The Confectioner's Tale (6 page)

‘Accident?’ Gui asked.

Clearing his throat, Luc urged the horses into a faster trot.

‘Like I said, nothing to me who does the job, and Mam’selle Clermont is as good a clerk as any.’

The lane was dark and quiet as they shuddered to a stop. Gui peered around. An old man with a handcart stood waiting, smoke curling from a cigarette jammed between his lips. The only other sounds were the jingle of reins and the creak of leather as they dislodged their chilled fingers from the tie-ropes.

Luc hammered on the door, already shifting a crate to prop it open. Yves flexed his hands, smirking at Gui.

‘Hope you’ve got a head on your shoulders, boy.’

The door flew open before Luc could land another knock. The Clermont girl was there, as before. In her gloved hands she held a huge ledger.

‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ she said briskly. ‘The kitchen is on night shift, so you shall have to have your wits about you.’

Luc nodded, stepped back into the cold.

‘You heard Mam’selle Clermont, let’s get this unloaded. Marc, Yves, crates in the hallway until they can be unpacked. You,’ he jerked his chin at Gui, ‘help uncle over there.’

Everything happened at once. Ropes whipped past Gui’s face as he scrambled down to the stones. A sack sailed over his head to land in Luc’s arms. He fought through the activity towards the old man with the handcart. Amongst the bustle, he hadn’t moved an inch.

‘
Bonsoir!
’ Gui said breathlessly.

There was no response. Waiting for an answer, he blew on his hands and stamped his feet in what he hoped was a friendly way. The old man ignored him and puffed harder on his cigarette.

‘What are you doing, lad?’ bellowed Yves from the other side of a crate. ‘Stop doing a jig and move the wretched goods!’

Gui began to untie the load. His numb fingers slipped and half of it tumbled to the pavement. He bit back a curse; the wooden boxes were stamped ‘Fragile’. Stacking a few in his arms, he headed for the doorway. Unloading was well underway, piles of goods growing mountainous in the hall.

‘What shall I do with these?’ he shouted, hoping someone would hear.

‘What are they?’ Luc was red-faced under an enormous sack.

‘They say “Fragile” on the side.’

‘Mam’selle?’ Luc asked.

The girl was turning up the lamps so that the small space resembled a fire-lit cave.

‘Is there an old man with a handcart?’ she asked, without looking around.

‘Yes.’

‘He will be from Goebel then; they make our moulds. The boxes need to be stored at the back of the kitchen, in the cabinet. Follow Marc there, he’ll show you.’

The younger deliveryman had staggered up the steps, a metal dairy churn in his arms.

‘Cream,’ he grunted. ‘Need a hand to set it down.’

Gui shifted his grip on the boxes. He felt clumsy and slow-witted as Mademoiselle Clermont stepped past him with half a glance;
she
seemed wholly at home in the chaos.

He followed Marc down the corridor towards a pair of double doors. Hoisting the churn in his arms, the other boy kicked them open. Noise blasted Gui. For a long moment, he stood, stunned by what he saw.

It was another world, one of brightness and steam. Huge electric globes hung overhead, suspended on gold wires, illuminating every corner of the room. The light they gave bounced from the shining wall tiles, from the patterned wooden floor, from the row upon row of hanging copper pots. He had never been anywhere so clean. Men in pristine white uniforms lined a dozen marble-topped counters, some in tight groups, others working alone.

A cloud of white swirled high into the air on his left, as a chef measured out sugar as fine as powder. It drifted towards Gui and he breathed in deeply, tasting it in his lungs.

There were a thousand noises: spoons clattering, liquid being poured in glugs, a deep, unctuous bubbling from the stove. Heat blasted him in a roar as someone opened an oven. It carried the glorious smell of fresh baking.

Gui’s mouth was watering as he tripped forward, trying to look at everything at once. Mahogany shelves lined the counters, stacked with glass bottles and jars, like something from a fairy tale. There were whole, plump roses steeping in honey; purple-stained sugar, thick with lavender, tiny jars of crimson threads, cherries and peaches suspended in syrup as if they had fallen there from the trees.

The luxurious scents wrapped around him.
Butter
, his nose relayed,
cream, nuts, brandy, chocolate
…

He was so preoccupied that he collided with one of the busy chefs. The man’s angry shove brought him to his senses. He blinked up. Marc was waiting for him at the side of the room. Impatiently, he jerked his chin towards a door with a heavy bolt, and Gui hurried over to elbow it across. A waft of cool air billowed out.

