by N. M. Kelby
“What should we do now?”
She was naked, young, but it was all too complicated. Sarah, Delphine: they already tangled in his thoughts. Rosa. He brushed her cheek with his hand.
“I will teach you,” he said. “That is what we can do.”
To his surprise, she seemed disappointed.
“Then teach me,” she said in perfect French, her Cockney accent suddenly gone. It was obviously an act. She let the towel drop to the floor. She was persistent, after all.
Venus, he thought and spread a handful of the flowers on the thick bed of goosedown and silk. He arranged them to look as if a spring wind had caught them by surprise and then laid her down in the center of it. Her long red hair made him miss the Sarah of his youth even more. He took the small violets and wove them through the undertow of her hair, arranged the orchids across her breasts.
Each petal, each flower was placed just so. When he was finished, she was indeed Venus rising, not on a half-shell from the sea, but Sarah as Venus rising from the gardens of his youth.
The sight of her made him want to weep.
“Don’t move,” he whispered. “Close your eyes. Rest.”
Rosa soon tumbled into a deep sleep, dreaming of pure color and scent. At first, it was like sleeping in a garden of roses and violets, a deep, sweet sleep. But then it shifted, the scent of cream and vanilla cooking woke her.
Escoffier was standing in the small kitchen, still dressed in his striped pants and white-cuffed shirt, pulling sugar into lace.
“Baisers de Vierge.”
“Vierge? Virgin?”
“Kisses of a Virgin.”
Underneath the veil of spun sugar, twin meringues from the pâtissier held cream perfumed with Tahitian vanilla. They were like two perfect breasts strewn with crystalized petals from white roses and wild violets.
“It’s for Sarah, isn’t it?”
His face colored.
Rosa put her arm around him. “That’s just fine. Right as rain. I won’t love you any less, ducks. Don’t worry. This isn’t the first time that’s happened, you know.”
ESCOFFIER DID NOT see Rosa in the park the next day as he made his way to mass. He lingered for a time, pretending to watch nannies pushing prams under the golden, autumnal sky. He waited for so long that he missed the sacrament of confession that was always offered before the service. He missed the welcome, the reading from the Old Testament, the New Testament and the Gospel. He even missed the presentation of the Holy Eucharist. The interventions had already been asked for. The water had turned to wine and the bread, His body. When Escoffier finally arrived at the Cathedral of Saint Paul, the congregation was on its knees.
Lead us not into temptation.
The words were like thunder running through him.
“And deliver us from evil,” he said, as he genuflected and took his place near the marble altar. The dark stained windows made it difficult to see Jesus on the cross, and all the saints, but he knew they were there. Their unseeing eyes, their gaping wounds.
Above him, on the gilded ceiling, there were demons and angels, fools and saints. Soaring marble pillars kept the heavens at bay.
“Amen.”
It was time to take the sacrament of communion. Row by row the congregation filled the aisles. Queen Victoria. Prince Edward. Lady Randolph Churchill and her odd stuttering son, Winston. When Escoffier’s pew began to empty, he could not stay behind; people would notice and speculate about what mortal sin had tarnished his soul. And they would talk, and implicate, and ruin.
Rosa. Sarah. Delphine.
He could not afford a scandal. Escoffier stood, took his place in line, and prayed for forgiveness, but knew there could be no absolution. The church was quite clear. Adultery is a mortal sin and profanes the divinity of Christ. He was late for penance and now unclean.
“Body and blood,” the priest said and placed the wafer on his tongue.
“Father, forgive me,” he said but his voice could not be heard over the organ pipes, thunderous as the rustling of angels’ wings, and the pale choir of white-robed boys leading the hundreds of congregants in song, in praise, for the glory of a gilded God who lived in vast halls of cool marble, not in the tiny miracles that a man like Escoffier performed every day.
The wafer melted on his tongue. Tasteless.
ESCOFFIER SMILED AND HANDED SARAH ANOTHER FRUIT from the plate of small sweet apricots. They had been halved, sprinkled with cognac, sugar, and butter, one pat for each, baked and then broiled until caramelized and set upon a golden plate. They were warm, not hot, and topped with a small piping of crème chantilly, whipped heavy cream infused with vanilla, and a tiny thin leaf of twenty-four-carat gold.
They were lovely but Sarah had actually hoped for a bowl of chicken soup with noodles. Something warm and soothing. She called down to his office and requested something simple but it was Escoffier, after all.
“I have a new sweet I’ve been working on for you. A study in white with rose-scented cream. In honor of Saint Joan.”
“Joan loved soup,” she said. “That is a known fact. Her last meal was soup. It’s a very saintly dish.”
“But you are not a saint.”
Escoffier did have a point.
It was difficult to argue with him. White truffles, spiny African lobsters, ice cream made from African honey, a perfect, speckled quail egg—he gave her these things as other men gave her jewels.
But the day had been difficult, too long.
