by Jay Rayner
Another chopper flew due west from Fort Polk to Houston, where it hovered over Central Market to collect a fresh piece of Québecois foie gras that had arrived only the day before, a single imported Perigord black truffle, a bunch of baby asparagus, and a packet of vanilla pods; roasted California almonds and sweet, handmade marzipan; free-range eggs, cheesy French beurre d’Isigny from Normandy, and pots of unpasteurized light cream. The third headed even further west into Texas, pushing the bird’s envelope as far as it would go, to collect the finest aged beef fillet available in the state for tournedos Rossini.
“Tournedos Rossini? Don’t you think that’s a bit—”
“Old-fashioned?”
“I was wondering.”
“Young man, when you have created a dish as robust and venerable as tournedos Rossini you may dismiss it as old hat. Until then—”
“No problem, Professor Jeffries. I’ll get the beef.”
The fourth helicopter made for New Orleans, where it hung lazily in the air above the French Quarter Wine Merchant on Chartres Street while the staff dug out the bottles: the Montrachet Domaine de la Romanee Conti 1989 to go with the starter, the 1921 Château d’Yquem to go with the dessert, and the big-fisted 1947 Château Pétrus for the main course in between. It was a mark of Jeffries’ confidence that he had made the choice of these wines sound random and spontaneous, as if they were just a few of his favorite things chosen from a much longer list rather than a trinity of the greatest wines of the twentieth century, their combined value enough to purchase a small house down by the ocean.
The Apache was already heading back toward Welton-Oaks when Jennie told me the bad news. I found Jeffries in his book-lined office on the first floor, watching the coverage of the military maneuvers on the news channels.
“Nice to see an effort being made,” he said, without taking his eyes off the screen.
“Absolutely. Of course. One problem. We couldn’t get a bottle of the forty-seven Pétrus so we’ve substituted a forty-six.”
He looked up at me pityingly. “Even my pool boy knows the forty-six Pétrus is rough as a dirt track. It’s old, is all. Like a senior citizen who’s forgotten his own name.” He tapped a finger against one graying temple. “Not all there.” He turned to the screen and began flicking between the coverage from CNN to Fox to MSNBC and back again. “It has to be the forty-seven.” I made to leave. “Or the forty-five. I am a reasonable man.”
So the helicopter turned tail midjourney and went back to New Orleans to swap the ’46 Pétrus for a ’45. Still, by 1:30 PM the Apaches were circling the great house and coming in one by one to hover low over the neatly manicured back lawn where, ever so gently, they winched down their goods. Now I could cook.
I seared three of the scallops for a couple of minutes each side in a hot skillet, and served them with an honor guard of crawfish tails on a vanilla-infused sauce. It was made with the light fish stock mounted with a little cream and foamed to within an inch of its life using a handheld, battery-operated cappuccino beater. I made the tournedos Rossini by the book, literally, using the recipe in a copy of Larousse Gastronomique that had been flown in to me: the lobes of foie gras and the slices of black truffle sautéed first in butter alongside the bread to make croutons. I seared the medallions of beef so they were still blue in the middle, and arranged it all in a tower, toast at the bottom, then beef, then foie gras and truffles, before deglazing the pan with Madeira to make the sauce. The lovely green asparagus formed a cordon about the edge. Finally, having received no direction on the dessert, I made my almond soufflé, certain nothing could go wrong, and nothing did.
I did not eat but instead stood service beneath the portrait of George Welton, a little way behind Jeffries, in the long, late-afternoon shadows. When he had finished the soufflé he took a sip from his five-hundred-dollar glass of d’Yquem and called for a second glass and the chocolate macadamias. He filled the second glass with the Sauternes, pushed it gently across the table to the place opposite him, and indicated that I should sit. Jeffries took a handful of the nuts, popped a few into his mouth from a closed, protective fist, sat back, and nodded for me to begin.
