Vanilla Salt (12 page)

Àlex almost shoves her aside and enters the tiny flat. Standing there, with the huge box of food in his arms, he can’t see where to put it down.
“God almighty, there’s not enough room in this place for a snail to stick its head out,” he thinks. He catches a glimpse of bouncing red curls. Now he’s weak-kneed with apprehension.

“Hello, Àlex. Graça she stay at door. What you do to her?” Annette asks.

“Hello! How are things? Are you OK?”

Àlex is so flustered he doesn’t dare to look her in the eye. She’s gorgeous, especially radiant.

“Yes, yes, but what you do to Graça?”

“What is Graça? A cat? A tortoise?”

“You stop! Graça, Frank’s wife.” Her tone is severe.

“Ah, nothing happened with the woman. I just told her to move aside as the box is very heavy. Look, I’ve brought everything. Would you like to taste some
bacallà
with green garlic shoots?”

“I no have hungry. I find Graça. You make food? We put the table.”

Annette tries to convince Graça not to take Àlex’s words seriously. He’s hopeless. He can’t help himself.

Frank’s wife isn’t so sure. She would have liked to put him in his place. However, where she comes from hospitality is sacred and Àlex is her guest. She’ll have to be forbearing and steer clear of any hint of conflict.

In the kitchen, Àlex warms up the casseroles and gives the final touches to his dishes. He makes a huge amount of washing-up, not to mention a racket worthy of an advancing army. He opens a bottle of wine and pours two glasses, one for Annette, but it remains untouched, as she hasn’t reappeared. He drinks as he cooks, thinking it will help him forget his wrath over the Facebook page and help him to relax a little, as he’s so keyed-up about seeing Annette again. He has to behave, be nice and friendly and seduce her… but this also means a huge effort, because he’s very miffed about the Facebook comment and can’t get it out of his head.

After half an hour, they’re all sitting at the table. Except for Frank: he’s out delivering fish. Annette is silent.

The Antic Món spread is mouth-watering. The table is full of wonderful-smelling meat, gleaming salads and silky-smooth sauces. There’s a crispy prawn-and-onion concoction, free-range chicken with carrots and leeks, calf’s cheeks with pears, sea bass with porcini risotto, sardines with caramelized turnips and, for dessert, rice pudding with a touch of citrus.

The children don’t know where to begin. Everything is strange to them. They don’t understand this food Àlex has brought and have never seen anything like it. Àlex goes into “cheerful” mode, a gambit he’s used quite successfully on other occasions.

“Come on, kids, this food is delicious. If you’ll just taste a little bit, Uncle Àlex will be really happy.”

Graça gets up from the table. She can’t stand the man and still less when he has the nerve to proclaim himself her children’s “uncle”. She goes into the kitchen and returns with a plate of potatoes mashed together with a bit of meat, so that the children will at least eat something.

“Here, mashed potato, children. You like very good this,” she announces, placing the platter in the centre of the table among the host of dishes Àlex has produced.

Àlex stares at the potatoes in disgust, looks at the children and blurts out, “If these kids only ever eat potatoes, you’ll always be poor. You’re doomed. You’re from a culture that can only die of hunger.”

Annette is so shocked she almost chokes on a chicken bone.

Graça’s nostrils flare. Àlex has gone too far. She too has a sharp tongue and, despite her difficulty expressing herself in Catalan, the look on her face speaks volumes. She explodes: “Persons can be poor, but better is polite and happy than put money in the pocket. Better is be with animals than persons no love others. We no want you dirty our table. You get your food. You go. We eat potato no problems. You no hear before, this thing say some persons: ‘In my misery, I the boss.’”

Annette cuts in, trying to turn the deadly duel into a peace process. “Àlex, it better you go. I help you gather the cooking.”

“No, keep it. I don’t want it for anything now and you can use it. If you don’t want it, I’ll give it away. There are plenty of needy people…”

He is dying to sound off, to explode. He’s biting his tongue to block the words crowding on its tip: “Give the food to those kids and let’s see if it revives their paralysed brains.”

But he doesn’t want to add fuel to the flames. This time, his scathing comment has been terribly out of place, totally wrong. He’s just trashed his last chance, and there’s no point in struggling on now.

