A Healthy Place to Die

by Peter King

  “You are well informed,” she said in surprise.

  “It’s my job,” I said, and explained that I was obliged to live up to my sobriquet of “the Gourmet Detective.” The history of food and a knowledge of what foods were eaten and how they were prepared and cooked in earlier times and civilizations were a part of my work.

  She was listening, but only partly. She had stopped moving her hands, and a thick slice of duck breast stood uncut. When I finished, she said with wide eyes, “You’re a detective?”

  I explained further, emphasizing the food aspects and skimming over the times when my investigations had led to danger and even death. “I see,” she said, mollified. I supposed detectives were rare in a law-abiding country like Switzerland, and she was a quiet, reserved young woman. She probably spent most of her time in the kitchen and saw little of the outside world.

  She was about to say something when a harsh voice from behind me said, “We don’t allow people in the kitchen.” It was Leighton Vance. He wore light pants and a dark blue blazer with white shoes. His crisp white shirt sported a light blue ascot, which, though dated, suited his dashing image. He looked like a country squire who had just come back from a stroll through the village, nodding to his serfs.

  “That’s all right,” I said easily. “As this whole week revolves around kitchens and what they produce and how they do it, naturally I was curious to see this one.”

  “You’ll be in the kitchen enough during the presentations,” he said, and his voice was still steely. “Otherwise, our rule is no outsiders.”

  “I was congratulating your wife on her technique with the terrine. She’s an expert in an area that doesn’t receive much attention today.”

  His handsome face was set in a hard cast and even a quiff of golden hair seemed to be bristling. My attempt to stretch the conversation was failing. I could see that as he said, “We are all experts here. It’s why we are so successful. We hope to see you at dinner.”

  I knew when I wasn’t wanted. I gave Mallory an extra-big smile as I left, just to irritate him.

  As I prepared for dinner, I was wondering about the strange attitude of Leighton Vance. A week of cooking classes was about to begin—and Vance wanted to throw me out of his kitchen! What could be there that he wanted to hide? Yet I recalled more than a few chefs I knew who were jealously protective of their trade secrets. Many of them did not allow strangers in their kitchens, though most were a little more diplomatic in the way they ushered them out when caught. When the classes commenced, the kitchens would be open to scrutiny by all of the class members. Any secrets would be difficult to hide. So if such secrets were not in the kitchen, where could they be?

  In the food—was that the answer? It seemed unlikely. An operation as prestigious as this would be very unlikely to be doing anything clandestine along those lines, and, in addition, the Swiss authorities are very strict in all matters concerning tourism. I was still puzzling when I went to dinner.

  The main restaurant was high ceilinged and lit by four giant chandeliers. Wood-paneled walls gave it a slight feeling of period, but all else was modern while still maintaining a sense of tradition. Tables were set for eight, and place settings were shown on a large display at the entrance. It was also noted that settings would be changed every lunch and dinner so that everyone could enjoy a variety of dinner companions.

  Next to me, a large gray-haired man with a look of authority introduced himself. He was Karl Wengen, a member of Switzerland’s Nationalrat, the national council of 196 men. “All men?” I asked, a little surprised.

  “Women in Switzerland were first granted a vote in 1953,” he told me. “We have very few in governmental posts.” He waited for me to comment, but I didn’t want to generate a debate on that subject—at least, not before eating. He represented the canton of Aargau, one of the largest in the country, and told me that he came here once a year. “I come for my health,” he said, patting his considerable stomach. “Others go to diet spas, but I prefer to come here. I may not lose weight, but this is the only place that restores my peace of mind.”

  On the other side sat a school principal from Denmark who said she was fulfilling a life ambition now that she had retired from teaching. Oriana Frascati, the cookbook editor, was across the table, deep in conversation with a Swiss agronomist who, from the snatches of conversation I could pick up, was telling of his recent U.N. mission to Mongolia.

