Chapter 18 Madame Bergol
Madame Bergol
Two days later, Mitch dropped by Anna’s restaurant again. She was in the kitchen, in a foul mood, arguing with the tiler. The tiler had actually dared to tell her that the horizon was curved, which was why the last row of tiles disappeared diagonally behind the sinks.
“Straight lines were invented for a reason,” Anna was shouting. She couldn’t stand being treated like an idiot by a man. “Go fuck yourself on the curved horizon.”
Silence fell over the kitchen.
She hadn’t even said hello to Mitch yet, but she pulled him in as a witness. “Well?” she demanded, pointing at the tiles. “Are they straight or not?”
“They are a little crooked.”
“There. They’re crooked,” she said triumphantly to the tiler. “And this man is an architect. At least he knows how to do his job!”
The tiler seized his toolbox and stormed out of the restaurant, slamming the door so hard that the plate rack rattled on the wall.
“And don’t even get me started on the painters!” Anna fumed. Her chest was heaving, her jaw clenched. It may not have been her finest hour, but her rage caused her cheeks to flush in a most becoming way.
“They promised two coats,” she said, “and I can tell they only did one. Come on, take a look for yourself and tell me what you think.”
“In my capacity as an architect, you mean?”
“That’s not funny, and I’m not in the mood.”
For Mitch, every moment spent in Anna’s company was somehow both wonderful and terrifying. Wonderful, because she was the most extraordinary woman he’d ever met. Terrifying, because she made him feel like he could never be good enough to deserve her.
So he deliberately kept himself at a distance.
The other night, on the bench, the scent of her perfume had driven him so wild that he couldn’t sleep.
So much so that, by morning, he’d barely cared about Salinas anymore.
Instead of obsessing over revenge, he’d found himself fantasizing about burying his face in the curve of her neck, where she smelled of soap, plaster and chocolate.
Anna scratched at the wall with a fingernail. The paint flaked away.
“See? One coat.”
“We can just ask them to come back and do another one. It’s not the end of the world.”
Mitch’s mild response disappointed her, though she was careful not to show it.
She’d hoped he would take more of an interest in her problem, maybe even offer to apply the second coat himself.
He’d promised to help her, hadn’t he? She felt frustrated, though she knew perfectly well that it wasn’t really about the paint.
When Mitch had fixed that pipe in the kitchen, and even more so on the bench by the river, she’d been overwhelmed by how badly she wanted him to kiss her.
And by how badly she wanted to run away so he wouldn’t.
She’d even climbed up that stupid hill, pretending she wanted to watch the sunset.
“Well, I’ve got work to do,” she said now, crisply, “and I’m sure you do too. I’ll stop by the bookshop after I’m done murdering the painters. And on that note, don’t kill that prosecutor without me, okay? We have an agreement.”
“I promise,” Mitch said dryly.
“Good. I’m glad we’re on the same page about that.”
He wondered crossly why she was obsessing over crooked tiles and a coat of paint when they could be sitting on some café terrace instead, enjoying the warm breeze and sharing a perfect afternoon.
She kissed him on the cheek to send him on his way, which irritated him more than he was willing to admit. Still, it allowed him to enjoy another intoxicating whiff of soap, plaster and chocolate – this time with a tinge of acrylic paint, which wasn’t unpleasant either.
“I have a proposition for you,” he said from the doorway.
She looked up, half hoping he was about to roll up his sleeves and grab a paintbrush.
“The next time we get together, let’s not talk about the bookshop, or your renovations. Or anything that directly concerns either of us.”
Anna thought it was a ridiculous idea, but she was too preoccupied to argue. “Fine,” she agreed distractedly. “We’ll talk about whatever you want.”
“No, no. We have to agree on what to talk about. Movies, politics and religion. How’s that sound?”
“Politics and religion, why not – but what do movies have to do with anything?”
“Nothing,” said Mitch.
And with that, he was gone.
* * *
Madame Bergol visited Mitch in the late afternoon, wearing a floaty peach-coloured dress that had probably looked pretty in the boutique window but was far less flattering on her. She found Mitch lost in thought, and she had to cough three times to get his attention.
“How can I help you?” he asked, closing his notebook.
“Do you happen to have any nice, ripe tomatoes?”
“I didn’t know you had a sense of humour,” Mitch retorted, straight-faced.
“I wasn’t trying to be funny. And you really ought to display your opening hours in the window, because they make no sense.
