by Nan Lyons
“I’m her husband.”
“Oh, I see. Well, I’m afraid there are no seats, Mr. O’Brien.”
Max winced. “I’ll just stand in the back.”
“Right, sir.”
Max opened the door and was surprised to find the house lights on. He watched Natasha as she described the kitchen at Buckingham Palace.
She saw Max walk in and stand in the back. She continued talking, not listening to herself, aware only that something must be terribly wrong if Max was there. The audience laughed as she described her problem in getting the ice cream away from the waiters before they ate it all. She paused. The word “boring” kept reverberating in her mind. Why the hell was Max there?
“However,” she said brightly, “food triumphs over evil.” She opened the freezer. “La Bombe Richelieu.” There were oohs and aahs, as she held the dessert aloft to allow Mayfield’s crew to photograph it. Then she turned it around to where the wedge had been removed. “But even Cardinal Richelieu has something under his hat. And that’s where our demonstration will begin. With the basic mousse mixture.”
Outside the auditorium, Hildegarde was stopped. “I’m sorry, madam, but the hall is full up.”
“But she’s my Tochter.”
“Pardon?”
“I’m her mother.”
First the husband, now the mother. “Oh, I see. Well, I’m afraid there are no seats.”
“I have feet. I’ll stand.” Hildegarde opened the door and found herself standing next to Max. They smiled at one another. He leaned over to kiss her on the cheek.
“Having washed my hands,” Natasha said, drying them with a towel, “we’ll begin by separating the eggs.” She cracked an egg on the edge of the bowl. Mayfield moved in for a close-up. Natasha opened the egg into her palm, careful to cup the yolk. The white ran out between her fingers. After she received the appropriate murmur from the audience, she said, “I find this far and away the best way to separate eggs.” Mayfield, not having expected anything as earthy, was poking his crew to keep focused on her hands. “Frankly, I’m just not the type to keep shifting the yolk from shell to shell.” Natasha looked up and saw Hildegarde standing next to Max. “Excuse me,” she said, walking to the front of the stage. “Mami?”
All heads turned toward the back of the auditorium. Hildegarde smiled shyly and waved. “Someone very special to me has just come in. I would very much like you to meet the person who taught me how to cook. I would like you to meet my mother, Hildegarde Kohner.” There was a burst of applause. Mayfield was annoyed that he had to divert one camera to follow Natasha as she started down the steps that led from the stage. She stretched her hand toward Hildegarde, urging her to come forward.
Achille felt himself breathing rapidly.
“Mami,” Natasha called. “Please.” And then, to the audience, “How’d you like to see a mother-and-daughter act?” There was wild applause, and Mayfield began jumping up and down with excitement at the vérité of it all. Max started to push Hildegarde down the aisle. “C’mon, Mami, let’s show them. Together.”
Natasha walked toward Hildegarde and embraced her. The two women stood in the middle of the auditorium hugging one another and crying. The applause was truly tumultuous, and Mayfield’s crew ran about as though they were covering a rock festival. Natasha and Hildegarde walked up the steps, their arms around one another. “I never dreamed you’d come,” Natasha whispered.
“Tochter, I got your letter. With that letter there is no place I wouldn’t go. We will be together from now on. Ja?”
“Oh, Mami.” Natasha hugged her. “We’ll have such a wonderful life together.” With tears streaming down her face, Natasha stepped forward. “I must apologize, but I’m as surprised as you. However, if you’ll just give us a minute, I promise you a Bombe you won’t ever forget.” Again, there was excited applause.
Natasha gave Hildegarde a copy of the recipe. Hildegarde read it, nodding her head as she took off her coat and pushed up her sleeves. Mayfield motioned for Natasha to move into the assembly area, while Hildegarde settled into the work area at stage left. Two cameramen were center stage, back to back—one covering Hildegarde, and the other, Natasha. Hildegarde washed her hands quickly and nodded that she was ready.
Achille stood up and put his hand to his chest. He grew fearful at the beating of his heart and only half heard what was being said because of the pounding in his ears. He began walking backward, his hands searching the wall until he felt a doorknob.