I started with the story of the box and my hunger for the chocolates it contained, dropping back to link this to the story of the Welton-Smiths, and then went further back still to the very birth of the Atlantic slave trade. Carefully, expressing regret with every dark narrative beat, I brought it forward again through my comfortable childhood built, I now understood, on the ancient proceeds of slavery inherited by my mother, to this moment in this room. The story came naturally and organically, each step leading to the next. I was lucid and convincing, the prince of contrition; the king of penitence. I did not weep, for the naked, bleeding emotion was present in every word.
My last line was a model of simplicity and elegance: “I, my family, and the peoples of Britain and the United States of America now apologize to the African-American community for the crime of slavery.” No ornament. Just words turned to the purpose for which they were designed.
A gentle smile settled on Jeffries’ lips. He took a few more macadamias from the bowl, popped them in his mouth, and chewed. Finally he said the one thing for which I hadn’t prepared myself.
Twenty-one
I’m sorry?”
“No need to apologize again, Mr. Basset.”
“No, I mean, I don’t understand. What did I do wrong?”
“You did nothing wrong. Indeed there are elements of your speech which I find myself admiring. I’m just not a big fan of this whole apology thing in general.” This, with an airy wave of one hand, as if my words had settled in a light haze above his head.
I glanced at my watch: 5:40 PM. Looking out the open window, I could see in the distance the satellite dishes and aerials of the television trucks preparing for our moment. This was not good. Not good at all.
I said, “What is it you don’t like?”
“Mr. Basset, if you apologize for making me a slave, what does that make me?”
“Well, I—”
“It makes me a slave, Mr. Basset. I remain the victim of the offense for which you apologized. In short, the act of apology only serves to emphasize victimhood.”
“Well, I’m not sure—”
“It emphasizes the fact of our history and therefore makes us prisoners of it.”
“I don’t think of you as a slave.”
“Thank you, Mr. Basset.”
“What I mean is, it’s a real apology. I’m genuinely sorry.”
“Of course you are, Mr. Basset. You are genuinely sorry that my great-grandfather was born a slave.”
“Exactly. I’m very sorry about your great-grandfather.”
“I understand that. But nothing you say can change the fact. Randall Jeffries will still have been born a slave.”
5:43 PM.
“What is it that you do want then, Professor Jeffries, if not an apology?” I could feel the panic rising, the stickiness of tongue and the shallowness of breath. I didn’t want to screw up my first assignment. Not now. Not after all that Montrachet and Petrus, d’Yquem and Apache.
Jeffries looked up at a corner of the ceiling, as if trying to draw up a mental list. “What is it I want?” he muttered to himself, mockingly. “Just what is it I want?” He looked back at me. “I know! Same as the white folks. A condo in Florida and a Lexus with the executive walnut trim.”
“But you already have this place. What do you want with a house in Florida?”
“This house? Oh, Mr. Basset, you think I own this? On a professor’s salary?” He roared with heavy laughter. “No no no. It’s owned by a trust. The committee thought it would be cute if I lived here to make a point.” He took another sip of the wine. “In any case, you are being too literal. What I’m saying is, all we want is your money. Only with economic muscle, the economic muscle we are due, will you stop thinking of us as slaves, for our history will no longer be relevant. As I say, a condo in Florida each and a Lexus
with walnut trim should just about do it. And maybe a GPS and onboard DVD player.”
I stood up and walked over to the window. Heavy tropical rain clouds had rolled in to darken the sky to a gloomy smudge above the oaks. A bloated wind blew through the branches, and down in the lane at the bottom of the drive, sharp white television lights were fizzing into life.
5:49 PM.
My cell phone vibrated. It was Jennie’s number on the screen; presumably she was calling to see how we were doing. I imagined that anxious tinge that comes into her voice when things aren’t going precisely as she planned them. I turned off the phone without answering it.
“Did you need to take that?”
“No, it can wait. Professor Jeffries, if you don’t approve of apologies, what are we doing here?”
