French Fried (12 page)

“Where to, Gabrielle?” Sylvie cried gaily, as she started her car and went into a flurry of shifting. “Let’s go to St. Bonaventure.”

Gabrielle said that church was not on her itinerary.

“But the altarpiece in the Sacre-Coeur Chapel is gorgeous, and that’s where the Canuts, who hadn’t already been killed for wanting a living wage and rioting, were massacred.”

“Since you have planned a picnic and both Carolyn and I have afternoon appointments, we must limit ourselves to the cathedral and the basilica. Please take us to Saint-Jean first. Carolyn, the cathedral was built between the twelfth and the fourteenth centuries with additions at later times, so you will notice a mixture of architectural styles. However, the outside is definitely Gothic and quite lovely with three hundred or more medallions carved into the stone—biblical stories and depictions of medieval life, such as tasks performed during particular months and domestic scenes.”

“My favorite is the man beating his wife,” said Sylvie. “The church quite approved of wife beating back then. Maybe it still does.”

“Unfortunately,” said Gabrielle grimly, “the Huguenots tore off all the statues in the sixteenth century. Southern France had a history of heresy that required stamping out.”

“Yes, some poor fellow here in Lyon wanted to go back to the original Christian poverty. He left his family, gave away all his money, and started preaching,” said Sylvie. “Of course, the church disapproved. He and his followers were taken for Cathars and driven out, and then the king in Paris and the pope got together and launched a crusade against the whole region. Lots of land grabbing and heretic burning came out of that.”

“Sylvie,” said Gabrielle sternly, as our driver parked, “I hope that once we are inside the cathedral, you will show some respect, no matter what your own heretical views may be. I shall certainly pray for your soul at one of the altars.”

“Actually,” said Sylvie, “I’ll have to stay outside with Winston Churchill. I doubt that they’ll let an Anglican dog into a Catholic cathedral.”

So Gabrielle and I went inside to look at the thirteenth-century stained glass, the Romanesque apse, the old vaults and choir, and some gorgeous lacework stone carving in a Bourbon chapel. Then Gabrielle knelt at a side altar to pray for Sylvie, and I watched the famous astronomic clock in order to hear the chimes and see the figures that come out on the hour, but it didn’t happen. Gabrielle explained that appearances started at noon.

She was very pleased that I had enjoyed the visit. Sylvie was very irritated when Gabrielle refused her suggestion that we walk up the Fourviere Hill so that we could see the Roman sites. “Don’t you want her to see the place where the nuns found the teeth of the lions that ate St. Blandine and the other martyrs?” Sylvie asked.

Gabrielle didn’t. We took the funicular, I’m happy to say. I didn’t want to walk up a huge hill, and Gabrielle insisted that there wouldn’t be time to see all the sights of the basilica and eat a picnic lunch on the esplanade if we walked and looked at remains of the heathen Roman era. To tell the truth, I almost liked the basilica better at night bathed in blue light than in daylight when it was a glaring white, bedecked with crenellated towers, carving, statues, stairs, a porch with red granite columns, all symbolic of something, the whole having been built with the donations from Lyonnais Catholics in the nineteenth century. “Like Gaudi’s Sagrada Familia in Barcelona,” I said.

“Absolutely not,” said Gabrielle. “I’ve seen pictures of that church. It’s bizarre. Our basilica is beautiful, and it’s dedicated to the Blessed Virgin.” On which note we went inside to see the sights. My favorites were the Saint Thomas Becket chapel, which contained part of the original shrine from the fifteenth century. Evidently Becket had fled to Lyon before returning to his martyrdom in England.

Other interesting embellishments were the six historical mosaics, three of which related to proclamations about the Virgin, one to the battle of Lepanto when the Turks were defeated, one to Sainte Joan of Arc and another to Saint Pothin’s arrival in Lugdunum. I supposed he was one of the martyrs thrown to the lions or founded the first Christian church or something.

Sylvie was particularly amused at the depiction of Louis XIII giving France to the Virgin Mary in 1638. “If she didn’t give it back then, I’m sure Louis XIV took it back during his reign,” said Sylvie, giggling. Gabrielle was not amused and retorted that the burning of Ste. Joan was all the fault of the English.

“I didn’t realize that Mary wasn’t considered the mother of God until the fifth century,” I said to change the subject.