  I had been curious about the food here. I knew it was not diet oriented but neither did I expect the quality of Taillevent in Paris or La Grenouille in New York. Still, everyone spoke so highly of it that it had to be exceptional. I resolutely stifled any thought that because Leighton Vance had thrown me out of his kitchen (well, almost), he could not be a great chef. Any such illogicality would be unworthy of me, I decided.

  The choices on the menu were numerous without being overwhelming. It takes longer to read some menus than it takes to eat the meal, and one can justifiably question whether every ingredient is fresh. I selected the mussel and vegetable salad, a deliberately low-key dish, so as to establish whether the chef could elevate it. The member from the Aargau had a Waldorf salad with smoked venison and black currant dressing, whereas the school principal preferred the creme Antillaise, a Caribbean soup based on spinach, rice, and coconut cream. Only one at our table asked for the confit of duck that Mallory had worked so hard to prepare.

  My salad was warm, which was an encouraging start. It takes a clever chef to know which ingredients of a salad are fuller flavored when warmed. Shallots and chervil spiked the flavor even further, whereas a lesser chef would have used capers or anchovies, both too strong in a warm salad. Full marks to the chef, I thought, and reflected that it was a shame he could not know how fair I was being. My companions praised their dishes, and compliments could be heard from adjoining tables.

  A tiny bowl of consommé served as an entremet, a between-courses palate cleanser, much more sensible than the fruit sorbet that some restaurants serve. For the fish course, several of us went for the omble chevalier, the small salmon trout that is unique to Lac Leman, the lake around Geneva. Others had red snapper from the Mediterranean or Röteln, a trout caught around Zug, almost in the center of Switzerland. The omble chevalier came in a sorrel sauce that did not overcome the delicate taste of the fish. On the table were two bottles of white wine to accompany this course. One was a French Moselle and the other a Sauvignon from the Cielo vineyard in Italy.

  The pattern of the meal was now discernible, with many Swiss dishes supplemented by French, Italian, and German dishes. Touches of Oriental and Caribbean cuisines made it a very enjoyable meal as I chose for the main course sesame seed-encrusted loin of lamb, duck breast with sour cherries, a pork and mushroom ragout, with the member from Aargau having a filet mignon with a Pinot Noir sauce. A Merlot from the Trentino region and a fine French Burgundy, a Pommard, were served with these.

  Desserts included zuger kirschtorte, a rich saffron-colored cake soaked in cherry schnapps. “I would almost come here just for this,” said the member as he confessed being tempted to order a second helping. We chatted for some time after the meal, then when we left the tables, twos and threes gathered in conversation with those from other tables. I saw Kathleen Evans and the newcomer, Elaine Dunbar, in a close encounter. Axel Vorstahl and Michel Leblanc were debating a culinary issue.

  I talked with Oriana Frascati, and she agreed that it was a fine meal and an auspicious start to the week. Tim Reynolds, the golfer, came over. He had found a female companion from Las Vegas, where she supervised the croupiers. Margaret was a busty blonde with too much makeup but jolly and friendly. Kathleen Evans joined us as they were about to leave. “You’ll be writing about this place in your column,” said Reynolds.

  “They keep up their standards very well,” Kathleen agreed. She looked very attractive in a linen suit in a muted yellow color. “The salmon was perfect,” she added, and Margaret, Tim’s companion, who had had the same dish, agre
ed.

  “You’ve been here before, I take it,” said Margaret.

  “A few times,” Kathleen said, and I recalled that she had told me “once or twice.”

  “Well,” said Tim, “we need our constitutional after that meal.”

  “Tim thinks twice around the grounds is a constitutional walk,” said Margaret with a shudder.

  “We can stop when you get tired,” he said with a wink at me.

  When they had left, Kathleen said, “I was thinking of a little recreation myself.”

  “A walk?” I offered noncommittally.

  “The Seaweed Forest.”

  “The brochure has a picture of it. I saw one like it in a spa in Baden-Baden where the idea is said to have originated. It’s a sort of flagellator—you get whipped by long lengths of seaweed as you go through.”

