The Cook

by Harry Kressing

  The tower ballroom rang with laughter.

  “And now—” Conrad stood up. He took Ester by both hands and helped her to rise from the deep seat of her throne, which was slightly lower than his. Mindful of her train, she turned to make sure it was all right. It had been draped over the right arm of the throne and then stretched out to the rear of the dais. Now several attendants hastened to straighten it for her. Sure that her train was all right, she smiled very happily and locked her arm in Conrad’s.

  For several seconds they stood there motionless, surveying the throng before them. There was a dead, respectful silence. Then Conrad passed his hand over the people, indicating a line between the dais and the door at the other end of the ballroom, and as Ester and he began descending the purple carpeted steps, a passageway slowly opened in the dense ranks of the guests.

  “I have never seen him looking so well,” whispered a handsome City lady after Conrad had passed by her.

  “Or so happy,” murmured her companion.

  And farther along the passageway: “Doesn’t he have a wonderful smile? When he smiles it seems to make everything perfect. I just have to smile back.”

  “Well,” smiled a friend, “perhaps everything is perfect.”

  And still further along the passageway: “Do you suppose Conrad’s in love?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But doesn’t he look as if he’s in love?”

  The ranks of townspeople stared at Conrad in awe and bewilderment. Even those who had seen him in formal dress on those Tuesday evenings when he used to dine at the Prominence Inn were overwhelmed as he passed close by them: so handsome, so rich-looking and regal, so sure of himself and his power. And how easily and comfortably all this sat upon him! Veritably, he seemed made for honors. All was his by nature, by right. The townspeople responded instinctively, scarcely breathing in his commanding presence.

  The reception began in the grand ballroom, and for a full hour Conrad and Ester stood beneath the great glittering central chandelier receiving all of the guests, shaking their hands, smiling at them, and addressing a few words of greeting and welcome. Mr. and Mrs. Vale stood beside them and also greeted the guests; the Hills were far too busy with the actual management of the reception to act as hosts too. And the Vales, in a sense, represented the other wedding that had been performed. Despite the somber quality of that ceremony, the Vales were now their usual smiling and jovial selves. They joked with the guests about how plump they were and about how ladders had been necessary to get them onto the plateau . . .

  “You should have seen how the servants had to push and pull me!” Mr. Vale laughed to Dr. Law. “I just hope I don’t have to leave here in a hurry!”

  “Yes, me too,” agreed his wife.

  Then Mr. Vale had an afterthought: “Of course, we could always jump!”

  Dr. Law smiled at this, rather condescendingly, and moved on to shake hands with Conrad and Ester. Ester had been listening to the Vales and she said, very slowly: “I—couldn’t—jump”—and her great double chins quivered with the effort—“someone—would have—to roll me off.”

  Dr. Law laughed. Ester’s eyes, tiny now, almost hidden by puffs and rolls of flesh, twinkled at him for a moment, and then turned to Conrad. Lovingly she gazed at him, into his sharp black eyes.

  “Don’t worry, Ester,” he smiled; “you’ll never have to leave here.—Dr. Law”—Conrad extended his hand—“I am most happy to see you. Welcome to the Prominence.”

  “Congratulations, sir!” Dr. Law grasped Conrad’s hand. “I am most happy to be here. And I wish you and your bride all the . . .”

  Dr. Law’s words were drowned by a great gasp from all the guests clustered near the main door of the ballroom. The gasp was one of surprise. It was quickly followed by a long, low ahhhhh of approval.

  “The cake!” everyone exclaimed. “Look at the cake!”

  The cake, borne on the shoulders of four stout men, was momentarily framed in the grand entrance.

  “The cake! Make way for the cake!”

  The wedding-cake procession slowly wound its way to the center of the ballroom. Two confectioners, making sure no one got under foot, led it. Harold brought up the rear. He was wearing a high chef’s hat. He looked very tall. In his right hand he carried a broad ornamental sword.

