In the Kitchen (52 page)

Gabriel finished his drink. Chef Albert handed him another can. At these close quarters Chef Albert's skin was biscuity, his nose was iced with pink, and his eyes, which once had been deep and sorrowful, were only two burnt currants embedded in his head.

'Well, I'm sure,' said Gabriel. 'But I'm not here to talk about that. I'm here to talk about food.'

'Our first love,' cried Chef Albert. 'We will talk of nothing else. My maman, God rest 'er soul, was from Dordogne and she 'ave teach me what she love –

confit, truffle, fois gras. And my papa, God rest 'is soul, was from Brittany, and from 'im I 'ave learn about ze seafood. One time we went to the river and – zis will make you laugh – 'He slapped the counter and laughed helplessly.

'What we need ...' began Gabriel.

'Yes, yes,' roared Chef Albert. 'What we need – to relax, to laugh ... You are always welcome in my kitchen. One time we went to the river ...' He broke off as the assistant approached, a question on his lips. 'Get back!' shouted Chef Albert, waving his arms. 'Men are talking. Go back.

'I was twenty-three and twenty-four,' he continued, 'when I was in military service in Africa. Two years in Ivory Coast and Senegal. I 'ave learn so much.

In Senegal, they 'ave a dish with rice and vegetables and fried fish, and you eat from a big pot on the floor and you roll your sleeve, like zis, and when ze oil runs down to ze elbow it is – ' He smacked his lips. 'Perfect. And –

zis is very funny – one day zey gave me some hot chilli chutney and I 'ave dip a prawn and – incroyable – like fire on my tongue and this mama comes ...' He broke off once more to throw a wholegrain roll at the assistant who again had wandered too close. 'She says, I 'elp you, and we went to ze coconut tree and then ... but you need another drink.' He jumped up. When he sat back down he began another story, about Corsica, which he did not complete before moving off into another anecdote.

The assistant looked on from a safe distance. Every time Gabriel glanced over he caught him staring. Gabriel frowned back.

For another twenty minutes he sat there half listening to Chef Albert's half-told tales. He drank another two cans. At the back of his mind there was a notion, increasingly dim, that he had come here to discuss something in particular. When his legs finally stirred themselves and he stood up he tried once more to rake up what that particular matter might be. He could not remember but about this he felt no sense of failure. On the contrary, his load was lightened, as if he had accomplished something. If anyone was going bonkers around here it was not Gabriel, it was Chef Albert.

'We are free spirits, no?' cried Chef Albert, grabbing Gabriel as he rose.

Gabriel, at the clammy feel of the hand on his skin, looked down.

'Liberté, égalité, nudité,' shouted Chef Albert, removing his white coat as Gabriel, in his socks and boxer shorts, padded swiftly out of range.

The main kitchen, between shifts, was deserted and Gabriel made it back to his cubicle without being seen. He dressed himself. At least he wasn't sweating now. At least he had cooled down. In fact it had been a good idea to sit chilling in pastry for a while. Was he ever one for following petty conventions? No, he had always gone his own way. He scratched the back of his head with both hands. He scratched until it hurt. He looked at his fingernails. They were covered in blood.

Damn it, why was everything turning against him? Why? What had he done to deserve it? He hadn't done anything. He was a good man. Basically, in his heart, where it counted, he was good. All he had ever done in his entire life was work hard, stay on the straight and narrow, and be as decent as he could.

Well, fuck it, fuck them, and fuck it all. Gabriel leaned against the wall so that his arm was trapped. He felt the blood trickle down the back of his neck.

He worked himself into the space between the filing cabinet and the wall. This was a good place to think. Ha! He was resourceful. He was resilient. He was disciplined. He'd show everyone.

Strength of character, that was what it took. He had it, and in spades. He stared at the cracked plaster in the corner. Pins and needles in his arms.

Was he disciplined? Was he resourceful? What evidence did he have?

He pushed his weight on to the filing cabinet until it budged a millimetre or two.

If there were one, just one way he'd describe himself, it would be thoughtful.

He never rushed into things.

Although with Lena, he had to admit, events had overtaken him.

Something surged and sucked back inside him, like a tide that was going out.

