The Cook (6 page)

14

Conrad continued to send over two or three dinners a week to Daphne. He also sent a hot lunch to Mr. Hill every day at the mill, except when Mr. Hill lingered at home till noontime.

One morning Mrs. Hill came into the kitchen carrying the left-over breakfast things.

“You know,” she began, “how much Mrs. Vale appreciates what you’ve been doing. Daphne is no longer so lethargic, and Mrs. Vale attributes this entirely to the change of food; when Daphne eats what Brogg cooks for her two days in a row, she gets depressed and refuses to leave her room.”

Conrad answered that a change of diet was good for everyone.

Mrs. Hill agreed. “I have also told her that your kitchen account has shown no increase despite all the dishes you’ve sent to Daphne—and she replied that Brogg’s has shown no decrease. She’s quite annoyed with him.”

Conrad said flatly that Brogg was robbing her.

“Oh, I’m sure he is. I’ve told Mrs. Vale too.”

Conrad smiled.

“I’m just making some coffee for myself—would you care for a cup?”

Mrs. Hill said she would.

Conrad got out an extra cup and saucer.

And as he handed Mrs. Hill her coffee: “Why don’t we get a scale?” he suggested, in a slightly offhand way. “I’m sure I can find one in Cobb at a very reasonable price. Everyone should know what his weight is, and whether it’s remaining steady or going up or down. And when Miss Vale comes to stay with us—”

Mrs. Hill looked up from her coffee.

“Do you think it’s possible for Daphne to lose some weight?”

“Why not? If she’s fed properly.”

He went on after a moment, “And with a scale here, she can weigh herself several times a week. If she sees she’s losing she will get spirit and strive harder to lose still more. And if it appears that the entire household is weight-conscious, she won’t feel like a fish out of water. It will be like joining in a family game—in which everyone weighs himself and records the figure. Each person can have his own weight chart. If he doesn’t feel like revealing the figure he needn’t. That’s his business.”

Mrs. Hill was intrigued. “Let me see, we had our first snow last week, on Saturday. Daphne’s visit starts about a month after the first snow, when it’s on the ground permanently—it’s always been that way, since she was a child. The children always had so much fun playing in the snow together. She and Harold . . . And she will stay about two months . . . Conrad, do you think she can lose some weight in that time if she just eats your cooking? That’s not a very long time . . .” Mrs. Hill seemed to think that considering Daphne’s present size, it was no time at all.

*

“Certainly she can.”

“But wouldn’t it help,” Mrs. Hill pursued after a moment, “if she began sooner?”

“Of course.”

“What I mean, Conrad—suppose you sent dinner over to Daphne every night; then by the time she came here she would have some head start . . .”

Conrad smiled at the pleading look in Mrs. Hill’s eyes.

“Just what I was thinking,” he said. “And not only dinner, but everything else she eats. But we’ll have to insist that Brogg prepare nothing for her. He may, at the most, warm up the things I send. And someone must watch him while he does that, preferably Mrs. Vale. Brogg might be able to intimidate Louise. But if Mrs. Vale is concerned about her daughter’s weight she shouldn’t be distressed by the extra duty.”

Mrs. Hill looked extremely pleased.

15

When the scale arrived, a practice weigh-in was held. Only Harold was absent, having already left for the mill. Ester joined in, but without any real interest. She did so only because her mother asked her. But she said that when the others were through, she was going to bring down each one of her kitties and weigh him.

“Do you want them to gain or lose?” Conrad asked her.

Ester replied that she wanted them to lose. She was very emphatic about it: “They’re too fat. They can’t even climb trees. And who ever heard of a kitty that couldn’t climb a tree?”

The following Monday they had their first real weigh-in. Each person noted down his weight on a chart. Mrs. Hill, with Conrad’s help, had drawn up charts for all of them. There was also one for Daphne and two for her parents.

When the ceremony was over and Conrad went back to the kitchen to put the finishing touches on dinner, he found Maxfield waiting for him, looking more bitter than ever.

“Hoping the dinner would burn?” Conrad inquired smoothly.

“In most households the cook’s place is in the kitchen,” Maxfield replied, “not with the family.”

“I’m sure it is. But the scale is in the antechamber—care to know how much I weigh?” Conrad brandished his chart under Maxfield’s nose. “Or the rest of the family?”

Maxfield sneered and backed away. “So now you’re a member of the family? I’m sure they would like to know how you think of yourself.”

