The Second-Worst Restaurant in France

by Alexander McCall Smith

  “Plenty of Spaniards do,” said Paul.

  “Then they are benighted,” said Chloe. “There is a cruel streak a mile wide in Spanish history. Look at the conquistadores. Look at them. Look at what they did when they reached America and disposed of the people they met. Cruelty. But that’s the past, I suppose—this was the present. Conquistadores at least had the excuse of being conquistadores. They were children of their time—and that is always an excuse. Aristotle would have believed in slavery, we must remind ourselves, because his time did. And Jane Austen wrote about people going off to the West Indies without saying anything about what they were doing there—running slave plantations, if we forget. She must have accepted slavery.”

  “So the people who go to the bull-ring today have the same excuse, wouldn’t you say?” Paul was quick to add, “Not that I like the idea of bull-fighting myself. I’m just saying that the crowds who go…”

  “Are not participating in an act of cruelty?” Chloe challenged. “Is that what you’re saying?”

  “No, they are,” Paul conceded. “Because we can judge them by today’s standards. People today should be sensitive to animal pain, to animal humiliation, because such sensitivity is part of our moral climate. It just is.”

  “Well, I don’t disagree with that,” said Chloe. “But back to Octavio—I should have been firmer. I should have spoken up.”

  “You said nothing?”

  Chloe explained that the subject of bull-fighting had come up incidentally. “He said to me on our second date, I think it was, that he had to go off to the Plaza de Toros to write something up for the paper. I thought that he was going to interview somebody, and that this person worked near the Plaza de Toros, or something of that sort. So, when he asked me whether I would care to come with him, I said that I would. I’d fallen for him by then and I just wanted to be in his company.”

  “So you went off to a bull-fight?”

  Chloe looked pained. “I did. But please don’t be too harsh on me, Paul. There are so many things that one’s younger self does that are just awful.”

  Paul reassured her. “I don’t think the less of you for having been to a bull-fight. Don’t worry. We’ve all done things we’re ashamed of. And anybody who says they haven’t…” He left the sentence unfinished. He was thinking of some of the things he had done.

  And so was Chloe. “You must tell me sometime—you must tell me about some of your…how shall I put it? Indiscretions?”

  “No,” said Paul, smiling. “The memory of them is too painful.”

  Chloe returned to the bull-fight. “I remember how it dawned on me. He had a special pass, and we were ushered into ring-side seats. I knew then, of course, where we were, but there was this awful sense of horror, I suppose, that had come over me. It was as if I was being led into a place of execution—a place where something dreadful was about to begin.”

  “Which it was.”

  Chloe agreed. “And I should have walked out right then. But I was too weak. I was too cowardly to get up and leave. I stayed there, and the whole awful show began. The ghastly, florid outfits, with those tricorn hats and the ridiculous tight trousers. The toreadors walking along in prancing discomfort, Paul, because of those stupid trousers. And the music, and then the bull coming in and looking so confused by the whole experience—wondering why he’s there and what this great roar of sound is. And the poor dumb creature not realising that he is the show, and that this is death.”

  Paul closed his eyes.

  “Lorca’s poem,” said Chloe. “Do you know it? That poem with its strange drum-beat rhythm, repeated again and again: A las cinco de la tarde. I can hardly bear to think about it now. In fact, even now it makes me nauseous.” She glanced at Paul. “I’m sorry, Paul—you are feeling nauseous, and here I am going on about A las cinco de la tarde.”

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” said Chloe. “I sat through the whole thing and didn’t act. I didn’t leave. I didn’t tell him how disgusting I found it. And then, I’m sorry to say, I put it out of my mind. For a long time, I didn’t speak to him about his work. I pretended that it was not there. I just pretended. And that continued for several years, would you believe? Denial. That’s what it was. Pure denial.”

  Paul waited for Chloe to continue.

