Dear readers, I apologize for the delay!
I've been having some computer trouble. I've been trying to adapt to Safari since it sort of comes with the macbook, and I've reached my last straw because I absolutely hate that browser's guts. After it started freezing in youtube, and after I tried every single thing to make it work again with no avail, I trashed it and I'm now back to old foxy! Yaaaay!
Random babble, yeah.
Enjoy the next chap! It might remind you of another one, and I hope you catch all the symbolism.
IX. Pages of Lamanche
One day, she would think she was in Paris.
The cobbled street, the rusty back door, the click of the key as it turned in the lock, the glimmer of the neatly stacked piles of pots and pans in the pale morning light.
So she would come to the kitchen as soon as light dawned, before anyone could remind her of London. When she could make it her own little Paris in her city of ash. When she could come, wearing her beret, listening to Champs-Elysees, don her white apron and set to work, hoping the sky would clear for just a moment, hoping that a pale ray would spill onto the kitchen floor and make her dream more real.
Her feet lightly tapped the cobble stones. Her hand rested for a moment on the rusty handle. The key clicked in the lock. Champs-Elysees rang in her ears. She adjusted her beret. The piles of pots and pans glimmered in the pale morning light. No ray of sun though. No peep in the clouds. Clouds of ash, like those in paintings of the Final Judgment. Like those that probably floated over Pompeii. No sun, not yet. Not yet.
She sighed, and walked along the aisles between the kitchen benches. She plunged a hand into the pocket of her apron, and ran a finger over the binding of her book. Her book of recipes. She was so meticulous about them. She cherished that book. It was hers, and hers alone, and no-one had helped her write it. She could cook better than any man she knew. All those men, that cooked with their noses in books. Books women wrote. Men, whose wives cooked for them at home. The men she had surpassed. And not in their kitchen. In her kitchen.
«Oh, Champs-Elysees», Paris sang into her ears. Paris, where everything was fashionable. Even begging on the streets was romantic. Paris, where men still painted with oils in the streets. Paris, where cats lapped up bowls of chilled truffle soup. Cats. She took the little capsules of Paris out of her ears.
The morning was still young enough to be silent; young enough to still sound like Paris, not London. More so since a cat was obviously clawing at the kitchen door. Smiling, she poured some milk into a bowl, white and clean, fit for truffle soup. The little aristocrat was ginger, licking his pink nose. He lapped up the milk gracefully, too gracefully for a London cat. Yes, one day she would indeed believe she was in Paris.
The bowl would have to go in the cupboard with the brooms and mops. Perhaps she could use it again, if this little aristocrat arrived again at the kitchen door. Soon, she wouldn't need Champs-Elysees. Soon she would be quite sure she was in Paris, even without it.
A floorboard in the broom cupboard was loose. She wouldn't have that. It wasn't perfect, be it Paris or London. Everything had to be perfect. She was a woman. If a man's kitchen wasn't perfect, it was human. If a woman's kitchen wasn't perfect, she wasn't coping. She pressed the floorboard down. The dustless, sterile floorboard. It popped back up. Irritated, she wrenched it upwards, and saw it.
Yes, one day she would think she knew she was in Paris.
It looked like a notebook, a little larger than hers. She took it in her hands and blew the dust off it. The cover was of a deep, rich red, like thick, sweet cranberry sauce. Like the center of a rare steak. She opened it on the first page. The pages were yellowing with age. The writing, handwriting, was slanting, and elegant. There were pencil drawings in the margins.
Her interest captured, she started reading. She was a little surprised that she read English, and not French. One day, she would not doubt she was in Paris. It was not in French, and it was not a diary. It was a cookbook. Though, as she read, she thought it was both. After all, she was in Paris. Her own Paris. And everything goes in Paris. Everything is fashionable.
Mushroom chicken.
Ingreedients: butter; chicken breasts (from Mrs. L's secret source); mushrooms; onions, chopped; leeks (white part); for the sauce: fresh cream; sour cream; mustard (just a tsp.); mushroom stock.
Ben loves this one so much he eats it up in a flash, and then I watch his ears grow red! I must resist from putting too much mustard and pepper. If I do, I suppose I'll see steam coming out of his ears next.
«Chicken stroganoff,» she said to herself, and flipped the page.
Mushroom and walnut soup
«She likes mushrooms,» she said to herself, and then stopped. Looked up, cursing herself internally – why did she assume it was a she? Surely it seemed so, but why would one always think of women when one thinks of cooking? Cooking at home. That was the patriarchal propaganda of the age. How often did one see an advertisement where a man cooked food? Never. She had never seen one, anyhow. Perhaps, in Paris, only men cooked in advertisements. Perhaps, she would never be entirely convinced she was in Paris. Sighing, she continued reading.
