The Rose Café by John Hanson Mitchell Read Free Book Online

down and by late evening they would all be out at the card game, Lucretia included.
    Unlike Jean-Pierre, who seemed more or less indifferent to my presence, Vincenzo had taken me on as his charge, and when he had the time taught me sauces and the uses of certain wild herbs that Lucretia would bring in from the maquis, hugging them to her breast in great redolent bundles. She herself had the odor of wildness about her—you could smell bay and laurel rose in her hair whenever she brushed by you, and she too took a liking to me, and used to pinch my cheek affectionately and kiss my innocent forehead, spouting long phrases in dialect, presumably approving.
    While we were preparing the evening meal, Herr Komandante poked his head in the back door of the kitchen.
    â€œTonight?” he asked in broken French. “What is?”
    â€œA wild boar civet,” Jean-Pierre said.
    â€œAh, perhaps,” he said. “And what other?”
    â€œ Rascasse grillée .”
    â€œGood. And as entrée?”
    â€œ Soupe de pecheur , if you like. Sea urchins. Salade de crevettes ,” Jean-Pierre said.
    â€œ Wie Sie wollen; alles ist gut ,” Chrétien said in passable German.
    â€œGood. And then. What cheese?”
    Jean-Pierre listed a few local cheeses, including the standard brocciu, a soft sheep or goat cheese seasoned with herbs that made its way into almost all the local dessert dishes.
    â€œAll right,” the interrogator said. “It is good. All is good.” He bowed, tipping his head to one side and nodding, and backed out.
    This was a Friday, and a few new guests had come in from Calvi, where there was a daily ferry. There was a pale man from Paris who wore tinted glasses and sat with an equally unhealthy woman, perhaps his wife, who had brought her own tisanes and her own bottles of water, which she had asked Micheline to boil for her. (After three days of this, Micheline or Chrétien would simply serve her local water from the kettle on the stove; she never seemed to notice.)
    There was a stylish couple, also from Paris, who were clearly not happy with the isolation of the place, and also a quiet young couple from the north who were on their honeymoon and spent most of the time either in their bedroom or out in the isolated coves of the second islet where the Genoese watchtower was located.
    Also in residence was a shy dentist named Eugéne, with clean-shaven, chipmunk cheeks who had come out bearing a number of new suitcases and new summer clothes, apparently purchased for this particular vacation. He asked many questions about the region when he first arrived and seemed reluctant to venture off on his own.
    The evening meal was quiet; only a few of the guests showed up for dinner, and washing the dishes was a simple matter. I was done shortly after the desserts were served, and toward the end of the meal Vincenzo brought in a tiny glass of marc and set it on the counter for me, a sort of communion ritual that indicated that the desserts were finished, coffees were served, and the real work of the evening was over.
    I went out with it after my chores were done and sat on the terrace, watching the lights out in the bay.
    The blond English woman I had seen earlier in the day was there, sitting with a tall man with an aquiline nose and reddish hair, swept back from his forehead. They were staring out at the harbor, not talking to each other. Herr Komandante was enjoying a cognac and a cigarette, smoking slowly and reflectively, holding his cigarette to his lips for a long time.
    Chrétien and Micheline were sitting at one end of the terrace, seeking a breeze. I joined them there with my glass.
    â€œSo I guess you heard, Marie is coming in a few days,” Micheline said casually to Chrétien after a few minutes.
    â€œ Olé !” he shouted, slapping his thigh. “Marvelous. Is she coming alone or will her parents be here?”
    â€œHer parents will be here, but only