“A fair question. Two points.” He raised a single, bony finger. “One. There are many in the African-American community who do want an apology, and for entirely laudable reasons. They want recognition of their hurt, and nothing I say will convince them that this is other than a reasonable and useful demand.”
“And the second point?”
“Process.”
“Process?”
“Yes, process.” He ate a few more of the macadamias. “These are very good, by the way.”
“Thank you.”
“As was the whole meal.”
“My pleasure.”
“You must give me the recipe for the sauce that went with the scallops.”
“I will, Professor Jeffries, I will. Forgive me. Time is a little short. What do you mean by ‘process’?”
He stared sadly into the nut bowl. It was almost empty. “We are involved in a process here. The federal government has bought into the idea that any compensation package must first be preceded by an apology. Once an apology has been made and accepted, they will simply have to move forward to the question of money. They will have no choice. That is the process which in the interests of compensation, I too am willing to participate in.”
“I’m sorry, Professor Jeffries. Under the Schenke laws—”
“—‘no apologee may define or assume, from the shape, form, or scale of the apology they have received, the shape, form, or scale of any settlement that may follow.’ Sub-law four. I know my Schenke, Mr. Basset.”
“Of course you do. I was just saying—”
“And sub-law four is the most phony of the lot because everybody knows that the whole point of Schenke is that it should result in reduced compensation payments, which means everybody has already made assumptions about the scale of the cash settlements that will result. But I will tell you this, Mr. Basset, I will tell you this. The African-American community will not be settling for a twenty-three percent reduced payment simply for hearing the word ‘sorry’ from your lips, however finely said. We’ll be going the whole nine yards. Only suckers will settle for less.”
“I see.”
Another interruption from the long-case grandfather clock outside, as if tapping its foot in irritation.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Basset. There are a lot of suckers in the world. There are still those who will settle for less and you will still get your cut.”
A grubby silence fell between us.
“What time is it?” he said.
I looked at my watch. “Five to six.”
Jeffries nodded slowly. “We better get to work, then, if we’re going to make the six-thirty bulletins.”
“Get to work?”
“We need to write ourselves a new apology.” He stretched in his chair and yawned. “Yours was good, but it will never fly with my committee.”
“Oh.” I looked mournfully at the wooden floor. “Just so I know—for future reference, what was wrong with it?”
Jeffries smiled indulgently. “A little too … cute?” He stood up and made for the door, humming to himself. “I think in your country they’d call it ‘chocolate box.’”
I felt cross: I’d put a lot of effort into this afternoon. I’d cooked like a demon and pulled off something remarkable. My speech had been thought through. It was the product of care and planning. And now, as with everything I’d done that day, Jeffries was undermining it. I’d come into this for the buzz of apology. I wanted to feel the warm glow of emotional wounds salved. Now all I felt was humiliated. I wasn’t going to stand for it.
“Professor Jeffries. I know I’m new at this job, but I also know you can’t go writing the text of apologies made to you.”
“Can’t I?”
“It’s against the rules.”
“And that matters because …?”
“How do you know I won’t spill the beans?”
He looked me up and down. “Anybody can see you’re having the time of your life, Mr. Basset. You’re not about to put that in peril now, are you?”
“… And these wounds, though they shall never be bound up, are now recognized. The pain and hurt that has passed from generation to generation, from father to son, from mother to daughter, is our pain too, for we the perpetrators accept our guilt. The tongue that we now share, that was forced upon the peoples of Africa by our ill deeds, is overburdened by the language of domination but ill equipped when it comes to the making of amends. Only one word presents itself, a tiny word compared to the magnitude of the task set before it, but we offer it now in all humility, for it is all we have.
“That word is ‘sorry.’ We are sorry for the grievous crimes of slavery, sorry for the centuries of deprivation, sorry for the river of blood that we have caused to flow. On behalf of myself, my family, and the peoples of Britain and the United States of America, I ask now that you accept both this apology, late though it be, and the sincerity with which it is given.”