He gets up from the table, pushes his chair in neatly and, before leaving, goes over to Annette and kisses her on the forehead. It’s a friendly kiss, an eloquent kiss, a kiss that says, “Come back whenever you want. I’ll be waiting for you.”

In the car on the way back to the restaurant, he’s still very jittery and sings loudly, non-stop: “Think of me, little one, think of me when witches of the morning make you shivery. I won’t warm the cold or sweeten your coffee, but think of me, little one, think of me. Think of me when they don’t pay your wage, or at eight thirty, squashed in the metro like in a cage. Take me, embroidered on your shirt with style, or painted bright red in your smile.”

Without turning on any light in the dining room, he sits in the dark at Table 3 and pours a full glass of Knockando, which he slowly sips.

He feels a new sensation, a pleasurable but also disturbing sensation. Quietly savouring the whisky, he lingers in the present. He’s never done that before. Not until now. Running the treadmill of life, he’d dreamt of a brilliant future which would help him smooth over the rusty nails of his tormented past. He looks at his hands. They are no longer useful. Useless hands, useless legs. His whole body, the engine he used to start
up every morning to get things moving in the restaurant, is useless. He’s still got a soul, but it’s no longer his, because it’s inseparable from the restaurant, as if the walls have sucked it in. His soul is fused with Antic Món by some inexplicable bond, and he can’t escape.

He drains the glass. On a piece of white paper he writes a few stark words in big letters:

RESTAURANT FOR SALE

Tel. 65897925

(Ask for Frank)

He hangs it up at the door and phones Frank.

“I’m sorry, my friend, about my run-in with your wife. I’m heavy-handed, as you know.”

“Yes, I know. You really excelled yourself. Graça and you are like a box of matches next to a fireworks factory. No problems until someone sets off a spark and… But Graça’s forgotten all about it now. She’s in heaven tucking into your food, but, my friend, you really hurt me by saying what you did in front of my kids.”

“I’m sorry, Frank. I said I’m sorry. Listen, I’m also phoning because I’ve put a sign at the door of the restaurant announcing that it’s for sale. I don’t have a mobile, so I’ve given your number.”

“What do you mean, man? My number? Are you completely off your head?”

“Listen to me, will you! I thought that if you’d do me this favour of getting the word around and taking calls, I could give you a commission on the sale. OK by you?”

“It’s fine by me, but I want you to know that I’m not doing it for the money.”

“You’ll always be a loser… just like me,” Àlex pronounces.

7

LIFE

Òscar’s been mulling it over for several days. He has savings, not as much as Àlex’s asking price, but nobody’s shown any interest in buying the restaurant since it was put up for sale three months ago. He can cut a deal with Àlex for sure.

Annette’s cooking dinner: courgette flowers stuffed with brandade, a superb dish. Since she’s been staying with Òscar, every meal’s been a feast. Cooking has become her chief interest and Òscar’s delighted, although despite this gastronomic pampering he’s longing for a quiet, solitary, private life.

Until he finally came to terms with the fact that he wasn’t cut out for cohabitation with anyone, his attempts at domestic life had been hell. Love wasn’t a good enough reason for putting up with certain things that really got up his nose like “Why don’t you leave the toothpaste in the special holder?”, “When you come in the door, take off your shoes and put your slippers on”, “It’s your turn to sweep on Tuesdays”, “You should eat more greens”, “Shut the door when you leave the room”, “No, you can’t read today because we’ve got to sort our winter clothes. It’s getting cold.”

Sort clothes! But he’s only got three pullovers and five shirts! What a bore it is to share a flat. Life’s much more fun if you can leave the
toothpaste in the special holder one day and languishing in the basin the next. It’s the last gasp in stupidity to enslave yourself to things. Objects are meant to make life easier, not to break up relationships.

Yet this is precisely what has happened with all his relationships. The first girl he lived with managed to get him to take his shoes off when he came in the door, to eat more greens and to store his three pullovers in the attic, so he could then bring down his one and only pair of swimming trunks. They spent an entire afternoon moving these clothes around, and all for nothing. By the end of it, the wardrobe was as empty as ever.

The women who came after her scored fewer and fewer wins. Finally, the last girlfriend, the company administrator, the one he was going to marry, made him see the light. Domestic life was not for him.

