Vanilla Salt

  Sort clothes! But he’s only got three pullovers and five shirts! What a bore it is to share a flat. Life’s much more fun if you can leave the toothpaste in the special holder one day and languishing in the basin the next. It’s the last gasp in stupidity to enslave yourself to things. Objects are meant to make life easier, not to break up relationships.

  Yet this is precisely what has happened with all his relationships. The first girl he lived with managed to get him to take his shoes off when he came in the door, to eat more greens and to store his three pullovers in the attic, so he could then bring down his one and only pair of swimming trunks. They spent an entire afternoon moving these clothes around, and all for nothing. By the end of it, the wardrobe was as empty as ever.

  The women who came after her scored fewer and fewer wins. Finally, the last girlfriend, the company administrator, the one he was going to marry, made him see the light. Domestic life was not for him.

  This revelation was such a relief that he felt as if he was floating round on a cloud of bliss and peace with whiffs of white truffle. Now he keeps his shoes in the wardrobe again, but during that first thrill of freedom he regaled himself with all the pleasures he’d been deprived of in his uxorious years. He came home and threw his shoes into the air; he didn’t put down the toilet seat; he left coins scattered all over the place; he never cleaned the door handles, never ever again. This was a declaration of intent. Òscar was an indomitable rebel.

  Nowadays, when he takes up with a girl, he makes sure that she has her own place and is well off. Although Annette doesn’t boss him around or make him change the position of the cushions on the sofa, she’s been there for three months and her presence is beginning to wear.

  “Yum … These courgette flowers are sensational, Annette. Did you take a photo before serving them? Don’t forget that your followers will be waiting for today’s recipe on your blog.”

  “Yes, yes. Of course I make the photograph before put on table. You know what is secret ingredient?”

  “Let’s see… today’s secret ingredient must be… wow! That’s hot!” Òscar yelps, and gulps down a big glass of water.

  Annette loves playing the secret-ingredient game. There’s always something hidden in her dishes. Today she’s added a touch of wasabi to her brandade. The condiment hasn’t made the slightest difference to the colour or texture, but naturally it has exponentially increased the pizzazz. Òscar also enjoys this exercise, because it obliges him to work with his taste and olfactory memory.

  “No, you no drink! Water it make the hot more big everywhere in mouth. Eat bread! Bread it absorb the hot.”

  Although she’s making progress, Annette’s still a long way from speaking good Catalan.

  For Òscar, on the days he gets home tired from work, these meals are like morning break time at school. The change of activity helps him to forget all about computer problems, pixels and RAM for a while. Now, however, though it may seem contradictory, he wants to have the flat to himself, even if it means a drop in eating standards. It’s time to broach the subject.

  “Do you know that Antic Món’s still up for sale?”

  “No, I no know nothing.”

  “Well, it is,” Òscar continues. “I’ve driven past a couple of times and seen that the sign’s still up. I’ve called the restaurant number but no one’s answering. Then I tried the number on the announcement and was told they haven’t got a buyer yet. Àlex wants sixty thousand euros for the leasehold, and the rent’s one thousand five hundred. I’m sure he’ll lower the price, because he must be desperate by now. Maybe you’d like it—”

  “Oh, yes, I love it! Sixty thousand euros only?” she asks sarcastically. “If I find in the pocket…”

  “God, Annette, your Catalan’s still terrible, but you’re certainly on the ball! Look, if you want Antic Món, I’ve got some money sitting in the bank. I don’t need to use it for anything! It can be a loan.”

  “Òscar, we no know us so much.”

  “First of all,” he tries to convince her, “we’ve lived under the same roof for three months. I think I’ve lived longer with you than with the girl I was supposed to marry. I know you’re a good, hard-working person, and that you come from a family with excellent values. Second, don’t worry: I’m not going to put the spoon in my mouth until I’m sure the soup won’t burn. I mean I’ll lend you the money, but with guarantees that you’ll pay me back. I’ve been thinking about how to do it, and the best thing would be for me to pay for the lease and then you can repay the loan over a long period of time. It’s as if I was a bank giving you a loan. In fact, it’s quite simple.”

