Part 25 (1/2)

'I know you had a child with her, so watch out, buddy boy,' she said. He could see her face, bright, sharp, wet-cheeked, broken-toothed, s.h.i.+ning at him from the mirror. 'Watch out for Natalie.'

Vincent was now so frightened of this pale, fine-boned woman, he dared not let her go. He imagined she would somehow stab him, murder my mother in the car. He held both her wrists in one hand while he telephoned his brother.

'I know who you're calling,' she said, 'but it won't work, no matter who you know.'

At five a.m. Natalie Theroux was a client in a psychiatric inst.i.tution in Goat Marshes. Twenty-nine hours later she was free again, riding through downtown Chemin Rouge in a taxi cab.

This was why Vincent sat in the rented car outside the theatre while my mother went in to conduct the first of my acting lessons he was keeping guard. He kept the car doors locked and sat low in the seat with his eyes on the rear-view mirror, and only after I had appeared, wet and frightened in the rain, and he, in terror, had nearly shot me, did he come inside.

If you witnessed Vincent (who could not even program his own vid-remote) sitting in the kitchen, reading a photocopied instruction manual for Natalie's Globlaster, you knew he would shoot himself or someone he did not mean to.

He had not liked the bulge the holster made on his jacket so he had spent the day s.h.i.+fting the gun from briefcase to clutch bag, from clutch bag to belt. At lunch he left it underneath his chair with the result that his secretary was forced to ring all the previous places on the morning's itinerary, asking noncommittal questions without ever mentioning the word 'gun'.

He was nervous that he would squeeze the trigger too much or not enough, and when he sat in the car that night, watching the taxis come and go in Gazette Street, he sometimes feared the tightness in his hand, the tension in his muscles, would make him squeeze off a shot when he had not meant to. He did not trust himself with the safety catch, so left it off.

When I tapped on the gla.s.s, Vincent got such a fright he nearly fired the gun, and then he was so shaken he had to give the weapon to Felicity. She took it in both hands and walked slowly back into the kitchen, where she placed it on top of the kerosene refrigerator.* When Vincent entered the kitchen he was holding me in his arms and pressing his bearded face against my neck and kissing me. He had nearly killed me. He could feel his own heart thumping in his chest. When Vincent entered the kitchen he was holding me in his arms and pressing his bearded face against my neck and kissing me. He had nearly killed me. He could feel his own heart thumping in his chest.

It was at this moment that Wally chose to serve his Pigeon Patissy. Pigeon Patissy.

*The frequency of power blackouts during the Efican Moosone means that the old kerosene refrigerators continue to co-exist with microwaves and vids.

51.

I never tasted the famous Pigeon Patissy Pigeon Patissy, or witnessed as Vincent did the effect the pigeon's flesh had on Wally and Roxanna. I had seen the candles lit in the kitchen. I had observed the brand new crystal gla.s.ses, the two bottles of champagne which Wally had 'found' for the occasion, but when my maman said that she and I must be excused the meal, it did not occur to me to be either apologetic or disappointed.

And I must ask you please, Madam, Meneer, to leave Vincent in his priestly black to be the sole witness to the lovers' meal, and to follow my strutting knee-walk across the foyer, and to take your seat inside the Feu Follet.

In the kitchen a cork popped, but in the soft sawdust of the ring I removed my shoes and tangled socks and felt the whole history of our national theatre between my liberated toes Ducrow, Dubois, Millefleur, Smith. My maman also slipped out of her s.h.i.+ny black shoes and placed them, neat as quotation marks, on the wooden ring curbs.

My mother went into the workshop and returned with two wooden-handled rakes. She gave me one. She took the other. 'First we rake. You work that side of the shoes. I do the other.'

It is not often that you recognize a milestone in your life, but I knew that this was serious. I treated the vulgar sawdust like a zen garden.

When it was done, my mother took my rake and laid it down, together with her own, so it indicated a cord cutting across one side of the ring.

It was now two a.m. That day she had done three 'street walks', a press conference, eight interviews, delivered a speech, and seen her lover nearly shoot her son, but as she swept she became calmer, quieter in herself. She lost the pale political beauty of the Kroon Princess. She began to rebuild herself from the outside in, to define herself by her movements, to make her body a mould for her emotions. She became at once precise and tranquil. She arranged the two rake handles so they touched between the high-heeled shoes.

