The Ingredients of Love (14 page)

“Will do.”

“Does he stammer?”

“Are you off your head? Why should he stammer? He speaks perfectly normally and has very nice teeth.”

“That's reassuring. And Adam? One more thing.”

“Yes?”

“It'd be good if your brother treated the whole business with absolute discretion. He mustn't tell anyone why he's going to Paris with you. His good old friends at the club, or his neighbors. And definitely not his wife. Stories like that spread quicker than you think, and it's a very small world.”

“No worries, Andy. We Englishmen are
very discreet.
”

*   *   *

In spite of all misgivings Michelle Auteuil was over the moon when she heard that Robert Miller would be coming to Paris so soon.

“How did you manage to sort that out so quickly, Monsieur Chabanais?” she shrieked in surprise, and played a veritable drum roll on the table with her pencil. “The author seems not to be as difficult as you say! I'll talk to
Le Figaro
right away, and I've already put out feelers to a couple of small bookstores.” She reached over to her Rolodex and leafed through the cards. “It's great that it's all worked out so well and … who knows?” She smiled at me, and her heart-shaped black earrings jiggled energetically against her slim neck. “Perhaps we could arrange a press trip to England in the spring—a visit to Robert Miller's cottage? What do you think of that?”

My stomach turned over. “Great,” I said, and began to understand what a double agent must feel like.

I decided that good old Robert Miller would have to die as soon as he'd made his visit to Paris.

Over the edge of the road in his old Corvette. A broken neck. A tragedy—he wasn't that old. And now there was only the little dog. And he fortunately couldn't talk. Or write. Perhaps as Miller's loyal adviser and good-hearted editor I'd look after little Rocky myself.

You could see the cogs whirring behind Michelle Auteuil's pale forehead. “Is he still writing?” she asked.

“Oh, I think so,” I said. “But he always takes a long time—not least because of his time-consuming hobbies. You know—he's always tinkering with his vintage cars.” I pretended to be thinking. “I believe he took seven years over his first book. Yes. Almost like John Irving. But not as good.”

I smiled happily and left Madame Auteuil in confusion in her office. The idea of making Miller die delighted me. It was going to rescue me.

But before I put an end to the English gentleman he was going to do me one last favor.

*   *   *

Aurélie Bredin's e-mail reached me at thirteen minutes past five. And up to that very moment I hadn't smoked a single cigarette since that morning. Strangely enough, I felt almost guilty as I clicked her e-mail open.

Well, I had read the letter that she had written in such confidence to Robert Miller and I was carrying her photo in my wallet without her being aware of it.

Of course those things were not right. But also not totally wrong. Because who, apart from myself, should have opened the author's mail?

The subject line made me vaguely uneasy.

Subject: Questions about Robert Miller!!!

 

I sighed. Three exclamation marks did not bode well. Without knowing what was in the rest of the message, I had the unpleasant feeling that I would not be able to answer Mademoiselle Bredin's questions to her satisfaction.

 

Dear Monsieur Chabanais,

Today is Monday and several days have passed since our encounter in the publishing house. I hope very much that you have in the meantime forwarded my letter to Robert Miller, and even if you tried not to raise my hopes, I am absolutely certain that I will receive a reply. I assume that it is part of an editor's duties to protect his authors from obstinate admirers, but perhaps you take this part of your job too seriously? However that may be, I would like to thank you for your efforts and ask a couple of questions I am sure you will be able to answer.

 

1. Does Robert Miller have anything like a Web page? Unfortunately, I have been unable to find anything on the Internet.

2. I have also looked—in vain—for the original English edition and strangely could not find one. Who published Miller's novel in England? And what is the English title? If you enter the name “Robert Miller” in amazon.uk, the only entry is for the French edition. But the book is a translation from the English, isn't it? At least, the translator's name is listed there.

3. When we first spoke on the phone you mentioned that the author might possibly be coming to Paris for a reading. I would obviously really like to be there—has the date been fixed yet? If possible, I'd like to book two tickets.

 

I hope I am not imposing too much on your valuable time, and would appreciate a swift response.

Best wishes,

Aurélie Bredin

I reached for my cigarettes and fell back in my chair.
Mon Dieu,
Aurélie Bredin really wanted to know it all. She was so damned obstinate! I would have to find some way to put a stop to her investigations—the last two paragraphs were definitely giving me indigestion.

I really didn't want to imagine what exactly might happen if the enthusiastic Mademoiselle Bredin met up with a totally unprepared Robert Miller, a.k.a. Samuel Goldberg, and managed to speak to him in person.

But the likelihood of the lovely chef hearing about the plans for a reading was minimal. At least, there was no way I was going to inform her. And since the interview in
Le Figaro
could only appear the day after at the earliest there wasn't much of a threat from that direction. By then it would all be over, and if she found the article or heard about the reading later on I would surely be able to think up an explanation.

(The fact that Mademoiselle Bredin wanted two tickets was not very encouraging. Why did she need two tickets? Surely she hadn't already found a new admirer just after getting over the pain of a broken heart. If she needed consoling at all, then I was the one who should do it.)

I lit my next cigarette and thought on.

Point two, that is, the question about the original edition, was very much more awkward, since there
was
no English edition, let alone an English publisher. I'd have to think up a satisfactory answer. The last thing I wanted was for Mademoiselle Bredin to get the idea of trying to find the (nonexistent) translator. She wouldn't find any information about that gentleman on the Internet either. But what if she rang the office and stirred up trouble? The best thing to do was to put the translator straight on my death list as well. You could never underestimate the energy of the delicate Mademoiselle Bredin. Being as totally determined as she was, she'd end up going to see Monsieur Monsignac.

I printed out the e-mail so that I could take it home where I could work out what to do without interruptions.

