The Devil in Paris: Part II: Kitchen Help

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A classic case of no good deed goes unpunished.

Don't own, you know. Onward.

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Chapter 2: Kitchen Help

"Class, come to order," Miss Bustier called for attention. "I've an announcement to make." She paused a moment, trying to find the best words for it. "I've an announcement to make. I'm afraid there's been a bit of a problem with our normal kitchen crew. A couple of them tested positive for COVID, which means the entire staff is on paid leave until everyone's safety can be assured. So we're in the process of looking into perhaps having meals catered, temporarily…"

Oh no, thought the assembled students. The College Francois Dupont's cuisine was among the best in France, and, in France, that was saying something. "But anyway. The rest of us must soldier on. Alright. Now, today will be a field trip to the museum. I understand they've some fascinating new exhibits. I've arranged for a field trip for you all, towards the end of the week." She pushed a couple of buttons on her desktop, and their own tablets lit up. "Until then, we can use the material about one of the new exhibits as study material. That will allow us to better appreciate the exhibit itself when we do get to see it."

Damien BenDarian glanced at his laptop, only half seeing it. Had anyone been looking at him, they might have recognized the expression of…thoughtfulness, in his face. Remembrance, possibly.

79 A.D. Herculaneum: The mountain was about to blow, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it. Only the gods, and they didn't seem to be interested in listening.

Little Letticia was only four or five, depending upon which of her parents you asked. But right now, both parents were bloody corpses, having been trampled by a mob that was trying to save themselves.

She cried and cried, calling for her momma and papa again and again. She couldn't understand that she would never see them ever again.

Suddenly, someone picked her up from behind. "Veni mecum (*Come with me*), little one." The hands that picked her up were gentle.

Whoever had picked her up then began to run at an impossible speed, easily passing up the others as though they were running backwards. Such was the rush of wind that she had to turn her head away from the direction they were going, the wind blowing the tears out of her eyes. It was like standing face to face with a hurricane. "Mamma!" But all she saw behind them was a great mass of people being buried under the black, red-hot pyroclastic discharges from the volcano Vesuvius.

"Ego te ad propinquos. (*I'll get you to some relatives*)" Such was the wind she couldn't look up to see the face of her rescuer. When she looked back towards the only home she'd ever known, all she could see was a stifling black cloud, a cloud shot through with massive bolts of lightning, a cloud that was rapidly fading in the distance. As young as she was, it was merciful that she couldn't know the people it covered were being both buried and burned alive.

"Paenitet non potui parentibus tuis (*I'm sorry I couldn't save your parents*), little one," said the person-who had to be swift Mercury, not even horses could move this fast. She recalled her mother praying to one side, just as the mountain exploded. The god must have heard her, for here he was.

He didn't slow down, if anything moving even faster, not slowing down until he'd passed the outskirts of Neapolis, and only then very slightly. She could later remember her rescuer slipping adroitly around the wagons and pedestrians on the street, their faces lit up in astonishment as they saw-barely-the god and his passenger flicker past them like a minnow in the water. Many of them were looking back the way Letticia had come from…

…but they saw nothing they could truly comprehend.

Finally, at her Uncle's casa, she had the chance to look the god in the face. She wanted to see what he looked like. For some reason, it seemed very important.

Now that was odd. All the old tapestries, murals, and statues depicted Mercury as wearing a winged cap. But this individual, while wearing no cap, did indeed have protrusions on his head, one on each side. But rather than slanting back, as birds' wings typically do, these formed J-shaped objects that seemed to sprout directly from his skull, pointing forward…almost like-*

"Horns. Letticia, as she was known as a child, grew up to become an artist of some renown. But one thing she always insisted upon, when she sculpted statues of her rescuer, was that, instead of wings, he had what we'd describe as horns, growing out from his forehead." The museum's tour guide gestured at the mural behind him, showing the artist's reminiscence of her survival story. Oddly, the character of "Mercury"- The guide looked a bit ashamed. "As you can see, there was some damage centuries ago, and the restoration people couldn't restore the face, but the old records-taken from her own verbal accounts-are quite specific with regards to the horns. There were no other survivors, at least, none with such an artistic impact on history." He turned back and looked up at the mural, which had been so painstakingly restored. Even so, the images on it had faded with time. "It's lucky we had her. We at least have her vision into the past.