  Conrad smiled at Harold as the procession came to a halt before a long table covered with a white table-cloth and piled high with china dishes. Very carefully the bearers set down their burden on the end of the table and then withdrew while all the guests got as close as possible to have a better look at the cake.

  It was a towering replica, in white and green and chocolate, of the Prominence set on the plateau. The steps leading up were etched in the side. The moat and water—made of clear icing—were there. The drawbridge was down, ready for crossing. There was all the landscaping, and the ivy on the walls. All the ramparts and battlements stood forth. The windows emitted a creamy light. And there on the top—on the very top turret—were two great figures standing hand in hand: striking reproductions of Conrad and Ester—he all in black and white, she all in white. Both were smiling.

  Harold waited till everyone had got a good look at the cake, and the cries of astonishment and approval had quieted down somewhat. Then he stepped forward and touched the cake with the tip of the sword just to the left of the drawbridge—the plateau was one entire, very high layer. “The family sword is very dull,” he whispered to Conrad, who smiled and nodded; Harold had revealed where the cake had already been cut. Conrad would only have to insert the blade and remove the slices. “With the compliments of the cook,” Harold added, handing the sword to Conrad.

  Harold watched while Conrad and Ester grasped the handle of the sword and detached the first slice of cake.

  And he watched as Conrad impaled a piece of cake, loaded with green icing, on the end of a fork and held it out for Ester to eat.

  And he watched anxiously as Conrad sampled a bite himself.

  “It is very good, Harold,” declared Conrad, savoring the morsel thoughtfully. “Yes, Harold, it is excellent cake.”

  Harold smiled gratefully, and left the ball room to return to his work in the great kitchen.

  The reception lasted the rest of the day and continued well into the night. Conrad and Ester mingled with all of the guests, talking to everyone and taking them around the Prominence and the grounds, until Ester got too tired and joined the Vales at the hosts’ table on the south grounds.

  Conrad even took several of his special friends into the great kitchen—Monte Springhorn and Rennie Bayard among others. And midst the general beehive of activity he singled out Harold and introduced him to those who hadn’t met him before . . .

  Mr. and Mrs. Vale, along with Ester, spent most of the afternoon and evening at the hosts’ table, which was right at one corner of the drawbridge so that everyone crossing it for the first time—that is, the people from Cobb who couldn’t come till late—could see where the hosts were and extend their best wishes. Ester didn’t say very much, but she had a good time, and ate and drank along with everyone.

  Mr. and Mrs. Vale obviously enjoyed being the hosts. They had nice words and smiles for all the townspeople, most of whom they knew by first name, and they never refused to drink with anyone who requested it. And when a place became empty at their table and someone new sat down, they would tell the waiter—when he brought food for the newcomer—to bring some for them too, because they knew no one liked to eat by himself. This they continued to do for upwards of eight hours, never flagging in good spirit or appetite, so that by the time the reception was about over all the members of the staff were talking about the amazing capacity of the Vales’. Word had even got back to Harold in the kitchen.

  The morning following the reception Mr. and Mrs. Vale were found dead in bed . . . due to overindulgence, presumably.

  PART VI

  39

  Within two months of the death of the Vales, their mansio
n was locked and boarded up. The entire contents of the house had been disposed of: some things were sold in Cobb, others were transported to the Prominence, and the remainder was auctioned off to bidders from the City. The administration of the rich Vale holdings fell to several of Mr. Vale’s subordinates, hand-picked by Conrad.

  By the end of the summer the Vale mansion and grounds were almost completely overrun by weeds and vines.

  The Hill mansion fared much better. Mr. Hill retired formally from the mill. Mr. Renfrew took over and moved into the Hill mansion, by which time it too had been emptied of most of its contents. But the new occupants had, naturally, their own furnishings—plus a flock of young children—and promptly turned the deserted house back into a home, so that during the same time the Vale mansion was being reclaimed by nature, the old Hill mansion was being refurbished and made into a fitting and proper habitation for the administrator of the vast Hill holdings.

  And so the year came to an end . . .

