7 Julia
7
Julia
June, 2002 – Bonn
Christoph had been home for two days. His condition had improved, but he was still weak and had little appetite. Julia had tried everything to get him to eat the meals that were delivered. In desperation, she’d rung the doctor and asked her what to do. ‘Maybe you can think of a dish that will tempt him,’ she’d said. ‘The main thing is that he eats something, or we might have to readmit him.’
Julia sat with Christoph in his bedroom. He pushed aside the plate of chicken that had been dropped off that day.
‘I can’t eat it,’ he said wearily.
‘But you have to eat something,’ Julia said.
Christoph turned towards the window. He was slipping away. She couldn’t bear it. He was the closest thing she had to a father figure. His weakened state reminded Julia of her mum. Julia had felt such a sense of helplessness. Surely it didn’t have to be like that with Christoph too.
‘Would you like pancakes?’ Julia said desperately. ‘Or something else? I can go to the shops if you don’t like these meals on wheels.’
‘Sorry,’ Christoph said, his shoulders slumped. ‘I don’t know what I want, but I’m not hungry for this.’
Julia bit her thumbnail. It was hard to know how much he remembered from the hospital. When he was discharged, the doctor had explained to him again that the memory lapses could be the result of dementia and that he should consider having further tests. Christoph had waved her words away, apparently too tired to take them in.
Julia settled him down with a sigh. Perhaps she could try and talk to him another time. She closed the bedroom door. Maybe he just needed a few more days to rest.
She paused on the landing, glancing at the narrow staircase to the attic. Daniel’s room. No one would know if she popped up there. Just one quick look. Seeing his room might answer the many questions burning in her head. Was he still going out with Kat? What was keeping him in Frankfurt?
The stairs creaked under her feet. Heart pounding, Julia opened the door. The wall above the bed was still covered in photos. She inhaled the scent of patchouli. Just like that night.
She was about to go in, but something stopped her. What was she doing? She didn’t need to see his room to know that nothing had changed. The bean bags and coffee table. Candles on every surface. Too many memories. She closed the door and went back downstairs. She was here because of Christoph. No one else.
She went downstairs, determined to sort out the music room. While Christoph slept, she yanked the window open. A breeze rippled over the grand piano, fluttering the papers strewn across it. It was on this piano that she’d written her own ending to Mozart’s ‘Fantasia’. She’d fired off the notes with a pent-up energy she’d never possessed before. Julia sighed. It was also the last time she’d ever tried composing.
The whole place would need tidying before she could do any practising on the piano. She went to fetch the vacuum cleaner from the cupboard under the stairs.
The narrow space was full of clutter. As she pulled the vacuum cleaner out, it knocked a box off the shelf and sent the contents tumbling on to the floor.
Damn it. She ducked down to pick up the debris that had fallen, hoping there were no spiders. Among the seed packets and catalogues, she found a hardback notebook with a tatty leather cover.
Intrigued, she opened it, holding the flyleaf towards the light. There was a dedication written in cursive handwriting: à Christoph, nos recettes. J’espère qu’ils te ramèneront à moi. Tout mon amour, Sylvie.
Julia translated it. To Christoph, our recipes. I hope one day they lead you back to me. All my love, Sylvie .
What was a book of recipes doing shoved away in here? And why had this woman dedicated the book to Christoph? Julia backed out of the cupboard, bringing the book with her. Sylvie. She’d never heard him mention that name, but then the main focus of their conversations had always been music.
Julia wandered into the kitchen, the vacuum cleaner forgotten, and sat down at the table. She turned the pages carefully. They were dry to the touch and had aged to yellow. A long-ago scent rose from the paper. Each page contained a recipe, some written in French, others in German. The pages were covered with instructions and scribblings. The ink had faded to brown, and Julia could see blots and scratches from the nib of a fountain pen. Even more intriguing were the stains – a splatter of sauce or a smudge of cooking oil – that revealed the cooking process itself. The pages were well thumbed, as if the recipes had been used often, revisited and loved.
Up on the kitchen shelf, there was a row of Hilde’s recipe books, all by well-known chefs. But this book was more personal; it was handwritten and curated.
The first recipe was a scribbled note for Fischkotelett. It looked quite plain: just haddock and breadcrumbs. The next recipe was for crème br?lée. Across the top, Sylvie had written: Do you remember? It was the first time we met . Julia read on, fascinated by the detailed instructions: Heat the cream. Beat the yolks with the sugar and add the cream. Pour the mixture into ramekins … ’ Sylvie sounded like she had known what she was doing.
Julia thought of Christoph, thin under the bedspread, his eyes weary. He was disintegrating in front of her eyes, and she was powerless to stop it. Julia’s breathing quickened. She glanced at the old recipe book. The food from the meal-delivery service meant nothing. But these recipes might mean something to Christoph.
There was one huge flaw in this plan, however. Julia couldn’t cook for toffee.
Why was she so useless at cooking? True, she’d been too busy with the piano and had seen cooking as a chore, but there was more to it than that. Her mum’s angry voice came back to her. The day she’d tried to make a birthday cake for Anna: ‘Clean this mess up. You should have been at the piano, not making a cake.’
Julia straightened her shoulders. Well, she was a grown woman of twenty-seven now, not a girl of ten. Surely she could have a go at making one simple meal from the recipe book for Christoph.
Hours later, after tidying the music room and making a trip to the supermarket, Julia began to wish she’d never attempted the crème br?lée. Her initial burst of confidence had ebbed rapidly. The kitchen table was strewn with eggshells and ramekins.
Julia took the final batch of crème br?lée out from under the grill. It was her fourth attempt, and it had to work because there weren’t any eggs left. The same quest for perfection she experienced while playing the piano had taken hold. Unfortunately, despite her best efforts, the crème br?lée fell far short of perfection.
She placed the ramekins on the cooling rack. Five of the crème br?lées were charred black. The sixth looked all right though. Julia wasn’t sure if the custard underneath had set properly, but it would have to do. She only hoped Christoph would eat it.