The Confectioner's Tale Part 19

'He's in the shower at the moment,' the woman says a little doubtfully. 'Do you want to come in?'

She leads the way up a dark staircase into a flat at the front of the house. It's a pleasant place, a kitchenliving-room jammed with squashy sofas and books. In another life, perhaps, Hall and I might have been friends. Somewhere in the flat, water is running. I still have no idea what's going to happen when he sees me.

'How is his work going?' The woman leans against the kitchen worktop. The briefcase that Hall was carrying in the library sits open on a chair. If she would leave me alone, just for a second, I could search it.

'Er, great, all on track,' I improvise, trying to peer into the case.

'That's good.' She smiles. 'He's been under so much pressure recently. I suppose you know about the granddaughter, making waves, trying to steal his research?'

My stomach flips with fear and anger.

'Are you all right?' she asks. 'You look a bit flushed.'

'Fine,' I manage, scanning the exposed contents of the briefcase.

Then I see it. Amongst the papers is an inch of handwriting I recognize as Allincourt's. The sound of running water stops.

'That'll be Simon out of the shower. I'll tell him you're here before he walks in naked or something. What did you say your name was?'

'Anna.'

As soon as she's through the door I'm lunging for the papers. It's all there: the photograph, the letter, the slip of paper from the gallery. Clipped to them is a page of bullet-pointed notes. I see a reference to The Word written halfway down the paper and shove the whole lot into my jacket. There are voices from the other room, questioning tones, a door slamming.

'He said he didn't know that anyone called Anna worked there,' the woman says as she enters, 'but he'll be right out.'

'I'm an intern,' I tell her a little wildly, certain that she'll see the flash of white beneath my jacket. 'Actually, I think I've brought the wrong paperwork, picked it up by mistake. They'll have to send the right version tomorrow.'

I make a break for the door, heart thudding against the pages.

'Well, if you wait a second-' she tries.

'Thanks, but I've got to run.'

I don't care if it's suspicious; I have to get out of there. In the hallway a door opens to my right. I catch a flash of a figure in a dressing gown before I'm skidding down the stairs in my haste to reach the front door.

There are voices behind me. I won't make it onto the road without being seen, and my brain is so sizzled on adrenalin that without a second's hesitation I clamber over the side of the steps that lead to ground level, landing heavily in a pile of rubbish, old branches and brambles.

The wall is slimy and damp with weeds, but I press against it as the front door flies open above me. I can just make out the back of Hall's head as he begins to swear.

'She's taken them,' he barks. 'Why the h.e.l.l did you let her in?'

'She said she was from the publisher,' the woman sounds equally peeved. 'Maybe she just got nervous.'

'Was she blonde?' he demands.

'What?'

'Blonde, slim, in her twenties?'

'Why?' The woman's tone has taken on a hostile edge. 'Who is this girl, Simon? Why are you so angry with her for turning up here?'

'Carol, wait, I told you ...'

Their voices fade as the front door is slammed. Grinning stupidly, I zip the papers into my bag.

Chapter Thirty.

April 1910 That morning, the bells woke Gui, louder and more vocal than he had ever heard them. Rather than pulling the blanket up over his head and s.h.i.+vering at the thought of his night-cold clothes, he rushed to the window, shunting it open to let in a blast of morning.

His head jutted out from the roof and he felt like an animal emerging from a burrow. There was life in the air. Gui wondered if Jeanne was leaning through her curtains. Raising his head, he let out a crow, pictured it bouncing from wall to wall across the city to greet her.

There was sc.r.a.ping from along the roof, and Isabelle's head also appeared, tousled from sleep.

'I thought it was a dog, howling at the moon,' she called, 'but here I find you.'

'Happy Easter!' he laughed. 'Did I wake you? I am sorry, I couldn't keep it in.'

'Don't apologize, it's rare that I'm woken by such a happy sound.'

Back in his room, Gui lit the fire and balanced a kettle on the tiny stove for hot water. He enjoyed his morning routine. With his few belongings stowed neatly, the mouse-hole room was almost cosy. Some of the hot water went into the ewer, some into a battered tin pot with a sprinkling of tea leaves.

He washed carefully, paying particular attention to his nails. Today was the day of Ptisserie Clermont's grandest event: the Easter celebration. The kitchens had been a hive of activity. Monsieur Clermont had been present every day, experimenting with ingredients to create an opulent centrepiece. Everyone in the cloakroom speculated about what it would be, gossiping like washerwomen. One junior chef had even started a pool for those who cared to place money on their opinions.