This revelation was such a relief that he felt as if he was floating round on a cloud of bliss and peace with whiffs of white truffle. Now he keeps his shoes in the wardrobe again, but during that first thrill of freedom he regaled himself with all the pleasures he’d been deprived of in his uxorious years. He came home and threw his shoes into the air; he didn’t put down the toilet seat; he left coins scattered all over the place; he never cleaned the door handles, never ever again. This was a declaration of intent. Òscar was an indomitable rebel.

Nowadays, when he takes up with a girl, he makes sure that she has her own place and is well off. Although Annette doesn’t boss him around or make him change the position of the cushions on the sofa, she’s been there for three months and her presence is beginning to wear.

“Yum … These courgette flowers are sensational, Annette. Did you take a photo before serving them? Don’t forget that your followers will be waiting for today’s recipe on your blog.”

“Yes, yes. Of course I make the photograph before put on table. You know what is secret ingredient?”

“Let’s see… today’s secret ingredient must be… wow! That’s hot!” Òscar yelps, and gulps down a big glass of water.

Annette loves playing the secret-ingredient game. There’s always something hidden in her dishes. Today she’s added a touch of wasabi to her brandade. The condiment hasn’t made the slightest difference to the colour or texture, but naturally it has exponentially increased the pizzazz. Òscar also enjoys this exercise, because it obliges him to work with his taste and olfactory memory.

“No, you no drink! Water it make the hot more big everywhere in mouth. Eat bread! Bread it absorb the hot.”

Although she’s making progress, Annette’s still a long way from speaking good Catalan.

For Òscar, on the days he gets home tired from work, these meals are like morning break time at school. The change of activity helps him to forget all about computer problems, pixels and RAM for a while. Now, however, though it may seem contradictory, he wants to have the flat to himself, even if it means a drop in eating standards. It’s time to broach the subject.

“Do you know that Antic Món’s still up for sale?”

“No, I no know nothing.”

“Well, it is,” Òscar continues. “I’ve driven past a couple of times and seen that the sign’s still up. I’ve called the restaurant number but no one’s answering. Then I tried the number on the announcement and was told they haven’t got a buyer yet. Àlex wants sixty thousand euros for the leasehold, and the rent’s one thousand five hundred. I’m sure he’ll lower the price, because he must be desperate by now. Maybe you’d like it—”

“Oh, yes, I love it! Sixty thousand euros only?” she asks sarcastically. “If I find in the pocket…”

“God, Annette, your Catalan’s still terrible, but you’re certainly on the ball! Look, if you want Antic Món, I’ve got some money sitting in the bank. I don’t need to use it for anything! It can be a loan.”

“Òscar, we no know us so much.”

“First of all,” he tries to convince her, “we’ve lived under the same roof for three months. I think I’ve lived longer with you than with the girl I was supposed to marry. I know you’re a good, hard-working person, and that you come from a family with excellent values. Second, don’t worry: I’m not going to put the spoon in my mouth until I’m sure the soup won’t burn. I mean I’ll lend you the money, but with guarantees that you’ll pay me back. I’ve been thinking about how to do it, and the best thing would be for me to pay for the lease and then you can repay the loan over a long period of time. It’s as if I was a bank giving you a loan. In fact, it’s quite simple.”

“But I no know if Antic Món get success,” Annette wavers. “It owe money, have bad name… Start again, this very difficult.”

She’s not convinced.

“We’ll talk about profits and balancing the books in due course, when the time is right. The main thing now, the starting point, is whether you like the idea of being boss of Antic Món. Once that’s decided, high hopes can move mountains. You’re more than capable of managing that restaurant and getting it up and running again. You work hard and you’re methodical, good-looking, a very nice person and a great hostess. You understand food and have good business sense. I’m totally convinced you’ll make a good go of it. I’ll be there to help you as much as you need. You know I’ve always wanted to have a restaurant.”

“So why you not buy for you if you like restaurant?” Annette is baffled. “Is the good time now!”

“But I’ve got a high-powered job in IT. They pay me very well, I like it and it gives me peace and security. Running a restaurant would be a fascinating hobby for me, but that’s not the way to go about it. A business like that needs full-time attention. But coming to give you a hand would be a great pleasure.”