The restaurant was full every evening. They came from Menton, from La Turbie and Monaco, to sample a selection of Provençal and Italian recipes. Mireille no longer cooked herself. She had taken on a chef from Marseille who, after two nights in her bed, had shown himself to be the most obedient of slaves. This man, a former infantry marksman, had the fortunate ability to drown his jealousy in streams of pastis. He stood over the stoves, his eyes bloodshot, glass in hand, utterly indifferent to everything that was happening around him. The waitresses called him Tomate, a witty distortion of his real name, Thomas, because he cooked nothing without tomato sauce. Jean appeared one day through a haze of pastis, and he took no more notice of him than of a new cat in the kitchen. Jean himself was given the very humble task of scouring the pans. The day after his arrival, he wrote to his mother.
Dear Maman, I’m writing to you from Roquebrune, a pretty little village in the Alpes-Maritimes near the Italian border, where I have just arrived after my excellent journey to Italy. I’ve found a job which will allow me to get back home before very long. Actually, at Ostia near Rome I had a bit of bad luck: my bike was stolen, along with my papers and all the money I had left for the return journey. Thanks to a German friend, and then an Italian truck driver, I managed to get as far as the border. So do not worry if I’m away a bit longer than you expected, I’m only making enough money to get home. Reassure Papa too. With warmest love from your
Jean
PS. I received the papal blessing at Saint Peter’s and thought of you very much at that moment.
He posted the letter that evening before dinner and took up his position at the sink, bare-chested, having washed his only shirt. Mireille inspected the kitchen and said a few words to him. He found her curt and bossy, now that Stefano had left for Italy again. But a few days later, writing to Joseph Outen and having told him the Ostia story, he added:
… I’m not unhappy to have a job washing dishes. All the great businessmen started by selling newspapers or shining shoes. I scour pans under the glassy stare of a certain Tomate. It’s not very instructive, but in my situation I don’t have the right to ask for too much. With my first week’s pay I bought a shirt, a pair of trousers, a comb and a toothbrush. It was my return to the human condition. Unfortunately I have nothing to read apart from Goethe’s Italian Journey and, since I don’t understand a word of German, it would be the torture of Tantalus if dear Ernst hadn’t already put me off by reading some extracts to me. Be kind and let me cadge a book or two from you. I promise to pay you back when I get richer.
The patronne is a very strange woman. A real volcano. Not my type at all. I like them slender and distinguished for affairs of the heart, or nice and plump for a fling.
I read in L’Auto that our eight got thrashed at Mâcon: fourth out of five. What ignominy! As soon as I go away it’s a catastrophe. Wait for me to get back, if you want to avoid making yourselves a laughing stock. Every morning when I wake up I treat myself to 200 press-ups. What could be better?
Your friend,
Jean
The second letter to Joseph Outen, ten days later, shows the subsequent course of events.
Dear Joseph, thank you for the books. Such a sarcastic parcel is just what I’d expect from you. The Physiology of Taste and the recipes of Alexandre Dumas! But I’ve had it up to here with kitchens and their smells. My hair and skin are slowly becoming impregnated with garlic and tomatoes. When I get out of here I’m going to need a lavender bath to get rid of them. The worst of it is that I haven’t even been allowed to pick up a spoon and stir a sauce. I scour pans, and that’s it. About that I know a lot. In any container used for braising, for example, you end up with a crust that’s unbelievably hard to get off. Wire-wool pads won’t touch it. You have to use your nails. When mine are worn out, they’ll just get rid of me. Unless … too bad, you’ll have to hear everything: the patronne sees me. Until now I was only ever on the sharp end of remarks about my work. Yesterday our eyes met. She looked away. But then Stefano came for two days, and she disappeared with him. The bedroom where they frolic is underneath the pantry. At night I don’t miss a moment of what goes on there. It makes me a bit melancholy. I dream about someone else. Look, it’s fairly excusable, I’m only seventeen, after all. Anyway, to summarise in a word: yes, the patronne sees me. It’s making me shiver already …
Jeanne did not answer her son’s letter. As she said, ‘I’m not very good at writing.’ Albert only wrote to newspapers to insult their leader writers. The abbé Le Couec answered for them. He envied Jean his papal blessing and was not at all surprised to hear his bicycle had been stolen. Hadn’t something very similar happened to him with the theft of two pairs of underpants and a missal? Jean’s parents were well, but they were preparing to leave La Sauveté. The Longuets had entrusted the park to another gardener, a supercilious Parisian who was living with them and waiting for the Arnauds to leave so that he could move into the lodge with his wife, a lady of severe aspect who dressed in black and wore costume ruby earrings. There was no call for Jean to hurry back. His parents expected to find shelter temporarily at Madame du Courseau’s. Jean should work and amass the money for his return journey. Then, at the beginning of November, he could enrol at the law faculty in Rouen or at a technical school. They would discuss it. The abbé Le Couec sent Jean his warmest wishes and advised him not to drink, a vice that could be picked up very easily in a kitchen, where you were always hot.
A week later, Jean wrote to Joseph again.
Dear old thing, I’m afraid from now on you’re going to have to speak to me like royalty, in the third person. I am sleeping with the patronne. To tell you the truth, it’s more the other way around. She is sleeping with me. And to be even more precise, she ravished me. I didn’t fancy her at all in the beginning … No, it’s too bad, you’ll have to hear the whole story. A couple of days ago, having scrubbed my last pan of the evening and steered the chef to his bedroom where, as usual, he flopped onto his bed without getting undressed (or even taking off his toque), I went out to the terrace to get some fresh air. The view was magnificent: the lights of Menton and Monaco, the dark mass of Cap Martin. Moonlight to boot. Leaning on the balustrade, I was musing on the idea of one day bringing here someone I like very much, a creature so perfect I just want to go on keeping the secret I’ve been keeping for the last seventeen years. Anyhow, there I am dreaming, when suddenly the patronne comes up. I thought she was going to tick me off for some pan or the state of the sink, but it was nothing like that! Wrapped in a black wool shawl, she leant her elbows on the rail next to me and said in a voice that I didn’t recognise at alclass="underline"
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’
What would you have said if you’d been me? ‘Yes, Madame.’ Obviously. Well, it didn’t put her off a bit. She heaved a sigh that didn’t exactly pierce my soul, but it did put me on my guard. She was wearing perfume and didn’t smell too badly of garlic. Anyhow, I mean: she didn’t even smell of garlic at all, although there must have been a strong whiff of it coming off me.