Paul noticed how the compliment seemed to boost Hugo. Claude had crushed him, he thought; he might not have meant to, but the older man must not understand that although people might be guided in a particular direction, they should not be forced. There was a fragility about Hugo that meant that he needed encouragement. Claude had thought, perhaps, that this fragility might be buttressed by exposure to male outdoor pursuits; but he was wrong. It needed something far subtler than that.
* * *
—
They went straight back to the restaurant to offload their purchases and prepare lunch. There were few customers, and they were able to spend more time than usual preparing the dishes.
“How does your uncle Claude prepare his oysters?” asked Paul.
Hugo shrugged. “He opens them. Takes them out and then heats them under the grill.”
Paul winced. “That’s all?”
“He puts garlic on them. Quite a lot of garlic.”
Paul winced again. “Would you like me to show you?”
Hugo looked keen. “Of course.”
Paul asked him if he knew how to make a béchamel. Hugo did, although he said that his uncle rarely bothered. He had a ready-mix version that came frozen in bags. “He uses that,” he said. “It doesn’t taste good.”
“It should be a criminal offence,” muttered Paul.
Hugo laughed. “He’s always talking about law and order.”
“Let’s make our béchamel and then take it from there,” said Paul. “We’ll add cream and cheese.”
“Gruyère?” asked Hugo.
Paul looked surprised. “You know how to make a Mornay?”
“I’ve read about it. I’ve hardly ever done it.”
“Well, this time we’ll use Parmesan rather than Gruyère. It goes better with oysters, I think.”
Hugo made the sauce under supervision. “Make it thick,” said Paul. “Really thick—so that it sticks to the spoon. Twice as thick as a béchamel.”
They had the sauce ready, but the customers, when they came, declined the offer of Huîtres Mornay. They wanted sea bass on fennel, or steak tartare, the two alternative special offerings. When the last of the customers had gone, and Hugo and Paul were tidying the kitchen, Paul had an idea. “Do your parents like oysters?”
Hugo nodded. “I think so.”
“Why don’t we take these oysters to their place and give them a treat?”
* * *
—
Hugo went off into the orchard with his father—pressing business with a leaking stand pipe that would not be turned off. Paul offered to deal with the oysters, which left him alone with Hugo’s mother in the kitchen. He laid out the oysters on a baking tray. She watched him, and then lifted her eyes to his face and smiled.
“He’s wanted to do this ever since he was a small boy,” she said. “It’s a calling, isn’t it, monsieur?”
“It is, madame. I think—”
She stopped him. “You should call me Adèle. And my husband is Jean. They won’t be long out there—my husband sees very little; he needs Hugo’s help.”
“I’m sure he’s very helpful. I’ve seen what a hard worker he is.”
She thanked him. Her manner was friendly in a way that reminded him of rural Scotland. It was a country characteristic—a directness and a lack of pretence that one encountered in places where not much happened, and where people still treated strangers as people, rather than as a threat.
“My brother-in-law has been a chef for many years, but somehow he never seemed…” She trailed off.
Paul was tactful. “It’s not for everyone,” he said. “But for those who love it, it’s all they want to do.”
Adèle inclined her head towards the window and the orchard outside. “I think he has that in him—our son.”
“He does,” said Paul. “I really think he does.”
She sighed. “But I’m not sure that Claude sees it that way. He holds him back. He doesn’t encourage him.”
“No. I’ve guessed that.”
She went over to the window and gazed out to where Paul could make out the figure of Hugo bent over a recalcitrant piece of piping. “Claude has a rather restricted view of the world,” she said. “I know that we’re nothing special—we’re just ordinary people—but our views are…” She hesitated. “Less rigid…yes, perhaps less old-fashioned than his.”
She glanced at Paul, as if to ascertain whether he had picked up the point she wanted to make.
“Perhaps he has an idea of what young men should be,” he ventured. “Hugo mentioned hunting.”
She rolled her eyes, leaving him in no doubt as to her views. “He can’t understand why Hugo doesn’t want to join him in that syndicate of his. They have the rights to the shooting in a large wood over that way. He offered to take him in on that—Claude has no son, you see. His wife left him. I suspect she couldn’t stand it.”
“I see.”
“She was quite artistic, you know. She was a dressmaker—a very creative one.”
“Oh.”
“She ended up in Montpellier. She had a brother down there, a doctor. A pathologist. He was single and she kept house for him. It suited them both. I think they were happy enough.”
“Which is the most that any of us can wish for,” said Paul.
She looked at him thoughtfully. “Yes, that’s right.” She paused. “And which is what we want for our children, don’t you think? Just that. Just that would be enough.”
Paul waited. She was looking at him in a way that presaged a request. And now it came.
“Do you think you could do anything to help him, monsieur?”
“Paul, please.”
“Paul. Could you?”
He wondered what he could possibly do. Speak to Claude, who would tell him to mind his own business? Try to find Hugo a job somewhere? There were restaurants in Scotland that would take him if he recommended him. But Hugo was needed here, he thought, so that was not an option.
“I’ll think,” he replied.