Conrad ignored him, and set about getting dinner ready; this was the crucial time in the kitchen. Conrad moved fast, intently, like an enormous white praying mantis. Several times he had to push Maxfield out of the way. This he did unceremoniously, without a word, and each time the butler’s face turned red and then white. At last Conrad pushed him aside so viciously that he tottered and almost fell to the floor. When he recovered his footing he stammered through trembling lips:

“I’m going to speak to Mr. Hill tonight and demand that he turn you out of this house. You’re a—monster!”

Conrad laughed. “When you talk to him, tell him I too have a request: you’re to stay out of my kitchen. If you come here again unbidden, I can’t be responsible for your safety. You’re a sick old man. You’re liable to fall against the stove and burn yourself. Badly,” he added, interrupting his chores for a moment to turn a black stare on Maxfield. “Is that clear?—Eggy!” he called, turning away from the alarmed butler. “Find Rudolph and tell him we’re going drinking tonight.”

Earlier in the evening the temperature had dropped, and by the time Conrad was ready to start for Shepard’s it had started to snow. Rudolph walked beside him, struggling to maintain the rapid pace. He was carrying several jars of paté; he was tired and already half drunk, but the thought of more free drink was enough to entice him along. Besides, he wouldn’t have dared to say no to Conrad’s invitation. Harold’s three dogs ran before them, frisking in the falling snow.

“Sobering up?” Conrad asked when they were about halfway there.

They walked on for several minutes before Rudolph answered that he was cold.

Conrad laughed heartily.

“Just cold, eh?” he exclaimed, slapping Rudolph on the back. “Very conservative response. Just symptoms, no diagnosis. You’d make someone an excellent patient.”

When they got to Shepard’s, Conrad greeted the assembled drinkers with a wave of his hand and a cheerful hello, and told Nell to fetch some crackers from the kitchen and to make some toast—he had brought along some good paté.

“It’s brisk out tonight,” he went on, slapping his hands together. “And it’s not much warmer in here. Would anyone like some hot buttered rum?” It sounded as if the idea had just occurred to him. “Luckily I brought along plenty of butter,” he laughed when a general smacking of lips and greedy growls of pleasure sounded down the bar. “Gimpy, get the rum bottle!”

It didn’t take long for Shepard’s to get warm, what with the hot drinks and the coal fire, which until Conrad came had been no more than a symbol of possible heat; at his command Nell had heaped it high with fresh coal. “And see that you keep it that way,” he told her. “I’m used to a hot kitchen. If I were a butcher I might be used to a cold storeroom. But this isn’t a place for storing meat.—Now, first we’ll have some hot rum, and then we’ll have some hot beer drinks . . . Gimpy, did you get the spices I asked for yesterday?”

Spirits rose, and the volume of talk and laughter increased with every fresh round of drinks. More people came, and by midnight the place was packed. Some of the newcomers reported that most of the other taverns were deserted. Shepard’s had stolen all of the business. Even the White Door, they said, was empty; and when Conrad heard this he said to the group assembled at his table, “The White Door? Isn’t that where Brogg holds court—hangs out, I mean?”

At the mention of Brogg, the men at the table suddenly became quiet.

Conrad smiled from one to the other. “Did I say a bad word?”

One of the men nodded. “Brogg’s a bad word, all right. He’s bad medicine.”

Conrad raised his glass. “Here’s to Brogg!” He drank off his beer. Two or three of the men sipped theirs, but that was all. “Nell!” Conrad shouted. “More drinks!”

When the drinks came, he said, “Well, I don’t know if Brogg is bad medicine, but I do know he’s a bad cook!” His voice rose. There was laughter and sarcasm in it. The men at the bar stopped their talking and turned around. The other tables grew silent.

“Brogg is a bad—wretched cook! For years now he has been cooking for the Vales. During that time the Vales have grown weak and sickly. Their daughter has blown up to the size of a house. Such is the effect of eating Brogg’s food. But things are changing, and they will continue to change.” He paused and tossed off his beer. Then he called for another round for the entire house. Murmurs of thanks greeted this.

Conrad stood up, thrusting his hands into his back pockets.

“Now,” he continued, his tall black figure dominating the room, “Brogg no longer cooks for Daphne Vale. I cook for her. Has he told you this? I send over every meal to her, because she refuses to eat his cooking. She says Brogg can’t cook. He can’t even cook his own so-called specialties. I cook all of these specialties for her, and I cook them better. Daphne Vale says Brogg’s food makes her sick—I’m sure it does—and he has been forbidden to cook for her any more. All Brogg does now for Daphne Vale is warm up the food I send over. I have reduced the great Brogg to a mere warmer-upper—a warmer-upper of the food Conrad cooks!”