  . . . Only by the remotest chance—from a City newspaper which found its way to Cobb in a crate of china for delivery to the Prominence—did the people of Cobb learn of the death and funeral of “Mrs. Harold Hill of the Prominence, Cobb,” in the spring of the new year. The owner of the china shop could scarcely believe his eyes when he read the item, and he took the newspaper to his friend who ran the hardware store to confirm the wrinkled lines. Soon everyone in Cobb knew that poor Daphne had died of a “mysterious wasting disease” and had been buried beside her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Vale, in the Cobb family cemetery.

  No one from Cobb had even been told!

  Nor was this all the paper revealed: as it was passed from hand to hand in the assembled group in the tavern that night, someone started to read the front page instead of the back. And to the amazement of his listeners he read out a birth announcement: to Mr. and Mrs. Conrad Venn of the Prominence, Cobb, a son and heir. The naming ceremony would be held at the Prominence the evening of . . . A gala celebration would follow.

  The group of listeners was dumbfounded: again, no one from Cobb had known a thing!

  The naming ceremony took place in the middle of April, evidently on the date announced. No one from Cobb was invited, but the demand for food deliveries to the Prominence suddenly sky-rocketed just as there was suddenly a great increase of visitors from the City. But none of these visitors spoke to any of the people of Cobb, and so no one could be sure they had come especially for the naming ceremony and for the celebration to follow. However, it was noted that all of these visitors were dressed as if for a great occasion. To be sure, the visitors to the Prominence always dressed very grandly . . .

  On the evening of the day set for the naming, the people of Cobb looked at the Prominence with awe: it was lit up as they had never seen it lit up before. From every window of the enormous Gothic structure, light streamed out—it seemed as if every light and every chandelier and every light in every chandelier were turned on, pouring forth its brightest radiance, so that, seen from Cobb, the Prominence loomed out in the night like a diamond of glacial proportions with millions of facets all glittering and glowing. People gathered in the streets to stare at it, and talk among themselves.

  Children said it looked like a great big star all on fire . . .

  The following evening the Prominence was lit up just as much, as if the celebration were still going on.

  And the following evening . . .

  And the next . . . and the next . . . and the next . . .

  And the next.

  Epilogue

  Anyone traveling on the road from the City to Cobb, whether in the evening or late at night or in the early hours of the morning, saw lights blazing from dozens of windows in the castle-like structure high up on the plateau. No noise drifted across the trees and down to the road; the distance was too great. Yet, if the traveler was returning from his stay at the Prominence, he knew there was great life and activity and gaiety within those thick stone walls. Twenty-four hours a day revelry prevailed. There was feasting and drinking and dancing. Music was played at all hours. The huge central ballroom was filled with talking and laughing and frolicking people. The great dining table was heaped with all conceivable kinds of food. Servants poured from endless bottles of wine. In the two other ballrooms the same scene was repeated on a smaller scale.

  And were the traveler granted entrance to the Prominence kitchen, he would see amazing white-clothed figures running around, like ants, among the enormous stoves and steaming tables. He could scarcely distinguish one figure from another, yet he’d know they must come and go in shifts because at no time in the day was there any lessening of their number: the ovens never cooled, the burners were never shut off, the tables never stopped steaming, the sinks were never empty. Pots and pans were cleaned and put away while others were being taken out and used, and still others were brought back from the different dining rooms to be cleaned and started on their cycle again. Trays of dirty dishes and glasses were continually brought to the kitchen, and other trays laden with food were just as continually leaving. In other parts of the great kitchen white figures sat hunched over piles of vegetables—cleaning, cutting, scraping and paring; here and there were large worktables, where similar-looking figures labored over multitudinous cuts and kinds of meats; in between were smaller working areas, where more esoteric preparations of food were being performed. And while all this was going on, the doors at the rear of the kitchen kept admitting people with fresh supplies of everything: meat, game, fowl, fish, cheese, vegetables, etc.—some of the things to be put to immediate use in the kitchen, others to be stored in the coolers or the pantries.

