The Cathari Treasure (Cameron Kincaid) (9 page)

* * *
* *

About four hours out of
Montreal, Cameron saw an exit for Highway 25.  He turned off the freeway
and drove south.  Marie stirred and then woke under the streetlamps of a
small town main street.  She had awoken several times over the passed few
hours, never quite comfortable enough to stay asleep.  Neither Marie nor
Nicole had asked to stop, Cameron was thankful for that.

“Where are we?” asked Marie.

“The sign said Colborne. 
We’re getting close,” said Cameron.  He handed Marie the scrap of paper
containing the directions and she helped navigate the next few miles of short
turns and dirt roads.

Marie could not easily make out
Pepe’s notes.  She held the paper down by the light of the ashtray and
tried to decipher the last few scrawls.  Cameron put his finger on the
paper and pointed at a small straight line, “I believe that is a ‘L’ meaning
left,” said Cameron.

“Then why is it not like the
others?”

Cameron moved his finger back to
the line above to see what was written.

“Look out!” yelled Marie.

Cameron looked up to see two
golden eyes above the road before them, flying toward the car.  Cameron
hit the brake and the back of the car slightly fishtailed, stopping in front of
a large deer standing in the middle of the road.  The deer looked across
the road, back at he car, back across the road, and then sauntered away.

“Whew,” said Cameron, “That will
get your heart pumping.”

“Nicole,” said Marie.  She
turned to the backseat.

“She is still sleeping,” said
Cameron, “didn’t even flinch.”

Marie put the paper back under
the dashboard light, “So, the next turn is a left, I think.”

Cameron drove slower and let his
eyes sneak out into the woods in search of any other creatures that may decide
to traverse their path.  Soon they made the last of the turns and came to
the entrance of a two-track trail.

The cabin appeared as a brown
wall at the end of the two-track.  Cameron turned off the engine and left
the headlights on.  The engine terminated to a sudden stillness. 
Cameron sat in the quiet, feeling numb.  His eyes were glazed and he
wanted a shower.  Nicole, still half asleep, leaned forward.

“We’re here,” said Marie.

The car doors opened to a sweet
rush of cool air.  The sound of Lake Ontario crashing upon the shore
echoed through the trees around them.  They had not seen Lake Ontario from
the main road and the lake remained hidden from view.

Cameron got out of the car then
went to the cabin door.  The key on the ring slid in easily.  He
stepped back to the car and killed the headlights.

The cabin was backlit to the
moonlight flooding the trees on either side.

“Ok,” said Cameron.  “Let’s
head in.”

“Can we see the moon first?”
asked Nicole.

“Why not,” said
Cameron.

The three walked toward the
lunar light at the side of the cabin.  Turning the corner, they were
instantly struck with a large waning moon floating above the sea of Lake
Ontario.  In front of the lake, the crashing ebbs were clearer, louder,
and the light breeze was moist against their cheeks.

“It’s beautiful,” said Nicole,
“it’s like an ocean.”

“Yeah, it’s one of God’s amazing
creations,” said Cameron.

“But it’s not,” said Nicole, and
she turned back toward the door of the cabin.

* * *
* *

Lake Ontario

Their arrival to the cabin
invigorated them.  The southern glass framed wall that faced Lake Ontario
stood the two stories of the shaker frame, the bedrooms recessed on the
balconied second floor above the kitchen.  The hearth sat on the sidewall,
the large stone chimney dwarfing the room.  Cameron had a secret dread
that a large stuffed bust may be mounted on a wall or that a bearskin may drape
the balcony, neither was the case.

The cabin was only remote in the
sense the property was away from the highway.  The cabin was still
connected to the grid.  The lights flicked on with the switch.  The
natural gas stored in the large tank out by the shed would need to be turned on
for hot water and cooking.  Cameron turned the gas on as Pepe had
instructed while Marie and Nicole prepared the bedrooms upstairs.

When Cameron yelled up to tell
them that the gas had been turned on he found Marie and Nicole were already at
work washing away the last few days travel.

Cameron opened the fireplace
flue and quickly prepared a fire with some of the chopped wood that was stacked
neatly along the
stonewall
.  The dried wood
ignited without much effort.  Cameron placed some larger pieces over the
flame and then went into the kitchen.

The pantry consisted of a small
walk-in area off the kitchen with shelves lining three walls top to bottom.
 Cameron pulled the weighted string that hovered in the center of the room
illuminating the bare bulb attached to the end.  The dried food goods were
shelved in an orderly fashion.  Grains and pastas filled an entire shelf,
large cans and bottles of juice and water lined the top, and an array of canned
goods covered the bottom shelves.  Considering Marie and Nicole’s dietary
restrictions the choices were ample.  He took down some pasta and olive
oil and found cans of tomatoes, potatoes, white beans, and spinach.  He
took them over to the counter and then opened the large cupboard door where he
thought he would find pots and pans.  Cameron was right, they were inside,
plus an item he did not expect.  A large mustard yellow clay cone capping
a matching pot sat centered on the front of the shelf.  Cameron had
forgotten Pepe’s adoration for Moroccan cuisine.  That there would be a
tagine in Pepe’s cupboard should have been no surprise.

Cameron returned to the pantry,
swapped the pasta for a bag of Israeli couscous and then gathered an array of
institutional sized containers of cayenne, curry, paprika, and salt.  He
turned on the oven to preheat and went to work.

At the end of the counter, a
small portable cassette deck was plugged in the wall.  On top of the deck
were cassette tapes.  Cameron thought them antiquated and did not expect
much in way of music when he flipped through them.  He did not know the
artist on the first two cassettes, the last he recognized, Pavarotti.  The
cassette slipped in to the player and the small door snapped shut
tightly.  With a stroke of the play button the tenor’s voice filled the
kitchen.