"But of course, it is widely thought that there must be some error in the records"

"Why is that? Ayla asked. Off to one said, Marinette just shook her head. It was happening all over again.

"Well, some old records have Letticia as being in Herculaneum on the day of the eruption. But a volcano's pyroclastic ash and dust can travel at a speed of 700 kilometers per hour-or around 450 miles per hour." Again he smiled sheepishly. "So our records-and her account-must be mistaken. That's Star Train speeds, and, it goes without saying, the residents of Herculaneum didn't have anything like that.

"So the most popular theory holds that she was visiting relatives in Neapolis on the actual day of the destruction, and so identified with the destroyed city and the life she'd had there, that her mind created this little fiction about some god saving her. Hence, the horns-well, there could be lots of reasons for them."

"Hmm," muttered Ayla, her finger to her chin. The rest of the party had moved on to the next exhibit. "Lots of reasons, hm, yesss…"

"Now, Alya," groaned Marinette, "Don't start. Please. I'm begging you."

"Start what?" she asked innocently. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."

"That's the look you always get right before you do something crazy. Like," here she stuck her face close to Ayla's, so her whisper would carry, "Like try to find out if a given individual is a superhero or something. I have," her whisper gained some ferocity, "some personal experience to back this up, you know.

"I know what you're thinking; I can read you like a book."

"Then I'd suggest new contacts for your mind's eye. All I was wondering was whether or not he," here she gestured back at the mural, with its blank face and jutting horns, "might possibly be some distant relation of our disaster-prone classmate? And maybe this ancestor had some sort of, of, superspeed power? I mean, would that be any crazier than…well, a girl who fights the forces of evil while dressed like a bug?" And Marinette had to give her that one.

"But you can rest at ease. All this took place almost two thousand years ago. And our boy doesn't have any horns, anyway. It's just….I can't get over the notion that there's a connection, somehow."

….

It was with some fear and trepidation that they entered the school's cafeteria the following day. But the scents emanating from it were literally mouthwatering. Had they got some really good temps or something?

The tables were set, and the buffet was in place. "I don't believe this," murmured Ayla. "How did they get this place so, so…sparkly, anyway? I thought they were gonna have to send out for catered food." Then she saw who was standing behind the buffet. "Damien? Marinette, please tell me my eyes are going out!"

"What do you mean? Oh," she said as she looked around. "Damien's the cook? But where are the others? He couldn't have done this all by himself."

"Well, he either did it all himself or… he dismissed the others before we got here."

"But we got in kinda early, Alya. Anyway, what's wrong with him being able to cook? I mean, really."

"Yeah, but Marinette…this is Damien we're talking about! We better get ready for some massive cases of food poisoning.' She fished around in her handbag. "What did I do with those antacids, anyway…" They were sitting with Kagami.

"Surely this friend of yours can't be that bad," said the Japanese girl.

Both Ayla and Marinette shuddered slightly. "You don't know Da-*"

"Kagami?" said a voice to their side. Damien was standing there, in his white chef's uniform, holding a small, flat box. "I hope you won't think it's presumptuous of me, but I overheard you say, the other day, how much you missed Japanese cuisine. Since I had the run of the kitchen, I took the liberty of preparing you a lunchbox of some standard Japanese lunch treats. I hope you like them." And he opened the lid to reveal a number of delicacies, neatly arranged, in the bottom half.

A surprised Kagami accepted the box. He'd even included a pair of chopsticks.

"Uh, Kagami?" Alya was desperately trying to come up with a way of letting their Japanese friend know of the clear and present danger she faced, but in a delicate way, since said Clear and Present Danger was standing right next to them, a look of innocent expectation on his face.

Kagami cautiously sampled the food. Even though she was unacquainted with Damien's legendary prowess for Making Things Worse, Alya and Marinette's nervousness was not lost on her. But these delicacies looked harmless, a standard Japanese combination of flavor and artistry. The tamagoyaki, the teriyaki pork rolls…

"This…this is very good, er, Damien, is it? I've not tasted food this good since leaving home. Where did you learn to cook like this?"

