Black Diamond - Martin Walker [16]
“If violence breaks out, even one brief incident, it means I’ve failed,” said Bruno, feeling uncomfortable. “I can’t count that as one of my better days.”
“Let’s try this Chinese wine,” Pamela said into the sudden silence.
Bill poured. “Tell me what you think.”
Bruno sipped and made polite noises, but it wasn’t to his taste at all. The baron put his cup down after a sip and muttered about having to drive and beware of the gendarmes. Fabiola, who made a point of putting honesty first, said it was not her idea of a digestif.
“It’s interesting, different from what I expected,” said Pamela. “What did you do in Asia? Did you get a job or teach French or start a business or what?”
“All of those,” he said, with a charming smile that even his bruises could not dilute. “At different times, of course. I was a cognac salesman in Shanghai, ran a wineshop in Vientiane, taught French in Bangkok and even worked as a croupier in a Macao casino. But my primary business was to have a small share in what became a very successful restaurant in Macao and then Hong Kong. That’s where I met my chef, Minxin Hu. He’s become a good friend. Let me introduce him.” He rose. “Anyone want coffee?”
“I have to work tomorrow, so I don’t want to be too late,” said Fabiola. “Let’s say hello to your Chinese partner as we get our coats.”
Bill headed for the kitchen and quickly reappeared with the tall and solemn-looking Chinese man. The clothes were impeccable, gleaming white and freshly pressed, as if he had just put them on. Bruno, who had seen Chinese cooks drenched in sweat after working close to their steaming woks, was surprised. “Thank you for a memorable meal,” said Bruno, rising to shake Minxin’s hand. The man gave a tight-lipped smile and a short bow.
“Merci, merci—my French very bad,” the chef said, and shook hands all around as Bruno asked Pons once more for the bill.
“You are my guests tonight,” he said airily.
“No, it’s kind of you, but we can’t accept that,” Bruno said firmly. “Policemen can’t accept free meals. We’d like to pay.”
Bill studied Bruno for a moment, his bruised face impassive. Then he nodded and turned aside to the small reception table and scribbled out a bill. It said simply “4 fusion menus at 20 euros, 1 bottle wine 20 euros. Total 100 euros.”
“By the way, Minxin’s nieces need to be registered for school,” said Bruno, handing over two fifty-euro notes. He turned to help Pamela on with her coat. The baron helped Fabiola, and the two men voiced a cheerful good night as they steered the two women into the darkness, ignoring their protests about paying their share of the bill.
“We’d have been there all night if we’d stopped to hand over four credit cards,” Bruno explained. “You can all pay me back later.”
“It’s just as well, Bruno. I really do have to be at work early tomorrow,” said Fabiola, clambering into the back of Pamela’s car. “Good night, Baron. It was a wonderful meal.”
Pamela drove off in silence, Bruno beside her. He realized that it was one of those deafening silences that only women knew how to manufacture, a silence that any mere male broke at his peril. He looked glumly at the road ahead, knowing that he needed to think about his own future if the mayor lost the election. Despite his political neutrality, Bruno was the mayor’s appointee and was widely known as one of the mayor’s right-hand men. A new mayor would be wary, even suspicious, and might well want to appoint his own nominee to the post. Not that Bruno could be fired; French employment law didn’t work that way. But he could