Vintage (25 page)

—
B
RUNO
T
ANNENBAUM,
T
WENTY
R
ECIPES FOR
L
OVE

E
very meal tells a story. When you cook for someone, you are communicating more directly than you can through any other means. You could make love, whisper in ears, taste skin, exchange pleasure, but that is only a moment of transient sensation. They say we are reconstructed at a cellular level every seven
years, and the fiber of our makeup through that cycle is knit together and sustained by what we consume. What you make when you cook is taken within the sacred vessel of the body. It is the most intimate, delicate conversation that can be held. When you feed someone, your creation becomes a part of her body and the very fabric of her being. The cells of what you create merge with her cells for that seven-year journey they make until they are expunged and replaced.

It was Bruno's charge to create such a conversation between Varushkin and his estranged Katya. Varushkin was a titan. Swamped by the Mikhail Khodorkovsky saga, Varushkin's tale was similar and only slightly less epic. A Western-style dissident and champion of free-market reforms, he founded a small investment firm in the early days of economic liberalization and rose to acquire the country's second-largest natural gas holding, as well as a number of other privatized resources. When he started backing the wrong party in regional and then national elections, he found himself charged with corruption and tax evasion. Butyrka Prison has been crushing reformers since the times of the Czars, and in Russia, it seemed, few things had changed.

Katya, a Ukrainian national with a résumé as a minor celebrity, had spent time as a television reporter, hosted a short-lived reality television show about Chechen War veterans who kickbox for insubstantial cash prizes, and had endorsed a line of cosmetics and lingerie. She was twenty years younger than Varushkin and gorgeous. Bruno put the Internet skills he had learned from lovely Lisette in Beaune to good use by browsing through Katya's online photos, making his heart patter. There was something in the cool, feline greenness of her eyes that made him wonder if he was up to the task of creating a meal
that would leave any sort of impression, let alone convince her of Varushkin's love.

He sat on the edge of his bed composing a shopping list in his journal. He considered building the menu around pan-seared salmon with a brown sugar and balsamic glaze. This was a clear risk in that it was such a common, even pedestrian, choice. But the salmon's story in nature is such a heart-wrenching saga that he believed some of this epic narrative, if prepared correctly, would find its way into the ambient moment of the meal.

He scratched down what else he would need: fresh lemons, several varieties of wild mushrooms, truffles, caviar, good bread, probably asparagus, and then, of course, the perfect wines. It was then that his phone rang, startling him.

He stood and stared at the receiver for a moment before picking it up. But then he softened immediately as he heard the voice on the other end.

“Daddy?”

It was Claire, and before he could consider how she'd tracked him to this hotel, he blurted out, “Claire! Claire-ified butter ball! How are you?”

“I'm okay, Daddy,” she said, her voice on the edge of a sob. Something was wrong.

“Oh, gosh. What's the matter? Are you okay?”

“I'm fine, really.”

“Your mom, is she okay?” Panic swelled in his chest. He could hear the pain in her voice.

“Mom's fine. She's standing right here next to me, actually.”

“Oh?”

“She wanted me to call you and tell you . . .” She sobbed now, unable to finish.

Bruno waited in patient terror.

“Daddy. I wasn't telling the truth. About the money.”

Bruno swallowed.

“It wasn't Mom's money. And she had no idea that I'd given it to you.”

“Then where did it come from?”

“My college fund.”

Bruno gulped.

Her college fund
. All those nights watching snot-nosed toddlers for the Mangussens next door. The Goldfarbs' spoiled brats. The Christmas checks and Hanukkah gelt that could have been spent on bicycles, iPods or clothes but that Claire diligently took to the bank instead. He remembered when she came home with Anna one afternoon when she was six or seven, proudly displaying her new balance book. All the dreams Anna ever had for her. All of Claire's dreams. Culinary school. College. Bruno felt his throat closing. He had to force himself to draw breath.

“Bruno?” It was Anna now. He could hear Claire sobbing in the background. “Bruno . . . ?”

“I didn't know, Anna. You have to believe me.”

“Well, now you know. What are you going to do about it?” She was trying to sound tough, but underneath he could sense something else. Sadness? Disappointment? Despair?

“I was so close.”

“Close to what?”

“I don't know. To finding . . . my story.”

“Have you been listening? The money belongs to Claire.”

“I know.”

“So . . . what are you going to do about it?”

“What should I do?”

“Pack up and come home and bring her whatever's left. That money was her best chance at a future.”

“It's still her future. She can have every dime I make off of the book. I'm so close, Anna.”

“I've heard it all before, Bruno. I'd like to believe you.”

“I can see the end of the story from here. The whole book . . . it's in my head. And the conclusion is right there in front of me, locked in a prison. And only I can let it out the right way. This will be different.”

“How much is left?”

“One chapter, maybe two.”

“No, I mean how much of Claire's money?”

“A little.”

“You know what you need to do,” Anna said, resolute.

Bruno stood in front of the window and looked at the lights reflecting on the shimmer and ripple of the water in the bend in the river. The absurdity of it. Claire had saved for her entire life simply to bring him here. For what? He had no book. He had notes and postcards: that was all. He could feel the weight of his delusion pressing down on him. “Did you read the postcards?” he asked after a long pause.

“Yes.”

“What do you think?”

“You're a fine writer, Bruno,” she said with a sigh, “but postcards aren't a book. You've had quite an adventure. But your adventure should not be subsidized by your daughter.”

“Do you believe in me?” Bruno asked, hungry for any sign of hope. Any hint. To let him off the hook. To convince him that he hadn't misled his daughter, that her faith in him was justified.

“No.”

The receiver trembled in Bruno's hand. There was silence and static on the phone. Then Claire's voice.

“Daddy? Daddy?”

“Yes, Claire. Claire-ified butter ball.”

