Her spoon digs deep into the unctuous lemon-flavoured icing, breaks into the grainy sponge.
Eat me, my girl. Eat me and understand.
With her eyes closed she savours the delicate alloy of cinnamon and brown sugar.
‘This is so good!’ she exclaims.
She sighs and looks at her plate.
‘It would be a hell of a waste if our children didn’t taste this’, she says. ‘We haven’t got any yet, but I want several. Maybe two, maybe four. It would be a real shame, wouldn’t it?’
I shrug my shoulders, holding my tears back so hard that my forehead hurts.
She finishes her plateful conscientiously, stopping occasionally to shake her head in incredulity. She can’t get over the texture, the flavour, the softness.
She goes to find another cup, pours some tea into it and puts it in front of me.
‘Cheers?’ she says, raising her cup.
‘Cheers.’
Now all I have to do is wait: a meticulous activity which requires my full attention. It’s inhuman not knowing how long this will last, jumping every time the door creaks, with every footstep. I interrupt what I’m doing the whole time, my life has lost all continuity. I keep having to look up, turn round, just to check, be ready.
Ben has been in the kitchen for two days now. He sees it as the last part of his training before he qualifies. He has a divine hand for pastry. It’s a gift. It can’t be learned. His tarts are infinitely better than mine. His Swiss roll with poppy seeds and cherry jam is celestial. He hasn’t got the knack of cooking meat quite right yet, but that’s a science which holds no mystery. You just have to obey the rules.
As for orders, Barbara takes care of them. Forward planning and lists are her speciality.
We’re hurtling headlong towards my disappearance but still the time stagnates round the edge of every hour.
I summon an expert from the department of hygiene standards. He is a hateful man who pulls ridiculous faces as he takes notes, moves tables and chairs, and turns the dining-room upside-down. He waves his arms about and goes bright red when he tries to look in the fridge. I think there’s a terrible smell of sweat about him. You’re getting sweat all over the place, I want to tell him. He tells me about anti-bacterial gel, the cold chain and synthetic sponges. He refuses everything I offer him, a slice of asparagus flan, a bowl of pumpkin soup, a blueberry mousse with almond cream, a coffee for the road. He says he will send his report, and leaves without shaking my hand. Two days later we receive a printed document announcing conditionally favourable findings, followed by a few suggested but not compulsory minor changes.
Everything is ready. Ben is officially appointed manager. His training comes to an end triumphantly when he announces he has created a fabulous dessert which is like a cross between a millefeuille and Black Forest gâteau, practically impossible to achieve according to me, child’s play according to him.
I can go.
But I can’t go.
Because I’m waiting, and struggling not to look at the wretched calendar or my watch with its impotent hands.
An eyelash falls on my cheek.
‘Make a wish,’ says Ben. ‘Pat one of your cheeks and make a wish.’
I wish my son would get here very soon.
I pat my left cheek.
‘It was the other one,’ says Ben. ‘Bad luck.’
I couldn’t say how many days have passed since Tania, the harbinger, came to see me, but here he is now, coming in after tapping on the window. Hugo is here, right in front of me, and so tall. It’s knocked the breath out of me. I flatten myself instinctively against the wall, as if under fire. But he has no weapon, apart from his smile, a wide open smile like a segment of orange, apart from his eyebrows which are raised high on his smooth forehead, apart from his eyes, the only pair of eyes I have ever been afraid of.
He looks amused, pleased with himself for giving me this surprise. I recognize that look of his, like a shrewd baby. I’m so afraid of disappointing him. I try to smile but none of my muscles respond. I feel as if my whole body fits in the palm of a hand and that the hand is crushing me. I look at my son’s face with curiosity, as you would a new-born baby, trying to find likenesses. Is he more like his mummy or his daddy? No, no, neither. He’s a grown man. A very good-looking young man, rather distinguished, dressed with a studied elegance all his own.
I’m in pain. I don’t realize straight away because of the tide unfurling within me. Or is it me unfurling? I feel something hurting. Ow. It’s terrible, it makes my eyes water like a punch on the nose. Ow. In my stomach and my back too. It’s stretching and tunnelling. What’s wrong with me?
Hugo comes over and holds out his hand inquisitively. His every move is made with a note of humour. I don’t understand how that’s possible. How does my son manage to be funny?
I take his hand in mine and pull him to me. I sit on the banquette and pat my knees. He shakes his head but isn’t against the idea. He laughs as he sits down on my lap. He crushes me completely. He’s too big, too thin, too old.
‘My darling,’ I say. ‘My beloved boy.’
‘Still just as mad!’ he says, pinching my cheek.
I press my head to his chest. I can hear his heart.
A little while later the blue van comes round the end of the street.
My suitcase weighs nothing. The same one I came with. Standing on the pavement opposite, I look at Chez moi with its spruce façade newly painted in lilac and the Mexican orange trees round the edge of the terrace. Ben and Barbara are standing on the doorstep waving to me. Vincent is busy in his shop. We’ve had a farewell cup of coffee. He’s promised to keep an eye on the youngsters.
‘What shall we do with your books?’ asks Ben.
I think about my survival kit books, my treasure. I shrug.
‘Read them.’
Chez Moi Page 21