She spoke all this in a light, indolent voice, as if the subject were one which she had considered on so many occasions previously that there was nothing more to say on the matter. It was the way they spoke around the court, particularly the women: I had heard it described as preciosite^ and the women who cultivated it in the salons and drawing rooms of fashionable Paris were known as ks precieuses. But the glint of mischief in her eyes indicated that this was a project that she actually took very seriously indeed.
I bowed ironically. ‘I would be most grateful for any instruction you can give me in this matter, madame.’
‘Good,’ she said. ‘Then that’s settled. Bring me an ice in two days’ time, and in the meantime I will give some thought as to who your next conquest should be.’
And so began the next stage of my education. Just as in Florence I had experimented with different flavours and techniques of ice, so here in Versailles I sampled the different tastes and flavours of love. Olympe was right: I soon discovered that there were many women at court who were only too pleased to be my accompanists. I discovered something else as well, which was that I liked women, and that they generally liked me in return. That may sound a curious statement, but it was by no means self-evident: many of the court’s most renowned lovers seemed almost weary of their affairs, as if falling in love were a duty as arduous and as inevitable as attending yet another ball or dance. Occasionally Olympe had to caution me against overenthusiasm — ‘If you go around with a grin on your face like that people will think you are a simpleton’ - but in general she treated me with an amused indulgence^ and for my part, I soon
learned how to present to the world that air of amused, lofty cynicism that was the great fashion of the age.
I found, too, that if a woman needed to be wooed, I had the perfect means at my disposal. There was nothing so persuasive, it seemed, as announcing that I was trying to perfect a new flavour or combination of ices, so far untasted, and that I needed the help of the lady in question to sample my work and give me her opinion. There was a certain skill, and a pleasure, too, in matching the sorbet to the woman: the younger, more innocent types - not that there was any such thing as true innocence, in that court - could be tempted with more sophisticated tastes, while older women preferred the innocence and youth of simple flavours.
As I became more accomplished, so I became even more inventive, both in the ices I made for the king and those I produced for my lovers. I still produced the single-fruit sorbets of which the king was so fond, of course. But once I had plucked every fruit that existed in nature, I proceeded to create new, imaginary orchards and potagers of my own, wherein grew such extravagances as a tree that was half lemon and half lime, or a bush that fruited with rye bread, or a plant whose pollen was the eggs of the Aquitaine sturgeon fish. Even the flowerbeds gave up their blossoms for sorbets of scented geranium leaf or lavender, or lent their aromas to perfumed of lemon balm, violet or rose. That
these tastes could exist at all, let alone locked within the frozen crystals of my mux ^lacees^ never ceased to amatze the king’s guests: my star rose ever higher, and my name became known even beyond the confines of the court.
And then one day I took a dish of strawberry ice flavoured with white pepper to the king, and although I did not realise it at first, my life was changed completely.
Carlo
To make a strawberry ice: take thirty fat berries with plenty of scent, slice them and dice them and pass them through a sieve: add one cup of sugar, and a pint of thick cow’s milk: mix it well, and stir it as you freeze. It needs nothing more, but you can dress it with some mint or white pepper as you please.
The Book of Ices
The ice would not set, and the king was waiting.
Despite the cold in the subterranean pantry, I was sweating. Grasping the wooden bucket between my knees, I poured the mixture of sugar, cream and crushed strawberries back into the sabotiere, the inner container made of pewter, and began to work the paddle one more time.
Beside me, Audiger was getting flustered. ‘You need to go more slowly, perhaps. But hurry, hurry.’
I did not bother to point out that it was difficult to do both those things at once. ‘The ice isn’t cold enough. I need more saltpetre.’
‘Ice is ice, surely. It has only one temperature, the temperature of freezing. This has been established by many authorities. Galen says—’
‘It’s over there,’ I interrupted. ‘Two measures.’
Going to the chests which contained our supplies, Audiger scooped up a quantity of yellowish crystals and brought them over. ‘Here.’
I stopped paddling so that he could add them to the mixture. Carefully, he poured the saltpetre into the outer part of the
bucket. As he did so, a footman in royal livery put his head inside the pantry door.
‘The desserts are going to the king,’ he announced.
Audiger rounded on him. ‘Two minutes!’ he exclaimed. ‘Just two more minutes! His Majesty has suggested that today he would like a strawberry ice, and a strawberry ice he shall have.’ Out of habit, he stood between the footman and our apparatus, blocking the man’s view.
Between my legs I felt the bucket - finally! - grow colder as the saltpetre did its work. My paddle slowed, meeting a greater resistance. I slowed my own rhythm to match. This was hard labour, the hardest part, but, such was my relief, I could feel the ache easing from my shoulders.
If you are too easier, the paddle itself may heat the mixture^ I heard Ahmad’s voice say in my head. Heed your hand, not your eye. When it feels like sand, it is almost ready.
‘It’s ready,’ I said. There was no time, today, for niceties. When the king expressed a sudden desire for a particular flavour, even the ice was expected to do as it was told.
‘At last.’ Audiger rearranged his wig and brushed cellar dust from his court clothes. Pulling on a pair of white gloves, he looked around. ‘Where’s the platter.^’’
I indicated with my head. ‘On the shelf’
The platter was also made of ice, cast in a mould and polished until it looked like crystal. It was already piled high with more crushed ice in readiness.
I inspected the contents of my bucket one last time. The mixture was now as dense and granular as raw honey. Clots and veins of crushed strawberry had spread through the cream. I put my finger in to taste it.
‘What are you doing?’ Audiger cried. ‘There’s little enough for the king’s guests as it is.’
I did not reply. I tasted every ice we made, but Audiger was not to know that. I considered, then nodded. ‘It’s good.’
Taking a spoon that had been sharpened on one side, I laid a scoop of pale pink cream ice on the platter. Then I added another, and another. Soon the dish resembled a frozen sea, the curves and rolls of the ice shavings helping to disguise the fact that there was actually very lit^e of it. ‘Now go,’ I said.
‘Some cinnamon?’ Audiger said anxiously. ‘Gold leaf? Nutmeg?’
‘Perhaps a little white pepper.’
‘Pepper? On strawberries? Are you mad?’
‘Just a pinch. Trust me.’
Audiger sighed. ‘Some pepper, then. And some saffron. His Most Christian Majesty will expect nothing less.’ Before I could stop him he had thrown a large handful of saffron threads over the dish.
‘He’ll like it all the more if it tastes as it should,’ I muttered. Under the pretext of garnishing it with some frozen mint leaves I managed to brush off most of the priceless saffron with the back of my hand. ‘Go,’ I repeated, handing the dish to him.
Audiger went up the pantry steps with the platter held ceremoniously in front of him, his back ramrod straight, as if he were already in the presence of the king. I followed. Outside, the sunlight and the heat of the afternoon was like a blow after the icy dankness of the pantry. I saw how the strawberry ice bloomed with a faint silvery rime in the warm air, and I remembered the taste - that brief fingertip taste: sugar, milk and strawberries, concentrated by the mechanism of the ice into a tiny blossoming of flavour.