by Nan Lyons
“He has one eye, a hook for a hand, and a wooden leg.”
“This security business. I mean, there is no danger, is there? Tresting is the one. It’s just to clear up loose ends. Now that they have Tresting, there’s no one else, is there?”
“My dear Natasha, were there two Leonardos?”
The car pulled up in front of Harrods. Lucino ran out even before Rudolph had stopped completely, and brushed aside the doorman. Natasha took Lucino’s hand and got out of the car. Rudolph leaned in to extract Achille.
“Be back in an hour and wait for me,” he told Rudolph.
Natasha kissed Achille on the cheek. “Did I ever tell you that I love you?” She put her arm in his and together they walked into the store. Natasha stopped in front of a large sign announcing that Natasha O’Brien, international food expert, would be appearing in the auditorium. “She’s so pretty,” Natasha said, looking at her own picture, “and such a nice person too.”
They walked to the elevator and were pressed in among a gaggle of weekday shoppers. From the back of the crowd Natasha heard a whispered “That’s ’er. There she is.” When they reached the fourth floor, they were met by Edgar St. Clair, who had given instructions to the doorman to notify him upon Natasha’s arrival.
“Miss O’Brien, welcome to Harrods. What an honor for us to have you here today. And Mr. van Golk, how good to see you again.”
“Indeed. I shall browse amongst the petticoats until show time.” He kissed Natasha on the cheek. “Don’t disgrace Daddy.”
“You’re really staying for it?” she asked.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Achille turned and walked down the corridor.
Lucino tugged at Natasha’s arm. “What is it?”
“I want to frisk him.”
“No. No frisking, Lucino. Just go and sit out front. You’ll be able to see everything.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“Only until I’m onstage. Then down, Lucino. And now, Mr. St. Clair, may I see the kitchen, please?”
“Of course. I think you’ll find a surprise in store for you.” He ushered her through a narrow corridor leading to a flight of stairs. “I must say I’m amazed we managed to get anything done with the BBC people mucking up all about us. You have no idea how inefficient they are.” He decided not to tell her about the incident with the mixer.
The auditorium was ablaze with lights. Bearded young men in torn sweaters were yelling “Get rid of that bloody shadow,” “How the fuck many eggs does she need?,” “If you don’t get that camera out of the way, you’ll be taking a picture of my ass.” Somewhere amid the cameras and the four monitors and the endless stream of cables and invectives and commands, somewhere amid the litter of empty paper coffee cups and cigarette butts, fogged in by a layer of stale cigarette smoke, was the kitchen set. As per Natasha’s written instructions, there was a work area on stage left (stove, refrigerator-freezer, sink, electric mixer, pots, whisks, etc.) and an assembly area on stage right (counter, refrigerator-freezer, molds, trays, knives, etc.). A single microphone was suspended above each work area, and a desk microphone was placed atop a lectern at center stage. A very flustered Miss Beauchamp was standing in the work area, holding a mixing bowl to her chest while someone behind a camera yelled, “All I’m getting is tits.”
Natasha walked briskly to center stage and tapped the microphone. “Testing, testing, one, two, three,” she said tentatively. She smiled broadly as she began to speak. “Good afternoon. My name is Natasha O’Brien. The next cocksucker who says ‘tits’ will get thrown out of here on his ass. You may feel free to use the full range of expletives from ‘damn’ to ‘fuck.’ As for the mammary and vaginal areas of the female form, cool it. It pisses me off and I’m sure it disturbs the very nice lady who has been patiently standing under these lights. I’ll look forward to meeting each of you personally in a few minutes. Thank you.”
There was complete silence as Natasha walked across the stage. Edgar St. Clair stood against a refrigerator, both palms pressed against the door.
“Miss Beauchamp,” Natasha said, embracing her. “I’m so pleased you’re here.”
“And I’m so relieved to see you. I’ve been your stand-in for nearly an hour and I’m ready for medical aid.”