She looked at him gratefully. “He’s a good boy.”
“I can tell that.”
The door opened and Hugo came in from the orchard, his father following him. Hugo guided him towards a chair at the kitchen table. “We fixed it,” he said. “A washer—that’s all. A little washer goes and you have a big flood.”
He looked at the oysters, ready now to be put under the grill, and came and inspected them. A fresh Mornay was prepared.
Hugo’s father spoke to Paul from the table. He asked about Scotland and about what fruit they grew there. He asked about whisky and distilleries. Had Paul been to that island where there were—what?—six or eight distilleries; just one small island with all those distilleries. Did Paul like Calvados?
At the cooker, Hugo glanced at Paul. Paul picked up the anxiety behind the glance. This was where the young man was from; this was his world, and it was so different from the larger world that Paul inhabited.
Paul said quietly, “What a nice place.”
“You think so?”
“Of course.”
The young man retrieved the tray from the grill and sprinkled breadcrumbs over the oysters in their sauce. When he turned round, Paul could see the pleasure written over his face. “Here’s your treat,” he said to his parents.
They all sat at the table. A bottle of wine was produced from the fridge and they toasted one another. Paul watched as Hugo guided his father’s fork to the shells. “Six of them, Father,” he said. “Six on your plate.”
They talked about Annabelle and Thérèse. “We were happy when they came back here,” said Adèle. “They have been good for the village.”
“Villages are dying,” Hugo’s father said. “Poor France.”
“Not altogether,” said Paul. �
�France is still very strong. Things will get better.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Adèle.
They did not stay long. Hugo had to get back to the restaurant to prepare for the evening. Nothing was said about it, but Paul knew that he would help him. How quickly, he thought, did one become part of the world of others, with all that that entailed—the need to help them, and, more importantly, the desire to do so.
* * *
—
In the early evening Thérèse telephoned the restaurant to let Paul know that Chloe had returned to the house and wanted to see him.
“I won’t be long,” he said to Hugo. “I’ll have a word with her and then I’ll be back.”
“I can cope,” said Hugo. There was defeat in his voice.
“Listen,” said Paul. “Remember what I said. Just remember it.”
Hugo nodded mutely.
Back at the house, Aramis was being fed in the kitchen. Audette barely looked up when Paul entered, but continued to chat on her mobile phone while allowing the baby to suckle. Chloe was seated opposite her and rose to embrace Paul when he came in. At her side was a bulky man somewhere in his late forties, his hair cut short in military style. If one saw him in the street, thought Paul, one would put him down as a paratrooper. Now he rose to his feet and extended a hand to Paul.
“This is my friend Marc,” said Chloe.
Paul felt his hand almost crushed in Marc’s grip.
“Paul speaks very good French,” Chloe said to Marc.
Marc nodded and parted his lips in a thin smile. “That’s good,” he said, and then added, somewhat darkly, Paul thought, “Some people don’t speak French. None at all.”
It was not an observation that could be argued with, Paul said to himself.
“No,” said Chloe, glancing at Paul as she spoke. “There are people like that. But there we are.”
Paul thought that he understood the message behind Chloe’s glance. It said, Don’t disagree with him: this is not for discussion.
Chloe and Marc sat down. Paul found a chair next to Audette. She looked at him briefly, and then continued her telephone conversation.
“What a pretty baby,” said Paul.
Audette looked at Aramis, as if noticing for the first time that he was there. “He’s a boy,” she said curtly.
“Yes, I know. Aramis. After the musketeer.”
Audette stared at him uncomprehendingly. “What?”
“Aramis is a musketeer. You know, The Three Musketeers.”
“It’s a perfume,” she said scornfully.
Paul suppressed a smile. It was true: she had named him after the perfume. He looked across the table at Chloe, but she was talking to Marc and had not heard his exchange with Audette. For her part, Audette had returned to her telephone conversation, and so Paul waited until he had Chloe’s attention.
“Do you and Marc go back a long way?” he asked.
It was, he thought, an innocent question, and yet the reaction, from Marc at least, was a frown and a worried glance in Chloe’s direction. An ex-husband? Paul wondered.
Chloe answered calmly. “A bit. We’ve known one another for some years, haven’t we, Marc?”
Marc nodded. “A few.”
“And you live in Paris?” Paul asked, directing the question to Marc.
Again, there was a prickliness in the other man’s demeanour.
“Marc lives in different places,” Chloe said. “Sometimes Paris, sometimes elsewhere.”
“That’s right,” said Marc, his tone surly. “Not always Paris. It depends. Some people live in different places.”
Well, thought Paul, one couldn’t argue with that. And he realised he was not going to find out much more from Marc and his Delphic observations. He looked at his watch. “I should get back to the restaurant,” he said. “I take it that Claude will be returning to work now.”
“Not tonight,” said Chloe quickly. “Maybe tomorrow. Not tonight.”
Paul felt a momentary irritation. He had agreed to help while Claude was away, but it seemed to him that there should be no call for his assistance now that Claude was back.
“What’s he doing tonight?” he asked.
Marc bristled. “Probably sleeping,” he said. “People sleep at night.”
