Vanilla Salt
Page 13
The night before mother and child were due to come home, Laura disappeared. She left while Àlex was working in the restaurant. When he arrived at the hospital, a nurse informed him that Laura had absconded. She handed him the baby with a tin of special powdered milk, saying coldly, “Here you are. Until the mother turns up again, give him a bottle with two measures of milk and four of water every three hours.” It was a public hospital and nobody seemed to care. Nobody was willing to help the desperate young father.
The baby cried and cried and so did Àlex. Àlex cried in silence while Laiex’s yells were shrill, ear-splitting and never-ending.
In three days and three nights of incessant crying, Àlex thought the child must be hungry and prepared bottle after bottle, too tired, too dazed to remember whether the nurse had said three measures of milk to two of water, or two measures of water to one of milk. He didn’t know where to turn for help. He was alone, in despair, and he had to go to work. He’d told them what had happened, but he’d been away for three days and the boss said that if he didn’t return at once he’d be sacked.
He caved in on the fourth day. Laiex hadn’t stopped wailing. Àlex put the special milk and nappies in a plastic supermarket bag and, with the baby in his arms, got into a taxi.
“The Cottolengo convent, please.”
When the taxi drove away, he left the child at the door and went off to work.
Twenty-eight years, twenty-eight whole years have gone by without a word from Laura. Maybe she’s found a brightly coloured world, or maybe she’s gone back to painting blue landscapes in summer and red in winter, or maybe her tears reflect the whole array of rainbow colours.
He visits Laiex every Monday and any other day when Antic Món is closed. He hasn’t missed a single day at the Cottolengo convent these past few months. He goes there as a volunteer, helping the nuns.
He works as a handyman, painter and electrician, doing anything they ask. He feeds handicapped children, cleans up the adult residents and chats with lonely old people. It’s a one-way conversation, as they never answer, not a single syllable. He gives them all his free time and is deeply grateful to them, because he’s been able to see his son growing up. Laiex is a body, with arms longer than legs, a huge head drooping over his right shoulder. His mind is blank and colourless. He doesn’t smile, or cry, or speak, or see, or feel. He sits in a chair, curls up in bed or lies on the floor. He never moves. Àlex, despite everything, is really happy to see him so well cared for. No one there knows that Laiex is his son.
Àlex has been talking for nearly an hour. Now he stops, looks at his salad, looks at Annette and pleads, “You’re the first person I’ve ever told this. I trust in your discretion. Please don’t let this story go any further than you.”
Annette has endive stuck in her throat and she can’t swallow it.
9
TOMATO
Nothing gives rich people today more pleasure than eating what used to be food for the poor.
MICHEL CHARASSE
So much work! They haven’t stopped for a single moment. Òscar’s appeared and he and Annette have worked non-stop, the whole afternoon. Àlex went up to his room after lunch to rest and they haven’t seen hide nor hair of him. He’s calling on his privilege of being just a chef, even if he does have a small share in the business.
Annette prefers not to criticize him for not helping, knowing that he’s expecting some kind of rebuke, but she doesn’t want to give him the pleasure of being right about that, or to light the spark that would set off another fireworks display. He’ll get used to the new situation, she thinks.
She is touched by the story of Laiex and can’t get it out of her mind. Àlex’s sincerity and the horrible situation of a father abandoning his own child have deeply affected her. He told the story unaffectedly, in a tone devoid of feeling yet still conveying guilt, longing and utter sadness. Annette feels desperately sorry for him and wishes she could embrace him, cradle him, give him all the love he’s been deprived of for twenty-eight years, and tell him that it’s not his fault, that he’s more than paid for his decision. It’s as if he now wants to become reconciled with himself, which is why, Annette thinks, he has told the story for the first time. He needs to get it out, to clear his conscience and to try to find a way of making up for all those years of bitterness in a quest for a sweeter future.
When Àlex comes downstairs to keep cooking, as if he’s ready for the night shift even though the restaurant is locked and barred, he finds Òscar and Annette hanging up the new Roda el Món sign. He merely says hello and retreats into the kitchen, where he turns on the radio full blast. The newsreader’s expressionless voice fills the whole restaurant, backed by the sound of knives chopping vegetables and the electric beater whipping up egg whites.