Sarah closed her eyes and chewed slowly, afraid to choke. Her throat felt as if it were on fire. Tonight, for some reason, the tragedy of Joan stuck to her. She was sleepless, uneasy. The rusting moonlight seemed to have turned her skin to the color of embers. She couldn’t stop smelling smoke. Her dyed red hair, cut as short as a boy’s, just a mop of curls, reeked from it. She’d washed it over and over again, but could not clean away that singed smell. It only grew worse and spread to her hands, her feet, her belly. Sleep was impossible. Joan would not let her rest. She tried to think of her grandchildren asleep in the next suite of rooms, but couldn’t. She was leaving for a holiday in Brittany in a few days’ time; she tried to think of that but it was impossible.
There was only fire.
And so when Escoffier had knocked, Sarah opened the door, naked, and held out her hands to him.
“They feel as if they are burning,” she said.
“Have you eaten?”
He knew the answer before he asked. He covered Sarah’s reedy body with sheets from her bed and fed her the golden fruit as one would a dying child—taking in every moment, every sound, every scent and committing it all to memory. The darkened caramel, the cardamom oil she rubbed on her skin, the rose water she bathed in—he lingered on each moment knowing it would probably be their last together.
Delphine had finally agreed to join him.
Escoffier kissed away the tears from Sarah’s cheeks while London slept around them. She took off his jacket, his vest. He let her. He would miss the every day of her presence. Sarah at high tea with her pet chameleon lounging on her shoulder like a bejeweled broach set against the embroidered silks of her gown. The doting ageless grandmother watching her golden-haired Simone and Lysiane and Ritz’s son Charles stuff themselves full of jam tarts and chocolate but eating nothing herself until chastised.
He did not know how to tell her.
“You must eat when I am not with you,” he said.
“Be with me, then. Come to Brittany.”
Escoffier slowly kissed her cheeks, the back of her neck. Sixteen years. It was a long time to love such a person. It was like loving the morning sky or the ocean before a storm.
“Monet will be there.”
“There shall be no excuse, then. He eats quite prodigiously for an artist.”
&nbs
p; “He is doing something with fog now. He told me that American, that Whistler, has recommended a suite here, at The Savoy, one of the corners, did you know?”
“I am not surprised.”
“And so now even Monet comes to you to paint the bridges. These artists love bridges. And this horrible London air: smoke always. It isn’t fog at all. Awful. You can’t breathe it but you can, apparently, paint it.”
The apricots had brought color back into her cheeks. There were others to care for her—friends, family, secretaries, and assistants. She lived with a small army of people, but there were times when she would eat for no one except Escoffier.
“The world now comes to The Savoy,” he said and fed her a spoon more.
“But this place can live without you for a fortnight. Rodin comes to Brittany. And this young man, Matisse. He’s very talented. He was a lawyer. Did I mention this?”
She had. She had also, repeatedly, mentioned that the Bretons were amazingly medieval. They had very few roads, a very angry sea, and they knew nothing of fashion. The men were long-haired and did not wear trousers but displayed their well-shaped legs in gaiters or rough stockings, their feet shod with buckled shoes. Their women resembled seagulls, although Escoffier had forgotten how exactly an entire race of women wearing bonnets could look like aquatic birds.
“Surely, there is food.”
“It is not Paris, but there is food. Lobsters, snails, oysters, clams, sardines—all are pulled from the ocean and dressed simply in olive oil and parsley, salt and pepper, and put into a bowl. That is your lunch. Every day. And Calvados and pink ham. And thin crêpes. And so many ciders.”
“Then you will eat?”
“There is no imagination to this food. It moves in your mouth while you eat it. They can’t even kill it properly.”
“I will send some recipes along with your secretary.”
“No. Say you will come.” She took a spoonful of cream and brushed it against his lips and then slowly kissed them. “There are octopi on the coast—hundreds of them. Last year we crawled into a cave and it was filled with them. You would like them. Like you, they have very sad eyes.”
Escoffier looked at the clock on the mantle. The lateness surprised him. He suddenly felt weary.
“And who is the ‘we’ of ‘We’ this year?” Abbéma?”
Sarah had sculpted Louise Abbéma and in turn, Abbéma had painted her and Sarah on a boat ride on the lake in the Bois de Boulogne, for “le jour anniversaire de leur liaison amoureuse,” the anniversary of their loving link.
“Of course. Louise. Always.”
“She will see that you are fed.”
“But you are the ground beneath me.”
“And our Dr. Pozzi?”
Even before he’d met the man, Escoffier had seen the photos of the doctor taken by Nadar and the painting by Sargent. He was striking but cunning: much like Damala. An ill-bred angel. Oscar Wilde had just written Dorian Gray because of his beauty. Pozzi and Sarah were lovers, of course. They were all Sarah’s lovers.
“Pozzi will feed you.”
“If you come . . . ”
Escoffier took a deep breath and looked out the window. The moon was a thin slice of light. Venus hovered near it, nervous. The rest of the sky was bruised.
“Sarah—”
“Come with me. You are ma famille.”
“Sarah—”
“You are my heat, my heart, the walls of my home.”
Escoffier took a deep breath. “But you are not mine.”
For a moment, Sarah did not seem to understand. She sat back, pulled the covers around her. “Is it that cook?”
“No—”
“I have been told that she spends a great deal of time in the kitchen and in your private quarters.”
“Sarah.”