“Once the eggs are separated,” Natasha said, standing behind the counter at stage right, “we slip the yolks into the bowl.”
Achille watched, unblinking, as Hildegarde put the egg yolks into the electric mixer.
“And now, the eggs must be beaten until they are thick.” Hildegarde turned on the mixer. Mayfield signaled to cut the sound from her microphones. “You’ll find this takes anywhere from two to three minutes before you get them a nice pale yellow. After the eggs are beaten fully, we’ll add the sugar syrup that’s been made by boiling two-thirds of a cup of granulated sugar in one-third of a cup of water. How are the eggs coming?”
“Soon,” Hildegarde said. “They are still too much the color of a sunset. They must be a sunrise.”
The explosion blew off Hildegarde’s head and arms. Pieces of the mixer and the camera hurtled into the audience. The cameraman was thrown to the floor with fragments of steel embedded in his face. Mayfield screamed, holding his hands in front of his eyes, the blood gushing down his arms. Natasha was thrown behind the counter, protected from flying debris by the double rank of cameras between stage left and stage right. Max yelled “Nat, Nat,” fighting his way down the aisle as screaming women, some bleeding profusely, pushed their way out of the auditorium.
Achille stepped backward through the exit. In the panic he was unnoticed as he proceeded to the elevator and down to the main floor. He walked out a side door and hailed a taxi.
“Fifteen Hertford Street,” he said. “I want to pick something up. I’ll give you twenty pounds if you hurry. Then wait for me.”
“Twenty pounds? Yes, sir!”
“Hurry! Hurry!” Achille could hardly breathe. He was sweating so profusely that his vision became blurred. There was no way to have anticipated Hildegarde, he kept telling himself. But what could he tell Estella?
LA BOMBE RICHELIEU
1.Frozen Mousse Mixture
2/3 cup sugar
Make sugar syrup.
1/3 cup water
8 egg yolks
Beat egg yolks in electric mixer until pale yellow. Continue beating while slowly pouring in thin stream of sugar syrup. Beat until mixture is thick.
1 1/2 cups heavy cream
Whip cream until stiff. Add other ingredients. Fold into egg mixture.
2 T minced orange peel
2 T Grand Marnier (or to taste)
3 T chopped fresh unwrapped semisweet chocolate
1 egg white
Beat egg white until stiff. Fold into mixture. Freeze.
2. Raspberry Ice
2 cups sugar
Make sugar syrup.
4 cups water
2 quarts fresh raspberries
Pound berries through a sieve. Add Framboise and juice from lemons.
1/3 cup Framboise
2 lemons
Add equal amount of sugar syrup to fruit mix. Freeze.
3.Chocolate Almond Ice Cream
4 cups milk
Boil milk with vanilla bean. Remove bean.
vanilla bean
1 2/3 cups grated fresh unwrapped semisweet chocolate
Dissolve chocolate into 1 cup boiling water, then mix into milk.
1 cup sugar
Beat sugar into egg yolks until thick.
10 egg yolks
Add chocolate mixture to egg yolks. Cook until mix coats the spoon. Do not boil. Pour through a sieve into a bowl.
2/3 cup fresh almonds
Blanch and crush almonds. Add to mixture. Le
t cool. Stir occasionally.
Freeze in usual manner.
4.Whipped Cream
2 cups heavy cream
Whip cream and sugar over ice until stiff. Refrigerate.
1/4 cup confectioners’ sugar
5.Spun Sugar Crown
1 cup sugar
1/3 cup hot water
1/4 cup corn syrup
Mix corn syrup and water. Add liquid to sugar. Boil until mix turns caramel color. Cool until slightly thick. Dip fork in syrup and wave over inverted oiled metal bowl that is larger than bombe mold. Repeat dipping and waving until threads collect and a cage is formed. When sugar is cool, remove crown from bowl. Refrigerate.
