Lavender and Parsley

by Lisa K Nakamura

  I should stop. I need to stop. But I can’t. All the years of frustration and anger roar out of me. Mr. Darcy becomes the target of my fury for every slight, insult and attack I’ve had to endure in my time working in restaurant kitchens. I know I’m crushing something precious, but I am beyond the point of rational thought. All I can do is rage.

  “Why did you never tell me?” Mr. Darcy whispers, as he takes a step towards me.

  I skitter backwards away from him until I hit the front door and can go no further.

  “Don’t. Don’t get any closer.” I mumble, paralyzed by the flashbacks. “He held me down on the floor, yelling at me because I wouldn’t listen to him. He was angry with me because I dared to tell him he talked to the dishwashers disrespectfully. He decided to punish me, teach me who was boss.” I reply in a low monotone. “I could feel the rubber kitchen mat through my chef’s jacket, and knew it would be ruined by black grease stains. There were four or five other guys in the kitchen, but not one of them stepped in to stop him. They all just stared. The next day, only one of them ever acknowledged something awful had happened when he mumbled an apology to me. The others, they all avoided me. How is any of that okay?

  “I can’t stand being touched unexpectedly by men! I hate being hugged by men! Please, don’t touch me right now!” I’m shrieking in panic now, frantic at the thought of anyone’s arms around me, pinioning and imprisoning me.

  “Elizabeth… Alright, look I’m moving away.” Mr. Darcy whispers gently as he steps back slowly, his arms tucked behind his back.

  “I never knew someone hurt you like this. I understand now why you are so angry with me, with men. I wish you had told me sooner what had happened to you. Why didn’t you call the police? Why didn’t you have that bastard arrested?” His voice is soft and low, and I hear it catch on the torn edges of emotions between us.

  “You never asked,” I whisper, all my fight gone. “You never wanted to know. What happened to me is not unusual. Too many women have faced some sort of harassment in restaurant kitchens. If we tell anyone, we aren’t believed, and then are labeled trouble-makers, or written off as emotional and weak. So, yeah, I never told you. I haven’t told anyone, not even my family. I’ve never even called what happened to me an assault—until today. I didn’t call the police because it wouldn’t have mattered. I would have only blacklisted myself from working in every fancy restaurant on both coasts. It’s the women who end up paying. It’s always the women. The only thing we can do is force ourselves to go back the next day and hold our heads up high. We pretend that we are just fine. We’ve become too good at acting, and it hurts so much.”

  Mr. Darcy looks at me, stricken. “Elizabeth, I am so sorry. I never... I never thought about what you or any woman went through in a restaurant kitchen. You’re right, I never asked. I assumed I knew kitchens are rough, but never would I have imagined something like what you described. What I wrote must have cut you deeply. I am so sorry. I’m amazed you were kind enough to give me the gift of your company at all. You are a better person than I ever could hope to be.

  “Please believe I never meant to steal anything from you when I talked to your father. He asked me to listen to him because he never wanted you to relive the racism and discrimination his family faced. He was afraid it would injure you too much. He was trying to shield you. He didn’t want his life in the internment camps to become your defining history. He wanted you to be free from all of the shame and anger of that horrible time. He didn’t want it to weigh you down. He asked me to write all this because he loves you. I agreed because I wanted to protect you, just like he did.

  “I regret I wrote those humiliating words about you and the restaurant in my review, and I’ve been trying ever since to make up for them. I’m so sorry for upsetting you. I’ve only had the best intentions in mind when talking with your father. I wanted to preserve something precious for you. I’m sorry I haven’t done a good job with it. How can I possibly make it up to you?”

  “Please go. I need you to go. I want to be alone. I trusted you, Peter. Jane is the only person I trust more than you. I can’t think right now. Please. Go.” I plead with him.

  He turns slowly and leaves me. I have never called him Peter before. I have never fel my spirit so exposed and naked with anyone before. I may have just blasted any sort of trust we had to smithereens, and yet, for the first time, I finally feel close enough to him to call him Peter. All pretense is gone and only a thin vital thread seems to stretch between us now.

