Chapter 13 The Art of Conversation
The Art of Conversation
The moment Anna was through the restaurant’s revolving door she began scanning the dining room, looking for the ma?tre d,’ whose slight frame she quickly spotted emerging from the kitchen. The place was beginning to empty out, and Anna made a beeline for the man, greeting him with a friendly smile.
“Table for lunch, madame?” he asked in a clipped accent.
“You’ve got a stain on your jacket there,” she said, flashing a playful wink. “You really shouldn’t be out front like that.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s me, Walter – Anna. Don’t you remember me? I used to be a waitress here.”
Walter pressed his lips together and frowned, his forehead folding like a tiny topographical map.
“I see,” he said, though he obviously didn’t see very much. “Are you looking for a job?”
Anna shook her head.
“A serving position, perhaps?”
“Nope, still no.”
“Really?”
“Really. Is José in the kitchen?”
“José is no longer with our establishment.”
“How long ago did he leave?”
“It was some time ago,” the ma?tre d’ answered curtly, making no effort now to hide his impatience.
“Do you know where I might find him?”
“You didn’t tell me where you were going when you disappeared without handing in your notice. And even if you had – out of professional courtesy perhaps – you would have expected me to keep it to myself, no?”
“José was my friend. I’d like to see him again.”
“The question is whether he’d like to see you.” He glanced at his watch, as if the answer might be found there.
“I hope you’re enjoying yourself, Walter.”
“It’s Monsieur Walter.”
“You’re not my boss anymore.”
It didn’t take a psychology degree to understand that he had no intention of helping her, and that the conversation was leading nowhere. Anna spun on her heels and stormed away – but hesitated as she reached the revolving door, and retraced her steps.
“Hi, Walter, remember me?”
“Very funny,” he said icily. “Are you sure you’re not looking for a job?”
“I’m not a waitress anymore. I’m a chef.”
“A chef!” he repeated disbelievingly. “And where, may I ask, might one have the pleasure of tasting your culinary work?”
“I… haven’t picked a name yet, but it’s opening soon. If you know anyone who’s sick of being underpaid, feel free to send them my way. I’ll be needing a good ma?tre d’ soon.”
Walter looked her up and down, stone-faced. “I have work to do,” he said at last, pursing his lips. Anna sighed and turned to leave, resigning herself to defeat – but he called after her.
“This restaurant of yours. Is it real, or are you just messing with me?”
“What do you think?”
“Well, you’ve got some nerve, showing up here to poach the staff. Is that why you wanted to speak to José?”
“Surely you can’t expect anything but the utmost discretion from me.”
Walter sighed. “Naturally.”
He took a deep breath, and an abrupt change came over him. He seemed warmer somehow.
“He was fired not long after you left.”
“Who, José? He’s the best sous-chef I’ve ever worked with!”
“How many have you worked with, exactly?”
“Why was he fired?”
“There was a serious incident in the kitchen. I can’t say any more than that, and please keep it confidential.
Poor guy had a hard time finding another position.
Last I heard, he was working in a Mediterranean place on the east side of town.
Le Conquistador.” Walter shook his head, as if it pained him just to say it aloud.
“Of course, it goes without saying that you didn’t hear any of this from me,” he added.
“Understood.”
Walter caught her arm, leaned in, and murmured, “Let me know when your place opens. I’ll come and see how you’re running the floor.”
Then he let her go and vanished into the kitchen. Anna left the restaurant, shaken.
She hadn’t come to recruit José. Trying to haul him off a cruise ship onto her barely floating dinghy would’ve been both absurd and far beyond her means.
That being said, it didn’t take a genius to link his firing to the poisoning of Commissioner Jabert, and she felt responsible for what had happened to him.
She’d go and find him as soon as possible – or at least, as soon as she’d thought of a way to make amends.
She checked her watch and hurried off. She made her way down the station boulevard and arrived slightly late at the café where her contractor sat waiting.