Jeffries stared silently at the piece of paper in his hand before carefully folding it away. Above us the early evening rain thundered its applause onto the huge golfing umbrella under which we were sheltering. The photographers’ shutters clicked and whirred while the television cameras fixed us with their steely gaze, their magnesium lights causing our shadows to dance against the underside of the canopy. I stood still, impassive, at Jeffries’ side. He spoke again.
“Those were Mr. Basset’s words to me this afternoon. They are fine words, considered words, and on behalf of the millions dispossessed by history, I now humbly accept them. The work to settle slavery’s debt has begun.” He tucked the sheet of paper into an inside jacket pocket and turned away to give individual interviews while reporters started their match-play commentaries to camera.
Standing next to me, speaking in a half whisper, Jennie said, “That was a beautiful speech, Marc, really beautiful—”
“But they weren’t my words,” I whispered back. “They were—”
She silenced me with one delicate finger pressed lightly against my half-open lips. “I know, sweetheart. They were the words of history speaking through you.”
I said nothing.
I couldn’t see what else I was supposed to do. Call the cameras back and confess? Interfere with the “process”? Jeffries was happy enough. The television people were getting great pictures. And if Jennie wanted to believe I had written that speech, so full of rich African-American rhetorical cadences, what right did I have to disappoint her?
Anyway, as the man said, I was having the time of my life.
Twenty-two
A few hours later Max sent me a text message.
It read: WILLY WLD B PROUD.
Max hadn’t put his name to it, but his signature was there in the message. I was sitting in a roadside diner a few miles from Welton-Oaks, with Jennie and Satesh, Will Masters and the security boys. We were slugging cold beer and eating fried chicken and talking in the busy, self-important way of people who have been working too hard for too long but who have finally closed the deal.
I slumped back into the warm leatherette of our booth, cell phone in hand, reading the glowing screen, on pause from the banter.
“Marc?”
“Text from
Max.”
“Oh yes? What does he say? Share it with the class.”
“Nothing. Congrats, is all.”
“Come on. Full citation please.”
“Jennie …”
“Don’t be shy.”
“Oh god. He says …, ‘A fine day’s work. Yours. Max O.’”
It was less embarrassing than the real thing. The crowd looked nonplussed but remembered to smile encouragingly, before returning to the retelling of their part in the day’s heroic narrative of helicopters and vintage wines and satellite feeds.
I have no idea whether Willy Brandt would have been proud; I didn’t need praise from dead men. Still, if Max was impressed and this was his way of saying so, that was good enough for me. As the evening wore on, and the beer softened my mood, I became increasingly comfortable with my role in the day’s events. Did it matter that the words were not mine? Hadn’t they become so? It was like when I was a kid and I used to claim Luke’s crimes as my own. I remember once he smashed a neighbor’s greenhouse window with a stick intended for the horse chestnuts lodged high up in a tree (he never could throw), and in taking the rap, I also inherited the legend of the crime. Mum used to tell the story over and over, with nannyish indulgence, as if it were proof of my tendency to mischief, until even Luke forgot he was the guilty party. A piece of family history was mine. Couldn’t the same apply here?
There was more than enough encouragement to think that way. Three days later we flew in a private jet to Zambia for the annual congress of the African Union, where I was to follow my first apology for slavery with a second to the entirety of Africa. There is nothing better calculated to give a man faith in himself than flying in his own Gulfstream V executive jet. Before Jennie, before any of this, I had only one wealth ambition: to be rich enough to need never to turn right ever again as I boarded a transatlantic flight. That shows the narrowness of my aspirations. I thought only in terms of business-class leg room for my ludicrous thighs and in-flight meals on bone china. Now I knew better. The true definition of success is being on first-name terms with the pilot of your Gulfstream V. Mine was called Chris.