Abducted

by Tikiri

  I now had access to all the ingredients I needed, including the liquor fridge downstairs, and used the Black Pearl Cognac in my cakes liberally. I remembered the Diplomatic Dragon Lady’s face when she’d tasted my cakes for the first time back in Toronto, a year ago. I wanted her to bite into these cakes and know instantly they were mine. I was sure there’d be no way she wouldn’t agree to help us after that.

  A loud rap came on the door and before anyone could say “Entrez,” the door opened and in marched Chloe. Following behind her was a rotund man with a cheery face. My jaw dropped.

  Chef Pierre? Oh my god, it’s Chef Pierre! He looked exactly like he did in the magazines. Even in his tuxedo, he looked friendly and kind.

  “Are we—?” Chloe stopped in mid-stride as she saw the tower. She stared at it.

  “Impressive,” she said. “You created this?”

  I nodded, dumbfounded at seeing my idol in real life.

  “Extraordinaire,” Chef Pierre said, stepping up to the tower and inspecting it with a keen eye. He then turned and looked at each of us, appraising us. “Might I know who the chef is?”

  My mouth had dried up. Katy nudged me from one side, and Tetyana from the other.

  “I…er…I….,” was all I could say. The image of the chocolate roll I’d stolen from his café in Brussels sprang to mind, and I felt my face burn.

  “Ah, Chloe mentioned you,” Chef Pierre said, looking at me and stroking his chin. “Chef Asha, is it not?

  I nodded. He knows my name!

  “So you’re the nonconformist baker? The one who threatens to use Black Pearl to make edible fêtes?”

  I nodded again wordlessly.

  “I liked what you did yesterday.”

  I straightened up. “Really?” I said, hearing my voice squeak. I cleared my throat. “Did you really like it?”

  “Why do you think I’ve come down here?” he said spreading his hands expansively. “To meet the talented chef who baked yesterday’s cakes.”

  “Tha..thank you,” I said.

  He dropped his voice. “To be frank, I was getting tired of the plum pies every time I visit the baroness.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “May I try one?” His hand went to a side plate which contained the leftover cakes that didn’t fit in the tower. His hand hovered over the chocolate cake, then the raspberry cream one. “What a delightful dilemma,” he said to himself. He was just about to pick the pineapple cream cheesecake when I remembered.

  “Wait!” I said, finding my voice.

  He looked up, startled.

  “Katy, please get a dessert plate. Win, a white napkin, please. And utensils.” I opened a drawer to find a pair of silver tongs, like the ones they had in the drawing room for tea.

  Chef Pierre looked at me strangely. “Chef Asha, I do not drive my Maserati to the corner store, when I can walk,” he said. “I will use my fingers,” he paused, “if that does not offend anyone.”

  We all shook our heads. No one looked at Chloe, but from the corner of my eyes I thought a slight pink tone had come over her face.

  “That was derived from one of your own recipes, Chef Pierre,” I said.

  He stopped and looked at me. “You’ve baked my cakes?”

  “All of them.”

  “I didn’t think my work was known across the Atlantic.”

  “I had access to your magazines.” I paused. I wasn’t going to tell him where or how. “Baked everything from scratch,” I added.

  He nodded thoughtfully and turned his attention back to the cake. I watched as he brought the cake to his mouth and took a bite. I swallowed involuntarily and wiped my sweaty palms on my apron. Chef Pierre chewed slowly before he swallowed. I looked warily at the yellow crumbs on his cheek and felt a stream of sweat trickle down my back.

  He stared at the ceiling silently for the next few seconds, as if ruminating over the taste. I think I stopped breathing.

  “Interesting combination,” he said, after what seemed like the longest five seconds of my life. “I’ve never had anything like this before. It is….fascinating.”

  I let out a breath.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Chloe spoke up. “This conversation is riveting; however, I must take this upstairs now. I’ll summon the footmen.” She took her phone out.

  “No!” I almost shouted.

  Chloe turned to me with a frown.

  “No need for them. I’ll take the cakes up myself. Save you some trouble.”