“I’m sorry. Mr. St. Clair, why isn’t this place air-conditioned? Will you please turn it on at once? Full up. And please get your cleaning people in here on the double.” St. Clair, his ears still ringing from Natasha’s inaugural address, nodded and gladly disappeared.
“You look smashing,” Miss Beauchamp said. “You should be ashamed of yourself for looking so well.”
“You are a love. Tell me, where is the Bombe?”
“It’s the best Bombe I’ve ever seen! Mr. Cornwell,” she called into the wings, “may we have a word with you?” Jacques Corn-well was a short, fat man whose bald head was covered with perspiration. He was dressed in a white chef’s coat and trousers. “Miss O’Brien, Mr. Cornwell. Without his help behind the scenes, this afternoon would not have been possible.”
“Mr. Cornwell,” Natasha said, shaking his hand. “A pleasure, and thank you.”
“I have admired you for years, Miss O’Brien. No one understands egg yolks the way you do. I do hope I’ve done you justice.”
“I think it’s I who must do you justice, Mr. Cornwell. Well. Shall we see how the Cardinal is doing?” He took a deep apprehensive breath and opened the door to the freezer. Natasha watched as the cold air fogged and wafted out. She envisioned him taking her body out of the cold deadly darkness of the freezer. Involuntarily, her hand went to her forehead.
“Something wrong?” Miss Beauchamp asked. “Need some headache tablets?”
“No. Thank you. If only it were a headache.”
Cornwell brought out La Bombe Richelieu. A spun sugar crown sat atop an ornate mold of raspberry ice surrounded by a ring of whipped cream into which fresh raspberries were positioned like jewels. “Oh, it’s beautiful,” she said. “Mr. Cornwell, it’s perfect”
“I simply followed your instructions,” he said, beaming. He turned the plate around to show he had cut a wedge from the mold. Beneath the raspberry ice was a layer of chocolate almond ice cream, and at the center of the Bombe, a frozen yellow mousse studded with bits of chocolate.
“Fit for a Queen,” Natasha said. “I can’t wait to taste it.” Corn-well took a plate from the freezer containing the wedge he had cut. Natasha picked at the whipped cream and tasted it. “God, you have great cows over here. If only we had cream like this in the States.” Cornwell was smiling. She tasted the mousse mixture, hesitated, and then tasted it again. “That’s not right.”
Cornwell lowered his eyes. “I thought it was delicious.”
“You used Curaçao instead of Grand Marnier.” He shrugged his shoulders. She tasted the chocolate ice cream and licked her lips rapidly. “And you used packaged chocolate,” she said unbelievingly. “I specifically said freshly made unwrapped chocolate.”
“I thought it was delicious,” Cornwell said.
“Mr. Cornwell, please don’t lead me to the obvious comment about the physical location of your taste buds.”
“I am sorry,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” Miss Beauchamp said. “I told everyone to follow your instructions to the letter.”
“I know you did, darling. It’s not your fault. There’s no real harm done. Thank God no one has to eat any of it.” She threw the plate into the garbage.
“So you see,” Cornwell said, “it does not matter that I use this or that. It matters only that it looks well.”
“Well, a Nietzsche in chef’s clothing? Sorry, Mr. Cornwell, I don’t buy your politics any more than I buy your chocolate.” She walked past him, taking Miss Beauchamp by the hand. “We’d better check everything out right now.”
Natasha nodded and smiled at the cameraman as she and Miss Beauchamp stepped over the cables and made their way to the work area. She turned the fauc
ets on and off. She lit the stove and turned it off. She put her hand on the bowl of eggs to feel their temperature. She poked a fork into the sugar to make certain there were no lumps, and then opened the refrigerator to smell the cream and examine the raspberries. She flipped the mixer on and off.
Natasha turned quickly and found herself facing a short, middle-aged man with a head of very curly brown hair that fell to his shoulders. “I am Morris Mayfield. What have they been telling you about me?”
“The Morris Mayfield?” she said in surprise. She extended her hand to shake his. “I’m one of your biggest fans. I’ve always respected the brutal honesty of your films. But surely you’re not…”
“A director is a director, Miss … Miss …”
“O’Brien.”