It’s getting late, as Annette knows, because she has lentils on her mind. Emotion hasn’t taken away her appetite and her brain is telling her it’s dinner time. When Àlex left the kitchen free during the afternoon, she’d made the most of his absence to cook up a lentil stew which she wants Òscar to try. She’ll invite him to dinner, which he deserves after all his hard work. She sets the table carefully, as if for a party, with three places.
The doorbell rings. But they’re not expecting anyone. Carol! She doesn’t miss a trick. How does she do it? It’s as if she’s been hiding behind the almond tree in front of the restaurant, watching them until the food’s about to be served, and then… ring, ring.
“Hallo Carol. You give us surprise,” Annette says, trying to hide her vexation at the visit. She’s tired and has had enough of Àlex’s hostility, so Carol’s arrogance right now is the last straw.
Carol is oblivious to Annette’s distant tone. It seems that she’s been tasting cava all afternoon at a new winery. She’s quite tanked, with shining eyes and wagging tongue. In her tipsiness she’s hardly likely to discern nuances of tone.
“Hi guys! I’m heading off on my trip tomorrow, at last, and I thought, ‘Emotions will be running high here today and I don’t want to miss it.’ How are you? Have you been fighting? Are you still friends? Are you worn out? I hate being bored and the last thing you find in this establishment is monotony. What’s that? Lentils? Yum-yum. Sensible food, finally. I’m fed up with the idiocy of these newly hatted chefs. So-called cooks with titles and words, that’s all they are. Their descriptions are ludicrous: silky pureed potato, subtle aromas of charcoal-grilled garlic, harmonies of truffle fragrance… Bullshit! I’m fed up with words that never appear on the plate. The silky pureed potato is cement for making walls, the subtle bloody aromas cling to me all evening and the harmonies of fragrance belong in the shithouse. What a stroke of luck, finding these lentils! Mmm, wonderful. They smell like the ones I used to eat when I was a little girl.” Carol jabbers on without pausing for breath.
Òscar interrupts. “Hello. My name’s Òscar. I write a gourmet blog and now I’m a part-owner of Roda el Món. I read your column and really like the way you write. I agree with almost all your restaurant reviews. It’s an honour to meet you in person.”
“Blogger, humph! I’ll spare you my views on bloggers,” she says with contempt.
“A peaceful life and good food,” Àlex butts in, trying to dispel the tension that’s now arisen between Carol and Òscar. “We’ll feast on these lentils today and then we’ll toddle off to bed. Tomorrow’s going to be a hard day and these kids have to rest.” Àlex wants to make things clear. They’re here to work and the days of crazy partying are over.
Annette opens a bottle of wine, one of the cheaper table wines. She’s tightening the purse strings. “I open this wine for to thank you Òscar, because you help me very much.”
“Thanks, Annette. You know you can count on me. It’s a pleasure to help you, a good experience.”
This is Òscar. He always sounds pleasant and is friendly by nature, but he’s also determined to get out of here as fast as he can. From now on, he’ll have a heap of work whenever Annette phones and will steer
clear of the restaurant as much as possible.
He used to have a ball when he visited Àlex. He’d teach him a few Internet tricks and was rewarded by a cooking lesson and a first-class meal. Now coming to Roda el Món means washing up, climbing ladders, cleaning toilets and hanging up signs. This is no party as far as he’s concerned. A nightmare more like it. He’s a bon vivant, and somewhat lazy. Jobs that require physical effort are boring and, what’s more, very tiring. He’s done his bit by putting his money into it. He’ll find a way of not setting foot in the place again.