  “And did you go through?”

  “No,” I admitted. “It sounds medieval.”

  “It’s very stimulating.” As she said it, she turned from eavesdropping on a nearby group and gave me a full-faced stare, her eyes locked on mine.

  “You must have been in it on your previous visits,” I prompted.

  “I’d definitely call it one of the highlights.”

  “Being whipped by wet seaweed … I don’t know …”

  Her eyes were still on mine. “You can set it to any level you want. It can be caressing, it can be restorative, it can be, as I said …,” she paused, “… stimulating.” She drawled out the last word. “You should try it,” she added slowly.

  “I don’t know what it’s like until I’ve tried it?”

  She nodded, and her lips pouted just slightly. “I’ll see you there in fifteen minutes.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  HYDROTHERAPY IS ONE OF medicine’s oldest curative techniques. The Greeks and the Romans believed in it firmly. The Romans found natural springs and a source of highly mineralized water in the south of England and established it as a recuperation center for the injured and war-weary soldiers of their legions. It prospered as a city, became known as Bath, and in the eighteenth century was one of the most important spas in Europe. Other European cities became known through their healing waters—Baden-Baden, Wiesbaden, Vichy, and Karlsbad, and in the United States, Colorado Springs and Battle Creek were among many spas that opened.

  Despite the strong early belief in the curative powers of water, there came an inevitable backlash. How could water on the skin heal the body? skeptics asked. The attraction of the spas declined, although people still drank their water. If no other benefits were apparent, none could deny the laxative effects and this was very important in an era of overindulgence and unbalanced diets.

  As the rich began to travel, they demanded more and more luxurious accommodation and a high degree of pampering. The notion of spending a portion of such travel repairing the damages done in the rest of the year sounded attractive, and the spas blossomed into temples of hedonism. “Taking the waters” became the thing to do, and eventually the medical associations of various countries undertook the study of medicinal waters. Their findings exceeded the hopes of even their most enthusiastic sponsors.

  Water was found to relax and fill the blood vessels of the body, improve circulation, relieve muscle aches and spasms. Spa water, with its high content of salts, lime, magnesia, and fluorine, is many times more potent than pure water and today the spas are more popular than ever before. Spa waters are unequaled in their ability to relieve the mental and physical exhaustion resulting from the tensions of modern life.

  Outside the restaurant building, I looked out across the lawn, shining softly in the rays of the sun, which was now nearing the horizon at the far end of the valley. Beyond were the buildings that housed the hydrotherapy complex. The various units were in separate edifices, large expanses of lawn between them. Most were in differing styles. Some were of wooden chalet construction, typical of Switzerland. Others were stone, some with the appearance of current design, clean, clear-cut, and in geometric shapes and some in irregular slabs with a look of the past. Others were brick with skeletons of black girders. What I was looking for was probably that mass of trees that was the nearest approximation to a forest.

  “All of them help the digestion,” said a voice, and one of the blond, beautiful staff members appeared.

  “I’m tempted,” I said. “Still trying to decide which one.”

  This young woman was in the identical mode as the others, smiling, friendly, and undoubtedly just as efficient. Her name tag said “Rhoda.”

  “The mud baths are very popular,” she suggested. “But then so are the hot spring pools.”

  Where an Alp started its climb into the sky, I noticed a large black hole. “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Oh, that’s the entrance to the Glacier Caverns. They are enormous chambers inside the solid ice of the glacier, and one of the natural wonders of Switzerland. They are closed to the public at the moment. The glacier is moving at the rate of several inches a year, and technicians are checking the instruments that measure it.”

  “So which activity do you recommend? The mud baths or the pools?”

  “The mud baths are probably more popular,” she said.

  “I heard someone recommend the high-pressure sauna too.”

  She frowned. “It may be a little too vigorous so soon after eating.” Then she brightened. “The Seaweed Forest might be better.”

