The Confectioner's Tale (22 page)

She was dressed in sober clothes, a dark dress with delicate cream lace that, as always, encircled her neck up to the chin, hiding the scar he now knew was there. Her short hair was disguised by a slanting hat and a coiled hairpiece. Silently, she followed her father and took her place at the centre of the group.

She looked so distant, cold even, that he could not believe this was the same girl who had hitched up her skirts and stolen a ride on a tram just days before. Joy and uncertainty burned his throat as he remembered the kiss. Had it been the same for her?

A horse-drawn carriage rolled up to the pavement, almost scattering the group. The photographer was apoplectic and Josef had to be dispatched to urge the driver on his way. In the confusion, Gui lunged out of his place and dashed down the line, squeezing in beside Mademoiselle Jeanne and stepping hard on a fellow apprentice’s foot as he tried to complain.

There was a whisper of fabric as she adjusted her shawl. His breathing was coming fast. The photographer was shouting instructions, counting down. As he reached zero, Gui reached out towards Jeanne.

Her hand was waiting. They locked fingers just as a flash exploded into the morning. For one single, glorious instant, they held on to each other. Then they were blinking the brightness from their eyes and her fingers slipped from his, as if it had never been. Slowly, Gui mingled with the crowd as they made their way back into the kitchens.

They lined themselves up before the workstations to await their orders. Clermont surveyed his army, taking care to meet each pair of eyes. Gui felt that his gaze was held for far longer than anyone else’s. Images of Jeanne crowded into his mind. He fought to keep his face blank as Clermont started to speak.

‘As you know,’ the older man told them, ‘Easter Saturday is an important day for us. It is a return, a renewal and a celebration. Many of the guests attending today’s special gathering do so after a long month of abstinence. Can anyone tell me, what does abstinence lead us to crave?’

There was an awed, schoolroom hush from the assembled chefs, until an eager voice piped up: ‘Luxury.’

Clermont nodded, waved his hand for more.

‘Glamour?’ someone else supplied.

‘Beauty.’

‘Sin.’ Gui heard the word falling from his mouth and blanched. Monsieur Clermont, however, only nodded.

‘Luxury. Glamour. Beauty. Sin. We must create all of these today.’ An unnerving smile twitched his mouth. ‘I’ve heard that there is something of a wager running on what the centrepiece will be. Would someone care to tell me the assumptions?’

No one spoke. It was impossible to tell whether Monsieur was furious or amused.

‘No? Josef, put them from their misery.’

‘We make croquembouche!’ the blond chef boomed.

A ripple ran through the kitchen, excitement, apprehension.

‘Croquembouche?’ Gui whispered. He was sure he seen the word somewhere before.

‘Just wait,’ Maurice said, ‘you will see, when we find out which part we are to play.’

Josef called upon the more senior chefs one by one, starting with Ebersole and working down the chain. Maurice came about halfway. He beckoned his small team forward. Under the watchful eye of Monsieur Clermont, they were talked through a series of techniques, ingredients lists, preparation times. Finally, Josef turned a page to show them a sketch of the finished confection.

‘But that’s Monsieur Carême!’ Gui burst out before he could stop himself. He had seen the illustration a hundred times over in his tattered book. It showed a spiralling cone of little choux pastries, held together with caramel and spun sugar, decorated with sugar ribbons and flowers.

Josef had stopped speaking. Monsieur Clermont’s stare was cold. Eventually, talk resumed and they were dismissed to their station.

‘What was that?’ Maurice demanded. ‘I thought you were smarter than to spout every thought that comes into your head.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Gui winced, ‘but I’ve seen that drawing before, the exact same one, in a book I have, by Monsieur Antonin Carême.’

‘A word to the wise,’ Maurice murmured, ‘and I shall only say it once, because you won’t get another opportunity to listen.
Never
compare Clermont’s work to that of another chef. As far as we are concerned, it is original, it is brilliant and it is our job to keep quiet and make it happen.’

Gui frowned. He had thought that Clermont was a master in his own right, an architect, not a copycat. Perhaps Clermont, too, loved Carême, Gui told himself, wanted to pay homage to the great man with his creation. All the same, the realization bothered him.