* * *
* *

Marie and Nicole came down to
the main room.  The dim amber light of the fire accented the furnishings
and through the tall glass, the waning moon shined.  The soft smell of cumin,
nutmeg, and cinnamon lingered over the smell of the burning wood.

Cameron reclined on the large
sofa with one leg up on the edge of the long coffee table.  In his hand he
held a glass of red wine.

“You look refreshed,” said
Cameron.

Marie and Nicole had found sweat
clothes that fit well enough and their heads were so tightly wrapped in shaggy
towels they reminded Cameron of turbans he had often seen men wearing behind
the wheel of the New York yellow cabs.

“We left plenty of hot water for
you,” said Marie.

“That sounds good,” said
Cameron.  He gestured to the table, “There is wine on the table and the
food is about ready.”  A bottle of wine stood between two small tea lights
and three stations of plates, silverware, and placemats.

“Very proper Mister Kincaid,”
said Marie.

Cameron placed another log on
the fire, jabbed the wood into place with the iron poker, and then walked
toward the staircase.  “Relax,” said Cameron, “I’ll be five minutes, and
then we can eat.”

* * *
* *

With the trials of the last few
days, that Cameron was a New York chef had slipped Marie’s mind.  She had
never actually had a chance to eat anything at the restaurant to build an
impression.  Up until now, her thoughts of ‘Mister Kincaid’ were of his
experience as a mercenary, a retired soldier.  Marie’s thoughts were
reinforced by actions that made her feel safe in his company.  Now she was
reminded that his past profession had been put aside for his new vocation and
the presentation was impressive.

After the Lord’s Prayer, dinner
started with a full fruity Spanish wine from Pepe’s wine cave.  With that
wine, Marie could have washed down most anything edible or not.  Still
Cameron astonished her.  Though this was not the first time Marie had
eaten a stew from a tagine this was the last thing she expected to see on the
table.  When Cameron removed the heavy clay cone, a steam ripe with
cinnamon and cayenne misted the table.  The large pasta pearls of
couscous, marbled with spice, formed a thick base across the platter of the
pot.  Potatoes, tomatoes, and spinach symmetrically covered the field in a
colorful ornate design.

“This from tins?” asked Marie.

Cameron flashed a wink, “One
more thing.”

Cameron picked up a wide spatula
then opened the door to the oven.  He thrust the spatula under a large
ball of foil and then balanced the foil from the oven to the table to let the
ball rest on a plate next to the wine.  Cameron’s arms hovered above the
ball with his hands bent forward, rattlesnakes ready to strike.  Decisive
and quick, he snapped both hands forward, striking to the edges of the foil,
curling his index fingers to pinch back at his thumbs.  Each time
Cameron’s fingers met the hot foil he blurted a word, “Ta, Ta.”  The first
attempt set free a fold that fastened the foil.  A second strike pulled
the foil back, unveiling a browned loaf of bread.

Marie and Nicole both clapped.

“Mister Kincaid,” said Nicole,
“this looks amazing.”

When Cameron took his seat,
Marie raised her glass to him, “To the chef.”

“Thank you,” said Cameron, accepting
the toast.

“Pain frais, how nice,” said
Nicole.

“How were you able to bake bread
so fast?” asked Marie.

“It’s a trick I learned in the
Legion.  It is soda bread,” Cameron wagged his finger from side to
side,  “no yeast.”

“And you had everything you needed?”

“Yeah sure.  It is
essentially just vinegar, water, flour, and baking soda of course.”

“Baking soude?”

“Bicarbonate de soude.”

“Marvelous,” said Marie.

“Don’t be so sure, though I
guarantee it’s better then pain de guerre, if you have ever had it.  I
wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

“Ce qui est du pain de guerre,
Mister Kincaid?” asked Nicole.

“Pain de guerre, war bread, was
something I ate a few times a day for the first few years of my hitch in the
Legion.  It’s very nutritious,” Cameron looked above the table, his face
crumpled, “but hard as a rock and tastes,” he moved his jaw around pretending
to chew, “like paper Mache might taste.”  He stuck his tongue out and
curled his lips up.  Cameron then smiled and broke off a piece of the soda
bread.  “Claude taught me how to make this.  It’s simple, but
better.”

“Hard as rock, how could you eat
it?”  Nicole shook her head.

“Well, the Legion is
French.  We got rations of wine and brandy when they were available. 
That helped.”

* * *
* *

Lake Ontario

After dinner, Nicole helped
Marie clear the table then went up to the bedroom.  Cameron put more wood
in the hearth and then joined Marie in the kitchen.

“I have this Mister
Kincaid.  You already prepared such a fine meal.”

“It’s part of the process,” said
Cameron.  He scraped what small amount of stew remained out of the tagine
and into a smaller bowl.  As the two cleaned the kitchen, they said
nothing to each other.  The music had stopped after they had sat down for
dinner, not until now did the cabin seem quiet.  Cameron flipped the
cassette tape and pressed play.  “He has such a beautiful voice,” said
Marie.

“It’s not electric guitar,
that’s for sure.”

Marie nodded her head in
agreement, “It certainly is not.”

When the counters were clean and
all of the dishes were in the soapy water of the sink, the two stood side by
side, Cameron washing and Marie drying.  Both stood relaxed, their hands
busy, the music, softer now, accompanying their task.  Marie held a plate
with part of a towel and dried the edge with the rest, rotating the dish in her
hand with each stroke.  She turned away from the plate and gazed at
Cameron standing next to her.  Humming along with Pavarotti, Cameron was
so at peace in the kitchen.

“Mister Kincaid.”