‘They’re a highly strung lot, the chefs.’ The other boy dropped the churn with a grateful sigh. ‘Keep out of their way and you’ll be fine.’

But Gui did not want to keep out of the way. He found himself gawping like a child, as he stacked box after box of rattling metal into the cabinet at the end of the kitchen. Every time he walked its length there was something new to be seen.

On a vast hob, he saw a pot of
chocolat chaud
, like the girl had given him the week before. At one of the counters, a single chef was cutting intricate patterns from a sheet of something white and fine and powdery, another was pouring out batter in a smooth golden ribbon. He laughed with delight when he saw a man burn a pot of custard with a hot iron, so that it set, as hard and brittle as ice. He almost reached out a finger towards a bowl piled high with thick, sweet cream.

Stacking the last box of moulds, he left the kitchen with regret. He lingered in the empty hallway, peering through the crack in the door, transfixed.

‘Hands empty already?’

Mademoiselle Clermont stood behind him, the heavy ledger balanced on one hip.

‘I was, I mean …’ He scrabbled for words as heat flared up his neck. He wanted to tell her that the kitchen was miraculous; that he wished he could watch the chefs for ever, but she would laugh at him, think him ignorant.

‘I used to stand at the door like that when I was small,’ she told him quietly, a smile playing across her lips.

Luc appeared at the end of the corridor then. Two sacks weighed down his shoulders. Close behind were Yves and Marc, each in a similar state. Gui hurried forward to catch one of the sacks as it slipped.

‘Mam’selle,’ Luc puffed, ‘where do you want the sugar?’

‘Two-thirds in the pantry, the rest at the end of the workstations, please.’

Her smile was still in place when she glanced up at Gui from her rows of numbers as he passed.

The pace in the kitchen had increased. A tall, blond chef was roaring orders; apprentices skidded back and forth, fetching pans or ingredients. The more accomplished workers hunched over individual creations, perspiration beading their foreheads as they stacked pastry as thin as tissue, grasped squares of gold leaf with tools that belonged in a doll’s house.

A thin man with greying brown hair now stood alone at the front of the kitchen. Gui had not noticed him before. Trays and bowls surrounded him; the kitchen’s labours laid out like a feast, picked apart. The man wore a white jacket like the other chefs, but his was tailored to fit, embroidered at the collar with gold thread. He was holding something tiny to the light, as small as his smallest fingernail, blue as a duck egg.

‘Who is responsible for the dragées?’

His voice was quiet, yet it silenced the clamour. Even Luc stopped what he was doing. Only the gentle bubbling of the stove remained. A team from one of the workstations raised their hands, one chef in particular. He was short and plump, black hair slicked down under his cap.

‘Monsieur Melio. If you please?’ the older man invited.

The chef approached the front, holding a bowl full of the tiny objects. Wordlessly, the man took the dish from his hands, and tipped its contents into a sack of refuse. The plump chef stared down into the empty bowl, then hurried back to his bench, face burning with humiliation.

Gui glanced round for some clue as to what was happening, but Luc showed no sign of moving, even though they had long completed their task. Gui opened his mouth to ask, but felt Mademoiselle Clermont’s restraining hand on his cuff.

‘Wait,’ she whispered.

The activity in the kitchen had come to a standstill; all gazes were turned expectantly towards the man at the front.

‘It has been said,’ he began, addressing in the whole room, ‘that architecture is the noblest of the arts. Every day, we see structures ascending from the street into the sky. We step onto the majestic boulevards, we witness this old city turn her new face towards us.’

The man had a powerful presence. Gui could feel his attention being dragged across the kitchen.

‘Thus,’ the chef continued, ‘if architecture is the noblest of the arts, then I say that pastry
must
be the highest form of architecture, the purest and most delicate. How are we to achieve this if we are presented with building blocks unequal to the task? Who can tell me what steps must be taken to ensure a dragée presents a seamless covering?’

The noise of a discussion filled the kitchen. Gui loosed a pent-up breath.

‘Should be safe to venture out now,’ Luc said. ‘What do you say, Mam’selle?’

‘I should think so.’ She smiled.