Whatever it was, Gui knew it would be magnificent. He had spent a joyous day melting chocolate and moulding it into shapes, another making batches of the delicate pastry he was developing such a talent with. He sincerely hoped that Maurice would be in charge of his section and that they would be able to work together to create something wonderful.

Locking his door behind him, Gui heard a rustle. It was Isabelle, smiling.

'We used to do this when we were children,' she said, patting something onto to his back. 'It's supposed to bring you luck.'

Gui's fingers found thin paper, cut into the shape of a fish, fixed to his jacket with a pin.

'I don't believe I'll need it,' he said and grinned.

Although the sun had barely risen, the omnibus at the bottom of Rue de Belleville was crowded with wors.h.i.+ppers, all heading to the larger churches for a special service. Eventually, he gave up his seat to an old lady and walked. By the time he got to work, the cloakroom was packed. The night s.h.i.+ft had just come to an end, and apprentices jostled for s.p.a.ce, balancing cups of coffee and cigarettes, trying to find a seat before they returned to the kitchens.

Maurice was napping in one corner, an ap.r.o.n spread over his face. Gui reached out to sneak a few sips from the steaming cup of coffee that sat forgotten by his elbow.

'Don't even think about it, you southern rat,' the chef's voice rumbled from below the ap.r.o.n. 'I need that like I need my blood. That b.a.s.t.a.r.d Melio's gone and caught himself the black lung. They've put me on his s.h.i.+ft.' Wearily, Maurice removed the garment and blinked up at Gui. 'Going to need your help today, lad.'

'You mean ...?'

'Welcome to the next rung. You'll be my commis chef for the day.'

'What will we be doing?' he pressed.

Maurice tapped his nose mysteriously.

'All will be revealed. I just hope you remember how to handle choux.'

A clock chimed in the hall, and the chefs filtered back to work. Hurriedly, Gui shed his clothes and crammed the white hat over his hair, grown back into its thick curls. When he reached the kitchens, he found the entire staff being ushered through the empty cafe towards the front of the building.

'What's going on?' he whispered to a neighbouring apprentice.

The boy was trying with great fervour to push a tuft of hair beneath his cap. 'A photograph,' he said breathlessly. 'Josef announced it this morning. It's for the newspapers.'

Eyes wide, Gui began his own frantic grooming, thankful that he had paid extra attention to was.h.i.+ng that morning. Outside, the sun was growing warmer. It was the first true spring day, breezy and cool yet br.i.m.m.i.n.g with the possibility of a new summer.

A man with clipped-up sleeves was struggling with a tripod, while another a.s.sembled something that looked like a big, black accordion. Gui felt a rush of excitement, remembering the last time he had had his likeness taken, in La Rotonde with Jeanne.

Josef instructed them to line up, to cross their arms one over the other in the same fas.h.i.+on, and to await the photographer's instructions. No smiling, he commanded solemnly, no monkey business or j.a.pes, or he would know about it. They had been standing silently for ten minutes when Monsieur Clermont finally arrived.

Gui's heart quickened its pace; Jeanne was accompanying her father.

She was dressed in sober clothes, a dark dress with delicate cream lace that, as always, encircled her neck up to the chin, hiding the scar he now knew was there. Her short hair was disguised by a slanting hat and a coiled hairpiece. Silently, she followed her father and took her place at the centre of the group.

She looked so distant, cold even, that he could not believe this was the same girl who had hitched up her skirts and stolen a ride on a tram just days before. Joy and uncertainty burned his throat as he remembered the kiss. Had it been the same for her?

A horse-drawn carriage rolled up to the pavement, almost scattering the group. The photographer was apoplectic and Josef had to be dispatched to urge the driver on his way. In the confusion, Gui lunged out of his place and dashed down the line, squeezing in beside Mademoiselle Jeanne and stepping hard on a fellow apprentice's foot as he tried to complain.

There was a whisper of fabric as she adjusted her shawl. His breathing was coming fast. The photographer was shouting instructions, counting down. As he reached zero, Gui reached out towards Jeanne.

Her hand was waiting. They locked fingers just as a flash exploded into the morning. For one single, glorious instant, they held on to each other. Then they were blinking the brightness from their eyes and her fingers slipped from his, as if it had never been. Slowly, Gui mingled with the crowd as they made their way back into the kitchens.

