— Votre dessert : la pêche Melba revisitée, ou devrais-je dire l’authentique pêche Melba selon Auguste Escoffier. Je suis désolé, je n’ai pas une voix de soprano à l’instar la grande Nellie mais mon coulis de framboise devrait suffire à vous ravir, conclut Antonin.
Finalement, l’acheteur posa une question :
— Et le morceau blanc, là, c’est de la meringue ?
— Non, répondit aussitôt Antonin, c’est un carreau de faïence du mur de ma cuisine. Authentique lui aussi !
Les deux hommes se regardèrent ne sachant que dire, étonnés et vraisemblablement vexés. Camille, en retrait, affichait un léger sourire en coin de bouche. Ne voulant perdre la face devant la jeune-femme, il se levèrent à l’unisson.
— Monsieur, en plus de vingt ans d’affaires, je n’ai jamais été traité de la sorte ! lança l’acheteur. Veuillez considérer notre offre comme caduque. Vous pouvez garder vos dettes, vos murs qui se délabrent et votre cuisine digne d’une cantine de prolétaire.
— Allons-bon, voyez-vous cela ? s’exclama Antonin dans un rire grave et bruyant. Vous connaissez le chemin, pas la peine de vous raccompagner, non ? Je vous en prie, l’addition est pour le chef !
Les deux hommes avaient quitté les lieux. Antonin s’assit en face de Camille qui finissait tranquillement son dessert.
— Le carreau de faïence, c’était prévu ou de l’improvisation ? lui demanda-t-elle curieuse.
— Plus tard, dit Antonin. Dites-moi d’abord ce que vous avez pensé du menu ?
Camille sortit de son sac à main un petit calepin où elle avait noté quelques mots. Elle regarda Antonin dans les yeux et dit :
— Vous avez ajouté du jus de citron dans votre sauce forestière, vous avez incorporé du raifort à la moutarde de votre homard et évidemment infusé vos pêches dans un sirop de verveine mais je serais une bien piètre critique culinaire si je n’avais pas deviné ce dernier élément puisque vous avez laissé un indice dans votre dessert avec la feuille de cette plante posée sur le fruit. Pourquoi avoir décidé de retravailler ces classiques ?
Antonin décida de répondre par une question :
— Ça ne vous a pas plu ? Vous n’avez pas aimé ? prononça-t-il doutant légèrement.
— C’était parfait, et vous le savez. Ne jouez pas les faux modestes.
— Je n’ai rien retravailler proprement dit, expira Antonin, c’est tout le contraire : j’ai rendu à ces plats leur vérité en réalisant les recettes originelles.
— Comment pouvez-vous avoir la prétention d’affirmer une telle chose ? s’offusqua Camille. Et enfin, ce carreau : qu’est-ce que ça signifie ?
Antonin se leva la prit par le bras.
— Venez, dit-il se précipitant vers les cuisines, venez et dites-moi ce que vous pensez de ceci, termina-t-il pointant du doigt les écrits sur le mur. Alors, qui manque de modestie, hein ? Vous voyez toujours de la prétention dans les plats que je viens de vous servir ?
Camille lisait les inscriptions découvertes par Antonin. Elle comprit de suite ce dont il s’agissait sans poser aucune question.
— Le Petit Moulin Rouge n’a effectivement pas trouvé de nouvel acquéreur ce soir, conclut-elle finalement, mais il a retrouvé toute sa flamme, sa sincérité ainsi que sa légitimité.
— Cette fois des travaux s’imposent, plaisanta Antonin, impossible d’y échapper...
— Pour les travaux et les dettes, j’en fait mon affaire, ajouta Camille. Disons que, dans un premier temps, un changement de carte à la mémoire d’Escoffier sera le bienvenu !
Hope
Adria J. Cimino
The automatic doors slid open, and a burst of hot, humid air overwhelmed me. I’d been away so long that I’d forgotten the sensation. Imagining it in my mind, I had peeled off my layers of black in the airport restroom and stepped into light colors and flip flops. The sort of outfit I used to wear way back when.