The four of them sit down to eat, happily tucking into the lentils. Carol praises them. She’s very happy. She’s raving on non-stop, telling stories, passing on professional gossip, demolishing reputations left, right and centre. Nobody is spared her vitriolic tongue. Òscar listens, fascinated, while Annette keeps getting up from the table, bringing plates, glasses, another bottle of wine and her fabulous carrot cake. Carol’s drunk and not bothering to hide her lustful staring at Annette’s bum. She even makes lascivious comments. She’s so enthralled by her hostess’s rump that she hasn’t twigged that Àlex, impassive and still as a wax figure, hasn’t said a word all night.
Annette has noticed. She’s been watching him and she thinks she sees tears in his eyes. Àlex cries?
“Sweetheart, I’ll help you as much as I can with this new venture,” Carol tells Annette. “When I get back from this trip, I’ll take you out to lunch on your days off. You need to know what the competition is up to. We’ll analyse the menus of the best restaurants, adapt the most successful dishes to Roda el Món and detect the worst errors. It will be like going back to school. You’ll have the best teacher and you have to reward me you know how.” Carol’s speaking to Annette, ignoring the other two. “You’ve got a tough job ahead in Roda el Món, but you’ll do it. Especially if you’re nice to me.”
Annette doesn’t know how to fob off Carol’s barefaced propositions. She’s silent for a few seconds and Àlex, making the most of this, stands up and offers a loud, clear, very succinct “Goodnight”. Carol ticks him off for walking out on her when she hasn’t finished what she was saying. Àlex, not bothering to respond to her belligerence, takes his plate out to the kitchen and goes upstairs.
“You two aren’t going to call it a day yet, are you?” Carol wants to keep going. “It’s very early and we’ve still got half a bottle, which is the perfect thing for a good chat.”
Òscar looks embarrassed. “You’ll have to excuse me. I need to get up early tomorrow to finish some work. If I don’t get it done, I won’t be able to come and help you, Annette. I’m sorry, Carol, because listening to you has been really interesting and enjoyable. Besides being a great critic and journalist, you’re an excellent raconteur.”
“Bloody hell, what a short night! You’ve turned into a bunch of bloody goody-goodies and gone all formal on me,” she sneers. “Never mind, Annette and I will finish off the bottle. I want to tell you a few tricks for managing Àlex and getting this moribund place on its feet again.”
Annette’s head feels as if it’s about to explode. It’s getting late, she’s spent the whole day running round and she’s exhausted. Trying to revive a restaurant that’s on its last legs is a complicated business, however you look at it, but when the task includes Àlex and Carol it’s all but impossible. In the last two days, just as she’s setting out on the new venture, she’s been about to throw in the towel several times.
Fortunately Òscar’s encouraged her this afternoon. He at least is a “normal” person in Annette’s view. She thinks that Àlex and Carol are weird, peculiar, incomprehensible people. Yet they’re extremely magnetic.
Annette doesn’t understand herself. She wants to get away from them, but can’t help feeling attracted by their singular, forceful personalities, which are full of inscrutable nooks and crannies and surprises that ambush her when she least expects them. They’re compelling and very dangerous, because they create the need to keep discovering the secrets they’re hiding, like the plot of a novel that keeps you awake, even if you’re nodding off, until you get to the end. Like a good or bad story, Òscar’s normal and comforting, precisely because you can see what the end’s going to be.
“Come here gorgeous, come and sit next to me,” Carol wheedles. “You look very tired.” Her honeyed tone caresses Annette.
“Yes, I very tired.”
“Cheer up, beautiful, and have a glass of this horrible wine you’ve given me. The worse the wine, the drunker you get. It’ll do you good.”
Annette’s destroyed. She feels alone and absolutely done in. She takes the glass Carol hands her and gulps the wine, which claws at her throat. Carol blathers on non-stop, but Annette’s stopped listening. She’s dizzy and wants to throw up. She folds her arms and rests her head on them, her red hair spreading over the tablecloth. Carol caresses it.