“I still believe in you, Daddy.”

Bruno smiled. Sadly. And the line went dead.

*      *      *

Bruno wept quietly for a time into his pillow. He grew tired, and he wanted to sleep but couldn't. He thought that if he could find slumber he would be able to see a clear course of action in the morning. Maybe he had a book in him after all. Maybe returning home and handing back what remained of Claire's money was an ending he could write about. Maybe the Trevallier was meant to remain a mystery.

But if he did go home, Parker Thomas would eventually find the end of the real story and he'd write the book, and Bruno's role in the whole endeavor would be forgotten. Claire's money would have been wasted. Had he known it was his daughter's and not Anna's, he would not have taken it, but that's what had happened, and now the question before him was to either throw away everything he'd spent so far, or bet the little that remained on a long shot that just might put them all in the black.

He cursed himself. He should have known. How could he allow a sixteen-year-old to finance an expedition to Europe? Why hadn't he confirmed with Anna like any responsible adult would have done? But Bruno knew he had never once in his life acted like an adult. Or like a parent. And thinking of the last ten years made him shudder.

But that was all behind him and the choice that remained before him was either to continue with the delusion and finish the journey and write the book, or to head home and begin to make amends some other way.

He tossed and turned and by two in the morning he was nowhere near sleep, so he went down to the hotel bar. It was closed, so he wandered to the kitchen, which had already been cleaned for the evening. He inspected and admired the cookware and also poked his head in the pantry and walk-in cooler. In the back of the kitchen he heard some noise of conversation, and he found a table of Kazakh men in cooks' whites surrounding a loaf of black bread, some caviar and a bottle of vodka. They invited him to join them and he didn't hesitate.

The caviar reminded him of Anna. He recalled the first time he'd brought some to her when they'd been dating. “You're trying to seduce me, aren't you?” she'd said with a laugh. Of course that was true.

They were sitting at a table on the terrace of her tiny apartment. It was more of a sunken stairwell than an actual terrace, but it had afforded them a glimpse of the sky and the sounds of the city at night: the screech of the El, the wail of a siren in the distance. A bottle of inexpensive but very good Pinot Blanc from Alsace stood on the table between them.

“Am I that transparent?”

“Positively translucent.”

She scooped out a tiny spoonful of luminescent globes and smeared it on a toast point. She bit and concentrated on the tiny pops, the little explosions of concentrated sea life spilling onto her tongue.

“So is it working?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, leaning over to kiss him. “But it's not the caviar.”

Later, in bed, the two of them tangled in her sheets, her hand was pressed to his chest, and his heart thumped against her palm, almost with fear. “There's nothing to be afraid of,” she'd
whispered. He wanted that assurance now. He wanted her to tell him that his fear, the sinking feeling that he'd just thrown away everything of value in his life, was unfounded.

Fortunately, the Kazakhs provided distraction. He didn't understand them, but he was familiar with the sorts of conversations kitchen help had around bottles of liquor at two in the morning, and they were soon all laughing and swapping stories. The bread was obviously from the previous morning, and it was just beginning to dry, but it was still excellent slathered with mounds of good butter, and of course the vodka settled Bruno's nerves and returned some of his conviction.

The Kazakhs told more jokes and punctuated them with such infectious laughter that Bruno couldn't help but join in. By the time the bottle was empty they were all fast friends, arms around one another, singing songs in nonsensical words that Bruno could only attempt, though nobody seemed to care. His head was swimming by the time he returned to his room, and before he passed out he remembered vaguely that he had some sort of mental conundrum to sort out in the morning, though not the specifics of it, which was just the sort of numbing bliss he needed.

When he awoke the next day, he had a splitting headache and a stinging conscience. He sat up and took out his slim envelope of cash. Removing the bills, he laid them on the bed and stared at the pile for a long time. His stomach growled and he thought about ordering breakfast before counting, but then bit the bullet and started in on the math. After sifting through the bills in the pockets of his dirty laundry and jacket, he had a grand total of twelve hundred euros and around ninety-five hundred rubles, which was roughly another three hundred bucks. He also had some U.S. cash set aside for the return flight.
It wasn't much, but if he left right now he'd at least have something to return to Claire.

He considered what had been in the envelope Claire had originally given him and compared that to what was before him now and he thought he would retch.

Then inspiration struck. If he left and flew standby on the first available flight, he could be home in two days. It would be a Sunday. Monday he would start going through the newspaper and looking for something useful to do beyond just playing at writer. What other skills did he have? He could cook, that was something. Maybe Aleksei would hire him as a sous chef. He could test the depth of their friendship. Or he could work for his mom. She'd take him in if he begged a little. Even though the image of his father's lifeless body on the floor of the butcher shop still filled him with a lifelong dread of being a shopkeeper chained to some storefront, if it was the right thing to do, he would do it.

If he worked two jobs at slightly above the minimum wage in Illinois, and if he lived the spartan life of a monk, he could replenish most of Claire's savings by the time she started college. He could work all the way through both of the girls' college careers, and then, after twelve or so years, he would have accomplished something more substantial than his entire life's work at the keyboard and notebook. By then, Anna may have even warmed to him and they could reunite for the final, downhill slopes of their lives.

Before long he was packed and whistling the prelude to
Le maçon
, a lesser-known
opéra comique
from Aubert. It was wonderful to have a plan. He was thrilled that he would soon see his girls again.

Bruno tipped the doorman and then paid the cabdriver in
advance, acutely aware now that his dwindling funds belonged to Claire. He continued to whistle as they crossed the Krasnoluzhsky Road Bridge over the Moskva, but then as he took in the skyline he realized that this would be his last trip abroad for quite some time and he experienced a momentary sadness. He also felt bad for Varushkin, who would be sitting in prison hoping for one last decent meal.