Benoît nodded, quickly, then took a sip. He stopped short then gazed at Thierry.
“Chef,” he said, in a tone of wonderment.
“I know,” said Thierry, a brief look of satisfaction crossing his face. “I know. I’ve done it.”
Claire smiled at him. He turned to her.
“And you!” he said. “You are my muse!” He kissed her, licking away the thick stain from her lips. “Oh, mixed with you, it is only more delicious,” he said, kissing her again.
“You see? You must stay. I need you. You have inspired possibly my greatest creation.”
One of the other customers in the shop turned around.
“May I try it?”
Thierry looked at him sternly. “I don’t know. Are you a good man? So far, this has only been tried by good people.”
“I don’t know if I’m a good man,” said the gentleman, who was wearing a Homburg hat and a yellow scarf against the encroaching colder weather. “But I am a journalist at Le Monde.”
Thierry filled him a huge cup to the brim. “My friend! Drink and be happy.”
The man did so. And then he took out his notebook.
Thierry gave Claire a happy glance. “You see? You have made me a genius.”
Laughing with delight, Claire had never been closer to ripping up her return ticket, packing up her bag, living in sin. She threw back her head and tossed down more of the astonishing hot chocolate. She was almost purely happy.
Except she remembered her mother’s last letter, which had details of her new uniform, asking if she’d grown much, passing on good wishes from friends and relatives, talking excitedly about the new youth club that had opened adjacent to the church, about having a little party for her eighteenth birthday, and she knew—a tiny little corner of her knew—that she would have to go back, of course she would.
- - -
The door to the waiting room flew open with a crash. I raised my head; I realized I’d been nodding off. It seemed an odd reaction to the stress, but I’d been here for over two hours, the battery on my phone was completely gone, and I seemed to have run out of other options.
I’d seen Laurent around from time to time, usually with quite a fast set of loud young chefs and models. Sami preferred artists and musicians, so he could be a bit snotty about them. Laurent often had a scrawny pouty-looking girl on his arm—not the same one, as far as I could tell, and would nod at me, but little more; I was clearly siding with the enemy, and I dismissed him as irritating and obviously shallow. He didn’t look shallow now though; he looked demented with worry.
His face struck me as being like his father’s more than ever, but without the heavy weight of the fatness. His skin was a darker olive, huge, expressive Bambi eyes now looking alarmed and worried, the mouth, wide and sensual. He still seemed very tall compared to other French men I’d seen, and with a solid bulk that wasn’t fat, just a kind of comforting size to him. I jumped up, wiping my mouth and wishing I had a stick of gum.
“What’s happening? What’s going on? Where is he?” shouted Laurent, sounding furious, as if it were my fault.
“He’s in surgery,” I said, trying to sound gentle and consolatory. “They said it might take a while.”
“Why? Why is it taking a while?”
I shrugged. “I think it’s difficult when…when the patient is a bit heavier than normal…”
“Is it because he’s so fat? Stupid bastard. He’s such a stupid bastard.” He glared around. “Where’s Alice?”
“Didn’t Frédéric ring her?”
“He probably wouldn’t; he hates her,” said Laurent.
“Not that much, surely.”
He ignored that. “What was he doing? What were you doing with him?”
“I wasn’t doing anything with him,” I said indignantly. I wasn’t the one who’d let him eat himself to death for over forty years. “He asked me to go for a walk, that’s all.”
“That’s all? Did he stop for brandy?”
“If it was my job to stop him drinking brandy, I think somebody should have made it a bit clearer to me!” I said, almost shouting.
He stopped short. “Sorry,” he said muttering. “Sorry, that’s not fair. I’m just…I’m just upset.”
“I know,” I said. “Of course you are. Hopefully they’ll let us know soon.”
He looked around. “He can’t…he can’t die…”
“Anna,” I added helpfully.
“I knew that,” he said, putting his hands distractedly through his thick brown hair.
“You know, we haven’t spoken for months,” he muttered. “He can’t…it can’t…”
I shook my head. “He spoke about you this morning,” I said.
“What, to say what an ignoramus I am?”
“Yes,” I said. “But in a loving way.”
Laurent’s face looked gray. “Christ,” he said, looking at his watch. “Where are those doctors?”
I swallowed.
“What else?” he asked suddenly. “Why was he confiding in you? You’ve just gotten here…some English girl…” Then his eyes widened. “You’re not…you’re not connected to…”
I nodded slowly. “Claire sent me.”
He looked so feverishly furious I thought he was going to spit. “That woman!” he cursed.
“I don’t think she did anything wrong,” I said quickly.
“Tell that to my mother,” he said. “When he walked out on her for some scrawny English witch that reminded him of the first one.”
“Alice is nothing like Claire,” I said stoutly.
“Well, he found that out a bit late, didn’t he?” said Laurent. “He’d already wrecked our family. Too scared to mess it up again. Thank God they didn’t have any children.” He snorted. Then he looked sad.
He stared again at the door, as if gazing at it might make something happen, then sighed.
“Oh God.”
Finally the door swung open. Laurent was halfway to his feet before he realized it was Alice.
She looked absolutely white, the black scarf she was wearing a slash against her pale neck, her lips devoid of lipstick and looking naked and thin, stretched in her face. A vein stood out in her throat. For the first time, I thought, she looked old.