  “But I no know if Antic Món get success,” Annette wavers. “It owe money, have bad name… Start again, this very difficult.”

  She’s not convinced.

  “We’ll talk about profits and balancing the books in due course, when the time is right. The main thing now, the starting point, is whether you like the idea of being boss of Antic Món. Once that’s decided, high hopes can move mountains. You’re more than capable of managing that restaurant and getting it up and running again. You work hard and you’re methodical, good-looking, a very nice person and a great hostess. You understand food and have good business sense. I’m totally convinced you’ll make a good go of it. I’ll be there to help you as much as you need. You know I’ve always wanted to have a restaurant.”

  “So why you not buy for you if you like restaurant?” Annette is baffled. “Is the good time now!”

  “But I’ve got a high-powered job in IT. They pay me very well, I like it and it gives me peace and security. Running a restaurant would be a fascinating hobby for me, but that’s not the way to go about it. A business like that needs full-time attention. But coming to give you a hand would be a great pleasure.”

  “I myself no can. I need waiter, chef… No, I no can pay!”

  “You don’t need to take anyone on for the dining room. Well, maybe someone at weekends, but not on a permanent basis. Well, yes, you’ll have to get a chef. What about Àlex?”

  “This no! Never!” She’s indignant. “Àlex he go too much far.”

  “He went too far,” Òscar corrects her.

  “OK, OK. I say Àlex he no can enter Antic Món. His behave it very bad.”

  “Well… What about it? Do you think you can take it on?” Òscar presses, trying to drag a definite “yes” out of her.

  “I no able to take this. But nice idea.”

  “Take it on. Repeat after me: ‘I can’t take it on.’ That means you feel you can’t meet the challenge. No one’s accusing you of taking anything. Right, so tomorrow I’ll go looking for Àlex and tell him about our plans.”

  “I no can to take on it.”

  “Nonsense! You’ll do a great job. Listen, Annette, you’ve been here three months now, you haven’t found a job and it’s very unlikely that you’ll find one. I hate having to remind you, but you’re of a certain age and also without a work permit. You might get a few odd jobs, waitressing in a bar, giving private English classes, cleaning and so on, but nothing serious or interesting. This restaurant is a one-off chance for you. As for the paperwork, don’t worry about that. We’ll find a way. But we can make a start: I buy it. You work there. We only need to speed up the legal side of things.”

  “You no say me. You say you…” Annette pleads.

  “What’s this? You’ve lost me. I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

  “You no say Àlex about me. Say you buy restaurant. No say nothing of me.”

  “Right, right. OK, I’ll do that. Does that mean we can go ahead?”

  Òscar breathes easier. Annette seems excited about the project of reopening Antic Món, which means she’ll soon leave his flat and he can have the peace and quiet he’s longing for. Paying fifty thousand euros for the restaurant to get rid of Annette is a very high if not inordinate price. It would have been cheaper to rent her a flat or find her a job.

  But this isn’t the only reason
he wants to buy Antic Món. The fact is, he’s grown fond of Annette and, then again, he feels sorry for Àlex. Òscar is well acquainted with Àlex’s career as a chef and admires him. Like most foodie bloggers he’s made a legend of him and has glossed over his bad behaviour: a chef, if only because of the fact of sweating over a stove, must be free of any guilt. However much he “disguises” it as self-interest, Òscar’s real aim in buying Antic Món is altruistic. It’s his particular way of helping Annette and Àlex. He’s sentimental, a romantic, and it’s the least he can do. Yet he still feels mean, bothered by his conscience. He can’t stop thinking that he’s kicking Annette out and, moreover, paying dearly for it.

  Àlex rarely goes to Antic Món, except to sleep, and that’s hard enough. He spends his days in Barcelona. Frank often phones him to update him on the restaurant situation, but it’s always the same thing: no news. Very few people have called and nobody’s really interested. This isn’t the time for buying anything, least of all an unsuccessful restaurant.

  “Someone called today and he seems serious.”

  “Do whatever you think is best,” Àlex responds listlessly.