In the airport parking lot, all was oddly still and quiet. Movement was absent. The constant flow of passersby bumping briefcases, taxis speeding along, street vendors shouting, drivers honking horns… This symphony of endless noise and activity that had enveloped me for the past eight years was nowhere to be found. In the city, I’d become so accustomed to this pulse that I no longer paid much attention to it. Yet now that it was gone, the silence choked me more than the heat.
Along with the high temperatures came the sun with a brightness I’d forgotten. I squinted behind my sunglasses and scowled. There were many cases of depression in these overly sunny places. The idea is, if you’re already feeling kind of low, seeing the glaring sunshine just about every day of the year might push you lower. A friend from Australia once told me that. Sometimes, a gray day could be comforting. I probably should have thought about all of this before making a decision on a wild impulse.
But it was too late. My lease was up, and I’d left behind the life I’d known since reaching adulthood. Funny how in a period of a few hours, I could be here, in a different world. A stranger in this once familiar place. In a few hours, life could completely change.
I’d failed the bar. The news came earlier in the week, and I was still digesting it.
“Don’t be discouraged, Cass. It’s the most difficult one in the country! You’ll ace it next time.” Those were the words of my favorite professor, trying his best to boost my morale.
I didn’t want morale-boosting or pity. I didn’t want to cry on the shoulders of various friends and acquaintances.
Then there were the words of my father on the phone: “How could this be, Cassandra? You do realize you won’t have a million chances? How could you let this happen?”
I didn’t want scolding and criticism either. It wasn’t as if I’d gone to the exam unprepared and purposely flunked. And it was a fine time for my father to start getting involved in my life after so many years of pushing me into the background. Since Mama died and he remarried. I was the reflection of her, the mother I didn’t allow myself to remember. The coffee-colored skin and dark eyes set me apart from my white family. But I didn’t want to think of any of them at the moment, even though I was back in their territory.
My best friend Marla distracted me from my thoughts. She was waving like a maniac. After our eyes met, she ran to me and folded me into a bear hug. We shoved my suitcase into the trunk of her car and drove toward our favorite watering hole.
We were the only customers at the beachfront café. The high season was over, and the locals were too busy with work and daily routines to spend time drinking along the seashore.
“I’m sorry about your exam, Cass,” she said as we sat facing each other across a picnic table in the sand. A giant pair of sunglasses hid her blue eyes, but I didn’t have to see them to know they were filled with compassion.
“Now what?” I replied. “That’s the big question.”
“You can take it again.”
“I’m not sure if I want to.” There. I’d said it. For the first time, I let out those words that scared me. After years of studying and sacrificing, of focusing on law and only law, I was questioning my own intentions. Was that the path I really wanted to take?
“Are you thinking of coming back here?” Marla asked.
I shook my head.
“Then why are you here now?”
“I needed to get away… and I didn’t feel like planning a trip. So I chose the easiest option. Coming home.”
But it was no longer home. That was the problem. When did it truly stop being home?
“You going there?” Marla asked. She knew the situation. She knew my father and stepmother didn’t have a place in their life for me. I was too much of a reminder of my mother.
“I have no plans to see them.”
The waiter brought us two giant iced teas, and I gazed for a moment at the gentle waves of turquoise water lapping at the shore. For years, the same small rowboat remained tied to a post at the water’s edge.
Any normal person would find the setting idyllic and relaxing
, but suddenly, to me it was simply a sore reminder of a less-than-happy past. Sorrow in paradise.
Marla dumped the contents of two pink packets into her drink and swirled the fake sugar around with her straw. I could tell she was contemplating the situation, trying to find a solution in her analytical mind.
“I remember your beautiful voice, Cass,” she said, looking up at me.
I smirked. I knew what she was talking about. The performing arts program. The one we were both involved in until we parted ways and headed off to college.