“Of course, she was,” snapped Gabrielle. “It was just made official by St. Cyril at the council in Ephesus.”

“I’ve never understood about the Immaculate Conception,” said Sylvie.

“I’m sure you haven’t,” retorted Gabrielle.

“I mean, they didn’t decide on that until the
nineteenth
century.”

“Well,” I interrupted, “it must be time for lunch.” Not that I was looking forward to it. I’d have to do some fancy footwork to get out of eating the pâté.

“
You shouldn’t make
fun of other people’s religions,” I whispered to Sylvie as we left the basilica.

“Tell that to Gabrielle. You should hear her on the Church of England and Henry VIII. A couple of years ago I mentioned how much I liked the BBC series about his wives, and she called Henry a nasty, lecherous heretic.”

I sighed, not having expected that my tour of churches would turn into a religious war. At least the esplanade beside the basilica had a wonderful view of the city. Sylvie unpacked her basket, which contained food, wine, goblets, plates, silverware, and pretty napkins. The sun was warm, the sky blue, the breeze cool, and the combatants willing to call a truce.

I situated myself so that when the pâté was passed, I could intercept Gabrielle’s or pass mine to her. It worked perfectly, except that a fly landed on my pâté when I passed it to Gabrielle, and Sylvie promptly replaced it with another slice. Then she fixed mine, which had perhaps been meant for me in the first place. I couldn’t really insist on switching with either of them. I might well be stuck with the tetrodotoxin, I’d simply devour everything else on my plate and declare that I couldn’t eat another bite.

Ignoring all my resolutions to gain no weight on this trip, I had two glasses of wine and even enjoyed the dried sausage. The farm bread was lovely and crusty and all the more delicious for being slathered with
fromage fort.
Sylvie said it was made from grated Gruyère, leftover bits of cow and goat cheese, and then mixed with sour cheese and a sauce of leeks and white wine. I ate three slices and everything else on my plate except the pâté, while Winston Churchill sat next to me looking hopeful.
I ought to give him the pâté
, I thought maliciously, but of course, I wouldn’t. It wasn’t his fault Sylvie might be trying to poison me.

“What a shame about Albertine’s mother,” said Gabrielle. “I hear the poor woman is in terrible pain. And all from a—what would you say?—a fowl pox?”

I tried to keep the astonishment off my face. A foul pox? The English called it the French pox and the French, the English pox. Either way it was syphilis. “Poor woman,” I stammered.

“Yes,” Sylvie agreed. “And to think it was lurking in her system all these years.”

“Really?” Did they mean she’d caught it as a young woman or even as a child? Perhaps it was congenital. Poor Albertine. This sort of gossip must be terribly embarrassing for her if she was aware of it. To change the subject, I said, “Sylvie, that was absolutely delicious. I’m embarrassed to say I can’t eat another bite, and here I never got to the pâté.”

“It’s really excellent,” said Gabrielle. “You must try a taste.”

Sylvie hacked off another slice of bread and slathered my pâté onto it. “Eat,” she said. “I made it last night, and I am not letting an American food critic escape without tasting my pâté.” She grinned at me and actually held the bread to my lips. What could I do? Terrified, I took a bite and assured her that it was very tasty. In fact, it was wonderful, and if I hadn’t been afraid of meeting Robert’s fate, I’d have gobbled up the rest. “But truly, Sylvie, I can’t eat any more. I’ll get a stomachache. I have a—a hiatal hernia.” Which was a big fat lie.

“My aunt had that,” said Gabrielle.

“She just doesn’t like my pâté. Or she thinks goose liver is nasty.”

“Not true,” I protested. “In fact, if you’ll give me your recipe, Sylvie, I’ll put it in my column and send you a copy.”
If I live that long.

 

On the downhill funicular I detected a tingling in my lips, one of the symptoms of tetrodotoxin poisoning. By the time we settled ourselves in the car, my tongue was going numb. The drive home brought on tingling in my hands and feet.
It’s probably too late for me already
, I thought as I made my way into the hotel and got my key.
Am I going to die on a Charlemagne bed just as Robert Levasseur did?

Strangely my symptoms had disappeared by the time I reached my room. Perhaps I had suspected Sylvie unfairly, or the fact that I had had only one bite of pâté might have saved me. Was the poison only in the first slice, which was thrown away with the fly, or in another section of the pâté on my bread?

