Satori - Don Winslow [9]
“Très bien.”
“And a bit more through the nose, please.”
He repeated the words, giving the ending a nasal twang.
“Formidable,” she said. “Notice the trace of a ‘g’ at the end, but just a ghost of one, please. You don’t want to sound like a rustic, rather a cultured man of the south. Are you tired or would you like to take lunch now?”
“I am more hungry than tired.”
“I have taken the liberty of preparing something.”
She led him into a small dining room. The window gave a view onto a karesansui Japanese rock garden bordered by a high bamboo wall. The garden had been done with skill, and reminded him of the garden he had so meticulously constructed at his own home in Tokyo. He had found a measure of contentment in that home before making the decision to kill Kishikawa-sama. He asked, “Am I allowed the freedom of the garden?”
“Of course,” she said. “This is your home for as long as you are here.”
“Which is for how long, please?”
“As long as it takes you to recuperate,” she said, effortlessly deflecting the real question. Then, with a smile that was just mischievous, she added, “And to learn proper French.”
Solange gestured to a chair at the table.
He sat down as she walked into the kitchen.
The room, like the rest of the house’s interior, was completely European, and he wondered where she had acquired the furnishings. She probably hadn’t, he decided, it was more likely her American masters who provided the resources to replicate a French country house, albeit with a karesansui. Doubtless they’d calculated that he would absorb his French “cover” through some sort of decorative osmosis, just as doubtless after consultation with a “psychologist,” one of those priests of the new American civil religion. Nevertheless, the room was pleasant and stimulating to the appetite.
So was the aroma coming from the kitchen. Delicate, with a trace of wine perhaps, and he thought he detected the musty aroma of mushrooms. Solange returned and set a stoneware casserole on the table, removed the lid and announced, “Coq au vin. I hope you like.”
The smell was tantalizing.
He said, “I have not had European cuisine in many years.”
“I hope it will not upset your stomach,” she said. “It is necessary, though, that you eat mostly French food from now on.”
“A pleasure, but why?”
Solange pursed her lips into a pretty pout, then answered, “I wish to say this delicately, without giving offense …”
“Please be blunt,” he said, although he doubted that bluntness was in her repertoire.
“As it is,” she said, “you smell like a Japanese. Il faut que vous ayez l’odeur d’un vrai français.”
“I see.” It was so, of course. In his prison cell, he could discern the nationality of someone coming down the corridor by his odor. The Americans had that beef smell on them, the Russians the strong scent of potato, the Japanese guards smelled of fish and vegetables. And Solange? All he could smell was her perfume.
“May I serve?” she asked.
“Please.”
She ladled out a healthy portion of the rich chicken and wine dish, then took some asparagus spears from another dish and put them on his plate. Then she poured him a glass of rich red wine. “It is good to serve the same wine in which you braised the chicken. Good French wine, monsieur.”
“Call me Nicholai.”
“Eh bien, Nicholai,” she answered. “Please call me Solange.”
“What a lovely name.”
She blushed, and it was very pretty. Then she sat down and served herself, but waited for him to taste his food. When he did, she asked, “Do you like?”
“It’s extraordinary.” He was telling the truth. The flavors, subtle yet distinct, burst in his mouth, and the taste of the wine recalled boyhood meals at home with his mother. Perhaps, he thought, I might take up European wine … if I survive. “My compliments to the chef.”
She bowed her head. “Merci.”
“You made this?” he asked, surprised.
“I love to cook,” she said. “I’ve had little chance these past few years, so it is a great joy.”
Solange took up her fork and ate with a relish that would