"I…" he hesitated the briefest of moments, "I spent some time in Japan. I'm glad you like it. I…know something about what it's like to be far from home. Now," he continued hastily, as if he'd said more than he intended to, "if you'll excuse me…" And he moved off, seeing to the needs of the other students.

"This is really very good," said Kagami, sampling the other items in the box. "It's unusual to find an American who truly understands Japanese cuisine. What were you two so worried about?"

"Er…perhaps nothing." Alya leaned over the table towards her and whispered, "Just don't get too far from a restroom."

…

But despite Ayla's apprehensions, no-one got sick. Kim even suggested a petition making Damien their permanent cook, which seemed to embarrass him mightily. "No, no, I, I really couldn't," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Besides, I'm told the regular staff will be back by the end of the week. I wouldn't want to put them out of a job!"

…

Friday: Damien's kitchen work continued apace. He apparently had no problem maintaining his grades, and working full time in the kitchen.

In fact, he even suggested throwing a party for the students and their families that evening, in honor of the returning kitchen staff. Tomoe Tsurugi, Kagami's mother, made a rare appearance. Adrien looked at them, from across the room, and sighed. He had hoped his father could have made it, but the reclusive Gabriel Agreste had claimed, as always, that he was too busy.

"So where is this young man of yours, Kagami?" asked the blind Ms. Tsurugi.

"Ah, mother, he is not 'of mine,' by any means. I actually barely know him." Tomoe Tsurugi's choice of words embarrassed her.

"I would wager he would like to change that," snorted Ms. Tsurugi. "I have heard he has a criminal record in the United States." The two were conversing in rapid-fire Japanese. "I heard about that lunch box he made for you. I've little doubt but that he hoped to make a, shall we say, favorable impression on you that way. What is the American proverb? 'The way to one's heart is through their stomachs'? Our family is quite wealthy; he would not be the first to seek access to that wealth, by personal relationships. In this case, through you."

"Mother!" Kagami was aghast, red splotches appearing on her cheeks. But a part of her wondered: could that be so? But Damien had shown no interest in personal attachments of any kind. With anyone.

"It is true, child. So I must order you: have nothing more to do with him. You will obey me." Her harsh voice turned a bit softer. "It is for your own good, Kagami. When you are older, you will understand. "

"Yes, mother." Kagami slumped. A dutiful daughter, she had no choice but to obey. Then Tomoe felt her start.

"He's standing right in front of us, isn't he, Kagami?"

"Er, y-yes, mother."

Well, thought Ms. Tsurugi, I doubt he understood anything we sa-*

"I'm really very sorry," said Damien, in flawless Japanese, "I truly had no idea my gesture would be so horribly misunderstood. But rest assured that, now that I know, it will never happen again." He bowed respectfully, making his odd crossed-arm bow, and moved off into the crowd, some of whom had fallen silent. One didn't have to speak the language to gather some notion of what had just gone down. Adrien, who spoke Japanese, winced. Talk about a massive faux pas.

"I nonetheless stand by what I said, Kagami. You will see, someday."

Only her ingrained respect for her mother kept Kagami from speaking out: I see, mother.

One does not have to have lost one's sight to be blind.

…..

After the party let out, she made an excuse and slipped from her mother's side. As expected, she found Damien in the kitchen, cleaning. "Hello, Kagami," he said, without turning around.

She hadn't spoken a word. "You…must have eyes in the back of your head."

He gestured. "Unnecessary, when I have a highly-polished coffee percolator in front of me." He paused, polishing the kitchen tools. "I don't want to get you in trouble with your mother."

"I just wanted to say, I'm sorry. Mother…" She trailed off.

"Your mother thinks the world of you. And she is determined to protect you from just such influences as I might be. I know I'm not, and I hope you do, too, but she does not. So I understand. I'm not offended."

"Then you must be the most understanding person on the face of the planet. I…I just wanted to apologize."

"Apology accepted. Now, if you'll excuse me…the regular crew is coming back in tomorrow morning, and I don't want to leave a dirty kitchen for them to clean up." He half turned towards her, a slight smile on his face. "It's alright, Kagami. Really, it is. I'm kinda used to it, by now."

"Well, once again…I'm sorry. And, and thank you for that food. That…that was nice of you." And she turned and left.

He glanced at her as she went out. If only they knew. But of course, they could never know.

Not and live.

To be continued…