Anything Considered (8 page)

After a short, delightful, but indecisive study, Bennett gave up. There was too much, all of it sounding wonderful, and he decided to enlist professional help, never a bad idea in a serious restaurant. One barely raised eyebrow was enough to bring the headwaiter.

“Monsieur Poe?”

“I’m going to put myself in your hands. What do you suggest? Something light would be perfect.”

The first part of the conference lasted five minutes. Then the sommelier was called in, he and the headwaiter frowning with heads together as they discussed flavors and textures, vineyards and vintages. Bennett leaned back and felt thoroughly pampered. Here were two highly expert men, learned in every gastronomic nuance, worrying about the precise combination of tastes that would give him the greatest pleasure over the next two hours. He realized that the last time he’d eaten out had been in the café, with its paper napkins and fifty-franc menu. What a treat this would be for Anny and Léon. What a treat it would be for anyone. Being rich, even if only vicariously, was fun.

The two men bustled away, and a dapper waiter came to fuss over Bennett’s cutlery and glassware, moving the small vase of fresh flowers a centimeter to the left, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from the tablecloth. Bennett took out Poe’s truffle notes and started to read.

The first page was headed by an unattributed quotation: “Man has invented vaccination, antibiotics, the computer; he races round the cosmos and sticks pennants on the moon—but up until now, he hasn’t been able to make truffles grow.” Below this, a simple chart showed France’s truffle harvests, from a high point of more than a thousand tons in 1905 to sixty-nine tons in 1987. The projection for 1995–96 was lower still—a paltry twenty tons, against an estimated demand of sixty to eighty tons. Bennett took a
thoughtful sip of champagne. No wonder the fashionable gourmet grocers in Paris could charge eight thousand francs a kilo. It was a seller’s market. He was trying to work out what a ton would fetch, when the sommelier’s deferential murmur made him look up. “The Chassagne-Montrachet ’92.” The capsule was cut and the cork was drawn with due respect, and Bennett’s nose was treated to the scent of nectar. He put the notes aside as the waiter arrived with the first course.

Warm, fresh asparagus, green and violet, bathed in a delicate emulsion of olive oil and balsamic vinegar, a work of art on a plate, every last drop of juice to be mopped up with bread that reminded Bennett of the revelation of his first true French loaf, many years before. There is nothing quite like the taste of nostalgia, he thought. When the plate looked as though it had been cleaned by a cat’s tongue, he sat back and returned to Poe’s notes.

They indicated much more than a passing gastronomic fondness for truffles, and Bennett found himself becoming increasingly interested, and increasingly curious. Was Poe trying to grow them? Why had he underlined a particular passage? “A spore from a previous year’s truffle, at the moment of putrefaction, is transported (by insect, animal, rain, or wind) into the soil. It germinates into an embryo fungus, whose vegetative part, or mycelium, consists of threadlike filaments called hyphae. These attach themselves to tree roots, whose sap nourishes the parasitical truffle in a symbiosis known as mycorrhiza.” This was followed by notes on soil types, orientation, altitude, rainfall,
tree species, and a regional breakdown of France’s apparently dwindling truffle production.

The shortage had failed to affect Monaco, as Bennett found with his main course, a
colinot
just hours out of the Mediterranean, grilled on a wood fire, coated with melted butter and crushed truffles, and served with lightly fried basil. He couldn’t remember having tasted anything so fine, and glanced with sympathy at the Riviera Girl two tables away, grazing on what looked like a plain salad. He wondered if she sucked her emeralds between courses for sustenance.

The unhurried ritual of clearing the table for the final course took place—plates removed, bread crumbs swept into a miniature silver coffin, the cloth smoothed, dessert cutlery placed—while Bennett sipped his wine and wished he could take what was left in the bottle home with him. Ordinary wines he swigged, but his rate of consumption dropped sharply when he was lucky enough to drink something exceptional. Somewhere here, he thought, was an argument in favor of the economies of buying nothing but great vintages. All it would take was three or four hundred thousand francs to start you off. With a last, lingering swallow, he put his glass to one side and watched as the waiter put the
gratin
of wild strawberries and pine nuts in front of him, in the manner of a supplicant making an offering to the gods. What was it going to be like to live like this every day? Addictive, Bennett decided, and set to with an eager spoon.