  “And then eventually I told him how I felt about his work. It all came out. It was quite shocking, actually, because he stood there and listened to me and his face was a picture of utter devastation. It had never occurred to him that I might find something offensive in his being a bull-fight journalist. It was his world, after all, and he had assumed that I would share it.

  “His response surprised me. He announced that he was giving up the position that he had with El Mundo, and that he would find work writing about something else. There were plenty of opportunities for journalists, he said, although when he started to look for something it proved more difficult than he had imagined it would be. He eventually ended up being offered the post of editor of a magazine called Poultry World. It was for Spanish chicken farmers and people who bred fancy hens.

  “I was very touched by the fact that he had given up something that had meant so much to him, and I thought that everything would be all right. But it wasn’t. After he had been working for Poultry World for a few months, he started to shrink. I don’t think I was imagining it—he just got shorter, more hunched, thinner. He was diminished in other ways: he used to talk loudly when he was a bull-fight journalist; now his voice was quieter. The absurd thought crossed my mind that he was now sounding rather like a chicken—a sort of low, puck-pucking—you know the noise that chickens make.

  “It was so sad—too sad, in fact, to be borne. And so I took the decision and told him that I couldn’t bear to see him so unhappy. I said that he should go back to his bull-fighting friends. I said that I was unhappy in Spain and that I would go back to Scotland. This wasn’t completely true, but it made it easier for him, I think, and he clutched at the lifeline I had thrown him. We parted quite amicably, and he went back to his old job on the newspaper.”

  Chloe now stopped. Nothing was said for several minutes, and then she continued, “I remember the last time I spoke to him. I had gone home to stay with my parents for a while in Fife, and I telephoned Octavio from Scotland about something or other. I think it was a tax matter—I had to sign some papers for the Spanish tax authorities, and I needed some information from him. We spoke for a while—he sounded so cheerful. He was going to Pamplona to cover the running of the bulls. You know that festival where those ridiculous people dress themselves in white and then run through the street in front of a group of bulls? Some of them get hurt, of course, and what can they expect?”

  She looked at Paul, and he knew what must be coming next.

  “Oh no,” he muttered.

  “Yes, he went, and he never came back. Three men were gored that year—all men, of course, because few women would be so stupid. They should be ashamed of themselves—they really should. Tormenting those poor creatures like that, running in front of them like children playing a game of dare, which is what it is, of course. Octavio was unlucky. The other two were injured in the legs, but he was impaled. The bull’s horn penetrated a lung and that was that.”

  Paul sighed. “Oh no.”

  “Human stupidity,” said Chloe. “Cruelty and stupidity go hand in hand, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose they do. They…”

  “We were still technically married,” Chloe interjected. “And so I became a widow. I was also his heir in the eyes of the law, and it so happened that Octavio had inherited a fair amount of money from his grandfather’s estate. I never even knew about this until I received the lawyer’s letter. I had had two very profitable marriages—not that I had planned any of this. I was only twenty-something and I had an awful lot of money in the bank.”

/>   “You were lucky,” said Paul. “Lots of young widows are anything but…”

  He did not finish. There was a loud knocking on the front door. Chloe stood up and left to answer. A few minutes later she returned and announced that their visitor had been Thérèse. She had come to tell them that Audette had had her baby. The birth had taken place in the restaurant, in the kitchen. Mother and baby were now installed in the twins’ house, as Audette’s cottage was deemed unsuitable for a new-born baby. Claude, though, needed help to keep the restaurant going, and Annabelle was now acting as waitress. Thérèse was finding it difficult to cope with the mother and baby. Could Chloe possibly assist?

  “But a baby…”

  Chloe shook her head. “Babies may present logistical problems, Paul, but every logistical problem has a logistical solution.” She paused. “Or do I mean logical?”

  “Both,” said Paul.

  “I thought I did,” said Chloe.