They strode through the kitchen once again. From the outer door, Yves and Marc appeared, arms loaded with packets. They were obviously accustomed to such episodes.

‘What was that about?’ Gui murmured as they walked, glancing back at the chef over his shoulder.

‘My father believes in discipline,’ Mademoiselle Clermont said quietly. ‘His kitchen is known to be the best in Paris; he has a reputation to uphold. Besides, poor work can cause accidents.’

Gui looked at her out of the corner of his eye, hoping that she would continue, but she hurried away. He had no time to talk, in any case. The work kept him busy.

He thought about Monsieur Clermont’s words as he emptied crates and passed the contents to Yves. He had never considered pastry to be anything other than a luxury, something for the plump, rich people who drove their carriages around the parks, but Clermont had described it as an art form, a trade. It too must have its foundations then, its bricks and mortar. Gui was so absorbed in contemplation that the bottom of the final crate came as something of a shock.

‘No need to look so surprised, young man,’ Luc announced cheerfully. ‘We’re done for the night.’

Gui blinked his eyes to clear them. The sky outside was lightening with dawn, the air of a clear December morning brushing his face from the door. Mademoiselle Clermont was watching him as she signed a piece of paper and handed it over to Luc. There came a build-up of noise from the kitchens. Chefs and apprentices burst into the corridor, steaming cups of coffee and wedges of bread in hand. They talked boisterously, laughing, released from the pressure of a long night’s work.

‘They must be finished,’ said Mademoiselle Clermont, peering around.

‘Finished?’ croaked Gui. His throat was dry with fatigue.

‘I will show you, if you like. Would anyone else care to see? Marc?’

‘Nothing that interests me I’m afraid, Mam’selle.’

‘We shall take a peek through the scullery window,’ she told him archly and headed towards a different door.

With a smirk, Marc nudged Gui forward. The door led to a narrow galley space, lined with deep enamel sinks. It was warm and dark and filled with steam. Freshly washed pans dripped from racks upon the walls. A second door with a tiny circular window connected to the kitchens.

‘I would take you closer,’ said Mademoiselle Clermont as she stepped to avoid the puddles, ‘but the sugar is drying. Father will not allow anyone near until it has properly set. There.’ She sighed happily, her breath fogging the window. ‘It’s
twice
as magnificent as last year.’

Gui shifted uncomfortably, unsure how to move. The space was cramped, and squeezing in next to the girl did not seem entirely proper. As if sensing his embarrassment, Mademoiselle Clermont shifted to one side, beckoned him closer.

He hesitated. The whole evening had been like a dream, a glorious, golden world that he would have to forget when he returned to the rail workers’ dormitory, to the furnaces and the damp, barren tracks. Yet he was desperate to see what had kept the kitchen so busy all night.

Before he could think better of it, he stepped to join Mademoiselle Clermont. She raised an arm to give him room, and he caught her scent again, spring flowers, clean linen. He forced himself to concentrate and peered through the glass at the kitchen’s creation.

It was a cathedral, the one that stood upon the hill of Montmartre, slender and towering. The windows were filigree rings, delicate as the halo of an icon, glass stained with brilliant blues and reds, but it was sugar, all sugar. Marzipan arched upward in domes; tiny green and blue almonds took the place of stonework and gargoyles carved from sugar paste perched upon the towers, topped with gold leaf.

Slowly, his awareness returned to the cramped scullery room. He felt Mademoiselle Clermont sigh.

‘The festive season is just glorious,’ she said.

Gui looked at her. Her face was alight with admiration, her fine dress trailing in the puddles, her lace cuffs stained with ink. Beyond her shone the sugar cathedral. The cost of it could have fed a family like his in Bordeaux for a year. Abruptly, he turned away.

The other men were waiting in the cart outside the door. He almost ran to join them, wanting to be away from that place, from the emotion that was weighing on his chest.

‘Guillaume!’ Mademoiselle Clermont was smiling, hanging from the doorway as the cart began to trundle away. ‘Would you like to come back next week?’

Chapter Nine

April 1988

I’m sitting at my desk, watching the sky change colour through the rain. A page of my thesis is wedged into the typewriter, abandoned mid-sentence. The pale evening light falls upon my grandfather’s photograph, propped up next to the scrap of paper handed to me by the curator at the gallery.