She removed her grey shot-silk skirt and folded it. She took it to the wings, and returned with two empty paint tins and a small black towel. Then she sat cross-legged just in her jacket and panty-hose on the black towel. She indicated that I should sit opposite her.

Then we meditated, for perhaps ten minutes.

'Now,' she said, at last.

I opened my eyes. My mother was very still. A smile almost a smile was on her face. All the focus of her eyes was on me. I felt a physical sense of expectation, a pins and needles in my limbs.

'We are going to do The Chef of Efica.' The Chef of Efica.'

'No!' The word escaped, a puff of disappointment to hear her say something so common, so vulgar, was a great disappointment to someone with my ambitions. I had expected a text from Shakespeare, Moliere, Racine.

'Oh yes,' she said. She leaned across and ruffled my head. Then she gave me one high-heeled shoe and an empty paint tin. 'This is your voice,' she said.

'I ... want ... to ... be ... LEAR.'

'This is your voice,' she said, placing the shoe firmly in one hand, the paint tin in the other. 'You can move however you like, but the only thing you can say say is with this shoe. You bang it, or tap it. You are the Chef,' she said. 'I am the soldiers. You know the story.' is with this shoe. You bang it, or tap it. You are the Chef,' she said. 'I am the soldiers. You know the story.'

'It's ... so ... corny.'

'Corny or not this is our play. I want to kill you, but you want to live. We soldiers are hungry, but cannot cook. We don't believe you are really a chef. We think you are lying to save your life.'

She picked up a shoe and banged it on the paint tin. As she did this, she changed herself. Her cheeks blew out, her eyes slitted, her stomach bulged. She sneered at me. Bang, bang, bang. She scared me.

'I'm talking,' she said. 'This is how I talk to you.'

I picked up the other shoe and banged the ring curb. My mother took it away from me.

'You are trying to persuade me not to kill kill you. Think what you need to tell me. First you smell the smoke, the burnt food. You hate the soldiers. They have bright red coats with huge hats made out of fur. You are frightened of them. You have to tell them that you can cook their meal, before they kill you. Let's stand.' you. Think what you need to tell me. First you smell the smoke, the burnt food. You hate the soldiers. They have bright red coats with huge hats made out of fur. You are frightened of them. You have to tell them that you can cook their meal, before they kill you. Let's stand.'

She made 'the horse', i.e. the fighting stance, legs wide apart, knees bent. She crouched to bang her shoe on her tin can, then straightened, but her eyes never once left my face.

I banged my own tin can right back at her.

She stopped, shook her head.

'Listen to me, watch me, don't decide what you're going to do until you see what I have done. Come on, Tristan you want to act. This is acting the moment while you wait to hear what I say. While you think think what to do that's it. It isn't the lines, or the lights this is what we give them: the energy, made by this gap which is made by you listening to me. Drama is a spark plug. Your listening is the gap the spark flies across.' what to do that's it. It isn't the lines, or the lights this is what we give them: the energy, made by this gap which is made by you listening to me. Drama is a spark plug. Your listening is the gap the spark flies across.'

Then she sprang into the air and came down hard the horse upon the floor. She drummed a loud rat-tat, an aggressive, sneering territorial tattoo.

I tried to make the horse myself. Of course I could not. I teetered, fell. She laughed not my mother the soldier laughed. He laughed. They laughed, all of them.

My eyes welled up with tears. I showed them the shoe. It was empty.

She hit the shoe against the tin once, hard, a warning shot.

I began to make the food with the shoe, I was quiet and busy, I chopped.

They moved in on me, around me. They shoved, but also: they smelt the food. They became gentler, then fierce again: they said it was no use. They told me I would die.

I faced them. I held their eyes. I made myself be calm and then I persuaded I used the shoe to sing them the recipe.

They faltered. They were like feral dogs. You could not trust them.

I described the dinner I would cook them gravy bubbles in a pot.

They told me I was a liar. They said they would split my head, burst my guts. I stayed calm. I watched their eyes. When they were still again, I described silky sauces, b.u.t.ter, gravy, things simmering on the stove. I promised them thick bread, treacle puddings. Time ceased to matter for me.