  We spent several minutes discussing the various options. She knew them all well. As I had not yet tried any, the discussion was more prolonged than I would have wished. I didn’t want Kathleen to become impatient and assume I wasn’t coming. At last, I waved my bathing trunks and towel. “I think I’ll head over there and make a decision. Thanks for your advice, er—”

  From the color reproduction in the spa’s brochure, it was easy to pick it out on the far side of the lawn. I set off in that direction. The air was still warm even though evening was well advanced. Only the gentlest breeze occasionally ruffled the grass, which swayed not more than a couple of millimeters in response.

  It looked like a small forest as I drew near or maybe a very large thicket. Beeches, pines, and fir trees squeezed close together to form a long rectangle, probably sixty yards long and twenty yards wide, higher than a two-story house. A six-foot-high gate was the only entrance, and from it a hedge of the same height ran all around. The gate was not bolted, but after I went in I saw a sign inviting me to bolt it “if privacy is desired.” I decided it was, and I did. Several cubicles were just inside the gate, and I went into the nearest and changed. Another sign stated “Wear no clothing of any kind inside the Seaweed Forest.” I left my bathing trunks with my clothes and approached the “forest.” Nudity is a powerful inhibitor, and I recalled that torture techniques were most effective when the victim was stripped. Why was I associating the Seaweed Flagellator with torture, I wondered? It was therapy.

  Discreet notices explained the function and operation. Essentially a tunnel through the “forest,” mechanical arms swung lengths of seaweed through which walked the seeker after health. They were scientifically arranged so that every part of the body except the face was chastised. A spray of warm mineral water came from above to moisten the skin. This reduced the impact of the seaweed strips and increased the excitation of the skin. At the far end, a U-turn led to a parallel return tunnel with cooler water of a different mineral content to soothe and relax the body.

  A notice, which like all the others was written in English, French, and German, went on to maintain that the resultant effect was not one of flagellation but rather massage of the muscles, which was highly beneficial. It went on to describe just how beneficial, and if the notice had been written by anyone except a Swiss, it would have added “erotic.” At least, I interpreted it that way, although I wondered if I was being influenced by Kathleen’s invitation.

  The entrance to the tunnel through the trees was a gaping hole. Subdued and hidden lights made visibility just possible but no mo
re. I assumed that was because there was not much to see. Moisture dripped insistently from the trees, but there was no other sound. I presumed that despite my being delayed by the delightful blonde, Kathleen was not here yet.

  A control panel was mounted by the tunnel entrance. Several settings were available so that one could presumably be excited to any chosen level. I was considering turning it on when I heard a sound inside, a loud rustling. Kathleen was here, after all. I plunged into the tunnel.

  It was more like a jungle than a forest, warm and humid. The air had a distinct odor, obviously from the high mineral content of the water. It was a metallic sort of odor and so pervasive that I could taste it on my tongue. I had to push the seaweed strands aside to get through. When the power was on it would be easier to progress, but now the seaweed hung flaccid, almost blocking the path completely.

  I called Kathleen’s name, but there was no reply. I pushed on through the wet, dripping weeds, then I heard the rustling sound ahead again. She was being coy. I thrust seaweed away with both hands and went on, and suddenly she was there before me.

  She was naked and leaning with her back against the seaweed flagellators. Her arms were stretched out toward me. Her eyes were closed, and her mouth was open invitingly—she did not move.

  I took hold of her forearm. It was warm, but she did not respond. Her face was flushed, and I saw that the skin all over her body was livid. I lifted one eyelid gently. Her eye was cloudy, and the eyelid slid back into place.

  The same sound came again, and this time it was much closer.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE SOUND CAME FROM deeper in the tunnel. It had been slightly mysterious before. Now it was threatening. I looked again at Kathleen and was reaching for her pulse when I heard what sounded like a voice. It came from the same direction as the rustling. If it was a voice, I could not distinguish any words. I was not even sure if it was male or female or what language it spoke.