Monsieur Bariquez seemed competent and honest, albeit impossibly stubborn when it came to his rates.
His round glasses made him appear vaguely professorial – until he started talking, as he spoke a kind of pidgin dialect that suggested a childhood scattered across several countries.
Every third sentence, he repeated the phrase “No promesas en el aire, no discutir la calidad”: “No empty promises, no compromises on quality.” Referring to the kitchen, he assured Anna with gravity that the ventilacióne would be essenciale, adding that he was un experto in such matters.
Anna was inclined to believe him, though it was hard to keep her focus. Guilt tugged at her every time she pictured poor José stirring paella in Le Conquistador’s kitchen – not that she had anything against paella per se, but it was a terrible waste of the sous-chef’s talent.
Eventually, Monsieur Bariquez agreed to shave five percent off the quote, but not before swearing three times that he was bleeding himself dry for her, and that he wouldn’t even consider it if she wasn’t so bonita (which apparently he meant as ‘nice’).
Anna thanked him, signed the estimate, and handed him a deposit cheque.
Leaving the café, she told herself that a good book might be just the thing to take her mind off things. A completely random decision, of course, that guided her footsteps just a short way down the street.
* * *
Mitch was chewing absentmindedly on the end of a pencil, buried in his inventory, when the door swung open.
“So, what book would you suggest?” asked the new customer.
He froze mid-chew. His jaw dropped a good few centimetres, his eyebrows rising by at least that much.
“Book?” he echoed stupidly.
“That is why people usually come in here, isn’t it?”
She flashed him that open, unfiltered smile – the kind that slipped out whenever she was being spontaneous, shooting quips she then immediately regretted making.
““Uh… yeah,”Mitch mumbled. “Ordinarily.”
“Well, then I’m in the right place, because I’m an ordinary woman. Totally ordinary, even,” Anna said, glancing down at her old raincoat.
“No. Not even close. And I can’t imagine you don’t know that.”
“Doesn’t matter. Let’s just pretend I am. I’d really like to leave here with something good to read.”
Mitch clenched the muscles of his right leg, determined not to limp, and stepped out from behind the counter. He selected a book from a table, skimmed the back cover, grimaced, set it down. Tried another. Then another. By the fifth, Anna had come up beside him and gently placed a hand on his arm.
“Are you going to pick one?”
He couldn’t speak.
“Just suggest something. I’ll be happy with anything,” she promised.
“A cup of tea?”
She blinked, caught off guard. Mitch blushed very deeply.
As it turned out, Anna wasn’t the only one with a tendency to blurt things out when overwhelmed.
“No – I meant – a book, obviously. I was going to suggest a book…” He was stammering now.
“A tearoom works too,” Anna said, surprised to find how much the idea delighted her, despite the enormous amount of work she had to do that afternoon. “I didn’t have time for lunch anyway,” she added hastily, to give herself an excuse. “You pick the place. I can come back for the book another day.”
Mitch locked the front door of the shop and led her out through the courtyard. Spotting the stray cat, she went over to scratch it behind the ears.
“Is he yours?”
“Nope. He’s our night watchman.”
She followed Mitch out of the courtyard without comment.
They veered off the main avenue, turned down a side street, then another, then another.
They roamed the area in this way for almost an hour, silent except for the occasional bit of small talk.
Mitch was uncomfortably aware that he had no idea where to take her, for the simple reason that he’d never been to a tearoom.
They were making their way around a square when Anna stopped and scanned the horizon.
“We’ve come quite a long way, haven’t we?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Do you know where we’re going?”
“Um… not exactly.”
“I thought so.”
“I usually walk along the river, but I thought that was a bit too clichéd.”
“Never be afraid of clichés.” Anna grinned. “Pretty sure the river’s on the other side of town by now, though. The next café we see will do just fine.”
Ten minutes later, she pointed out a little bistro. Inside, she sank down onto a bench seat and ordered a vodka.
