The Ingredients of Love (22 page)

That lunchtime I met with Hélène Bonvin, the author with the writing block. We sat on the first floor of the Café de Flore, ate the
assiette de fromages dégustation
, and after I'd managed to convince her that I thought what she'd written so far was good (“You're not just saying that to put my mind at rest, are you, Monsieur Chabanais?”), and given her a couple of ideas for the further course of the novel to send her on her way, I rushed back to my desk in the office.

Seconds later Madame Petit was in my office to tell me that my mother had called and wanted me to ring back urgently.

“It sounded
really
urgent,” Madame Petit assured me when I looked at her with a raised eyebrow, and I said, “Oh, yes—
everything
's urgent with my mother, there's probably a neighbor who's fallen off a ladder again. I've got a reading this evening, Madame Petit, there's nothing I can do now.”

*   *   *

Half an hour later I was sitting in a taxi on my way to the hospital. This time it hadn't been a neighbor.

Maman had chosen that very Monday to spontaneously decide to take a little trip to Paris, and had fallen down the escalator in the Galeries Lafayette, together with all her purchases.

Now she was stuck in Ward IV with a broken leg and smiling somewhat hesitantly at me over her splint. She looked very small lying there under the bedclothes, and for a moment my heart shrank.

“Maman, what on earth have you been up to?” I asked, giving her a kiss.

“Oh, mon petit boubou,”
she sighed. “I knew you'd come right away.”

I nodded shamefacedly. When Maman had called a second time after an hour to give the address of the hospital, Madame Petit had been enough of a friend to act as if I'd just walked in the door. Then she looked at me and said, reproachfully, “I told you so, Monsieur Chabanais. Now off you go at once!”

I took Maman's hand and swore to myself that from now on I'd always call her back, even if only briefly. I looked at her leg in its thick splint lying on top of the bedclothes. “Does it hurt?”

She shook her head. “It's all right now. I've been given painkillers, but they're making me very sleepy.”

“How did it happen?” I asked.

“Oh, you know, in December there are always such wonderful decorations in Lafayette.” She looked at me with shining eyes. “And so I thought, I'll go and look at it all, have a little snack, and do a bit of Christmas shopping. And then I somehow got into a tangle on the escalator with all my bags and fell over backward. It all went very quickly.”

“My goodness,” I said. “Who knows what might have happened!”

She nodded. “I have a good guardian angel.”

My gaze fell on a pair of brown sling-back shoes with slim and not too low heels standing beside the little cupboard beside her bed. “You weren't wearing
those
shoes by any chance, were you?” I asked.

Maman said nothing.

“Maman, it's winter. Any sensible person would put on tough shoes, and you go Christmas shopping in
high heels
? On an escalator?”

She looked up guiltily from under the covers. We'd quite frequently had this debate about sturdy and, as I said, suitable shoes for her age, but she just would not listen.

“Good grief, Maman, you're an old lady. You ought to be more careful, you know.”

“I just don't like those old granny shoes,” she grumbled. “I may be old, but I still have nice legs, don't I?”

I smiled and shook my head. Maman had always been incredibly proud of her well-shaped legs. And even though she was seventy-four, she was still rather vain.

“Yes, of course you do,” I said. “But if they're broken, they'll be no use to you at all.”

I stayed with Maman for two hours, bought her some fruit, some juice, a couple of magazines, and some emergency toiletries, and then returned to Éditions Opale to get my papers.

It was already half past five and there was no point going home. So I decided to go directly from the office to the bookstore. Madame Petit had already gone when I returned, but at the very last moment, just as I was about to turn out the light, I noticed a little note from her stuck to my reading lamp.

How is your mother?
said the note. And beneath that:
Someone called Aurélie Bredin would like you to call her back.

Today I still ask myself if I shouldn't have heard the alarm bells ringing at that moment at the latest. But I didn't see the signs.