Josef set them making a range of caramels, some soft and tempered with cream, some dark and brittle as glass or flavoured with essence of orange and vanilla. Watching yet another pan of sugar melt into a bubbling mass, Gui thought of Jeanne, of her story.

‘Ever burned yourself with sugar?’ he asked Maurice distractedly. The other man was busy spinning sugar through the air, until a nest of fine strands rested in his palm. He balled it up and threw it towards the refuse.

‘No good,’ he called to another chef. ‘It needs to be darker. Sugar burns?’ he replied, wiping his hands on his apron. ‘Nasty things. Sugar sticks to the skin and keeps burning. By the time you wash it off, half the flesh comes with it.’

Thinking of Jeanne’s neck, Gui blanched.

‘Been talking to Mademoiselle?’

The comment was so offhand that Gui almost answered in the affirmative, before he caught himself. Maurice’s face was turned away, but there was something observant in his posture.

‘Just a story I heard,’ Gui tried to sound indifferent. ‘One of the other boys said that she got burned when she was a child. I wondered about it, that’s all.’

‘Well, you heard right,’ Maurice said, ‘though there’s not many here who know about that. Who told you?’

Gui tested the sugar with a spoon. ‘Can’t remember.’

‘I reckon it’s why Monsieur let her run around like she owned the place for so long,’ the older chef reasoned. ‘Of course, he’s had to rein her in now. It’s lucky she’s a girl of means, or else he’d have trouble getting her married off.’

‘What?’ Gui asked, a little too sharply.

‘Well, who wants damaged goods when there are better ones on offer?’

Whether he saw the anger in Gui’s face or not, there was little time to talk after that. Gui wrestled his temper under control, for the day was advancing and there was work to be done. Clermont had finally settled on the right caramels, and together, he and Maurice measured the ingredients into different pans.

The activity in the kitchen began to build. Each team approached the front, bearing trays of produce. Their work, Maurice explained, was crucial. The caramel was the mortar that would hold the creation together. They delivered the first pan to the front, and returned immediately to the stove, to make another batch before the first one cooled and became too hard to use.

Before Gui’s eyes, a tower rose, cream-filled choux pastries the size of billiard balls marching upward in a spiral. When the last pastry rested at the top of the cone, almost a metre high, they were called once more.

Josef was the only one tall enough to reach; he dipped a spoon into the copper pan and gently raised a ribbon of molten caramel. He whipped this through the air like a magician, allowing it to fall over the whole confection. It settled in golden strands, as thin as silk. Gui stared in awe, but was hustled away, to clean up before the afternoon.

‘You will see it later.’ Maurice nudged him towards the scullery, where almost every pan awaited cleaning. ‘Better get busy, you lads are on serving duty.’

Emerging damp and sweaty into the cloakroom, Gui had just enough time to cram in a mouthful of bread, before Josef called his name.

‘Serving uniform,’ he grunted, shoving a stack of pristine new clothes into Gui’s arms. ‘Dirty them and you’ll wish you hadn’t been born.’

The outfit was similar to their everyday whites, but with gold buttons marching down the double-breasted front, gold trim on the shoulders, a gold stripe down the leg and a starched cap, embroidered with the Clermont logo in green and gold.

‘This is ridiculous,’ Gui muttered, peering into the mirror along with several other boys. ‘How are we supposed to do anything without getting dirty?’

‘I’m not even going to move,’ said one, staring terrified at the snowy apron, ‘let alone go near all that chocolate.’

But of course the time came for them to return to work. They passed back through the kitchens, enduring whistles from the other chefs. Maurice tipped him a wink. He was shaping two letters out of a substance that looked like gold clay. The confection stood almost finished. Gui gazed at it as he passed: a towering masterpiece of caramel and pastry, adorned with sugar-work, glimmering beneath the lights.

He would have given anything to remain in the kitchen, but instead he was obliged to endure the commands and prods of the pâtisserie’s Maître d, a coiffed man who told them – in no uncertain terms – that they were little more than walking cake stands. The only thing that kept his mood from plummeting was the thought that he might see Jeanne at the party. Perhaps they would be able to sneak a moment alone together.

Before long, the door swung open, bringing with it a gust of spring air. The first guests had arrived. Afternoon sunlight clung to their coats. Slowly, the room filled and attendees began to drift past him, occasionally stopping to nibble at one of the chocolate shapes he offered up for their gloved fingers. The champagne flowed, laughter was pitched a tone higher than everyday speech, pearl beads struck silk hems. Gui had never seen so much wealth in one room, so much opulence; it was grotesque and exquisite.