Over coffee and a
fine
, he came to the end of the notes.
The last section was devoted to Poe’s calculations, in which he had assumed an average retail market price of four thousand francs a kilo. In the margin, Poe had written,
five tons minimum per year
, and had underscored it heavily. At the assumed price, which was on the conservative side, Bennett worked out that five tons of truffles would be worth twenty million francs, or four million dollars. A year. Bloody hell. Was he buying, or selling? Either way, the odd four-star dinner was a drop in the bucket, and Bennett signed his new name on the bill with a flourish, adding an impressively large tip. Nowhere does good news of this sort travel faster than in a restaurant, and Bennett’s departure was personally attended by the headwaiter and the sommelier, both of whom expressed a deep and sincere desire to see him again very shortly.

And so you will, Bennett thought. He took a turn around the casino gardens, and went to his oversized bed a contented man.

THE tiles of the main terrace were still morning cool under Bennett’s bare feet as he laid the table for breakfast: coffee, sunglasses, address book, and telephone. The sky was as blue as a postcard, with only a faint whisker of cloud hanging above Monaco’s mountainous backdrop, the Tête de Chien. Heat was in the air already, and Bennett slipped out of the toweling robe to let the sun get to work on his winter skin. He had inherited his mother’s Italian pigmentation, and within a week would darken to the color of chocolate, an annual transformation that he never ceased to enjoy. No matter how often the medical establishment shook its cautious head and warned of the horrors of a fried epidermis and premature aging, Bennett felt better when he had a tan, wrinkles or no wrinkles. He moved his chair so that he could sit in the direct path of the sun, and started leafing through his address book in search of companionship.

His history with women had followed a pattern familiar to many single men who prefer to stay single—a series of relationships brought to an end, sometimes amicably,
sometimes not, by the increasingly insistent ticking of the biological clock. Entirely natural, Bennett had to admit, but even so, hints and midnight whispers about marriage, the joys of nesting, and baby Bennetts had the same effect on him as a bucket of cold water thrown over an ardent dog.

He realized, sometimes hoped, that one day this might change, but it would take a woman he had yet to meet. Until then, it would probably be the mixture as before, lust and affection. Not that there was too much wrong with that, while it lasted. He looked through the names in the address book, remembering, sometimes with difficulty, the circumstances of his various departures. Chantal had been tearful but brave. Karine had accused him of being a closet misogynist and had told him to grow up. Marie-Pierre had hurled a vase of flowers at his head. Or was that Rachel? Finding playmates for the summer wasn’t going to be quite as easy as he had thought.

His finger stopped at the letter
S
, and he was reminded of a week he had spent in London on a job two years ago, a girl with hair like sunshine, dinner at the Caprice, tangled sheets, promises to call from Paris. Why hadn’t he? Probably too busy dodging missiles from Marie-Pierre. He hesitated. Was late better than never? He decided it was, and called the office number she had given him

“Good morning. Redeeming Features.”

“Hello. Could I speak to Susie Barber, please?” Bennett sipped his coffee, half expecting to be told that she’d left. Two years in the film production business, where job
hopping is almost as popular as lunch, is a long time. She might have had an offer to go and work in L.A. She might have a lover, a husband, a baby. She might not even remember him. His pessimistic train of thought was interrupted by a businesslike hello, followed by the sound of a cigarette being lit and inhaled. He remembered that she’d told him she could never make or take a phone call without smoking.

“Susie? It’s Bennett. How are you?”

A silence. Exhale. “Surprised, if you must know.”

“Look, I’m sorry. I know I said I’d call from Paris …”

“Did you?”

“Yes. Well, no. I mean, I didn’t call. All hell broke loose when I got back, one of the directors got busted the night before a shoot, and I was up to my ears in crap …”

“Bennett?”

“Yes?”

“That was two years ago.”

“I know, I know. What can I say? I was a slave to my job, Suze, a thoughtless brute, driven by ambition, days and nights at the desk, hollow-eyed from lack of sleep, no time for the finer things in life, like you—God, I was a mess. Not fit to be with.”

“Are you finished? I’ve got a busy morning.”