Carol’s drunk and the word prudence has just been erased from her dictionary. She’s aroused and her hand has a will of its own, forgetting about the hair, slipping down Annette’s back, and, finding an obstacle in the bra, undoes it. Annette lets her have her way: it’s not just that she doesn’t stop her, but she finds it comforting. She’s enjoying the warm fingers caressing her nipples. She can feel Carol’s panting on the nape of her neck and, all of a sudden, the tongue describing amorous scenes in the most tucked-away parts inside her ear. She’s surprised to feel that she’s wet between her legs. Carol takes her hand and pulls her to her feet. She leads her upstairs to her room, where they undress. Annette is like a doll, resisting nothing, accepting everything… liking it, asking for more. Carol makes her wait. “Not yet.” She makes her stop. “I want you to get even more excited. I’m the boss here. You’re going to come when I say so, girlie. I’m going to play with you.” Annette squeals and, seeing how excited she is, how she’s begging for more, transports Carol to cloud nine. Carol leaves early next morning, leaving a naked Annette asleep. What a great night she’s had. “Wow, this woman really turns me on,” she thinks as she drives away listening to Nat King Cole: “When I fall in love it will be for ever / Or I’ll never fall in love.”
Yes, she’ll help the new boss of Roda el Món. She deserves it. This name she’s given the restaurant… yes, it has a certain charm. As soon as they open again she’ll write a good review. Carol is determined to do whatever it takes to support Annette and make her happy. She’s impressive, this woman from Quebec, and it’s more than evident that she has latent lesbian passions.
Now that Carol has decided that this is the start of a long relationship, she’s exultant, happy, because at last she can see herself with a stable partner. About time too! She’s had such a collection of butterflies it’s horrible to think about: married housewives about to celebrate their silver anniversary, intellectuals with airs of Victorian novelists, betrayed women who’ve just come out of failed relationships, adventuresses who’ve used her in their quest for new sensations. She’s had enough of that. She wants Annette, whatever it takes.
Annette’s brain is well and truly befogged this morning, the price she must pay for last night’s wine. A cup of tea will comfort her. Àlex, immaculate in his chef’s uniform, is already at work in the kitchen, cooking up today’s menu.
“Good morning,” Annette says as she makes herself a large mug of tea.
Àlex doesn’t look up from the champignons he’s cleaning in readiness for a soufflé, which is exactly the kind of cooking Annette wants to serve in the restaurant – something sophisticated with a faint flavour of mushrooms.
She sits down at the kitchen table, wanting just ten minutes for a quiet mug of tea and to think about the agenda for the intense day lying ahead and everything that has to be done. She remembers one of her father’s sayings. He was a friendly, cheerful man with all the self-assurance that comes with the solid fortune of a prosperous industrialist. He demonstrated his bonhomie by hugging people tightly and cracking jokes at every opportunity. From time to time he regaled the family with l
essons in his theory of life, for which solemn purpose he used a deeper and more serious voice.
Annette found it funny when, with the sober air of a Zen master, her father came out with one of his platitudes, for example: “You don’t need to be a Formula One driver to get where you’re going fast. It’s more effective if you know the way.” Then he’d go on in great detail to explain the precise meaning of his “masterly” words, so that nobody would be left in any doubt whatsoever. You can go a long way on foot. You don’t need a car, but first of all you have to sit down and work out where you want to go and what the aim of the exercise is. If you start by moving, it’s more than likely you’ll go round in circles and end up arriving late, even if you’re a Formula One driver. His cliché is very useful today. Before she starts running, she must sit down and think about what she has to do.
She puts two lumps of sugar in her tea, watches them disappear down into the depths of the mug, then stirs them in with a teaspoon. Her head is heavy and her memories of last night are like the sugar lumps sinking in tea without dissolving. Images of Carol and their conversations have turned into stones in her head, heavy stones dragging her down into the abysmal depths of contradiction, so that, rather than staying afloat, she’s drowning in a sea of doubts, fear and guilty feelings. Why did she do it? Why did she let Carol seduce her? She knows the answer, but having to accept it really annoys her. She was looking for comfort in Carol’s arms, an extremely flimsy excuse that doesn’t absolve her of her stupidity in having got into this mess. Getting involved with Carol is the most dangerous thing she could have done. Heaven knows how she’s going to get out of this. She’s not a lesbian and has no intention of keeping Carol happy. Not in bed anyway.