He needed to know now, and he needed to know urgently, what he was. He grabbed at words. Fair. He was fair, oh yes, everyone said so, everyone knew it. He was fair and he was reasonable. That was him. A perfect description. Above all, he was a reasonable man. Maybe not this morning with Oona, no, that was out of character. He wasn't really like that.

What he was ... though it was hard to think with the pain in his arm and the pain in his head ... he was really ... to everyone close to him ... and he included ... the main thing about him ... loyal ... oh, damn it ... fun, funny ... for Christ's sake ... he knew what he was.

He was empty. The tide was far from shore.

For a few minutes he hung his head, his legs felt loose, and the only thing keeping him upright was being wedged between the filing cabinet and the wall.

What am I? he thought. What am I? The question pinged round and round plaintively until, firing faster and faster, it took on a sharper edge. What am I? What am I? A nobody? A nothing? A zero? Am I a hollow man? He was angry.

He was furious. He backed out of the hole into which he had forced himself. He rubbed his arms to get the circulation started again.

Gabriel paced the office floor. What was he? Was he a man without qualities? A man about whom nothing could be said? No, he was somebody. He knew who he was.

He had cooked in a two-star restaurant in Paris. At the age of only twenty-four he had run a London restaurant with a friend. He had cooked in Austria, in Switzerland, in Brighton and Lyon. He had worked at the Savoy. He was somebody. He pulled up the blind and sat at his desk to survey his domain.

He was somebody. He lacked only the right words. With a shaking hand he pressed the message button on the telephone. He listened and then played it again and once again. You are through to the office of Gabriel Lightfoot, executive chef of the Imperial Hotel.

'That's me,' said Gabe, out loud. 'That's my telephone, this is my office and that is me.'

The next moment he was seized by a new idea. It seemed to enter not so much his mind as his body, making him jump up and run out.

He couldn't describe himself. He couldn't see his own face. He would have to ask someone else.

'Suleiman,' he said, panting with excitement. 'Suleiman, if you had to describe me in three words, what would you say?'

Suleiman peered anxiously over the top of his imaginary spectacles. 'Chef, could you please repeat the question?'

'Three words. Describe me. First three things that come into your head.'

Suleiman looked aghast. 'Without preparation—' he began.

Gabriel had already moved on to Benny. 'OK, listen, this is not a trick question and you can say whatever you like. How would you describe me in only three words?'

'Only three words?' said Benny.

Gabe nodded eagerly. 'Yes, brilliant, you've got the idea. Good man.'

'I would say, tall.' He looked Gabe slowly up and down. 'Tall. White. Male.'

'No,' moaned Gabriel. He collapsed against the worktop.

'Chef ?'

Gabriel sprang to life. 'Never mind.' He raced for the door. Only Charlie could help him. He had to see her now.

Twice, over the intercom, she told him to go away. 'Please,' he begged, 'I'll only stay two minutes. If you ever loved me ... please.'

'Oh, you're really something,' she said, and buzzed him in.

He tried to embrace her in the doorway but Charlie dodged him, backed up quickly and inserted herself in a chair.

'Thank you for seeing me,' he said, trying to calm himself. He hovered on the rug.

'It better be good.'

'I have to talk to you, Charlie, you have to talk to me, there's no one else ...' He bit his tongue to stop it babbling. He needed to anchor himself to something. He darted to the table and held it by two corners. If he let go he might float up to the ceiling like a helium balloon.

'What's that on your collar? Are you bleeding?' said Charlie, half getting up.

'Why have you come in your work clothes?'

'It's nothing, it's nothing,' said Gabriel. 'It's a scratch.' He glanced at the dark streaks on his fingers, the cakes of blood beneath his nails.

Charlie crossed her legs. She held herself so stiffly that her back became concave. 'Well? Let's hear it, whatever it is.'

'Darling ...' said Gabriel.

'If you think ...'

'No, no, let me explain. You're the one who really knows me. That's the reason I've come here. I know you won't ... I know we can't ... All I want is for you to tell me. And I'm the one who knows you too.' He was appalled by his burbling but still he carried on. 'We had some good times, do you remember? I remember. I haven't forgotten anything. When you broke a heel – that was our first date – and I had to ...'

'Gabe! I'm going out soon. What do you want? What do you want me to tell you?

That it's over? It is.'

'I know,' groaned Gabriel. 'You don't have to tell me that.' He let go of the table and began to drift around the room. 'Oh, for God's sake, Charlie, it's a mess. It's all a mess. What's happened to me?'