ASSEMBLY
1. Line bombe mold with layer of raspberry ice. Freeze.
2. Line with layer of chocolate ice cream. Freeze.
3. Fill center with frozen mousse mixture. Freeze.
4. Spread chocolate ice cream across bottom. Freeze.
5. Immediately before serving fill pastry tube (medium scallop) with whipped cream.
6. Unmold Bombe. Make decorative ring of whipped cream around base of Bombe. Top Bombe with peak of whipped cream.
7. Dot cream with perfect fresh raspberries.
8. Put spun sugar crown atop Bombe. Serve at once. Cut with serrated knife.
Wine: d’Yquem. If economizing, serve champagne.
Chapter 17
Achille got out of the taxi the moment it stopped at 15 Hertford Street. In the elevator he readied his keys to open the door, and stepping over Cesar, he hurried to the desk and grabbed his passport. Cesar meowed. Achille hesitated, went into the kitchen, took the entire bowl of chopped shrimp, and left it on the floor. He walked out of the flat without stopping to lock up.
Once in the taxi, he told the driver to take him to Heathrow, international departures terminal.
“Yes, sir. For twenty pounds, I’ll take you to the moon.”
Achille sank back, the blood pounding in his temples. He thought only of Estella. What could he tell her?
“Mr. van Golk? It’s not Thursday!” the ticket clerk said.
“I know.”
“I hope nothing’s wrong with Mrs. van Golk.”
“It’s an emergency.”
“Let me see if Flight 68 has taken off yet. Perhaps I can hold it.” She picked up the telephone. “Hello, I have an emergency VIP. Can you hold sixty-eight? Just long enough to get through passport control. He’s right here. Thank you.”
She stepped around the counter and took Achille by the arm, noticing how pale and shaken he was. “Let me help you, Mr. van Golk. You look rather upset.”
“Thank you.”
“Mrs. van Golk must be a wonderful woman. Your devotion is legendary.”
They arrived at passport control. “Why, Mr. van Golk, it’s not Thursday,” the inspector said. “I hope there’s not something wrong.”
“We’re holding Flight 68. Can we hurry, please?” she asked.
“Of course. May I just have your passport and ticket, Mr. van Golk?”
Achille reached into his pocket and gave the inspector his passport. “I have no ticket,” he said.
“There’s no time. We’ll put it on your account.”
The inspector stamped his passport. “I hope … I mean … I’m sorry.”
The girl held Achille’s arm and led him through the empty check-in lounge and down the stairs to the waiting VIP car. She helped him inside and gave the driver instructions. When they reached the plane, the three stewardesses from first class waited atop the ramp to glimpse the VIP.
“Mr. van Golk!” Miss Schnee called out. “Oh, my God. It’s finally happened.” She ran down the steps to help Achille up the ramp. “Clear out row A,” she called to the other stewardesses. “You poor man, you look dreadful. I know I shouldn’t ask, but is it… is it over?”
Achille looked at her and shook his head yes.
“Oh, I am so very sorry. Is there something I can do?” she asked.
“Leave me alone,” he said. “Alone.”
“But Mr. van Golk, it’s not Thursday!” The Swiss immigration officer looked first at Achille and then at Miss Schnee, who motioned him to keep quiet. “I’m sorry,” he said. Achille walked through immigration to customs.
“But Mr. van Golk, it’s not Thursday!” Miss Schnee motioned to hush the customs inspector. She and Achille passed through and walked to the taxi stand. “Shall I go with you?” Miss Schnee asked. Achille looked at her with contempt and ripped her hand from his arm. She stood speechless, frozen by the anger in his eyes. He stepped into a taxi.
“Bonjour, monsieur.”
“The Enstein Clinic. Hurry.”
“But Achille, it’s not Thursday!” Estella van Golk stood in the doorway to her room. “You’ve made a terrible mistake.”
Estella was an incredibly beautiful woman, taller than Achille and with the bearing of an Austrian empress. Her flaming red hair was parted in the center and fell about her shoulders in masses. Her oval face belied her more than fifty years. She wore no make-up to cover her luminous pink skin and naturally rouged cheeks. Her eyes were enormous, bright, blue, and clear. She wore an ankle-length, pale-blue satin smock that tied at the neck in a large floppy bow. She turned her back and walked into the room. She moved with a slender grace punctuated by the sweeping gestures of her outstretched arms.
