What We've Lost Is Nothing by Rachel Louise Snyder Read Free Book Online Page A

body might unwittingly have ended up there, as if Étienne might be an accomplice to a dastardly crime about which he knew nothing.
    â€œVeal,” he said.
    â€œSo you’re the owner here? Of Frite?” Witkowski used the long vowel. Fright .
    â€œIt’s freet ,” Étienne said, nodding. “It means—”
    Witkowski interrupted, “And you’re the cook, too?”
    â€œChef. I’m the proprietor and the chef.”
    â€œMrs. McPherson thought you were out of town.”
    â€œYes. No. I’m not. Out of town. Ha-ha! Of course, as you can see.”
    â€œParis, was it? I believe Mrs. . . . McPherson mentioned Paris.”
    Ah, Susan. She loved Paris, too, Étienne thought. “Indeed, I was supposed to go, but sadly had to cancel at the last minute.”
    â€œThat’s too bad. Springtime in Paris.”
    â€œOh, yes, it certainly was. Paris in April.”
    â€œWhen was that?”
    â€œWhen was what?”
    â€œThe cancellation. The trip.”
    â€œOh. The cancellation. Of the trip.” Étienne saw that his shallots were congealing. He’d have to start again. “A few weeks ago. I was so far behind on this year’s menu change, I mean, you might think a menu change would benefit from my having gone!” He offered a single laugh. Étienne stopped suddenly. Was he rambling?
    Overhead, the fluorescent light buzzed and Étienne could feel a thin layer of sweat on his forehead. The mild smell of old, hardened butter permeated the kitchen.
    â€œI have a list of what’s missing,” Étienne said brightly. He reached into his pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to Dadek, who didn’t so much as glance at it.
    â€œWe have you down as Edward Lenoir. Not Étienne. Is that right? Edward?”
    Ã‰tienne didn’t say anything. Here was the truth of it, he thought. Didn’t we all have something to hide? Wasn’t Edward his own secret? After all, he wasn’t the one they were after. They had to know that.
    â€œYes,” Étienne said finally. “It’s Edward. My real name. But I prefer Étienne.”
    â€œWhy is that? The preference? Edward.”
    Ã‰tienne reddened. “I just . . . do. The food . . . and everything . . . ” His voice melted into the kitchen fan, melted down into his abdomen. It was one thing to be aware of the quiet shames in one’s life, but quite another to have to own up to them publicly. He had learned from a pamphlet left behind on the el one day of the need to “brand” oneself in order to succeed in the modern age, and so the name change had merely seemed an extension of this exercise.
    Ã‰tienne ran his hand over his hair, which thinned more every day; time surging at him in seconds, one tiny loss after another. His hand, unsurprisingly, came away with dozens of gray hairs. This loss, even this, was just another in an endless line. A particle of loss, invisible but open to measurement nonetheless. Suddenly the crystal tulip-bud vase, the one he’d never filled with flowers, meant much more to him than he’d realized; its sudden absence without his ever having used it for its intended purpose seemed inexpiably wasteful.
    â€œOkay, Étienne, the chef .”
    Dadek waved the paper. Étienne’s list. “We’ll look into this. Add it to the others, but you’ll need to fill out a supplementary property list.”
    They made their way to the back door.
    â€œAnd Edward,” said Witkowski, “look around for that canceled-Paris-trip stuff . . . travel agent receipts, reservations, anything. Give us a call when you find it. We’ll need to include it in our case files. Just a formality.” He smiled.
    Ã‰tienne nodded. Of course, he wouldn’t find the paperwork they wanted—no receipts, no vouchers of cancellation, no lost deposits. There was nothing. There had never been Paris. And Étienne knew