Every time I take the trouble to come all the way here for a book, you’re closed.
If you’ve taken up gardening, be careful; it can become an obsession.
My husband spent more time with his vegetables than he ever did with me. ”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Doesn’t matter anymore; he’s dead. Had a heart attack while picking broccoli.”
“And they say vegetables are good for your health.” Mitch cleared his throat, appalled at himself; the words had just slipped out. “I mean, erm—”
Madame Bergol looked around as someone behind her laughed at the joke. Mitch was gazing at the woman who had just come in, and Madame Bergol was quick to remind him, politely but firmly, that she’d arrived first.
“I thought about your suggestion,” Anna announced, “And it’s not going to work.”
“Oh? Why not?” Mitch asked.
“Religion and politics are exactly why I stopped speaking to my family, so there’s no way to talk about either without it getting personal. And you said nothing that concerns us directly, remember?”
“Oh… well, painting then, and movies… no, forget painting. Movies and…”
“Are you planning to serve me?” seethed Madame Bergol. “Or keep talking nonsense with that idiotic moony look on your face?”
“I’ll leave you to think about it,” Anna said, as if she hadn’t heard Madame Bergol at all. “Meet me at the restaurant, but not before nine. I’ve still got two walls left to paint and I’m on my own.”
Madame Bergol waited for the door to close behind Anna before turning to Mitch, eyebrows raised.
“You’re a goner, I see,” she drawled. “Pity she drew the line at religion; there would have been plenty to talk about. You’ll probably do pretty well with movies, as long as you don’t go on and on about some pretentious film just to seem clever.
She’s not the type to be fooled by that.
Whatever subject you end up choosing, just don’t be dull. The rest doesn’t matter.”
“Anything else?” Mitch asked.
“You like her, she likes you, so don’t waste time complicating things.”
“What things?”
“Your life is about to change, and you’re acting like you don’t even know it.
It’s both endearing and incredibly annoying,” Madame Bergol said, exasperated.
She glanced around the shop. “I came here looking for something to cheer me up, but watching you flail about is far more entertaining than any book. I’ll be back tomorrow same time, so you can tell me about your dinner. Try not to be closed for once.”
And Madame Bergol departed in her peachy dress, leaving Mitch thoroughly bewildered.
* * *
All Mitch could think about was the evening ahead with Anna. He’d never really been into movies; his mother had only ever taken him to see old film noirs, which she’d loved, and by the time he was old enough to go to the theatre alone ticket prices had shot up beyond what he could afford.
He climbed his stepladder, retrieved a thick film encyclopaedia on the top shelf, and read without pause until exactly 8:45 p.m. Then he threw on his jacket, caught a brief glimpse of himself in the small storeroom mirror, fed the cat and headed for his date.
* * *
Anna had let her hair down. She wore an apron over her dress, neatly tied around her waist. Two places were set at a table in the middle of the dining room.
Mitch wondered how she’d managed to get so much work done since the morning.
The floors gleamed, a twelve-arm chandelier now hung from the ceiling, casting soft light over the walls.
The room still smelled of fresh paint. To top it all, there were two steaming bowls of lobster fettucine in a zesty lemon sauce on the table.
“Something wrong?” she asked, as Mitch gaped at her in silence.
He sat down, remembering their agreement not to talk about anything that concerned either of them directly.
So he asked nothing about the meal. He gobbled down the pasta, complimenting it several times, but nothing that resembled a conversation.
During dessert – a divine chocolate mousse – he decided to break the ice.
“Why did politics and religion make you cut ties with your family?”
“What about our rule?” Anna asked, tapping the table with a finger.
“Fine, you win. I give up.”
“My father was a brute who believed fiercely in a God he’d never met and refused to trust the people right there in front of him. He had no faith in reality. He preached about love on Sundays but he spent the rest of the week full of hate.”
“Where is he now?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t want to know.”
“Was he abusive?”
“If constantly being put down is abuse, then yes,” Anna replied grimly, “but I have to give him credit for giving me the drive to get the hell out, to prove that he was nothing but a simple-minded bastard.”
“And your mother?”
“She was either his maid or his accomplice, depending on the day. She died when I was ten, and it turned my father into even more of an arrogant ass. Do you like éclairs?”
Mitch was still processing what Anna had said when she returned from the kitchen with two chocolate éclairs. They smelled just like Anna – chocolatey, warm.
“Tell me if it’s too rich.”