“I know it’s still early, but I need a pick-me-up that will really pick me up,” she explained.
“Rough day?”
Anna nodded.
“Do you mind if I ask why?”
“You can, but I’d rather not even think about it. Why don’t you tell me about your day instead?”
Mitch ordered a tequila and the waiter disappeared.
“So, tequila’s your thing, eh?” Anna asked.
“Oh – no, not usually. It was yesterday that I could really have used a drink.”
“Why? What happened yesterday?”
“I ran into an old enemy. I thought I could put the past behind me, stop caring, you know? Turns out I was very wrong.”
“A woman?”
Mitch shook his head.
“I’m not normally an angry person, but ever since I saw him, I’ve been filled with rage. And I don’t like how it feels.”
“What about him – how did he react?”
“He either didn’t see me, or didn’t recognize me.”
“Old boyfriend?”
Mitch smiled faintly. “Definitely not.”
“Then what did he do to you?”
“It’s a long, tedious story.”
Anna leaned in a little. She could see in Mitch’s eyes that it had been an effort for him to confide even this much. And when he’d said that he wasn’t an angry person, she’d believed him without hesitation.
“Maybe, but now I’m curious. I already know what you do for a living, so I can’t ask you that. And if you asked me, it wouldn’t be very original. We could also just sit here in silence – I’m not afraid of that.”
“Well, what about you?” he offered. “Is there someone in your life you can’t ever forgive?”
“There was. But I gave him a taste of his own medicine. We’re even now.”
“Do you think getting revenge brings peace?”
“No. Well… maybe. It’s not noble. But sometimes standing your ground isn’t about pride, it’s about survival. Most girls learn that the hard way, as early as middle school.”
“What were you like as a teenager?” Mitch asked.
“That’s a funny thing to ask! Never heard that one before,” she said, laughing. “Why do you ask?”
“I’m not much good at making conversation, as you might’ve noticed. You might even have thought I wasn’t interested, but nothing could be further from the truth. I guess if you want to get to know someone, it’s best to start at the beginning of the story, just like with books.”
“Fair enough.” She smiled. “I used to be obsessed with soccer, and since I had sort of an androgynous body, I managed to make it onto the boys’ team.
I could outrun them, and I scored a lot more goals.
I ended up making forward. None of them could block my shots and I loved humiliating them.
I’d come up with an unbeatable technique: when I kicked the ball, I’d grunt, like tennis players do.
It added extra force to my kick and threw the goalie off.
Every time.” She trailed off, then shrugged.
“Then my chest started to grow. And that was the end of that dream.”
Mitch determinedly looked anywhere but at Anna’s breasts.
“They kicked you off the team for that?” he asked, staring intently at the bad Mondrian imitation hanging behind Anna’s shoulder.
“I was the one who quit. Nature was taking its course. My teammates were growing up too – getting stronger, gaining stamina. I couldn’t compete with them on the field anymore. And I’m a very sore loser.”
“What did you do after that?”
“I ran toward adulthood as fast as I could, but that’s a whole different story.”
“Why so fast?”
“To get away from home.”
“You didn’t get along with your parents?”
“It depended on the day, but there were more and more days when I didn’t. They had a plan for me. And I had a different one.”
“Has it come true?”
“Almost. That’s why I came back.”
“Where had you gone?”
“Far away. Really far. But I’m talking too much, and you’re asking a lot of questions.”
The art of conversation was more complicated than Mitch had realized. There must be a certain minimum number of questions to ask, and also a number not to exceed. Books seemed wonderfully straightforward all of a sudden.
“What about your dreams?” Anna was asking. “Have they already come true?”
“I’m working on it. As we speak, in fact. I don’t mean right now, here with you,” he added quickly, faced with her confused expression. “Not that I’m not enjoying this a lot… am I allowed to say that?”
“You are, yes. What do you mean, then?”
“Well… I actually just got back from a long trip, too.”
“Where were you?”
“Prison.”