“You’re going to tell me I should be on Broadway,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“No, I’m going to ask if you still sing.”
“Once in a while… if the shower counts.” And that was an exaggeration. The last time I sang in the shower was before my law school days.
“You do have an undergraduate degree in music.”
I’d almost forgotten. Since entering law school, I’d closed the door to that part of my life. I’d actually closed the door to most things about my past. It was a miracle Marla and I remained best friends. The fact that she had come to visit me in the city several times, taking steps into my new world, had helped.
It wasn’t as if music itself had been a negative part of my existence. As a matter of fact, it had been the one positive when I’d struggled through the loss of my mother. When family members returned to their own occupations, seemingly unaware of my suffering, I would sing. I would sing my sorrows and my joys.
“Cass, if you’re doubting a career in law, why not return to what you loved most?”
“This isn’t the time to make hasty decisions, Marla.”
“A time like this is often the best moment for a hasty decision.”
She was probably right. But I clung to the comfort of my stubbornness as if it were a cloak protecting me from instability and shook my head.
~~~~
I would spend the night at Marla’s condo on the beach. A new, neutral place. Unfamiliar. I truly was a stranger here. The clock struck midnight, and Marla was fast asleep. After our conversation, she was probably dreaming of ways to push me into taking charge of my future. I couldn’t blame her. I might have done the same thing if I were in her situation and saw my sad-sack friend questioning the direction of her life.
I opened the sliding glass door, erasing the reflection of myself the dim lights had created. Why do I have to look so much like my mother? I thought as I meandered across the porch and into the sand. The fine crystals were cool on my bare feet.
Of course I saw this reflection of myself every day, yet thoughts of Mama only haunted me when I came back to this town. In my naïve mind, I thought this time would be different. I thought my worries about the bar and my future prospects would overshadow those old wounds. Maybe I’d come here as a test: If concerns about those concrete problems could wipe away most thoughts of Mama, I was over it. Well, if that was the case, I’d failed my second test in a week.
Mama left when I was 6 years old. She told me she was going to the hospital for treatment so she would be well again, so we could run around the yard together and swim in the pool. But she never came back. When Dad told me the news, I hardly listened. I was already inventing an outcome that wasn’t as painful: Mama was in some sort of rehabilitation. She would be back once she was cured. I hung onto this scenario for a long while. Even after Dad remarried two years later.
When Dad and Lauren did their own thing, when they were happy and I was sad, I said to myself: Soon, Mama will be back, and everything will be OK. Mama and I can move away together. And Dad and Lauren won’t be bothered any more with people saying in surprise, “You’re Cassandra’s parents?” They would be better off without me—and I would be better off without them.
But things didn’t work out that way. I eventually let go of the childish hope of Mama returning. I’d realized Dad had told me the truth. Slowly but surely, I’d become an orphan. And this town was no longer my home.
Moonlight illuminated the dark waves, and white foam crashed along the shore. A sound that should have been soothing. How many people buy CDs of this kind of thing just to get to sleep? And there I was, crying my eyes out over the loss of Mama 20 years ago.
~~~~
I borrowed Marla’s car. Dad and Lauren would both be at work, and I still had keys to the house. I decided I couldn’t come back to this town any time soon. Therefore, I had to build up my courage, return to my old room and collect belongings I might need in the near future.
I couldn’t imagine much being left behind since I cleared out my room when I left for college, but it would be ridiculous to come this far and not do a final check.
The house was still and quiet, like everything else around here. My heart was beating a mile a minute as I turned my key in the lock. As if I were a burglar rather than a girl who used to live here. Inside, the scent of Dad’s woodsy cologne mixed with the sharp oriental scent of Lauren’s perfume. I remembered when Mama’s gardenia fragrance permeated the air, and then I pushed the thought out of my mind. I was here on a mission.
Quickly, I glanced around. Nothing had changed. The same white furnishings, the same gray carpet, the same clutter of flower paintings Lauren had tacked on the walls. I made my way down the hall to my bedroom. And here, there was a transformation. They had turned it into a sitting room. The final detail to eliminate my presence. How many hours had I spent in that room feeling small and invisible?