  “You?” She looked at me.

  “Yes. Why not?”

  “It is not customary.”

  Tetyana spoke up, forgetting she wasn’t supposed to. “But she did all the work.”

  “Excellent point,” Chef Pierre said.

  “But we must follow protocol,” Chloe said, looking at us in surprise.

  “But we don’t follow this protocol in America, Chloe,” I said.

  “Well, we do so here, mademoiselle!”

  I thought I heard a snicker from Chef Pierre. He was leaning against the counter now with a marzipan cupcake in his hands. He looked like he was enjoying himself.

  “The Diplo—” I caught myself. “Madame Bouchard would be interested to know we have come all the way to create this for her.” I waved my hand grandly at the tower. “Americans like to know who made their meals and how, and you know, have a chat.”

  “A chat?” Chloe looked like she’d blow a blood vessel.

  “I like les Americains,” Chef Pierre quipped from the side.

  “Well.” Chloe seemed lost for words. “This goes against all tradition.”

  Chef Pierre cleared his throat. “Madame,” he said, turning to Chloe, “if you would permit me, may I say I have to agree with this young chef. The time for cooks to be relegated to the back of the kitchen is long gone. Would you not agree?”

  “With all due respect, monsieur, I do not mean to be disagreeable with an esteemed guest; however,” she paused, “tradition is tradition.” I felt bad for her. She was only doing her job.

  “I understand what you mean, madame,” Chef Pierre said with a charming smile. “But perhaps it’s time to change some of these customs, do you not think?”

  “This is highly unusual.” Chloe was spluttering. “You must understand. What will the baroness say?”

  “She will be delighted, I am sure,” Chef Pierre said, with another smile.

  Silence.

  “I will permit this,” Chloe finally said, her face flushed. “But only if you change into fresh aprons and caps.” Her eyes traveled down my wrinkled skirt, which was dusted in flour. “And follow all my instructions fully.”

  “I promise,” I said.

  Win was already opening the top drawer to dig out fresh aprons.

  I turned to Chef Pierre. “Thank you. Your words mean a lot to me,” I said. You’ve no idea how much.

  “I’d like to continue our conversation, Chef Asha. I hope this is not the last time we meet.”

  I watched him step out of the kitchen with a half-eaten cake in his hands, wanting to pinch myself.

  Chapter Forty-six

  Just before we left, Tetyana slid up to me, and pretended to tie my clean apron. She leaned in and whispered, “Put in a good word for me with this Dragon Diplomat, will you?”

  I nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

  Katy and I were both freshly aproned and hatted, and wearing the dresses Katy had picked up in Luxembourg City a couple of nights ago. “I told you, you can’t go wrong with the little black dress,” she said, with a smug smile. Chloe seemed relieved to see us change, and didn’t disapprove.

  We followed her out, with Greta at our heels. With a pompous grunt, Monsieur Wilmar turned his back to us when we wheeled the cake tower out. His sous chefs stared at the tower hypnotized, mouths open. Katy and I smiled back, and waved goodbye to Greta as we got on the elevator.

  The elevator opened on the second floor, and Katy and I followed Chloe out to the same foyer I’d visi
ted the day before. This time, Chloe marched through the middle and larger doorway, her nose firmly stuck to her phone as she walked.

  We followed, looking around us in awe. This corridor was even more lavish than the one I’d seen the day before. It was impossible not to get distracted by the luxury. The trolley dug into the lush carpet, slowing us down, but Chloe didn’t seem to care much when it did. She stopped to glance back only once to say with a slight huff, “This is why we have footmen in the castle.” We ignored her, retracted the wheels, and kept rolling.

  We stepped into a mezzanine, and walked past an immense flight of stairs that looked exactly like the ones Cinderella might have run down as the clock struck midnight. Still absorbed in her phone, Chloe walked toward the entrance of a palatial ballroom at the end.