“Whatever.” A tall, slender young man whispered something into Mayfield’s ear while he put his hand on his shoulder. May-field nodded and the young man sauntered away. “As though you didn’t know, I am in the midst of my fourth divorce, in the midst of drying out from a rather alcoholic summer, and in the midst of my first homosexual affair. My analyst suggested I take this offer from the BBC to re-establish my credibility. Do you think I was right in taking his advice?”
“Well, I don’t know.…”
“I might as well tell you that Sergio does all the cooking. I have taken the traditional male role in our relationship. Do you think I should have taken the female role?”
“Mr. Mayfield, I don’t know.…”
“You appear to be a very strong woman. My analyst claims that my four marriages failed because I refused to accept the fact that I need a stronger woman. He thinks it’s very healthy for me to have this relationship with Sergio. What do you think?”
“I think, Mr. Mayfield, that we had better proceed with the day’s occupation.”
“Are you rejecting me?”
“Mr. Mayfield …”
“Yes, you are. You’re rejecting me because you feel threatened by my homosexual alliance.”
“I do not feel threatened, Mr. Mayfield, by anything other than the immediate pressure of time. I would like to walk through this with you so that…”
“You wouldn’t tell me the truth anyway. Women never do.”
Natasha put her hand to her forehead and leaned on the counter. She took a deep breath of exasperation and shrugged her shoulders. Looking him directly in the eyes, she began to speak in a low, tense voice. “Mr. Mayfield, you are right. I reject you. You are a threat to me, a threat to my raspberries, and a threat to the self-esteem of my vulva. To tell the truth, Mr. Mayfield, you absolutely terrify me.”
“But do I disgust you?”
“You bet.”
A thin smile stretched his lips, and his eyes began to glisten. “I’ve spent over a week reading your recipe. It’s quite sensual. The mingling of colors and textures is perfect. Well,” he said, smiling brightly, “enough of this chitchat. I’d suggest we have a run-through.”
Natasha smiled. “I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. Mayfield.”
“All right, you buggers,” he yelled. “Let’s clear the bloody set.” Mayfield walked away from Natasha and began moving the crew about.
“How’s the temperature now?” St. Clair asked, reappearing behind her.
“Terrific.”
“Miss O’Brien,” Lucino called. “I want the lights in the auditorium to stay on.”
“Oh, Lucino!”
“Miss O’Brien, will you say a few words so we can adjust the volume on the mike?”
“Miss O’Brien, will you be wearing an apron?”
“Miss O’Brien, do you ever go back to stage left once the assembly has begun?”
“Miss O’Brien, how close to the mixer will you be standing?”
Natasha walked under the microphone. “My name is Natasha O’Brien.”
“Louder, please.”
“My name is Natasha O’Brien,” she said as her voice filled the auditorium, “and I want to go home.”
“That’s fine. We got it.”
“Miss O’Brien,” Mayfield called to her, “we’re ready when you are.”
Natasha walked to stage left. “We begin with my being introduced by Mr. St. Clair. There will be a round of tumultuous applause. I enter from stage left and walk to center stage front. Then”—she began pacing out the steps she would take—“I go to the fridge in the assembly area and show the final product. A few words, blah, blah, blah, and then back to the work area. I separate the eggs and put the yolks into the mixer bowl. Then I beat the eggs in the mixer for about three minutes.”
“Can you make it two minutes?” Mayfield asked. “There’s nothing terribly visual about your standing in front of the mixer.”
“Three minutes, Mr. Mayfield.”
“I suppose we could pan to the audience. You know, Miss O’Brien, three minutes is a crashing bore.”
“Well, you can always cut to pages falling off a calendar.”
“We’ll work it out.”
St. Clair tiptoed over to her. “It’s very late, Miss O’Brien. We have quite a crowd gathering outside.”
“Lucino,” she called, “he’s bothering me.” St. Clair stepped back as Lucino approached.