  He looks back at me once before turning the street corner, but I just stare at him with dead eyes and let that thread snap. I should feel elated he is as pained as much as I am, but it’s a hollow victory. My crown is made of poison ivy. I feel devastated thinking I may have ruined our tenuous friendship. I pushed him away, the one person I actually thought I might share my life with. I should run after him, but my legs won’t move. Instead, I open my apartment door, slide inside, crashing and hiding under a pile of pillows on the couch.

  The irony of all this is that I am being emotional and irrational. I can’t help it. He’s pulled the lid off the seething rage I’ve suppressed for far too long. The worst part is feeling the shame I carry because of what someone else did to me. Even now, I feel weak because those idiots from long ago still have control of me.

  I sit cross-legged on the living room floor until Dido shuffles over and plops into my lap. I put my arms around her, hugging her fuzzy warm body. I stew over the realization that I have never before named what happened to me in that restaurant kitchen as an assault. I couldn’t recognize it until now. I wonder if it’s because of the way my mother violently disciplined me? More times than I can count, she pushed me to the floor, slapping me viciously for one of my perceived sins.

  I always assumed it was my fault. Why else would my mother hit me? I lived in fear of upsetting her. I tried so hard to be perfect, to make her happy. Her abusive response was so common and repetitive, it lost its significance. She camouflaged her violence and disappointment as love, leaving me incapable to recognize the real thing or to distinguish the difference. Maybe that’s why I never quit that job or called the police like I should have. What happened to me seemed so normal. In that case, surely the real culprit must have been me?

  “I’ve really fucked it up, haven’t I?” I ask Dido. She whimpers in sympathy and scoots even closer to me. I bury my face in her fur and sob until the cold air freezes my toes, forcing me to stand up and move.

  I storm through the rest of the week, scowling and lashing out at the littlest offence. One day, Uncle Eddie pulls me aside. “Hey, Ebi-chan, I don’t know what’s eating you, but I do know you’re affecting everyone. Peter has been by twice now, asking after you. Don’t you think you should at least talk to him again, maybe stop being so angry?”

  When I vehemently shake my head, Uncle Eddie sighs, and then says “Fine. Maybe it’s best for you to travel, you know, lose yourself for a bit. It’s been good for you in the past; maybe you should try that again. It will help you overcome your grief and see more clearly. Angry people are not always wise.

  “Would you like me to email Eduardo in Madrid, to ask him if he has a spot in his kitchen for you?”

  I agree at this suggestion, eager for an escape from the mess of my life. I want out of Seattle, and I want out now.

  A week later, everything is arranged. I say my goodbyes to Charlotte, The Dark Notes Café crew, Dido, and all my family to board a plane for Madrid. Jane promises to text me every day, plus take good care of Dido. Uncle Eddie and Aunty Madeline tell me to go, not to worry, they will make sure everyone here is alright.

  Chapter Thirty

  Elizabeth

  Espagne

  Landing in Madrid on a bright Monday, I head for Eduardo’s restaurant, El Primero, a well-known tapas place in the Salamanca district of Madrid. Eduardo, or Tio, Uncle, Eddi to me, welcomes me with open arms. “Mi hija, my daughter,” he says. “I am so sorry for your loss.”

/>   Tio Eddi puts me to work right away, knowing I need to be busy to escape my sadness. Ten years ago, Uncle Eddie asked Eduardo to let me work in his kitchen for a couple of weeks. I stayed almost a year, leaving just before the immigration authorities showed up at the door. It was truly one of the best times of my life.

  Now, Tio Eddi has me working the hot line, and I relish the heat of the stoves, the pounding rhythm of endless tickets coming in for fast fulfillment. I drown my sorrows in the punishing beat of line cooking. I use my anger to push me though the dinner crush. I thrill at the fact I can outpace most of the line cooks there. Joachim, the sous chef, begrudgingly accepts me as part of the team after I hold my own on a particularly busy night.

  At the end of each shift, I’m exhausted. I quickly fall asleep before I can dwell on the pain I am trying to outrun, along with the memory of my foolish words to Mr. Darcy. I’m almost tired enough to not feel the shame of my horrible behavior towards him. Almost.