Murmurs of surprise rippled down the bar and over the tables.

“Moreover, the Hills no longer eat at the Vales’. They can’t stand Brogg’s cooking. A week ago I sent some game over to the Vales’ for Brogg to cook when the Hills dined there. But Brogg ruined it and the Hills said, ‘Never again.’ They said the birds were inedible. They said Brogg had done no more with the birds than render them warm and soft—that was what he called cooking! Warm and soft!”

Some of the people began to repeat the words “warm and soft,” and others mouthed “warmer-upper” . . .

“And Mr. and Mrs. Vale,” Conrad pursued, “used to eat at the Hill mansion once a week. Now they eat there twice a week—they would eat there every night if they were invited! They think Brogg is killing them with his food. And they’re right. If I cooked for them I could put years on their lives. And I could make Daphne Vale thin—I
will
make Daphne Vale thin, very thin, because she shall only eat my food from now on. Brogg is out!

“Let me tell you this,” Conrad concluded, raising his hand in the air and clenching his fist; “Brogg can’t boil water! And if he asks who said so, tell him I said so: Brogg can’t boil water!”

There were many loud cheers, and someone proposed a toast to Conrad. Then all the men began talking among themselves, discussing what Conrad had just said.

Paul was sitting at Conrad’s table. He was on more familiar terms with Conrad than anyone else in Cobb, and when Conrad sat down he was looking very unhappy; he whispered that Brogg was sure to hear what Conrad had just said about him.

“I mean for him to,” Conrad laughed.

Paul shook his head. “Brogg is vicious,” he muttered. “He’s big and he’s vicious.”

“I know; everyone is afraid of him.—Tell me more, Paul, tell me more . . .”

16

Rud Brogg was a huge bulky man, strong as a bull and, especially when he was drinking, far meaner. He inspired fear in all the other domestics and work people.

He usually came into Cobb on Wednesday night, and more often than not he would get into a fight, or bully someone into cowering submission. He was not liked. When he talked, everyone listened. His coarse jokes were always laughed at.

Conrad rarely came into town on Wednesday, and so the two of them had never laid eyes on each other.

As happens in the world of domestics, word spread quickly of the scene Monday night at the Shepard’s Inn, and reached Brogg’s ear, and when Brogg dropped in at the White Door for his accustomed drinks, he was obviously in a violent temper. Men who drifted over to Shepard’s from the White Door reported what Brogg was saying.

Conrad sat at his table in the corner and drank by himself.

It was cold that night. He had arrived late and the few customers there were surprised to see him. Nell was too, and she hastened to build up the fire. But that did little good and Conrad kept his heavy black coat wrapped around him.

Nell told him what Brogg was saying: “He is raving, they tell me. He says he is going to bone you like a chicken. He says he will cut you up like a side of beef. He says he will butcher you like a hog . . .”

Conrad sneered. “Don’t you wish he would, Nell?”

Nell quickly denied the accusation.

“Sure you do, Nell. You don’t like being my slave, even if it is good for business.”

Again Nell objected, trying to look offended.

“You’d better deny it,” Conrad told her coldly, “otherwise I’ll start going to another tavern and you’ll begin starving to death again.—Charlie!” he called to one of the men at the bar. “Come over here!—Nell, bring us two beers, quick!”

When Charlie, a balding, stoop-shouldered man, sat down, Conrad asked him to confirm what Nell had reported. Charlie looked nervous. He didn’t want to get involved in the feud between Conrad and Brogg, but he admitted that every word Nell had said was true. “Brogg is after you, Conrad.”

Conrad laughed. “Good for him!”

“You shouldn’t be laughing, Conrad,” Charlie muttered, shaking his head. “Brogg is a very good knife fighter. I’ve seen him . . .”

“Most cooks are,” Conrad shrugged. “After all, they have knives in their hands much of the day.”

Conrad finished his beer and stood up.

“I’m going over to the White Door,” he announced. “Anyone care to join me?”

Conrad strode over to the White Door. The three dogs romped ahead of him. Several paces to the rear four or five men, frightened and excited, followed.

Inside, Brogg was sitting at a large oak table. He was alone.

As Conrad entered he heard himself being vilified loudly. Brogg was talking to everyone and no one.

