The Night Manager полностью

In return, Jonathan the more-than-good soldier gave them his every waking hour. There had been a time in his life when he would have sold his soul to escape the kitchens for the elegance of a manager's black jacket. No longer. Breakfast began at six for the men coming back from night shift. Jonathan was waiting for them. An order of twelve-ounce sirloin steak, two eggs and frites was nothing out of the way. Spurning the sacks of frozen chips and ill-smelling catering oil favoured by his patroness, he used fresh potatoes, which he peeled and parboiled, then fried in a blend of sunflower and peanut oils, only the best quality would do. He got a stockpot going, installed an herb chest, made casseroles, pot roasts and dumplings. He found an abandoned set of steel knives and sharpened them to perfection ― no one else must touch them. He revived the old range that Madame Latulipe had variously ruled insanitary, dangerous, ugly or too priceless to be used. When he added salt, he did it in the true chef's way, hand raised high above his head, raining it down from a height. His bible was a tattered copy of his beloved Le Repertoire de la Cuisine, which to his delight he had stumbled upon in a local junkshop.

All this Madame Latulipe observed in him at first with an adoring, not to say obsessive, admiration. She ordered new uniforms for him, new hats, and for two pins she would have ordered him canary waistcoats, lacquered boots and cross-garters. She bought him costly pots and double boilers, which he did his best to use. And when she discovered that he employed a common labourer’s blowtorch to glaze the sugar surface of his crème brulee, she was so impressed by the blending of the artistic with the mundane that she insisted on marching her bohemian ladies into the kitchen for a demonstration.

"He is so refined, our Jacques, n'est-ce pas, Mimi, ma chère? He is reserved, he is handsome, he is skilful, and when he wishes he is extremely dominating. There! We old ladies may say such things. When we see a fine man, we do not have to blush like little girls. Tant pis d'abord, Helene?"

But the same reticence that she so admired in Jonathan also drove her to distraction. If she did not own him, who did? At first she decided he was writing a novel, but a reconnaissance of the papers on his desk yielded nothing but draught letters of complaint to the Swiss Embassy in Ottawa, which the close observer, anticipating her interest, had composed for her discovery.

"You are in love, Jacques?"

"Not that I am aware, madame,"

"You are unhappy? You are lonely?"

"I am blissfully content."

"But to be content is not enough! You must abandon yourself. You must risk everything every day. You must be ecstatic."

Jonathan said his ecstasy was his work.

When lunch was over, Jonathan could have taken the afternoon off, but more often he went down to the basement to help hump crates of empties into the yard while Monsieur Latulipe checked takings: for God help the waiter or bar girl who smuggled in a private bottle to sell at disco prices.

Three evenings a week Jonathan cooked family dinner. They ate it early round the kitchen table, while Madame Latulipe made intellectual conversation.

"You are from Basel, Jacques?"

"Not far from Basel, madame."

"From Geneva?"

"Yes, nearer to Geneva."

"Geneva is the capital of Switzerland, Yvonne."

Yvonne did not raise her head.

"You are happy today, Yvonne? You have spoken to Thomas? You must speak to him every day. When one is engaged to be married, it is normal."

And at around eleven, when the disco hotted up, Jonathan was once more there to lend a hand. The shows before eleven were mere displays of nudity, but after eleven the acts became more animated and the girls gave up putting on their clothes between turns, except for a tinselly apron for their cash and maybe a gown they didn't bother to fasten. When they opened their legs for you for an extra five dollars ― a personal service performed at your table, on a stool that the house provided for the purpose ― the effect was of a furry burrow belonging to some artificially illuminated night animal.

"You like our floor show, Jacques? You find it cultural? It stimulates you a little, even you?"

"It's very effective, madame."

"I am glad. We should not deny our feelings."

Fights were seldom and had the sporadic quality of skirmishes between puppies. Only the worst of them ended in expulsion. A chair would shriek, a girl would skip back, there was the smack of a fist or the strict silence of two men wrestling. Then out of nowhere Andre Latulipe was between them like a little Atlas, holding them apart until the company settled again. The first time this happened, Jonathan left him to handle matters in his own way. But when an oversized drunk started to take a swing at Latulipe, Jonathan locked the man's spare arm behind him and led him to the fresh air.