*   *   *

The little bookstore in the Rue Saint-Louis was sold out to the very last seat. I stood with Pascal Fermier, the gray-haired proprietor of the Librairie Capricorne, in a kind of kitchen annex, peeping through the gray curtain that divided the back room from the rest of the store. Next to me on the floor were heaps of catalogs from just about every publisher under the sun, and there were a couple of coffee mugs and plates in a cupboard above the sink. Cartons were piled up to the ceiling and a refrigerator hummed nearby.

Robert Miller, alias Sam Goldberg, was standing beside me clutching a glass of white wine.

“How lovely!” he'd exclaimed when he entered Monsieur Fermier's enchanting bookstore an hour previously. But now he was a bit nervous and said hardly a word. Again and again he opened the book at the passages I'd marked for him with little red Post-its.

“My compliments.” I turned to the old bookseller. “The bookstore is packed!”

Fermier nodded, and his kindly face beamed. “I've sold a lot of copies of Monsieur Miller's book from the very beginning,” he said, “and when I hung the poster for the reading in my window last week, a lot of people from the neighborhood were interested and immediately bought tickets. But even I did not expect so many people to turn up.”

He turned to Sam, who was staring fixedly to the front. “You obviously have a lot of fans, Mr. Miller,” he said. “It's really good that you could come.”

He stepped out through the curtain, smiled at the full rows of seats, and went over to a little wooden table that stood slightly higher on another level at the back of the room. On the table there was a microphone, and beside it a carafe of water and a glass. Behind it was a chair.

“Here we go,” I said to Sam. “No panic, I'm sitting very near you.” I pointed to a second chair at the side of the rostrum.

Sam coughed. “I hope I don't miss up.”

“It'll be fine,” I said as Pascal Fermier tapped the microphone, and squeezed his arm briefly. “And thanks again!”

Then I also stepped out in front of the curtain and positioned myself next to Monsieur Fermier, who now picked up the microphone. The bookseller waited until the whispers and scraping of chairs died down and then he heartily welcomed all those present in very few words and handed the microphone over to me. I thanked him, and looked out over the audience.

Half our publishing house was sitting in the front row; even Madame Petit, imperious and unmissable, was there, and was just saying something to Adam Goldberg. Jean-Paul Monsignac, wearing a bow tie, was seated next to Florence Mirabeau, who looked at least as nervous as Sam Goldberg. It was probably the first time she'd been part of the team at a reading.

And right on the edge, queening it, sat an extremely satisfied Michelle Auteuil, in black as ever, next to the photographer. “He's really sweet, your Miller, everything went very well with the journalists,” she had said quickly to me as I came into the bookstore.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I began, “this evening I would like to introduce to you an author who has chosen our beautiful city as the setting for his wonderful novel. He could actually be sitting comfortably by the fireplace in his English cottage at this moment, but he has spared no effort to be here to read to us this evening. The title of his novel is
The Smiles of Women,
but it could just as well be called ‘An Englishman in Paris,' since it is all about what happens when an Englishman tries to establish a well-known English automobile manufacturer in Paris, and even more about what happens when an Englishman falls in love with a French woman. Please welcome—Robert Miller!”

The audience clapped and looked expectantly at the slim, agile man in shirt and vest who gave a little bow and went to take his place behind the table.

“Well,” said Robert Miller, leaning back in his chair, smiling, “it's very nice in my cottage, but I must say that I found it very comfortable here too.” Those were his first words.

A few friendly laughs came from the packed rows.

“No, really.” Encouraged by this, Robert Miller went on. “This booksellers is like my … er … living room, except that I don't have so much books.” He looked around. “Wow,” he said, “this is really sexy.”

I wasn't aware of what might be thought sexy about a bookstore—was that English humor?—but the audience liked it anyway.

“Still. I'd like to thank you for coming. Unfortunately I don't say French so good as you, but perhaps it's not too bad for an Anglishman.”

Renewed laughter.

“Right,” said Robert Miller, and opened my book. “Then we'll begin.”