Charlie folded her arms. With her legs still crossed, she tucked a foot around the ankle of the other l
eg.
The more Gabriel talked the tighter she wrapped herself away from him.

But he could not stop. 'You asked me why I became a chef. Do you remember? You do, I know you do – you see, I know you. I know how you are. Every look. That one too. What was I saying? Oh yes. By the way, am I talking too much? I won't keep talking. I'll sit down and then I'll ask ... it's the only reason I came and it won't take two minutes, I promise you. Why a chef ? I can't sit. Do you mind if I walk?' He walked and talked.

Abruptly, he stopped pacing and whipped round to face her. Charlie had grabbed a cushion and squeezed it to her chest. Her voice wavered slightly as she spoke. 'Gabriel, will you please calm down. Sit down and take some nice, deep breaths.'

'Charlie,' he cried, springing to her side. 'Don't worry. I'm fine. I'm sorry, I must look a mess. Should I wash my hands? Is there blood on my face? No?

It's OK, I won't touch you. Now, look at me!' He took some deep breaths. 'I'm calm. I'm normal. I'm fine.'

Charlie put the cushion behind her back. She uncoiled a bit. 'Your father, what were you talking about? You were speaking so fast I couldn't ... is he all right?'

'Oh yes,' he said, reassuringly. 'Dad's perfectly all right. Apart from the cancer. Apart from that. Now, where was I?' He took up his pacing again. His fingers were digging into the back of his head. The pain was stopping him thinking properly. 'I know,' he said, quickly patting his pockets, 'I'll have a cigarette. You don't mind. Otherwise, I keep scratching, you see. It's a little trick I've learned.' He smoked and weaved in and out of the furniture.

Suddenly he saw everything clearly. Yes, he could face up to it now. 'All my life, Charlie, I've been drifting. I have. That's my problem. I'm owning up.'

His voice rose as if in ecstasy. 'Drifting – from town to town, from job to job. Yes, from girl to girl. Don't ... don't look at me like that. Can't you understand? My mother scared me. It's true. A boy never recovers. It's all ...

you never get away from ...'

'Stop,' cried Charlie, getting up. She placed her hands fiercely on her hips.

'I've heard enough. You come round here and make excuses, the most pathetic excuses, blaming your mother – how do you think you'll get away with that? You cheat on me, you have a ... I don't know what ... with a ... with some poor girl who ... and you come round here and explain that it's all your mother's fault, and I'm supposed to ... what? I was scared of my mother as if ...

bullshit, Gabriel, it's the first I've heard of it.'

'I wasn't scared of her,' said Gabriel, tapping ash into a vase. 'She scared me. Don't you see the difference? No, you can't throw me out. Close the door.

Close it. I'll close it. Shit, sorry, mind my cigarette. Are you OK?' He trailed her like a shadow as she flitted around the room. His left arm began to jerk up. He stood still for a moment to light another cigarette. He held it in his left hand and smoked alternately from left and right. 'I'm getting to the point now, Charl
ie.
I'm coming right to it.' Oh, she was lovely. He loved the way she tossed her hair. He should get on his knees. He should kiss her feet.

'What are you doing?' said Charl
ie.
'Why are you smoking, anyway? You're dropping ash all over the place. Gabe, I want you to leave.'

'I will,' said Gabriel, passionately. 'I'll do whatever you want.'

'You shouldn't smoke.'

'It's a free country, isn't it? It's my choice.'

'It's an addiction. What kind of choice is that? Oh, I don't even want to argue with you. I just want you to go.'

'I'm not addicted,' said Gabe.

'You're smoking two cigarettes.'

'Because I want to,' declared Gabriel, lighting a third from the butt of his first. 'Now, will you tell me – and then I'll leave, for ever if you like. You don't want me to leave for ever, do you, Charlie? You don't mean that.'

'Tell you what?' said Charl
ie.
She stood behind the sofa. He stood in front of it with his knees pressed into the seat. She looked down at his hands as if they held two smoking guns.

'Tell me what I'm like. Describe me. In as many words as you want.'

Charlie opened her mouth. She shook her head. She uttered a word he could not make out.

'Bit louder,' said Gabriel, trembling in anticipation. 'I couldn't hear.'