Conrad stood inside the door for a few seconds, then walked over and pulled up a chair to the table and sat down facing Brogg.

Brogg had large heavy features. His eyes were small and piglike. One of his huge hands surrounded a stein of beer.

Only his eyes had moved when Conrad entered.

The customers at the bar backed away, and joined the men who had followed Conrad in and who remained standing at the door. The fat tavern-keeper—the man who had first told Conrad about the Prominence and the Hills and the Vales—started to say something, but before he got more than a word out Brogg hurled the stein of beer in his direction without even bothering to look around. “Shut up!” he shouted.

His voice was brutal, animal-guttural.

A nasty smile began to curl Brogg’s thick lips.

“I was just about to go looking for you,” he growled. “You saved me the trouble.”

“I got tired of waiting.—Something bothering you, Brogg? Do you have something to say? If you have, say it. If you haven’t—get out.”

Murmurs of astonishment rose from the group gathered around the door. Conrad’s voice sent a chill down their spines: it was flat, cold, without a trace of feeling, and his challenge to Brogg was as direct and unequivocal as any challenge could be. It could not be ignored or misunderstood, and the blood mounted slowly to Brogg’s face. At the same time his hand moved stealthily toward his belt: “This will tell all I have to say.”

From his belt he produced a heavy boning knife with a black handle. The blade was about eight inches long. Originally it had been about three-quarters of an inch wide at the base, but years of use and sharpening had narrowed it to about half that width. Under the bright overhead light its blade glittered with marks of recent sharpening.

Brogg held the knife up for a few minutes, as if to let Conrad examine it. Neither man took his eyes off the other. Then Brogg laid it on the table midway between them, with the point facing Conrad. With his right hand—the same hand with which he had drawn the knife—he turned the knife a quarter circle. He did this very slowly, his beady eyes all the while exuding hate. The knife then rested with its point out to Brogg’s left and its cutting edge facing him. He then slowly placed both hands on the table in front of him, the handle of the knife about four inches in front of his right hand.

Conrad placed his hands on the table, his left hand about the same distance from the knife handle as Brogg’s right hand.

For several seconds the two men just stared at each other. From the way the knife was lying Brogg had an obvious advantage—assuming he was right-handed and wanted to use the knife in a certain way. But if he was left-handed, then it was equal between them—assuming Conrad was right-handed and wanted to use a downward thrust. But Brogg had withdrawn the knife with his right hand, which indicated . . .

Like lightning Conrad grabbed the knife with his right hand and plunged it with great force into the back of Brogg’s left hand, pinioning it to the table, while Conrad himself was half catapulted to his feet, so great was the force of his downward thrust.

A loud gasp of astonishment arose from the men at the door.

Conrad sat down and folded his arms, while Brogg stared in stupid wonder at the knife sticking through his hand—and at the blood beginning to run around the blade and ooze over his hand onto the table. Three red rivulets started slowly toward his lap . . .

Slowly, as if he might hurt himself, Brogg’s right hand touched the knife handle, and then closed around it. He seemed to have forgotten Conrad’s presence completely. Gingerly, very gingerly, he began to pull at the knife handle. Beads of sweat formed on his brow. Now the red rivulets cascaded silently into his lap—

The witnesses gathered silently around the table. Not a word was spoken.

The moisture from Brogg’s brow dropped onto the table, mixing with his blood, while in the hushed silence he pulled with all his might at the knife handle.

And then there was a sound: the sound of blood dripping on the floor—

Silently Brogg continued to tug at the knife handle. The knuckles of his right hand turned white with the strain. Any prizing movement would slice or tear the flesh further. He had to pull the knife straight up—

And then there was another sound: Brogg had begun to whimper.

Tears started from his eyes, and the fingers of his right hand slowly, jerkily, like a robot’s, let go of the knife handle.

“I can’t get it out!” he cried, almost inaudibly, his eyes fixed on the knife handle. “I can’t get it out—”

Slowly he raised his frightened eyes to the circle of faces. His gaze passed from face to face, including Conrad’s, whom he did not seem to distinguish from the other witnesses. “I can’t get it out,” he repeated. A note of hysteria crept into his voice.

He looked back at the knife handle—and at the confluence of the three rivulets at the edge of the table.

The sound of his dripping blood had changed: it was no longer dripping onto a hard floor; it was dripping into a pool . . .

“And I’m bleeding—” he whimpered, looking up at the faces again. “I’m bleeding—”