The paper crept out of the quietly rattling printer and I bent over and picked it up. Now I had two letters from Aurélie Bredin. But this one wasn't a very nice letter.

I scanned the printed lines once more trying to find a good word about André Chabanais. I couldn't find a single one. The young lady could be quite sharp-tongued. Between the lines you could clearly read what she thought of the editor she'd met in the lobby of the publishing house the week before: nothing! I had obviously not made any kind of impression on Aurélie Bredin.

I might have expected a bit more gratitude. Especially if you thought that it was actually me and my book that had made the mademoiselle happy again at her personal low point. It was
my
humor that had made her laugh.
My
ideas had enchanted her.

Yes, I must admit that I found it a bit hurtful that I had been dismissed in brief, almost unfriendly words and a simple “best wishes” when my alter ego had been wooed so charmingly and greeted so affectionately.

I took a furious pull on my cigarette. It was time to initiate Phase Two and redirect Mademoiselle Bredin's enthusiasm to the right person.

Of course, my performance in the lobby hadn't exactly been the kind of thing that would arouse a woman's fantasy. I'd been silent, stuttering, staring. And before that, on the phone, I'd been impatient—yes, even
unfriendly.
No wonder the girl with the green eyes hadn't deigned to give me even a glance.

Okay, I wasn't as smart a guy as the dentist in the author's photograph. But I'm not exactly bad-looking. I'm tall, well-built, and although I haven't played any sport in the last few years I'm quite physically fit. I have dark brown eyes, thick brown hair, a straight nose, and my ears don't stick out. And the only person who didn't like the well-trimmed beard that I've sported for the last few years was Maman. Every other woman found it “manly.” At least, Mademoiselle Mirabeau had recently compared me to the publisher in
The Russia House
.

I ran my finger over the little bronze nude statue of Daphne that stood on my desk. What I needed, and soon, was a chance to present myself to Aurélie Bredin from my better side.

*   *   *

Two hours later I was in my flat circling my living room table where a handwritten letter and the printout of an e-mail were lying side by side in peaceful harmony. Outside an unfriendly wind was sweeping through the streets and it had begun to rain. I looked down at the street where an old woman was struggling with her umbrella as it threatened to turn inside out and two lovers had just taken hands to run and take refuge in a café.

I switched on the two lamps on the sideboard under the window and shoved a Paris Combo CD into the player. The first track began to play; a couple of rhythmic guitar chords and a soft female voice filled the room.

“On n'a pas besoin, non non non non, de chercher si loin … On trouve ce qu'on veut à coté de chez soi…”
sang the vocalist, and I listened to her sweet words as if they were an epiphany: You didn't always have to look for things so far away, you'd find what you were seeking close to home.

Suddenly I knew what I had to do. I'd received two letters. I would write two letters. One as André Chabanais. And one as Robert Miller. Aurélie Bredin would find the reply to her e-mail to the editor in her mailbox that very evening, and I'd deliver Robert Miller's letter to her house personally because the absentminded author had unfortunately thrown away the envelope with her return address and sent his answer to me so that I could pass it on.

I would bait two hooks, and the good thing about them was that in both cases I was the man with the rod in his hands. And if my plan succeeded, then on Friday evening Mademoiselle Bredin would be sitting in La Coupole having a very pleasant time with Monsieur Chabanais.

I got my laptop from the study and opened it. Then I entered Aurélie Bredin's e-mail address and put the printout down beside me.

Subject: Answers about Robert Miller!!!

Chère Mademoiselle Bredin,

To begin with your most urgent question, even if you did not mention it:

Of course I forwarded your letter to Robert Miller—I even put it in the mail with a “Priority” sticker on it so that your patience would not be excessively tried. Please do not think so badly of me! I cannot blame you if you think of me as being somewhat weird—the day when you turned up so unexpectedly in the publisher's office a number of unfortunate things had just happened and I am very sorry if you got the impression that I was somehow trying to prevent you making contact with Monsieur Miller. He is a wonderful author, and I hold him in very high regard, but he is also a quite eccentric man who prefers to live in isolation. I really am not as sure as you are that he will answer your letter, but I very much hope he will. One should not leave such a lovely letter unanswered.

I deleted that last sentence. I had no way of knowing if the letter was lovely or not. After all, I'd only forwarded it. I really needed to be careful not to give myself away. Instead I wrote:

If I were the author, I would definitely reply to you, but that is not of much use to you. A pity that Monsieur Miller cannot see what a beautiful reader is writing to him. You should have included a photo.

I couldn't help adding that little allusion.

But now for your other questions:

 

1.
Unfortunately Robert Miller doesn't have a Web page. He is, as I have already said, a very private person and is not interested in parading himself on the Net. We had enough trouble getting an author's photo from him. Unlike the majority of authors he does not like being suddenly addressed on the street. He hates nothing more than when someone suddenly stands in front of him and says, “Aren't you Robert Miller?”

2.
There is in fact no English edition. The reason for this involves a long story which I won't bore you with. The main thing is that the agent who represents Robert Miller, also an Englishman, brought the manuscript directly to our company, and we had it translated. It has not yet found an English publisher. It could be that the story is not as suited for an English audience or that other things are more in demand on the English market at the moment.

3.
It's not certain at the moment if Monsieur Miller will be available to meet the press in the near future. Just now that looks rather unlikely.

That was a black lie—and yet it wasn't. In reality it was only a dentist who would be coming to Paris for the reading and answering a few questions and signing a few books in the persona of Miller.

It was quite a blow to him when his wife left him, and since then he's been a little reluctant to make decisions. However, if he does ever come to Paris for a reading, it will be a pleasure for me to reserve a ticket—or rather two tickets—for it.