Then he saw her, amongst a group of other women. She was dressed in a delicate gown, rose-pink. Silk flowers were pinned to her dark hair, hiding the cropped cut.

She was staring around the room for something. His heart leaped in delight when he realized that she was looking for him. He caught her eye and smiled, waving a hand to indicate his trussed-up uniform. She stifled a laugh.

Over the next few minutes, she managed to steer her aunt closer to where Gui had been stationed. He in turn edged further into the room. Finally, she contrived to linger over the tray of chocolates, as if contemplating which to choose.

‘Mademoiselle,’ Gui murmured with a smile.

‘I like your uniform, du Frère,’ she whispered, looking up through her lashes.

‘Can you get away?’

Their faces were separated only by the width of the tray.

‘Someone will see.’

‘I thought you liked an adventure? Besides, who will notice?’

Jeanne shot him a shrewd smile.

‘Aunt,’ she called, as if bored, ‘will you excuse me? I think I feel some of my hairpins coming loose.’

‘Honestly, after how long it took!’ the older woman fussed. ‘Would you like me to see to them?’

‘No, no,’ Jeanne said, ‘I shall fix them myself.’

She walked away sedately, patting her hair as she headed for the corridor towards the cloakroom. Gui had to be fast. He edged along the wall. Thankfully, the Maître d was nowhere to be seen. He shoved the tray of chocolates under a waiters’ station and followed Jeanne, fully expecting to hear an angered shout behind him.

The corridor was thickly carpeted, hung with heavy brocade curtains that framed alcove windows. As he passed the first one, a hand shot out to grasp his sleeve.

‘Help me!’ Jeanne commanded. She was loosening two huge, ornate tassels.

They came free and the curtains swung closed, hiding the couple from view. They were safe. Jeanne’s cheeks were pink, breath quickened by daring.

‘You look magnificent,’ he whispered, his hand hovering at the shoulder of her elegant gown. ‘I’m almost afraid to touch you.’

‘I hate it.’ She stepped nearer, reached up to brush his face. ‘None of it is real, Gui.’

‘What would they say if they saw you on the Left Bank?’ He grinned. ‘Stealing rides on trams, dancing at La Rotonde?’

Her laugh had a wild edge to it. He hesitated, then leaned in to kiss her, lightly at first but with growing intensity. His body thrilled at her closeness, at their stolen time together. She must have felt it too for she was kissing him back, shy no longer, her hands locked around his neck.

Her dress of silk and lace betrayed the warmth of her limbs. He gripped her tightly, one hand slipping down the side of her neck. Abruptly, she broke off, eyes bright and guarded. Maurice’s cruel words came back to him:
Who wants damaged goods when there are better ones on offer?

He placed his hand upon her neck, above the scar she tried so hard to conceal.

‘I love you, Jeanne,’ he whispered, his forehead against hers.

‘I …’ She was swallowing back tears. ‘I love you …’

‘Then marry me.’ The words dropped from his mouth before he could think twice.

She pulled away, dazed.

‘What did you say?’

It must have been the elation of the moment for he could only laugh and kiss her and laugh again.

‘I don’t know,’ he managed eventually. ‘I think I just asked you to marry me.’

Footsteps approached in the corridor and they fell silent, clutching each other.

‘Jeanne?’ someone called, dangerously close. Feet passed, inches away, before receding.

‘It’s my aunt.’ Jeanne was trembling. ‘Hurry, you must go, I will distract her. Now!’ she told him. ‘Please, Gui, go!’

How he was able to make it through the door and step out into the pâtisserie without notice was a mystery. His heart was thundering. A nervous sweat coated the inside of his clothes; his blood had turned to champagne, bubbling through his body in wild haste. He could still feel her lips, pressed to his as he asked her to marry him.

‘What in God’s name are you doing?’ hissed Maurice, face like thunder, as he hauled Gui to the edge of the room.

‘I’m sorry,’ Gui stammered, too distracted to wonder why the chef was there. ‘I was—’

‘I know what you were doing, you brainless fool. I saw you both, sneaking in there. What are you thinking?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’