Black Diamond - Martin Walker [15]
Looking across the table at Pamela’s perfect complexion and lively eyes, and feeling the soft pressure of her foot resting on his beneath the table, Bruno knew that he was more than a little besotted with her, possibly because their affair had begun just a few weeks ago. And Bruno was still trying to adapt to the rhythms that Pamela imposed. He was accustomed to a blaze of passion, spending each night with a new lover and plunging into the relationship as if he were diving headlong into a river. As loving as she might be when they were together, that was not Pamela’s way. She made it clear when he was welcome in her bed and when he was not. When she wanted a weekend to herself she told him so with firm affection, and she never spoke of their future. It was a very controlled affair, and she insisted on their living separate lives. She said it was because she did not want to become a subject of St. Denis gossip, which just showed how little she understood the way a small town comes to know things by a kind of osmosis. She’d talked of her failed marriage back in England and told him she was wary of living with a man. She remained elusive and something of a mystery to him, and Bruno was sufficiently honest with himself to admit that was part of her attraction.
They all shared the baron’s duck, and then Pamela took command of the table, passing around spoonfuls of her gado-gado salad, described on the menu as an Indonesian dish of bean sprouts with a peanut sauce. She quartered her trout to serve it around the table, and even the baron nodded approvingly at the lemongrass sauce. The wine was pronounced perfect, and all the dishes were empty by the time the young waitress returned with the Pruneaux d’Agen soaked in brandy.
“I think I’ll become a regular here, even though they didn’t get the risotto quite right,” said Fabiola. Murmurs of satisfied approval around the table made it clear she spoke for them all. The baron was nodding happily as he signaled for the bill. But before it came, Pons ambled over, bringing a tray with four small pottery cups and a stone bottle so cold that beads of moisture sparkled and ran down the sides.
“This is something special I’d like you to try,” he said. “We offer it to all our guests on their first visit. It’s called mijiu. It’s a Chinese rice wine that’s usually drunk warm. But I find it makes a fine digestif served very cold.”
“How long were you in China?” Pamela asked. “And why don’t you come and join us? Most of your other guests have gone.” She waved a hand at the almost empty restaurant.
“I’d like that,” Bill said, pulling up a chair between Pamela and the baron. “I lived in Hong Kong and Macao for nearly ten years, but with lots of trips to the mainland. I was in Shanghai for nearly a year, Beijing for a few months. And I spent time in Singapore and Bangkok. I loved Asia. Still do, but suddenly I started to feel a little homesick. Believe it or not, I hoped for a reconciliation with my father.”
“But you weren’t prepared to compromise on the sawmill,” said the baron, “despite the family tie.”
“No. But I offered to help pay for a new chimney scrubber.”
“The latest problem was less the pollution than the location,” said Bruno. “It was too close to that housing block.”
“It would have meant demolishing one building,” said Pons, with a bitter laugh. “Just a small storage shed, and donating about a hundred square meters to the commune. Then the sawmill would’ve been outside the excluded area. I offered to pay for the land and for a replacement storage building,