But she didn’t hang up, and Bennett rushed on. “That’s all changed now. I’ve reformed. Actually, I’ve retired.” There was no response, but Bennett sensed curiosity at the other end of the line and took advantage of it. “In fact, I’m sort of working out what to do next. I’m in
Monaco. You’d like Monaco, Suze—warm and sunny, terrace overlooking the sea, polite policemen, wonderful food, friendly natives. We could have a terrific time.”

“We?”

“My treat, Suze. I’ll pay for the ticket, bring you champagne in bed, rub your back with Ambre Solaire, run your bath, peel your grapes, take you on nature rambles in the casino gardens, anything you like. There’s a lovable side to me, I promise. Thoughtful and kind. Housetrained. You’ll see.”

“Creep.”

“Great. When can you come?”

“I didn’t say I would. How do you know I’m not with someone else?”

“Ah. I was rather hoping you might be saving yourself for me, prepared to bring comfort and joy to the heart of a lonely man. You’d be doing a good deed, Suze. And you’d get a tan. How’s the weather in London? The usual? Gray and wet? It’s seventy-five and sunny here. I’m having breakfast on the terrace.”

“Piss off.”

But he didn’t, and after another five minutes of his cajolery, flattery, and protestations of devotion, she agreed to take the early flight to Nice on Saturday morning. Bennett put the phone down with a pleasurable sense of anticipation, made a mental note to buy flowers and stock up the fridge, and spent the rest of the day flat in the sun, a human lizard.

The week slipped by in a warm and well-fed blur.
Bennett tried the other two restaurants Poe had suggested, and found them both excellent. He made a brief expedition across the border into Italy and did his shopping at the Ventimiglia market. He stopped at the Café de Paris every evening to have an aperitif and watch the passing parade. Daily, as the lubricant of money smoothed away the rough edges from his life, he felt more and more comfortable in his role as a rich layabout. He was discovering that while it takes years to accept adversity, a man becomes accustomed to good fortune almost overnight.

The only flaw in this week of solitary bliss was a call from Shimo, giving Bennett instructions to stay in the apartment on Saturday evening to receive a delivery for Poe. It was important, Shimo said, in his flat, intimidating monotone. He himself would be coming over to collect the item later that same night. Did Bennett understand?

Bennett understood. He had planned to take Susie to Louis XV, but after a moment’s irritation, he persuaded himself that a simple dinner on the terrace, with its convenient proximity to the bedroom, might be a more personal way to celebrate her arrival in Monaco. Smoked salmon, he thought, followed by something cold and delicious in aspic from the
traiteur
in town. Cheese, fruit, and then a dive between the sheets. What more could a girl want?

Saturday morning found him—tanned, scrupulously shaved, and tastefully cologned—driving the Mercedes, top down, along the Corniche to Nice airport. This was once, so an old Côte d’Azur hand had told him, a small, almost rural terminal, smelling of black tobacco and suntan
oil, where on Sunday mornings elderly British expatriates, still in their slippers and ancient dressing gowns, could be seen shuffling up to the newsstand in search of a copy of the London
Times
. It was hard to believe now, Bennett thought, as he turned off into the tangled spaghetti of airport side roads, past pollution-proof palm trees, and up to the gleaming modern blockhouses that had been built during the reign of Mayor Médecin, who had ruled Nice during its boom years.

There was no need to check the arrivals board to identify the flight from London. The gray straggle of passengers coming out of the gate couldn’t have been anything but British. There was a uniform pallor to the faces, and their owners, particularly the men, announced their positions on the class ladder by their clothes—bright new panama hats, shirts of a violent stripe, and double-breasted blazers with a surfeit of brass buttons for the gentry; wrinkled jeans, scuffed running shoes, and bags bulging with duty-free liquor for the less exalted. Bennett was studying a tall, knobbly man in shorts that displayed veal-white legs, black socks, and sandals, when he saw the burnished hair and wildly waving arm of Susie, dressed as though on her way to a smart lunch at the Ivy, in a clinging dark suit and high heels. Her sole concession to the holiday spirit was a pair of small and modish sunglasses, which clashed with Bennett’s as they exchanged pecks of greeting.

Bennett stepped back, smiling. “You look fantastic,” he said, and she did—the hair blonder than he remembered,
the makeup luminous and subtle, the body displaying the results of ruthless exercise, an altogether more sophisticated version of the giggling, pretty girl he had met two years before.