“When do you make the pretty red ices?” Mayfield asked.
“I’m not making any ices. That’s already been done. I’m simply making the mousse mixture and the spun sugar cap. The rest is an assembly job. It takes place here on stage right.”
“Well, then, what about the chocolate? I have three pages of camera angles on the melting of the chocolate.”
“Save them for Masterpiece Theatre.”
“Mr. St. Clair,” someone called from the back of the auditorium. “Mr. St. Clair, when can I let them in?”
“Let’s not be snotty, Miss O’Brien,” Mayfield said sharply. “Please try to harness your aggressions so they do not interfere with our work.”
“I’m trying, Mr. Mayfield. God knows I’m trying.”
“Good. Just have faith in us.”
“Mr. Mayfield,” she said wearily, “this is Harrods, not Lourdes.”
“We’re late,” St. Clair said.
“Miss O’Brien, when the little red light goes on …”
“I smile.”
“As you wish. May I suggest we get on with it then? You’ll only be in two areas and we’ll follow you. Whatever we don’t get the first time, we can take later. Sort of a semi-cinéma vérité.”
“Half-baked,” Natasha murmured.
“Don’t worry. You do your thing and I’ll do mine. I know what I’m doing. By God, it’s good to be back!”
Natasha saw Achille take a seat in the back row, on the aisle.
“Miss O’Brien, I must insist we begin,” St. Clair said timidly.
“Then rap three times, and bring on the broads.” Natasha walked offstage.
The doors were opened and within moments the auditorium was filled with chattering women. St. Clair ran backstage to Natasha. “Why must the auditorium lights remain on? I can’t talk to your man. He’s threatened to knock me unconscious.”
“Then you’d better leave the lights on.”
“Who is he?”
“He is trying to protect me from a mad killer.”
“Really,” St. Clair humphed.
Miss Beauchamp took Natasha’s arm. “I know everything will go swimmingly.”
“Of course it will,” St. Clair snipped. “We’ve worked very hard to ensure the success of this afternoon. And we’ve worked against odds on which we had not counted. Firstly, there was the problem with your mixer…”
“What problem?”
“Don’t fret. It’s all taken care of.”
“Mr. St. Clair, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Natasha began brushing her hair.
“And then the business with Mr. Cornwell.”
“He didn’t follow the goddamn recipe. All he had to do was read.”
“And then the air conditioning. And then the camera c
rew. And then your friend …”
“Mr. St. Clair, let’s have a truce. You just move your ass out there and introduce me, and I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Really!” he said. “Miss Gompers was certainly right about you.”
“Who the hell is Miss Gompers?” she asked. St. Clair curled his lip, pulled his jacket straight, smiled, and walked onstage. There was a smattering of applause. “Welcome, shoppers,” she heard him begin.
“Are you all right?” Miss Beauchamp whispered to Natasha.
“I don’t know. My nerves are so raw.”
“Small wonder.”
“But at least we know everything is under control.”
St. Clair had begun his introduction. “And we are indeed fortunate that Miss O’Brien has consented to share with us her original recipe for the Bombe that…”
“Miss Beauchamp, tell me,” Natasha asked hesitantly, “did you know Tresting?”
“Tresting?” She looked incredulous. “Yes, of course. But how would you know …”
“Never mind how I know. What kind of man is he?”
“The most charitable word is boring.”
“Boring?”
“And so, ladies,” St. Clair continued, “it is with the greatest of pleasure…”
“Well, with the condition his heart was in, I’d be surprised if he could stand the excitement of a crossword puzzle.”
“Arnold Victor Tresting?” Natasha said to verify they were speaking of the same person.
“Miss Natasha O’Brien!” There was a prolonged applause, during which Natasha stood staring at Miss Beauchamp, who finally gave her a nudge. Natasha walked onstage smiling.
“Thank you. Thank you very much.” Her mind was in a frenzy. Something was wrong. “I had the pleasure recently of having been invited …”
Outside the auditorium, Max was stopped by a guard. “I’m sorry, sir, but the hall is full up.”