  I’m staying in a studio apartment above the restaurant. Tio Eddi and his family live right next door to me down the hall. My room is the size of a closet, but comfortable and efficient, containing a bed and a tiny bathroom. It’s free, so no complaining from me. I feel safe here and I begin to heal.

  Each week, a letter, hand-written on onion-skin parchment, arrives via airmail from Mr. Darcy. He must have asked Uncle Eddie for my address. He writes with an even elegant hand; in fact, it looks like he uses a quill and ink. I’m not surprised. I can’t quite imagine him with a ballpoint pen and sticky notes.

  I read each letter over and over to memorize it. Mr. Darcy writes to me about the latest news from Seattle. He tells me he stops by The Dark Notes Café almost daily because he feels closer to me when he’s there. He goes on to say he and Charlotte have become buddies, and he is helping her develop her opera. In another letter, I learn Uncle Eddie has a makizushi roll created and named just for his cat, The Lou-Lou. The new sushi roll combines smoked salmon and Dungeness crab, along with a hefty dollop of caviar. He tells me he eats weekly at Uncle Eddie’s and always orders the Laughing Shrimp and the Lou-Lou. He closes faithfully with “Cat kisses from Lou-Lou. God bless you. Peter Darcy.”

  With each letter I received from him, my heart melts a little more and I feel remorse. I realize what a good person he is. I marvel at how steadfast he is. I miss him more every day, and yet, I am not ready to return to Seattle. I still have too many emotions to sort through.

  Charlotte emails me a few weeks later to tell me she’s received a grant from the prestigious William Endowment to write her opera. She can finally afford to work on it full-time. She hopes it will be ready for production by the end of the summer. She mentions something about Pete helping her with the libretto. I am shocked to read Mr. Darcy is now “Pete” to her. I fume about it, and then berate myself for being stupid enough to leave him behind.

  I tell her how happy I am for her, snap my laptop shut and head back downstairs to the kitchen to lose myself in cooking again.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Elizabeth

  A Small World

  I work five-and-a-half days a week. During my time off, I explore the elegant capital city by foot. I walk miles through quiet, historic neighborhoods and pristine parks, watching families gathered in the parks on sunny afternoons. I take in the vibrant colors of produce piled high at the farmers’ stands on market days. I miss my family acutely during these walks. I especially miss sharing all this with him.

  I confess to becoming addicted to flamenco. There is something about the drama and emotion in this music and dance that appeals to the stoic Asian in me. At least once a week, I’m at the bar next to El Primero with a glass of vino tinto, red wine, in front of me. I watch with jealous fascination the dramatic twirls and staccato stamping feet of the dancers as they find their duende, spirit. I wish I could be and feel as free.

  One night in the bar, a man with sandy blond hair asks if the seat next to me is open. I’m surprised because he speaks to me in English with an American accent. I tell him “Yes,” and he puts out his hand, introducing himself as Richard William. He offers me another glass of wine, which I accept.

  As we talk, he reveals he grew up in Connecticut, and then joined the Navy after he graduated from high school. He retired this past year following a career as captain and now lives on the beach in Gig Harbor. He’s on an extended vacation in Europe, planning to spend the next month in Madrid.

  I remark on the coincidence that I, too, am from Seattle. We hit up an easy conversation about places we love back home, foods we miss, and people we know. Richard mentions that he has two cousins in Seattle. I perk up at this, and ask their names.

  “Peter and Emily Darcy,” he says. I gasp with surprise. “Do you know them?” he asks.

  I say I do, describing how Mr. Darcy was a good friend to me when my mom died in December. I can’t bring myself to tell Richard how I rushed off to Spain in a fit of unjustified anger at Mr. Darcy, at what an unreasonable ass I’ve been.

  “Why do you call him Mister Darcy?”

  “Because, when we first met, he gave me his name as Mister Peter Darcy. Actually, that’s not true. We met, sort of, when he wrote a horrible review about my family’s restaurant. Since then, I think of his first name as Mister, with his middle name as Peter.