  We could hear the hum of conversation and the smell of good wine as we got closer. Chloe nodded at the two guards in starched red tunics standing stiff and somber, next to the ballroom doorway. Their gaze didn’t waver as we rolled the high cake tower right by them.

  Chloe motioned us toward the service door. When we got closer, unseen hands opened the doors. Two footmen were holding the doors for us. Chloe runs this place like clockwork, I thought. We rolled our cake tower carefully into the room.

  If I thought the drawing room was magnificent, I was unprepared for the staggering opulence here.

  This room, three times the size of the main kitchen downstairs, had a slightly domed ceiling carved in intricate occidental designs. Five elegant crystal chandeliers, each the size of a small car, hung from this high ceiling. One entire wall of the room was covered by a single piece of medieval tapestry. Another boasted stained-glass windows from floor to ceiling.

  A massive dining table occupied the breadth of the room, draped with a white cloth embroidered in gold and silver. On this was set sparkling china, imprinted with the castle insignia. Engraved gold forks and knives glittered beneath the chandelier lights. In between the dinner settings were extravagant flower arrangements in gold-colored vases. Standing behind each chair was a uniformed server in short white gloves. They stood at attention, expressionless, waiting to pull the chairs out at a moment’s notice.

  Chloe pointed at an alcove where she wanted us to roll our cake trolley until it was to be served. We nodded and squeezed ourselves and the trolley into the small space.

  This is the castle dining room, I thought. But no one was sitting at the table. A trio of musicians played soft chamber music in the open area at the end of this massive room, which was where everyone was milling about. The men, with glasses of red sherry in their hands, looked superb in their black tuxedos. The women floated around in stately gowns, dripping in rubies and sapphires. From where I stood, they looked like a flock of beautiful tropical birds. A handful of foreign dignitaries were scattered among the crowd, mostly men, and mostly in long Arab clothing. I wondered where their womenfolk were.

  Katy nudged me. “Can you believe this?” she whispered.

  “Amazing,” I whispered back.

  “Look at all these famous people. Like we’re in a movie.”

  “Our best catering gig ever. And we didn’t even sign a contract.”

  Katy suppressed a giggle. “Hey!” She pointed discreetly at a man in his thirties ten feet away from us. “Do you see Bob Halt over there? And Anne Tuppence too! Oh my god!”

  Bob Halt? Why did that name ring a bell? I recognized a few famous faces here and there, but it was Katy who followed the celebrities.

  Just like in the previous room the day before, a buffet table had been placed next to the side entrance. But tonight, there were no open platters or trays, no sandwiches or finger foods, but a lineup of plates covered in silver domes. This must be the first course, a salad or paté of some sort maybe, I thought. The rest of the main dishes were probably being kept warm somewhere nearby.

  We’d just settled into our alcove when a clock chimed nearby. Like magic, everyone stopped talking and turned toward the woman in the center. I craned to look. I hadn’t seen her when I’d first walked in and she hadn’t been at the tea party the day before, but I recognized her from the magazine photo. Grande Baroness Agathe. She was sitting on a plush red chair, set on a small platform. She looked like a queen on a throne, with two dachshunds by her feet. The guests gathered in a circle around her.

  The grande baroness got up from her throne slowly. Someone held out his hand to help her, but she ignored it.

  When she stood, I realized she didn’t come to more than five feet, almost as tall as I was, but she stood regally on that platform, her back straight, her head held high. Her white hair was cropped boyishly but stylishly short. She wore a full-length black gown with a high neck and long sleeves. It looked simple, but I was sure it came from a discerning designer house that catered to the world’s über-wealthy. The glittering stones on her fingers and the diamond necklace left no doubt she was one of the highest of high society—that and her castle, of course.

  In a baritone voice as deep and rich as the stones on her fingers, she spoke. “I hope everyone is present now. One must never be late for dinner,” she said, speaking in perfect Queen’s English. A polite murmur went through the crowd. The baroness panned the room, making everyone bow and curtsy lightly as her eyes passed over them.

  “Herlich willkommen,” she said, and paused. We waited. Then, she embarked on a fifteen-minute formal speech in German, or so I assumed, as it sounded exactly like the language Greta spoke.