  Paul closed his eyes. Somewhere down in his gastro-intestinal tract, the ingested toxins, the legacy of the mussels, continued their journey, proliferating in the darkness, wreaking their revenge. His raised temperature clouded his mind. He imagined young men dressed in white being pursued along a beach by a cluster of mussels, nipping at their heels.

  “I shall probably go and relieve Annabelle in the restaurant,” said Chloe. “In an emergency one should go where one is needed most.”

  Paul opened his eyes. “You? You’re going to take over as waitress?”

  Chloe was matter-of-fact. “Yes. Why not?”

  “It’s just that babies and restaurants and…Well, we’re outsiders, Chloe. We’re not even French. These people’s problems are not really something we should get involved in, don’t you think?”

  Chloe’s tone was one of reproof. “What did John Donne say, Paul? What did he say? No man is a peninsula…”

  “Island.”

  “Very different,” said Chloe brightly. “But the principle holds, n’est-ce pas?”

  8

  Jambon des Voleurs

  The birth of Audette’s baby had taken place on the day after Paul’s unfortunate dinner at La Table de St. Vincent. Although a few days late, the baby had arrived with extraordinary alacrity once the process had started—so much so, in fact, that there was no time to usher Audette out of the kitchen. Claude telephoned for the midwife, who arrived just in time. The restaurant was full, and he and his nephew struggled to keep a semblance of normality, with Hugo assuming the role of waiter. There was no note of who had ordered what, though, as Audette’s scribbles in her notebook were intelligible only to her.

  “Table four?” Hugo bent down to ask her. “Are they the fish or the meat?”

  From beneath waves of labour pain, Audette grunted some response.

  “She’s having a baby,” shouted Claude. “Leave her alone, for God’s sake.”

  “I was only asking,” protested Hugo. “You never praise what I do. I’m always wrong. You’re always yelling at me.”

  “Because you don’t ask somebody who’s having a baby whether somebody ordered fish or meat,” snapped Claude. “Use your brain, Hugo—for a change.”

  Hugo stood quite still, glaring at his uncle. Behind him, lying flat on the floor, her face contorted with the pain of labour, lay Audette.

  The midwife arrived, bustling in with her air of confident competence. “Get a newspaper,” she ordered Hugo.

  “Figaro or Libération?” asked Hugo.

  The midwife gave him a scathing look. “This is no time for jokes,” she said.

  Claude came to his nephew’s defence. “He wasn’t trying to be funny,” he said. “He’s just a bit unfocused, if you get my meaning.”

  Hugo pouted. “Unfocused? Is that what you think? Well, in that case…”

  He took off his apron and flung it down on the ground. “There are plenty of other jobs,” he spat.

  The baby was now arriving. Audette let out a scream. In the dining room, people sat at their tables, transfixed by the noises from the kitchen. When Hugo appeared from the kitchen, he addressed the nearest table. “There is a baby being born through there. Expect a delay.” Without waiting for a response, he left the room. One of the diners signalled to him; another shouted out to enquire when his order would be ready. Hugo ignored both, slamming the door on his way out.

  Claude appeared from the kitchen. “Mesdames and messieurs,” he began. “Due to factors beyond my control, I shall have to ask you to leave.”

  A man asked him whether everything was under control. “Would you like us to call an ambulance, monsieur?”

  Claude shook his head. “There is no need.”

  A further scream came from the kitchen.

  “Are you sure?” asked a woman at another table.

  Claude made a reassuring gesture. “Perfectly sure, madame. There is no need to disturb yourselves. Please leave without delay. There are no bills to be paid.”

  The diners began to make their way out. There were murmurs and anxious looks directed towards the kitchen. Before the room emptied, a baby’s cry could be heard.

  “Thank God,” muttered a woman, one of the last customers to leave.

  Claude nodded his head, in acknowledgement of the successful outcome. “Everything is under control,” he said. “And I look forward to seeing you here again.”