They lined themselves up before the workstations to await their orders. Clermont surveyed his army, taking care to meet each pair of eyes. Gui felt that his gaze was held for far longer than anyone else's. Images of Jeanne crowded into his mind. He fought to keep his face blank as Clermont started to speak.

'As you know,' the older man told them, 'Easter Sat.u.r.day is an important day for us. It is a return, a renewal and a celebration. Many of the guests attending today's special gathering do so after a long month of abstinence. Can anyone tell me, what does abstinence lead us to crave?'

There was an awed, schoolroom hush from the a.s.sembled chefs, until an eager voice piped up: 'Luxury.'

Clermont nodded, waved his hand for more.

'Glamour?' someone else supplied.

'Beauty.'

'Sin.' Gui heard the word falling from his mouth and blanched. Monsieur Clermont, however, only nodded.

'Luxury. Glamour. Beauty. Sin. We must create all of these today.' An unnerving smile twitched his mouth. 'I've heard that there is something of a wager running on what the centrepiece will be. Would someone care to tell me the a.s.sumptions?'

No one spoke. It was impossible to tell whether Monsieur was furious or amused.

'No? Josef, put them from their misery.'

'We make croquembouche!' the blond chef boomed.

A ripple ran through the kitchen, excitement, apprehension.

'Croquembouche?' Gui whispered. He was sure he seen the word somewhere before.

'Just wait,' Maurice said, 'you will see, when we find out which part we are to play.'

Josef called upon the more senior chefs one by one, starting with Ebersole and working down the chain. Maurice came about halfway. He beckoned his small team forward. Under the watchful eye of Monsieur Clermont, they were talked through a series of techniques, ingredients lists, preparation times. Finally, Josef turned a page to show them a sketch of the finished confection.

'But that's Monsieur Carme!' Gui burst out before he could stop himself. He had seen the ill.u.s.tration a hundred times over in his tattered book. It showed a spiralling cone of little choux pastries, held together with caramel and spun sugar, decorated with sugar ribbons and flowers.

Josef had stopped speaking. Monsieur Clermont's stare was cold. Eventually, talk resumed and they were dismissed to their station.

'What was that?' Maurice demanded. 'I thought you were smarter than to spout every thought that comes into your head.'

'I'm sorry,' Gui winced, 'but I've seen that drawing before, the exact same one, in a book I have, by Monsieur Antonin Carme.'

'A word to the wise,' Maurice murmured, 'and I shall only say it once, because you won't get another opportunity to listen. Never compare Clermont's work to that of another chef. As far as we are concerned, it is original, it is brilliant and it is our job to keep quiet and make it happen.'

Gui frowned. He had thought that Clermont was a master in his own right, an architect, not a copycat. Perhaps Clermont, too, loved Carme, Gui told himself, wanted to pay homage to the great man with his creation. All the same, the realization bothered him.

Josef set them making a range of caramels, some soft and tempered with cream, some dark and brittle as gla.s.s or flavoured with essence of orange and vanilla. Watching yet another pan of sugar melt into a bubbling ma.s.s, Gui thought of Jeanne, of her story.

'Ever burned yourself with sugar?' he asked Maurice distractedly. The other man was busy spinning sugar through the air, until a nest of fine strands rested in his palm. He balled it up and threw it towards the refuse.

'No good,' he called to another chef. 'It needs to be darker. Sugar burns?' he replied, wiping his hands on his ap.r.o.n. 'Nasty things. Sugar sticks to the skin and keeps burning. By the time you wash it off, half the flesh comes with it.'

Thinking of Jeanne's neck, Gui blanched.

'Been talking to Mademoiselle?'

The comment was so offhand that Gui almost answered in the affirmative, before he caught himself. Maurice's face was turned away, but there was something observant in his posture.

'Just a story I heard,' Gui tried to sound indifferent. 'One of the other boys said that she got burned when she was a child. I wondered about it, that's all.'

'Well, you heard right,' Maurice said, 'though there's not many here who know about that. Who told you?'

Gui tested the sugar with a spoon. 'Can't remember.'

'I reckon it's why Monsieur let her run around like she owned the place for so long,' the older chef reasoned. 'Of course, he's had to rein her in now. It's lucky she's a girl of means, or else he'd have trouble getting her married off.'

'What?' Gui asked, a little too sharply.

'Well, who wants damaged goods when there are better ones on offer?'

Whether he saw the anger in Gui's face or not, there was little time to talk after that. Gui wrestled his temper under control, for the day was advancing and there was work to be done. Clermont had finally settled on the right caramels, and together, he and Maurice measured the ingredients into different pans.