Estella’s room did not belong in the rarefied atmosphere of a sterile Swiss clinic for the insane. Originally two rooms, she and Achille had spent months redesigning the space into a combination bedroom, parlor, and office. The ceiling and walls were pale blue and matched the broadloom. A bright-blue floral-print fabric was set into the panels on the walls. It was used again as drapes, and also gathered itself atop Estella’s bed as a canopy. Blue vases overflowed with yellow roses. A double glass door opened onto a terrace that offered an uncluttered vista of blue sky and white-capped Alps. In one corner of the room was Estella’s French provincial desk and a series of file cabinets that had been covered in drapery fabric. The desk was cluttered with galley sheets, color separations, and photographer’s proofs.
“Just how much more of your bumbling must I take?”
“What have you heard?” he asked, nearly collapsing onto the sofa.
“There’s nothing I need to hear.” Estella walked behind her desk and lit a cigarette. “I still have eyes. I can see.” She pointed to the galleys and photo proofs. “I can see, Achille, that the Easter issue is a disaster. I simply will not approve it for printing.” She put her palms on the desk, leaned forward menacingly and shouted, “There are seven typographical errors!”
“I’m sorry, Estella.”
“Sorry? Don’t you think it’s a bit late to be sorry? There are seven mistakes, Achille. Do you know how many mistakes that makes so far this year?” She turned to her file cabinet and took a ring of keys from her pocket. She unlocked the top drawer. It was empty except for a single sheet of paper. “One hundred and twelve,” she said, waving the paper. “Of which the most misspellings are words beginning with B, L, and D. Why those letters, Achille?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t know or won’t tell? Which is it?”
“I have no secrets from you, Estella.”
“You know what this means.”
“Another list.”
“Yes. But, I wasn’t expecting you today. I’ll write it now. So that you don’t forget, my little bumbler bee.” Estella slammed shut her file drawer and locked it. She sat down at her desk and took a piece of pale-blue notepaper. She dipped her pale-blue quill pen into a crystal inkwell filled with blue ink. She wrote in a large hand, scratching angrily at the paper. Estella rose and walked to Achille. She handed it to him. He looked at the message. Scrawled across the page was KILL THE PROOFREADER KILL THE TYPOGRAPHER. “I can’t be certain which of them is more responsible for the errors so you’d best kill them both.”
He stared into Estella’s eyes, eyes that had once looke
d at him so adoringly. He searched for compassion, but found only rage. Estella stopped at the window on her way back to her desk. She leaned against the terrace door and stared out at the mountains. “It doesn’t even look like Thursday. Why are you here today? Why are you here on the wrong day?”
“I wanted to be with you.”
After a long moment, she turned from the window. Her face was beaming. “Poor bear, it must be so lonely for you. But I’ll be home soon.” She walked to the sofa and sat next to him. “It will be as we remembered it. Lying on our bed. Sipping champagne. Proofreading together till dawn.”
Achille raised his arm and put it around Estella. Despite the pain, his fingers pressed greedily at the satin to feel the outline of Estella’s shoulder. “Estella, I miss you so much.”
“Tell me, darling, how has your week been? Did you kill Natasha?”
He pulled his arm away and walked to the window. “No.”
“Did you say no?” she asked unbelievingly.
“I did not kill Natasha.”
“But why not? You got my instructions?”
“Yes.”
“There were no errors in them. I proofread them a dozen times to make certain. Why didn’t you use the mixer?”
“I didn’t say I didn’t use it.”
“Well, then she is dead. Dinner is over.” Estella got up and went to Achille. “I am so very proud of you, darling. Killing the chefs may have been your idea for a foolproof diet, but I devised the plans so brilliantly. We should really write it up for one of the medical journals.”
“Natasha isn’t dead. The mixer killed the wrong person.”
“What? You made a mistake, Achille?”
“I did not make a mistake. There was simply nothing I could do. Everything had been set up perfectly. Then, at the last minute, someone else turned the mixer on. I did not make the mistake, Estella. Something unforeseen happened at the last moment.”