  While she talked, I peered around discreetly. Where’s the Dragon Lady? I felt eyes on me, and swiveled my head around. It was Chef Pierre. He saw me looking and winked. I gave him a quick nod back. That was when I noticed. Five feet from him, looking majestic in a long white dress, stood the infallible Madame Bouchard.

  On her hands were long black gloves, and around her neck a three-strand pearl necklace. Dropping from her ears were beautiful pearl droplets. She seemed to be listening intently to the baroness, one hand holding a sherry glass and the other a sparkling white purse. I didn’t know she spoke German, I thought, and wondered if all the foreign guests just pretended to understand.

  I looked around to see where Chloe was. She was standing in the shadows of the wall next to the same old man as the day before, both pretending to be invisible, scanning the room as usual.

  I looked back at the Dragon Lady. Now I was this close, my plan sounded ridiculous. What am I going to say to her? How am I going to even approach her? I looked over at Chef Pierre, who was intently listening to the baroness. I wanted to talk to him so badly, ask him about his recipes, tell him about my baking life, and share my aspirations.

  Everyone clapped politely. The baroness bowed her head slightly in acknowledgment, and a man who looked very much like a white-haired Prince Phillip walked up and offered his arm. She took it, and the two stepped elegantly over to the dining table. The rest of the crowd got in line, two by two, behind the hostess and her escort. The servers pulled back the chairs at the dining table and waited for everyone to come to their places. It seemed no one could sit before the baroness did.

  The Diplomatic Dragon Lady sat right across from the baroness, with Chef Pierre to her left. The servers got to work silently and in sync; it was like watching a ballet come alive. Everything had been choreographed. They picked up the covered plates from the table next to us and took them to the guests. When everyone had been served, on silent cue, each server leaned over and swiftly removed the silver domes. I almost gasped. The plates had been meticulously arranged, like pieces of edible artwork.

  The dinner went off without a hitch. The baroness held court, leading the conversation from where she sat. Others nodded and replied in hushed tones. Empty trays and plates were whisked away, as course after course went by. A canvas of gourmet art passed under my nose that evening. All the food and cutlery on the table that night could have fed the entire state of Goa where I grew up. I’d now seen it all. The grim poverty of my parents’ childhood, the comforts of Mrs.
Rao’s house, which had seemed luxurious until now, and the unparalleled sumptuousness of this castle.

  “Mademoiselle?”

  I looked up to see Chloe, and instinctively straighted my chef hat.

  “It’s time to serve your cakes.”

  Chapter Forty-seven

  “Good evening, Madame Bouchard.”

  Using long silver tongs, I placed the most sumptuous strawberry and cream cupcake on her plate. It was made with cinnamon and nutmeg, a combination I knew she liked. I’d decorated this cake myself. It was the most beautiful edible thing on earth, I thought.

  She didn’t seem to hear me. The room hummed with conversation. In the far background, I heard something wail, a siren of sorts, but I was so focused on trying to get the Diplomatic Dragon Lady’s attention I didn’t take much note of it.

  I bent down. “Hello, Madame Bouchard.”

  She gave a start and looked up, her white pearl earrings swinging from her earlobes. She frowned.

  “I hope you’re having a great evening,” I said, with a smile.

  She looked me up and down, as if wondering who had dared interrupt her meal. I swallowed and tried again.

  “This is one of your favorite cakes,” I said. “It’s got cinnamon and nutmeg in it.”

  The siren outside had got louder now.

  She looked at the cake on her plate, and wrinkled her nose like it smelled bad.

  A server came toward the table carrying a water carafe, and nudged me aside with an “Excusez-moi.” He filled her glass and left. I leaned in again.

  “Madame Bouchard,” I said in a low voice. “I’m really sorry I left without telling anyone. It was an emergency, a really bad one.”

  She didn’t even look up this time.

  “I hope your charity ball went well and you found another caterer. I truly apologize. I only came here today to ask for your help.”