Chloe answered Paul’s question. “Nothing,” she said. “But I don’t think he’ll be able to get back to work until tomorrow.”
“Nothing,” said Marc. “He’s doing nothing.”
It was obvious to Paul that if Claude was doing nothing that evening, then he would be doing it with Chloe and Marc. But he did not give voice to his suspicions. “Tell him that I can’t spend my entire day tomorrow working in the restaurant. Tell him that we’re going to have to talk about that.”
Chloe looked concerned. “I’m sure he’ll sort something out,” she said.
Marc was on his feet now. “Good to meet you, Paul,” he said. “See you later maybe.”
“Yes, of course.” Paul held Marc’s gaze. It had that challenging, slightly threatening quality of the short-fused—the man capable of being tipped over into violence in an instant.
Chloe accompanied him out into the courtyard.
“Your friend’s very charming,” said Paul.
She gripped his arm. “Now, Paul, there’s no need for sarcasm. Marc may not be everybody’s cup of tea, but he’s a good man at heart.”
Emboldened, Paul asked her about her connection with him. “Is he a lover, Chloe?”
Chloe giggled. “Marc? Please! I don’t go in for rough. No, no, Paul. You’re barking up the wrong tree there.”
“Then what? Why’s he here?”
“Business,” said Chloe. “A bit of business.” She began to walk, her arm now linked in Paul’s. “I wanted to talk to you about Claude,” she continued. “I’ve had a long discussion with him.”
“And is he a lover?” asked Paul.
“You are a very suspicious young man, Paul. You see lovers behind every tree. Just as they did in Haile Selassie’s garden in Addis Ababa. Apparently, there were spies behind every tree. Visitors saw them hiding.”
“Can you blame me for being suspicious? You wouldn’t tell me why you were going to Paris. You won’t answer half my questions.”
She smiled. “Yes, perhaps you have grounds for suspicion. Wrong, of course, but grounded, which is a different department, isn’t it? And Claude and I, yes, we have become close. He’s very keen to come back with me to Scotland for a while—when I eventually return. In a couple of weeks’ time, I think.”
“Are you going to marry him, Chloe?”
She stopped. Now there was reproach in her voice. “You have no right to ask a question like that. You’re very impudent. You may be my cousin, but I am considerably older than you, and you don’t ask senior relatives whether they’re going to marry any Tom, Dick, or Harry.”
“Well, are you, Chloe?”
“The answer, as it happens, is no. However, that does not preclude our spending some time together. I find him attractive, in an odd, rather Gallic, rural sort of way. But I couldn’t marry somebody like him, poor dear. You know me, Paul—there’s not an intellectually snobbish bone in my body, not one…but what would we talk about?”
Paul was thinking ahead. “And his restaurant?”
“Claude is tired. He’ll be happy to hand it over to Hugo.”
Paul allowed himself a sigh of relief.
Chloe heard it. “Yes, my reaction too. I realised at an early stage that this is what must happen and it was merely a question of planting the thought in his mind. It did not take much to do that. He was very responsive. Claude actually owns a farm in the Auvergne. He inherited it from his grandfather. He’s keen to get back there.”
“I’m glad,” said Paul. “I was going to spe
ak to him about it. I also wanted to speak to him about how he treats Hugo.”
“Oh, I’ve already done that,” said Chloe. “I gave him a very long lecture on that subject as we drove up to Paris. He had to listen. Men are at their best when they have to listen because they can’t get out. He was in that position. And he agreed that he had not been very kind to that young man.”
“Good.”
“Yes. He said that Hugo had always been a disappointment to him. That he had hoped for something different. I told him off about that, and I think he came round to seeing it from my point of view. Eventually. The poor man hangs on my every word, you know. It’s so appealing. He promised me he would say sorry to Hugo and let him be.”
“Let him be himself.”
“Precisely. Which is always the best thing to be, wouldn’t you say, Paul? Be yourself.” She waved a hand in the air. “This above all: to thine own self be true. Polonius, wasn’t it? To young Laertes.”
Paul could easily have demanded: And who are you, Chloe? but he did not, because they had reached the courtyard and had come across Annabelle collecting heads of lavender.
“Lavender is very calming for babies,” said Annabelle. “Snip, snip.”
“Yes,” said Chloe. “Snip, snip.” She turned to Paul. “Be careful, Paul.”
He looked up sharply. What did that mean?
“Snip, snip,” repeated Chloe, and turned on her heel, to go back into the house.
* * *
—
Paul went to Alphonse’s bakery the next morning with a larger-than-usual order for croissants. “Guests?” asked the baker, as he lifted the freshly baked rolls off their tray.
“Yes,” replied Paul, and then remembered. “I mean no.”
Alphonse raised an eyebrow. “A dozen croissants, though. You’ll be putting on weight, monsieur.”
“Your fault,” said Paul, laughing.
A woman whom Paul did not recognise came in behind him. The bell linked to the door gave its familiar jangling warning.
“Madame,” said Paul politely, allowing her to pass.
The Second-Worst Restaurant in France Page 21