  “He always calls me Miss Elizabeth, as if he were living in the Regency period. I find it rather sweet.”

  “You’re the Elizabeth Murasaki, the one my cousin skewered with his ill-placed words! I have never seen my glacial cousin so perturbed by a reaction to a review of his, not until you! Do you know, he called me three times to ask me what he might do to correct his mistake? He's never done that before!”

  “Oh, really? When was this?” I’m surprised that cool, always-in-control Mr. Darcy mentioned me to his cousin and asked for advice.

  “It was right after he moved to Seattle. He muttered something about meeting you in a coffee shop, and being taken to task by you, rightfully so.

  “I told him he should suck it up, go back and apologize. Did he?”

  I laugh, and say, “Oh, yes, he did! Do you know he wore a business suit the next time he came to the coffee shop? No one in Seattle wears suits! He also wore a bright pink tie. It was as if he was a knight in armor, about to rescue a damsel in distress! I guess he thought I was that damsel because he asked me out standing in line in front of a café full of strangers.

  “When he texted me, he sent me such a formal stilted one. I mean, complete sentences and whole paragraphs! I answered him with one short reply, because I knew it would irk him!”

  Richard throws his head back and laughs heartily. “I advised that dour old bastard to bring you flowers. Did he?”

  “Yes, but it didn’t go over too well. He brought me calla lilies, which my Mom always thought of as funeral flowers.”

  Richard slaps the table in glee. “Tell me, how did he ever work his way into your good graces, because it seems to me that he royally fucked it up from the get-go?”

  I agree, and then go on to relate about Caroline and the Sushi Bar Episode from Hell. Richard, well acquainted with Caroline and her snobbery, tells me I’m his heroine for putting her in her place. He can barely breathe for laughter when I describe Mr. Darcy’s mortification when Caroline tried to dab up the rice from his lap. As he wipes the tears from his eyes, he raises his glass in salute to me. “Cheers, Elizabeth! I haven’t laughed this much in a long time!”

  I chuckle and agree. “Caroline Bingley really is entertaining! Too bad she doesn’t know it!

  “My opinion of Mr. Darcy began to change for the better that weekend. He really was remorseful of his review, plus he treated my uncle with such respect.

  “On our second date in December, he brought me a giant poinsettia, and then sat on the floor to cuddle my dog. Yep, that’s what really did it, when I decided that maybe this guy was human after all. He won me over when he instantly bonded with my pooch.”

  Ric
hard and I finish our wine, and he walks me back to my studio. We make plans to meet for coffee on my next day off, and he heads off into the warm summer night, whistling a tune from West Side Story as he walks.

  We meet up again, exploring the city and having fun together. We wade through fountains in the town square until the policia, police, chase us off. We eat helado, ice cream, to beat the heat of the summer. We dance in discos until 4 a.m. I like Richard immensely. He is an ideal companion.

  But I know I am not in love with him. I don’t feel my heart squeeze at the sound of his voice. I don’t catch my breath when he texts me. He’s held my hand a few times, but there is no spark there. We both know that while we would probably make a solid couple, we are not each other’s true love.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Elizabeth

  Ooh, That Cad!

  It’s September and most of the city’s summer heat is dwindling. The Madrileños are returning from their August vacations, and the tourists are on their way out. Richard heads off to Portugal for a month. He promises he’ll return to see me before heading back to Seattle.

  One day, Tio Eddi introduces his staff to an American folk band, Prince George and Redcoats. He’s hired them to perform in the evenings at his restaurant, a change from the Spanish guitar music normally playing at night. The band’s lead singer is a handsome blond named George Wickham.

  George Wickham has DuranDuran good looks and devastating charm. The female severs fall immediately under his spell. The male cooks grumble about this maldito guapo cabron, damn handsome bastard, giving him a wide berth. I ignore him, until one day he approaches me.

  “So, I hear you’re from Seattle,” he begins. I absently nod yes. “I know a few folks in Seattle,” and with that, he begins to name people. His voice drones on and I don’t pay too much attention, when all of a sudden I hear “Darcy.”