Whatever the answer, I now felt fine and anxious to see Catherine’s apartment. Even if I got lost, the lady with the key would be there the rest of the afternoon. I was so relieved to be alive and symptom-free that I managed to get to Old Lyon by train, bus, and foot at three-fifteen. I knocked on the right door, received the key from a grumpy lady, and went in search of the light switch.

It didn’t work. Still, I could see to the first turn by the light from the courtyard. I’d just feel my way that far, and perhaps the bulb on the next stretch would be lit. Once I closed the door to the courtyard, it was very dark, and I had to move slowly, hands brushing the rough stone on both sides and feet feeling for the steps. After twelve steps my toe reached for the back of the next and moved too far. It must be the landing, but there was still no light. I’d have another flight to climb before I bumped into Catherine’s door, and then I’d have to fumble around for the keyhole, which—

Suddenly I was falling backward in the dark, scraping against the walls with my arms and legs, struggling to halt the fall, until there was a burst of pain in my head. Then nothing.

I’d talked to
all the people in the department who shared my interests and some who didn’t, and now wondered why I wasn’t out sightseeing with Carolyn, exploring a good church or two. Still, no one had mentioned dinner plans, so perhaps we could find a restaurant ourselves, where we would be able to choose our own meals, unlike last night with the departmental gourmets.

I was packing my briefcase when Miss Thomas, the chairman’s secretary and, possibly, mistress, informed me that the Guillots were back, hoped to take my wife and me out to dinner, and would pick us up at our hotel at eight if that arrangement was acceptable.

I agreed. Adrien and I had much to talk about, and perhaps Carolyn and Albertine would manage to get along. They seemed to have made up their differences before we left Sorrento, but that dog, the cause of the enmity, was in an Italian kennel by then. If Albertine would only leave the creature at home, we should have a pleasant evening.

 

When I finally reached the hotel after my trip on various modes of public transportation, all crammed with French people returning from work, the clerk, grouchy Yvette, who had taken over the desk from pleasant Simone, insisted that our room key was gone. Perhaps the Charlemagne hadn’t been such a good idea.

“Your wife came in at midafternoon,” said Yvette, “but she left again without returning the key and has not come back. We do expect the room keys to be returned, monsieur. What if she loses it? Someone could use it to steal your belongings, and you cannot expect us to take responsibility when madam—”

“She understands. I understand. Perhaps she came back without your noticing,” I interrupted.
Or perhaps you ignored her when she stopped at the desk,
I thought. “I’ll check the room myself.”

Yvette shrugged, and I took the elevator upstairs. Our room was locked, and Carolyn did not respond when I knocked. Because I had no key, I went downstairs and asked for one, but Yvette insisted there was only one key, which was why keys had to be returned by guests leaving the hotel.

“Fine,” I snapped. “You can use your key to let me into my room.” Our argument was broken up by the manager, who forced Yvette to hand over a key. At that point I was so irritated that I fantasized about throwing it at her head when I returned it. With luck Carolyn had been deeply asleep and hadn’t heard my knock. However, she wasn’t asleep; she and her handbag were gone. As the French are given to providing one with business cards, I had both office and home numbers for the Girards and the Doignes, Carolyn’s sightseeing companions that day.

I called Raymond first, and he put Sylvie on. “But I left her at the Charlemagne before three. How weight-conscious your wife is. She was going to pass up the pâté I made for our picnic, but I did get her to eat a bite, which she admitted was superb. I may be the only Englishwoman you ever meet who can make a fine pâté de foie gras.”

The very word
pâté
sent a chill up my spine. I had ignored Carolyn’s idea that Robert had been killed by fugu toxin in pâté meant for us, but now my wife had been forced to eat some and had disappeared. Where was she? Lying dead in Old Lyon?

Thinking the same thing, but for different reasons, Sylvie suggested that Carolyn had accepted Catherine’s invitation to see the tower apartment. “Catherine must have taken a liking to your wife, and why not? She is a delightful person, even if she did disapprove of my twitting Gabrielle about the church. I couldn’t resist. It’s
so
much fun. Maybe Carolyn got lost. I’m sure she’ll be back soon. Does she know that Albertine and Adrien are taking you to dinner?” Sylvie giggled. “Maybe she’s delaying her return to get out of it.”