We have a book of 'healthy cooking' that Mr. L got in return for some of his wife's pies. It has some good recepies, admittedly. The first time I made this chicken for Ben, he chuckled, deeply, a way that till makes my heart flutter, and said: «have a look in that book of Albert's – if this one's in there, I'll eat it. If not, I'll stick to the salad.» And he chuckled again.
I suppose this one takes some time to get right.
Ingredients: dried mushrooms, butter...
So it was a woman. She sighed. Her eyes moved over an illustration of a death-cap mushroom, black and white, its lethal colours shaded in gray. The poisonous mushroom stood bold in the middle of the page, black and white. Gray and white. Painted in London colours, in the London paint – the pencil.
Underneath, a confusion of numbers. Measurements, quantities, crossed out and edited, written and re-written.
...Before serving, stir in some sherry.
As I write this, I can see Ben in the doorway. His cheeks are flushed,. As if I just put a little too much sherry...! Perhaps I did. I made this today. No talk of health books! I suppose I finally got it right...
Her legs were starting to ache. She sat down on the floor and slumped against the wall by the broom cupboard. She flicked the page.
I have developed an insane craving for eggs! I think Ben has had enough of the endless omelets but I cannot be sure since he never openly complains about my cooking. Well, the only time he has really complained was with the mushroom soup, and that was truly one disgusting soup I made...!
Below that were a couple of recipes for omelets. She took note of a couple. Perhaps she could try them for breakfast. Perhaps she could rise earlier still, listening to Champs Elysees as the light dawned, Champs Elysees and the sizzling of melted butter on her pan.
The next few pages were drawings. She was a good drawer, this woman, this Ben's wife. Mushrooms, a sketch of a street, more mushrooms – always the death caps – some still life works, more mushrooms. Death caps. Always the death caps. They disturbed her for some reason, all these spotted mushrooms. Then, her eyes fell on a full page of gray. It was an immaculate sketch of a family, what seemed like a Victorian family, judging by their clothes; it was incredibly detailed and well shaded, so that it almost looked like a vintage photograph. The fair – haired woman sat with a baby on her lap, and her husband – Ben, she supposed – stood behind her, dark, handsome...kind. She turned the page. The death caps kept returning to her mind.
Another recipe, with a drawing of a violin. A violin, next to which lay a bunch of berries. She was a very good drawer, this woman, this Ben's wife. The berries were outlined in great detail, the raspberries, the blueberries...
Cranberry sauce –
It's only July, but it's never too early to prepare! This one is for this Christmas! Tastes good with everything – chicken, beef, turkey, even Mrs. L's pies!
I imagine...the fire in the room, a table full of food, food that not only sates your hunger but also makes warmth spread through your entire being...The huge turkey in the middle, and a Christmas tree...I'll decorate it with hundreds of pretty little toys...We'll sit together, all of us, Ben, I, little Jo and even Mr. And Mrs. L. I cannot wait already...Christmas is only four months away. Four months may seem like fifteen years, and yet it is not. Time flies.
Today, we're going to the market, the three of us. When we come home, the fireplace will be waiting for us, warm, crackling...
After that, the book was blank. She looked through it, looked a few times, turning over each piece of paper, but found nothing. It was blank. Blank except for one page. A page she had not come across at first since it had stuck to the previous one. The page was scribbled on, scribbled so strongly with pencil that the paper was torn in the middle. Below the grey blob, were two words:
Forgive me
For whatever reasons, the poison mushrooms, those pages of death caps, came to her mind.
A glimmer of gold caught her eye. The sun, the Paris sun she had waited for, had reached through the ash and now pooled in a pale oasis on the kitchen floor. And yet, she would no longer believe it was Paris. This book, belonging to someone so much like her, to a woman who loved to cook, had transported her back to London. Like a plane. Like a ship. Like the submarine Lamanche railway.
The sun glimmered, falling onto the floor of the broom cupboard. Onto the displaced floorboard. Onto something gold, gold and shiny underneath it. She pulled over to have a closer look.
Three golden figures, three handmade miniature statues of cats lay scattered on the cement below the floorboard; all of them seeming to look in different directions, disjointed, together and yet alone. A large cat, a smaller one with long eyelashes, and a very tiny kitten. A family. Or what used to be a family. All in one place, and yet oddly apart; all in one room, yet not knowing eachother. After all, an empty house could be as lonely as a full one.
She closed the notebook, placed it back under the floorboard, and replaced it. Tomorrow, she would not come to work in a beret. She would listen to the leaden city wake up, without drowning it in the sounds of Elysian fields.
Perhaps, one day, she would really go to Paris.
And then, perhaps, if she forgot today, she might remember that she wasn't in London.