“She is the Duke’s mistress.”
“As you are,” he said gently.
“Those black boots she always wears. Mr. Boots, that’s what I call her. It makes Bertie laugh. Our Mr. Boots. She is your heart, isn’t she?”
“Rosa is a student of French cooking.”
“Who needs you as a teacher, of course.”
“This is not about Rosa. Please.”
“Then let us call her Mr. Boots.”
“Please.”
“I have a secret about your Mr. Boots.” Sarah went into her wardrobe. “Do you see this?” She held up a full-length ermine coat with oversized sleeves and a high collar made of mink dyed black. Escoffier had seen her wear it on many occasions. It was striking. The black fur of the collar made her skin luminescent.
“Queen Victoria’s own furrier created this for your Mr. Boots and your old Dear Bertie gave it to me instead. Every time I wear it, I carry its secret. And now every time you see it, you will know its secret, too.”
Sarah put the coat on over her naked body. It was June. The night was cool but not cold. She pulled him into her arms.
“Come with me.”
“I can’t.”
“Mr. Boots does not need your cookery more than I do—”
He pulled away slightly. “Please. Don’t make this more difficult.”
“I cannot live apart from you. Your words are my food, your breath my wine. You are everything to me.”
“You are rehearsing for a play. I can hear it in your voice.”
“But what if I am not? What if it is true?”
She kissed him, not with passion but with a familiarity that comes with time. The coat fell open. She was still so very beautiful. He buttoned the coat sadly.
“Madame Escoffier is arriving tomorrow.”
Sarah didn’t seem to hear him at first; she cocked her head to one side.
“Tomorrow,” he said again.
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes. The morning train.”
“And the children?”
“Paul and Daniel. They are coming, too.” And then he said, “To live.”
Sarah sat down on the edge of the bed, looking at her hands, not him. She began to rub them together as if they were cold. “How old are they now? The boys. One and five?”
“Nine and five. Sarah—”
“Delphine must be overjoyed to be with you again. Although, Monte Carlo is so beautiful you will have to be very good to her and on your very best behavior to convince her to stay.”
“She is with child.”
Delphine was as surprised as Escoffier had been. Apparently her sickness and lack of appetite had nothing to do with her dislike of London or missing him.
Sarah’s face was unreadable. “Good. Well. Good for you. Things are as they should be again. My dear Escoffier, I need to sleep,” she said. “It is late. Can you open the champagne for me?”
Sarah opened the drawer of her nightstand, pulling out a bottle. Escoffier could see the label. “Indicated in insomnia, epilepsy, hysteria, etc.”
“The taste is monstrous but I sleep like a child,” she said and sat on the marble windowsill and looked out over London. He opened the Moët and poured her a glass. Sat down next to her.
“I am sorry.”
“London is not Paris, is it?”
“Delphine’s letter arrived while you were at the theater. I didn’t know.”
“It’s beautiful in Paris now. Not too warm yet.”
“Paris is always beautiful.”
They sat like that for a while, just watching the darkness. The coal clouds lay over the city making the night sky so thick with soot that the stars seemed like gods, hidden and silent. “Pour yourself a glass. We will toast Madame Escoffier’s health and your new child. Let my secretary know what rooms are hers and when she arrives I will send her a proper welcome to the city. Some flowers, perhaps. The British do
flowers so very well.”
“Sarah—”
She suddenly looked fragile. “Why do you never call me Rosine?” she said softly. “It is my real name and yet you never use it. Why must you always say ‘Sarah’ as if I am on stage? Are you like them? Another fan? Another beloved monster?”
“Rosine, it is late.”
“Join me for one last drink. For a toast,” she said. It was more of an order than a suggestion.
“I only brought one glass from the kitchen.”
“There’s another in the sitting room.”
Escoffier went into the next room. It was filled with flowers, as usual, from admirers. Her silk-lined coffin was positioned by the window. He’d never seen her sleep in it. The sight of it made him uneasy. The windows were opened. The damp night air chilled the room and yet the night felt close, gaudy with the fragrance of lilies and roses. It made his heart beat faster; his palms sweat. There didn’t seem to be a champagne glass anywhere. There were, however, two velvet boxes that someone had opened and left as if on display at a shop—one held a large diamond necklace, the other matching earrings. Escoffier picked up the card to read who they were from and then reentered her bedroom and that is all that he ever remembered of that night.
That and—mud.
It felt as if he’d suddenly fallen into mud, like in the war, those poor horses that he fed, then killed one by one. Mud again, that cold dark feeling.
The doctor’s report would read:
“Bernhardt will live. However, she was found deeply unconscious, showing complete absence of reflexes and only minimal response to pain. Her systolic blood pressure was reduced to 70 mm. Hg, with a pulse of 90 per minute. She was hypothermic (35.2° C.) and the central venous pressure was within normal limits.”
The Times would write:
“Finding it impossible to sleep, she determined to take chloral, but by accident took 120 grains, which was an overdose, and the disastrous effects were soon apparent.”
The staff at The Savoy had found Escoffier lying prostrate outside of her door, weeping, inconsolable. Delphine and the children waited for him at the train station for hours.