  “Come on, Àlex!” Frank chides him. “It strikes me that you couldn’t care less. You say you want to sell the place and the only thing that’s occurred to you is to put a tiny sign at the door. You haven’t made a single phone call yourself or spread the word among your colleagues. Don’t you want to sell it? How will you support yourself? Maybe you’ve got a stash tucked away under your pillow. I don’t know how you keep going, man. You must be down to your last cent.”

  “I don’t need much to live on. And how I survive is none of your business. Right now, I’m feeding my spirit, which was very much on the lean side. And when I’m in danger of dying of hunger I can still find a few mummified edibles in the Antic Món freezers. Who cares? Anyway, who called?”

  “Some guy named Òscar. He says he’s a friend of yours and is complaining because you don’t pick up the phone at the restaurant. Òscar ‘the blogger’, he told me to tell you.”

  “Bloody hell! Òscar? How come he wants to buy the restaurant? He must have gone mad. I’ll phone him right now.”

  “Remember, if you sell it, you owe me a commission,” Frank reminds him.

  “So the reek of money’s got to you, has it?” Àlex taunts.

  “You know what? I’ve had a gutful of you and your bad moods. Byebye. Go your own way. Forget the commission. I don’t want to see you ever again.”

  Well, well, well, another name scratched off his measly list of friends. So what. He’s certainly not going to try to patch up the damage he’s just done to his friendship with Frank.

  Àlex and Òscar are sitting at Table 3 in the Antic Món dining room. They’re ill at ease. They used to meet up to have a good time, but today they have to talk about money, which is disagreeable, especially for Àlex.

  Òscar takes in Àlex’s unkempt appearance. He can tolerate a bit of dirt, but this is more than a bit. There’s a centimetre or two of dust on the shelves and it all reeks of mustiness and the stale air of a closed space. Àlex doesn’t seem to notice.

  “Do you want a glass of Mistelle and a few almonds?” Àlex asks. “No, hang on, not Mistelle! Today we’ll crack a good white, the very best, a real little gem, a Sauternes I’ve been keeping for a special occasion… which never happened. I feel like drinking it today. Yes, and the almonds will go nicely with it. Sorry, I don’t have any foie—”

  “Don’t open anything, Àlex. A glass of water will do.”

  “Listen young man, I’m not opening the Sauternes for you. I’m doing it for me. I feel like it and humanity can stick that up its arse.”

  “Rest assured, humanity won’t know anything about it, so there’s no need to worry. There’s just the two of us here and I don’t plan to tell anyone. Cool it, man. Do what you like. Let’s get to the point. I want to buy the restaurant. I can’t afford the amount you’re asking, but I’ll make an offer and let’s see what you have to say.”

  “Just a moment, lad. I need my Sauternes. It might even happen that with the help of an exquisite, sweet, satiny white wine I’ll look kindly on your offer.”

  “OK, OK, I’ll have a glass too. I’ve never had the chance try the legendary wine made of rotten grapes. What a luxury.”

  “They’re not rotten grapes. Well, slightly rotten, maybe. The wine’s made of grapes affected by Botrytis cinerea, or noble rot if you like. It’s noble rot and it doesn’t stink… a bit like Antic Món, riddled with rot, but nobly so.”

  Àlex gets two of his best Riedel crystal glasses, which he wipes with his stained shirt tail before pouring the Sauternes. Pretending not to see, Òscar steels himself. He’s feeling desperately sorry for Àlex, and it’s not just the grungy dining room or the “medals” he’s sporting on his shirt, but his general personal appearance: gaunt, skinny, badly shaven with dark rings under his eyes testifying to the fact that he’s sleeping little and badly. The owner of Antic Món looks like a hobo.

  “Out with it, lad,” Àlex orders.

  “I’ve got forty thousand euros for the lease and can offer six hundred a month.”

  “Listen, kid, that’s much less than I’m asking for.”

  “Wait, I’m not done yet. The rest of the down payment will be your participation in the restaurant, by which I mean we’ll be partners, although I’ll have more shares than you. If you want, you can keep working here.”