It turned out to be a very entertaining reading. Fired up by the reaction of his fans, Adam's brother hit top form. He read, he mispronounced words amusingly, he told his little jokes; the audience was delighted. I must admit that I couldn't have done it better myself.

At the end there was thunderous applause. I looked over to Adam, who nodded conspiratorially and raised his thumb. Monsieur Monsignac clapped with a satisfied expression and then said something to Mademoiselle Mirabeau, who had hung on the author's words throughout the reading. Then came the first questions from the audience, which our author dealt with masterfully. However, when an attractive blonde in the fifth row asked him about his new novel, he began to deviate from our plan.

“Oh yes!
Of course
there will be a new novel. It's as good as finished,” he said self-satisfiedly, probably forgetting for a moment that he wasn't a real author at all.

“What's your new novel about, Monsieur Miller? Is it set in Paris again?”

The author nodded. “Yes, of course! I love this beautiful city. And these time my hero is an Anglish dentist who falls in love at a conference with a dancer from the Moulin Rouge,” he invented spontaneously.

I gave a warning cough. His excursion into the night life of Paris the previous evening had obviously given him new inspiration.

Miller looked over to me. “Well, I cannot betray all, or my editor will be cross with me and nobody buys my new book,” he said quick-wittedly.

Monsieur Monsignac laughed aloud, as did many others. I squirmed on my seat and tried to smile as well. So far everything had gone well, but now it was time for the dentist to bring things to a close. I stood up.

“Why have you grown a beard, Mr. Miller? Have you got something to hide?” called a precocious young girl with a ponytail from the very back, and then giggled with her friends.

Miller stroked his thick blond beard. “Now, you're very young, mademoiselle,” he replied. “Otherwise you would know that no man likes to show too much of his cards. But…,” he paused for effect, “… if you mean, am I in the Secret Service, I'm afraid I must disappoint you. The explanation is actually much simpler … I have a wonderful…” He stopped, and I held my breath. Surely he wasn't going to talk about his wife? “… a wonderful razor,” he continued. “And one day that was broke.”

Everyone laughed, and I went over to Miller and shook his hand.

“That was great. Many thanks, Robert Miller,” I said loudly, and turned to the audience, who were applauding frenetically. “If no one has any more questions, our author would be glad to move on to signing your books.”

The applause ebbed away, and the first members of the audience were getting up from their seats when a clear, somewhat breathless voice rang out over the rows of chairs.

“I have another question, please,” said the voice, and my heart missed a beat.

On the left, close to the entrance, stood Mademoiselle Aurélie Bredin.

In my lifetime I've chaired many a reading—in much bigger and more important bookstores and with much more famous authors than Robert Miller.

But none of them made me sweat blood and water as much as that Monday evening at the little Librairie Capricorne.

Aurélie Bredin was standing there as if she'd sprung out of the ground, and doom began to approach inexorably in a dark red silk dress and bouffant hair.

“Mr. Miller, did you really fall in love with a Parisienne—like the hero of your novel?” she asked, her lips forming a delicate smile.

Robert Miller looked at me anxiously for a moment, and I closed my eyes and abandoned myself into the hands of God.

“Well … er…” I could feel the dentist losing the plot as he looked over at the woman in the red silk dress once more. “How shall I say … the women in Paris are simply … so … incredibly … attractive … and it is so hard to resist…” He was obviously regaining control and put on his “I'm-just-a-little-boy-who-can't-help-it” smile, before ending his sentence. “But I'm afraid I cannot tell anything—I am a gentleman, you know?”

He sketched a little bow and the audience broke out in applause once more as Monsieur Monsignac leapt forward to congratulate Robert Miller and then be photographed with his author.

“Come over here, André,” he called to me, and waved. “You should be in the photo too!”

I stumbled over to the side of the delighted publisher, who then put an arm around both Robert Miller and me, and whispered to me, “
Il est ravissant, cet Anglais!
This Englishman is delightful.”

I nodded, and forced myself to smile for the picture while anxiously watching the audience forming a line to get their books signed. And the woman in the red silk dress stationed herself at the end of that line.