We sit at the table in a silence that’s broken only by the bubbling pans. I still don’t know why I’ve been invited. I’d assumed it was because I’d covered for him with the police, but now I’m starting to suspect there’s another reason. Arnaud isn’t the grateful sort.
Gretchen comes back into the kitchen. Without fuss, she goes straight to the range and puts the sauce back on the heat. Arnaud doesn’t spare her a glance, either unaware of the subtle collusion between his daughters or choosing to overlook it. Mathilde and Gretchen can evidently co-operate when they need to, despite the tension between them.
I’ve finished my pastis. Arnaud sees the empty glass and slides the bottle of wine over. ‘Here. Make yourself at home.’
I’m not sure if he’s being facetious or not.
The ‘something special’ is a boneless pork loin, rolled and rubbed with salt and rosemary and roasted with unpeeled cloves of garlic. The kitchen fills with its heavy scent when Mathilde lifts it steaming from the oven. She carves it by the range, cutting off oozing slices and laying them on plates that Gretchen then brings to the table. There are dishes of shallots, puréed chestnuts, chard and sautéed potatoes already set out, all of which Arnaud helps himself to first.
Gretchen brings her own plate over to the table. As she sits down she catches my eye and smiles. I pretend not to notice, hoping her father won’t either. It’s a vain hope.
‘What are you smirking at?’
‘Nothing.’
Arnaud glares at her. ‘Is there something I’m missing here? Some joke?’
‘No.’
‘Then why are you grinning like a donkey?’
‘I’m not.’
‘You think I’m blind?’ Arnaud’s face is growing darker, but as he’s about to say something else Mathilde puts a dish on the table and knocks over the wine.
‘Oh, I’m sorry!’
She quickly rights it, but not in time to stop the crimson stream spreading. Arnaud pulls back his chair to keep it from dripping on him as the spill runs off the table edge, and Mathilde runs for a cloth.
‘Watch what you’re doing,’ he snaps as she mops it up.
But it’s diverted him. Mathilde brings another bottle, filling mine and Arnaud’s glasses before pouring smaller measures for herself and Gretchen. Gretchen frowns.
‘Is that all?’
‘For now,’ Mathilde says, setting down the bottle.
‘Papa!’ Gretchen protests.
Arnaud gives a short nod of indulgence. Shooting her sister a triumphant look, Gretchen fills her glass to the brim.
Mathilde quietly takes her seat.
Arnaud is at the table’s head, facing me, with Gretchen and Mathilde on either side. He’s already started eating, but I wait for Mathilde. The sauce is mustard and cream, not too hot and cooked with the meat’s juices. The pork is delicious.
‘This is great,’ I say.
The praise is aimed at Mathilde, but Arnaud intercepts it.
‘It should be. You won’t find better pork than this.’
He stabs up a piece of meat. His jaws work as he chews, muscles bunching below his ears. He swallows, looking at me.
‘Recognize it?’
I haven’t a clue what he’s talking about. He forks up another piece of meat and waves it at me.
‘This. Don’t you recognize it? You should; you helped kill it.’
I pause as I cut into a slice, but only for a second. I’m not going to give him the satisfaction. ‘I thought it looked familiar.’
‘Makes it taste better, eh? Gives it a certain flavour, knowing where it came from.’ Arnaud refills his glass without offering the bottle to anyone else. ‘Of course, Mathilde doesn’t agree. She thinks pork is “unclean”. Don’t you, Mathilde?’
For the first time I notice that Mathilde’s plate holds only vegetables. She keeps her eyes downcast.
‘I just don’t like it,’ she says quietly.
‘She just doesn’t like it.’ Arnaud consumes half his glass of wine at one go. His expression is mean. ‘Chicken is fine, or duck, or rabbit. But not pork. Why is that, do you think, eh?’
‘People like different things,’ I say.
I wasn’t intending to defend her. All I want to do is get the meal out of the way and go back to my loft. He looks at me, thoughtfully.
‘Is that right,’ he says dryly, and drains the rest of his wine.
The remainder of the bottle quickly goes the same way. Arnaud eats and drinks with bellicose concentration, dominating the table like a hair trigger waiting to go off. But the main course passes without explosion. Afterwards there’s goat’s cheese, the usual strong, half-set stuff that Mathilde makes. I decline, but Arnaud smears it thickly on pieces of bread with his knife.
It’s grown dark inside the kitchen. When Mathilde switches on a tall floor lamp the twilight outside becomes full night. I get up with my plate as she and Gretchen begin to clear the table, but Arnaud waves me back down.
‘They can manage.’
He finishes one last scallop of bread and cheese, brushing his mouth with his fingertips. But despite the relaxed pose there’s a restlessness about him. Abruptly, he pushes back his chair.
‘Come on. We’ll go into the sitting room.’
Both Mathilde and Gretchen stare after him in surprise as he leaves the kitchen. Now what? I wonder, reluctantly following him.