We used to be happy a long time ago. When Mama was healthy and the three of us would walk along the beach or play board games on rainy days. My parents were in love with each other and loved me. When Mama left for the hospital that last time, my father changed. Well before Lauren came into the picture, he pushed me aside. I remembered curling up in my bed, talking to Mama as if she were right next to me, then crying myself to sleep. Many, many nights. I could still see my own image, fragile and alone. Dad refused to return to Martinique, where he had met Mama and where her brothers and sisters still lived. After years of letters, we lost touch, and I lost hope. If they really cared about me, wouldn’t they have found a way to see me?
I took a deep breath and pushed the memories away.
I opened the closet, and my eyes traveled from end to end, searching for any remnant of my presence here. In the corner, I found a stack of papers from high school. After flipping through the pages, I shoved them back on the shelf. It was then that a word caught my eye. On a box half hidden by the clothes Lauren used to wear before the diet shaved off 50 pounds.
Hope. Mama’s name.
With trembling hands, I lifted the lid and waded through a bunch of withered hospital bills. My fingers touched something hard. A notebook. I opened it and recognized Mama’s handwriting. There was an inscription on the first page: To Cassandra. My whole body was shaking by that point. I stuffed the book into my handbag, hastily returned everything to its place and hurried out the door.
~~~~
The city, the bar, the movement, the noise: All of that seemed to be part of my life long ago. It was as if in another lifetime, as a matter of fact. Somehow, my childhood in this small coastal town and the loss of my mother had become my reality. The distant past was my present. And I still had no idea about my future.
I ran to that spot on the beach where Mama and I would sit and talk. I’d left Marla with the car keys and an awkward excuse about needing time alone. She knew something was up but was a good enough friend to give me space.
My fingers raced through those pages of tales about my silly games and adventures, my joys and heartaches, and my accomplishments and disappointments. I could no longer remember my mother’s voice, yet somehow it was speaking to me as I turned each page, showing someone did indeed care about me one day and continued to care beyond this life. Although Mama didn’t say much about herself, through her words, I was getting to know her from my perspective as an adult.
As her illness gained ground, she continued to write. Selflessly. About me. Singing in t
he choir, learning how to read, falling off my bike but refusing to cry, swimming in Martinique. On that last trip. The memory came back to me as I read her words.
I pieced the story together. Mama’s family didn’t like my father… because he accepted his family’s behavior. Dad’s family rejected Mama—and rejected me. Right then and there, I was that little girl chewing one of Grandma’s cod fritters and noticing the looks they exchanged, Grandma and Dad. It was a question of race. As much as I knew that deep down all of my life, it hit me like a slap. It was one thing to have a stranger give you a funny look when he saw you with your white father. It was another thing to have the hatred in your own family.
Grandma was gone the same year as Mama. But there were aunts, uncles, cousins. Mama wrote about how they loved me, but it was “difficult” for them to visit us. And she was too weak to make another trip to Martinique. That entire part of my existence disappeared with Mama.
I turned to the last page of the notebook, skipping many in between. Mama’s final words made up the message I needed to hear:
Today, I told you I was going to the hospital but soon would be home. It was a lie, my darling, only to protect you. But I realize I’ve only delayed the pain and created false hopes. I’m sorry, my daughter, for leaving you when what I want most is to be by your side. I want you to know I put up a battle, and I did so for you. I want you to know that in the six years I spent with you on this earth, in spite of my illness, you have made me happier than I could ever imagine. I am proud of you, and I am proud of the woman I’m certain you will become. I hope I have left you with enough love, faith and courage to follow your heart and believe in yourself. That would be my victory. I hope that as you face any challenge, you will remember the human spirit is a lot stronger than we often give it credit for. And I hope you know I will be forever in your heart, loving you.
Legacy- an Anthology Page 20