  The ambulance summoned by the midwife arrived. Two young men, bearing a stretcher, brushed past Claude and entered the kitchen. There they conferred briefly with the midwife before Audette was helped onto the stretcher, the baby in her arms. Claude stood back. The midwife noticed that there were tears in his eyes. She touched him gently on the forearm.

  “I’m sorry,” said Claude. “I find these things very emotional. A new baby. So small—so miraculous.”

  The midwife smiled. “An unusual confinement,” she said. “But so well handled.”

  * * *

  —

  The transfer of Audette from the cottage in the grounds of the twins’ house into the house itself took place at the behest of the doctor. The cottage, he said, was dirty, and damp as well. That was a combination that he warned would be particularly bad for the health of the baby, let alone the mother. If Annabelle and Thérèse could see their way to allowing Audette to spend a few weeks in the main house, that would give the baby a good start and would protect the health of the mother too.

  The twins needed no encouragement. Their house was large enough to accommodate the new family, and both Annabelle and Thérèse seemed to take pleasure in the work involved in the new arrangement. They were effusive in their gratitude to Chloe for relieving Annabelle of the responsibilities she had just assumed in the restaurant.

  “You are so generous,” said Thérèse, when the twins called round to see how Paul was faring. “You come here for peace and quiet and you take all our troubles on your shoulders. I can hardly believe it.”

  Annabelle was of the same mind. “Nobody in France would do that,” she said. “We have become so selfish here—it’s always me, me, me.”

  Chloe shook her head. “Not just France,” she said. “Everywhere. Yet we have to help one another—we just have to. Otherwise…” She shrugged.

  “Otherwise all is lost,” said Thérèse.

  “And anyway,” Chloe continued, “I’m happy to do it. Claude is struggling. We can’t let him go under.”

  “You’re an angel,” said Annabelle.

  “I’m sure he’ll be a very agreeable man to work with,” said Chloe. And then added, “Tell me: Is he single? Is there no wife to help him out?”

  This conversation took place in Paul’s room, about his bed of sickness. He had been feeling slightly better, and had been thinking of something else—a problem that had arisen in one of the chapters of his book—but now he listened.

  “He was
married a long time ago,” said Thérèse. “She came from Lyon.”

  “Yes,” said Annabelle. “She was from Lyon. He met her there. He worked for our parents here—they were very fond of him—but after he met her he took a job over in Lyon to be near her. It was in a restaurant. I think that’s where he trained.”

  Thérèse looked doubtful. “I don’t think he was trained. I think he was some sort of kitchen porter. That’s different.” She paused. “They were married only five years, I think. She left him, and then we let him have the restaurant. Not free, of course—he’s always paid rent.”

  “Not much,” said Annabelle. “He doesn’t make enough to pay much rent. And anyway, rents are low out here in the country. Some buildings you can’t get a tenant for even if you charge next to nothing.”

  “Or nothing itself,” said Thérèse. “We’re useless landlords, Chloe. Audette lives rent-free. Claude pays a pittance.”

  “She could never afford to pay anything,” Annabelle explained.

  “Poor man,” said Chloe. “Losing his wife like that.”

  “Very sad,” agreed Thérèse. “I think he’s lonely.”

  “There is no need for any man to feel lonely,” muttered Chloe.

  Paul looked at her. She had done so much, he thought, to combat loneliness in men.

  Perhaps he should say something to her. Perhaps he should say, You have made so many men less lonely…No, he could not say that; it would be misunderstood. And it was also possible, of course, that Chloe had made many men unhappy and even made them lonelier when she was no longer in their lives. She described the end of her marriages as amicable, but was that because that was the way she needed to think of her past? Had she left all those husbands, or had they left her? It was all very well saying We drifted apart, but somebody had to start the drift. Some people who said that they drifted actually set sail, full steam ahead…

  Chloe did not feel Paul’s eyes upon her. She looked briefly at Thérèse before turning away. “And since then?” she asked.