Contente
There are moments, sometimes, when he's not showing her how he likes a particular recipe done, when he's not making something he's made before, when it happens – the flash of brilliance, the driven, desperate quest to achieve what he wants, to turn what he smells and tastes so clearly in his mind into reality. Sometimes it's joyous, a fiesta of delight in creation, a jubilant celebration of being alive, and sometimes it's tormented, as he searches at the edges of his consciousness for a half-forgotten memory of scent or texture, unsure if what he wants even exists, but always, always it's accompanied by That Look, of joy or sorrow – intent, closed off from the world. In those moments, she and Alfredo aren't there for le petit Chef; there is only him and whatever voice speaks to him inside.
She's learnt to recognize That Look, and when it happens, that's her signal. Dropping everything, she whips out a pad and pencil and follows him like an intent, silent shadow – not that he'd notice anyway, in that state he's closed off from all the world – furiously writing down every move he makes, never ceasing to be amazed at the combinations he creates, the tiny, subtle changes in accepted ways of doing things that lifts his work onto a magical plane, that makes of food more than food. She remembers the Spanish word – duende – when the performing arts reach a level of intensity that propels them onto the plane of the creative. Le p'tit Chef is so unlike any chef she's ever known, even the best of the television chefs, that it's an insult to compare him with another. Gusteau is the only one she might hold him up to, sometimes. And so she makes it her task to record his creations for posterity, so that they may not slip away from the world when he and she and Alfredo are all gone…
A tiny exhalation escapes Colette. She sometimes wishes she were a genius like him. Once she told Alfredo this, and he said, "But you are, Colette." She had to work hard on not losing a little respect for her beloved – she finally did it by telling herself that in his own field of duende, skating, he would definitely be discriminating enough to be able to tell talent from genius. It's flattering that he sees her that way, of course, but Colette hates self-delusion even more than she hates false modesty. She knows she's not a genius. Oh, she's good, very good, she knows that, she's competent, yes, creative, yes, perhaps even a little bit gifted – but her skill comes of diligence, of study, of true love for her art. Le Chef's kind of genius, though, only a whisker away from madness – she's seen the rat talking to himself a few times – no, that's not her. Her feet are too firmly planted on the ground for that.
Just looking at him this time confirms what she's been thinking, even as her pen scribbles madly across the notebook. Nothing can stop him when he's creating: he's like a creature possessed, rushing back and forth among fruits and vegetables and spices and herbs, weighing possible combinations in his mind, choosing not out of knowledge – for this much Colette can tell – but out of pure instinct at the highest level, even when he's never set eyes on some of the ingredients before, his nose telling him what will go best with the others. She watches the intent look on his face as he frantically searches for the right element to satisfy that tiny voice giving orders in his mind. He's like the poets of old who used to say that they were dictated their poems directly from the gods. She doesn't know what he'd say if she told him that, but she's sure, as she watches him rushing back and forth, searching for the perfect scent, twisting and turning this way and that like a puppet on a string, that he is a slave to his gift; he can no more control it than she can control the tide, can no more break free of it than that tide can break free of the moon.
"Don't shut me out," she had said once to Alfredo, before she knew that it came from le Chef. Alfredo would never shut her out, she knows that now – and, in fact, neither would le Chef, not consciously anyway, but he can't help himself. It is his gift that is ruthless, laying claim to him, making him unconsciously selfish, even as his self is all but erased by the force that drives him. She is a witness to this rather frightening phenomenon. And she wouldn't have it any other way.
Slowly, a smile breaks across her face, even as her pen never stops furiously scribbling. Ça ne fait rien, she thinks, all things considered, that she isn't a genius. That kind of gift is one in a million, non, in more than that. And what are the odds that she should be one of those? In fact – what were the odds that she should have been the one to train one of those, and be trained by him in return?
She shakes her head. Extraordinary. Miraculous, even. She, plain ol' level-headed Colette, is the disciple of a creative genius greater than Gusteau, the likes of whom may not have existed since Brillat-Savarin. It is she who is privileged to witness his work first-hand, and to be Plato to his Socrates. And even better, perhaps she and Alfredo can save him from the madness that comes with the territory, can prevent him dying of a broken heart like Gusteau, Van Gogh, Schumann… so many artistes before him. And in return? In return, they get love, and knowledge, and happiness.
Worth much more than being a genius, any day.