  “Now I’ve put my foot in it,” thinks Òscar. “Annette won’t want to work here if Àlex stays.” What an idiot. What’s he gone and done? He’s so upset by Àlex’s appearance that his subconscious has taken over his tongue, which has started wagging all by itself. This wasn’t his idea, and he certainly hadn’t meant to say this, but the words tumbled out anyway.

  “So you’re telling me that you’ll be my boss,” Àlex snaps. “What the hell does that mean? That I’ll be at your orders and will have to make prawn cocktails and barbecued lamb for degenerate palates? No way!”

  “No, man, no! I mean you can continue living here and working in your own place, as you’ve done up to now… But some things are going to change, although with the only and laudable aim of getting this business back on its feet. Remember, you’ll always have the option of selling your share if all goes well or if you don’t like the way we run the restaurant.”

  “We?” Àlex is no fool. “Who else is behind this ridiculous idea?”

  Òscar’s a berk. He’s always making a mess of things. First, he’s been foolish enough to offer Àlex a job, and now he’s blabbed the plural pronoun after Annette stressed he wasn’t to mention her name in the negotiations. OK, it’s done now, so what the hell. There’s no way he can hide the fact that she’s involved. Òscar feels intimidated by Àlex’s strong personality, overwhelmed by him. The situation is making him very tense and his hands are sweating copiously, even though he’s not moving. He’s always been gutless. He only has to see a cop in the street and he’s scared he’ll be picked up even if he hasn’t done anything – good or bad. And as a small boy he always had the feeling that, if the teacher called out his name, he was going to get his head bitten off.

  Staring at his hands and thus managing to avoid Àlex’s unrelenting gaze, he answers, “Look, first of all, I want to say that proposal isn’t the least bit ridiculous. On the contrary, it’s a great idea that will help you to keep going with the project you’ve given your life to – the restaurant. Then again, it’s not irreversible. If you’re not happy with it, you can leave. It’s about trying to find a way to save Antic Món.”

  “Òscar Hood, rescuer of down-and-out chefs!” Àlex laughs. “But what’s got into you? Who the fuck do you think you are? Do you think you can do it better than me?” He’s silent for a moment, taking advantage of the pause to take in and consider the offer he’s just received. “Well, let me think it over. I can’t give you an answer right now. First of all I want to know the identity of this enigmatic person
who’s prepared to embark on such a ruinous project.”

  “Annette,” Òscar whispers, without daring to look up from his trembling hands.

  “Fuck, fuck, holy fuck! This is really incestuous. We can’t break away from the circle. It’s as if we’re the only people who exist in this world and the rest are mere extras. Annette will be my boss? This whole damn thing’s so complicated. Give me a few days to think about it.”

  He doesn’t understand, doesn’t understand himself any more and why his heart broke into a mad gallop when it heard Annette’s name. Everything inside him, all his viscera have been writhing in treacherous convulsions ever since Òscar pronounced the magic word: Annette.

  With his heart still in overdrive, his powers of reason kick in, trying to think and stabilize his emotions. This is utter madness and it can never succeed, which they’ve already proved. They’ve worked together before and it’s obvious the venture will fail. Now, moreover, the tables are turned and he’ll be the dogsbody. The mere thought is enough to make his hair stand on end.

  Yet Annette has once again occupied his brain and everything has taken on a softer, smoother, more velvety appearance. He’s just got another whiff of the fragrance he picked up the very first time they spoke about her, slightly acid, spicy, like fresh lemons.

  Àlex looks in the mirror and sees a pathetic, lonely, morose, emotionally shrivelled old man. Diving into his memories, he finds someone made up of layers, like an onion: a happy kid, silent adolescent, young rebel, prosperous chef… and broken man. He spits copiously at his reflection and wipes the mirror with his dirty shirtsleeve.

  He looks again, opens his eyes wide and glimpses a long road ahead. The joy of starting afresh with his interrupted dream prods him to overcome all obstacles. It’s time to do some exercise. He doesn’t want to know anything about the past. He’ll pick up one of those Milan rubbers, the ones that smell like cream, and erase all bad memories from his unpublished biography. With a nice, new, well-sharpened pencil he’ll make a note in his best handwriting of all the experiences that give sense to things. Yes, he wants to try again. He’ll accept Òscar’s offer.