, so it was a joining of front and back house. As I didn’t recognize either name, I figured that both of them must be newer employees. Turnover in the restaurant industry was notoriously high, especially in the high-pressure environment of five-star restaurants like this one, and except for a few old-timers like Sam who had managed to stay in the same position for years, it wasn’t unusual to see new faces every time I came home.
Graze led us toward one of the smaller dining rooms. The lights were on inside, and as he opened the double French doors and swung them wide, I saw that the center table had been set for two.
“Your mama said to give you a room to yourselves and to fix y’all some dinner. But first, can I bring you something to drink?”
“Just water for me, thanks,” I said. “I won’t be here long enough to eat dinner.”
Kevin ordered a drink for himself, and I told him to feel free to order food as well. Just because I had to leave soon didn’t mean he couldn’t stay and enjoy.
Once Graze left to get the drinks, Kevin lowered his voice and asked about the man’s odd name.
“Graze? It’s his nickname.” I went on to explain that in restaurant lingo, those who pilfered cherries and olives from the bar were known as “grazers,” and they were many bartenders’ biggest pet peeve. Legend had it that somewhere in this guy’s career, he had said “Don’t graze! Don’t graze!” so much that it earned him a permanent moniker.
“Got it. Graze. I thought maybe he used to be a cemetery worker or something, and you were calling him Graves.”
We laughed, which was a good feeling, and I couldn’t help thinking how much easier Kevin was making this whole experience for me. Like the valve on a pressure cooker, the laughter was helping me let off steam.
Graze re
turned with our beverages and some menus, urging me to have at least a little something to eat so that my mother wouldn’t become angry with them for not following orders to feed me. I was indeed hungry, but I didn’t want to take up even one minute more than necessary before heading to the hospital.
“This paperwork is going to take a while,” Kevin said, as if he could read my mind. “You might as well. We’ll work as we eat.”
“But—”
“Look at it this way, Chloe. I know you want to see your dad, but right now he wants you here, doing this. If you don’t take the time we need to get this done, you know what’ll happen. He’ll be upset with you for going there instead.”
Kevin was right, of course, so finally I had surrendered to the moment and accepted a menu. As I did, my heart surged again with hurt and anger. With my father stuck in the hospital and me taking his place there with Kevin, I had no doubt which of my father’s two children—the restaurant or me—he loved more.
Now, looking up from my place on the couch in the hotel room, I asked the cop at the door if he thought the detective would be gone much longer. He didn’t know, so I stood and stretched a little. Feeling antsy, I put my hands on my hips and twisted from side to side, glad to realize that at least the headache was finally fading a bit. The memories continued to surface as well.
Alone in the private dining room with Kevin, I had called my mother to check on how things were going at the hospital, but again her phone went to voice mail. Leaving a message and then putting mine away, I had turned my attention to Kevin, who was still looking at the menu and wanted my opinion of the various dishes. I was embarrassed to say that it had been so long since I’d eaten there that many of them were unfamiliar to me. Of course, the menu’s centerpiece was still my father’s signature dish, Croûte de Sel Rose, which translated to “crust of pink salt.” Julian Ledet was known for it around the world, the same way Paul Prudhomme was famous for his blackened redfish.
Under the Cajun Moon Page 3