  In the center of the great kitchen there was a single, very high stool. On this stool perched a thin figure in a tall chef’s hat fourteen hours a day. He was relieved by a smaller, rotund man, also dressed all in white, and with a slightly shorter chef’s hat. Both of them always had, either in their hand or resting across their lap, a great long wooden spoon. With this they attracted attention to their words, corrected erring cooks and tasted food. They oversaw everything; they were responsible for what left the kitchen. Their word was law, and of the two, the one who sat perched on the stool fourteen hours of the day was in charge: the rotund man worked the floor the four hours when he wasn’t on the stool.

  Several times a day one or two of the cooks ran up to the man on the stool and whispered in his ear, then a few minutes later the large double doors of the kitchen were thrown open and two huge valets in livery appeared, supporting by both his arms a fantastically fat figure in expensive and bedizened evening clothes. Slowly the three of them would make their way to the stool. Everything would suddenly become quiet in the kitchen, though the same work proceeded apace—perhaps a little faster than before. As soon as the great figure appeared, the man on the stool would turn to him, and when the figure came up to the stool the chef would bend down to hear what he had to say. Sometimes he would nod at the words and smile. Other times he would dart a furious glance in the direction of someone in the kitchen. When the man on the stool was the short rotund one, the conversation never lasted more than a minute or two. But when the chef was there, the talk sometimes lasted fifteen minutes or more, and often before the enormous figure turned to leave, assisted by the two valets, he would pat the leg of the cook with unmistakable affection. Then, when he had made his way slowly out of the kitchen, his words of praise or criticism were transmitted to the individuals meriting them.

  And many other times during the day one of the dining-room servants came into the kitchen and whispered to the chef or his assistant that the house steward was coming, and then a middle-aged man of just above average height, rather thin, in an ornate uniform—black with gold buttons—appeared. For a moment he would just stand in the doorway, surveying everything. Then he would go up to the stool and give some instruction to the cook in charge: to have a special dish prepared, correct something, alter the menu, etc.—on orders from . . . The house steward resembled the chef b
oth in build and face. Every member of the Prominence staff was terrified of him except the chef and the housekeeper. These three had a special relationship, though this was open and obvious only in the case of the chef and the housekeeper, who was in charge of all the maids and cleaners, and responsible for the maintenance of and supplies for all the living quarters and guest rooms in the Prominence. The housekeeper was a middle-aged woman, rather thin and extremely energetic. She worked more than sixteen hours a day, and the maids carrying out her orders could never foretell when she might suddenly appear in some remote wing of the Prominence to watch them at their tasks or inspect the work they had already done. This was quite a job, since in addition to the permanent residents there were sometimes as many as two hundred guests at the Prominence. The housekeeper was also responsible, along with the house steward, for keeping all of the accounts at the Prominence.

  Three or four times a day, while the chef was working, the housekeeper came into the kitchen to relax for a few minutes from her work. She would go up to the high stool; sometimes the cook leaned down, and she would stretch up and kiss him lightly on the cheek. While she whispered to him he would signal to one of the soup cooks, and a bowl of light broth was brought over and handed to the housekeeper. Sometimes she requested a stool, and then one of the pantry boys would run and bring her a short stool; she would sit down and lean against one of the cupboards and drink her broth and watch the chef at his job. As she watched him and sipped her broth, gradually relaxing, a contented and happy smile would light up her countenance . . .

  Besides some permanent house guests—permanent in the sense that few members of the staff could remember when they weren’t there—the only other frequent visitor to the great kitchen was an enormous fat woman. She too needed the assistance of valets for the activity of walking. Indeed, it was a frequent observation of these valets that the day was fast approaching when she would be too fat to walk and would have to be moved about from place to place in a sort of sedan chair. The valets were dreading this day because, as they said, so long as she still made the effort to walk she eschewed the climbing of steps; but when her walking days were over she would probably want them to carry her up and down all kinds of stairs.