Natasha and Louis lay together in his bed. Naked and asleep.
Louis Kohner’s flat was a one-room studio near Cheyne Place on the embankment opposite Battersea Park. After his separation from Hildegarde, Louis sought the Battersea area because it reminded him of Brighton. From his windows he could see the reflection of the amusement-park lights, and even hear an occasional strain from the carrousel. Brighton had been a happy place. There had been good cooking and good loving.
Three floor-to-ceiling windows covered one end of Louis’ rectangular studio. In front of the windows, as a painter would position his easel, Louis had commissioned a huge circular cooking area—sink, stove, oven, refrigerator, and generous work space. Above the circular butcher-block work surface was a round brass-and-copper pot rack from which hung a complete catalog of pots and pans. To one side of the island was a small alcove lined with over a hundred huge cork-topped test tubes filled with spices of every color and texture. The opposite alcove was filled with cookbooks, piles of newspaper clippings, menus, and notebooks.
The other walls were hung with prints and original oil paintings, all still lifes—fruit, game, vegetables, fish. A well-worn rectangular table with eight armchairs stood in front of the cooking area. The only other furniture in the room was a gleaming ornate brass bed that was angled in a comer.
It was morning. Louis had sensed it even without opening his eyes. “Tasha,” he murmured to reassure himself. He turned to lie on his stomach, careful to position himself so that his genitals rested on the open palm of her outstretched hand. He opened his eyes to find her mouth, and as they kissed, her fingers involuntarily tightened around the stiffening pressure on her palm. They kissed again, their eyes open.
“I do so love to be wakened by a cock growing,” she said.
“You’re hurting,” he said, pulling back slightly, as she released her grip.
“I’m sorry, Liebchen.” She raised herself and bent forward to kiss his penis. Then she stretched out, her head resting on his leg as she began to lick and caress the wounded area. Louis arched his back and moved his head so that he pressed his nose between her legs. She felt his tongue start to search inside her.
“You know,” she said as she began licking the length of his penis, “you could stand a little salt, darling.”
Louis raised his head, breathing hard. He used the back of his hand to wipe the moisture from his lips. “Had the recipe been mine, I would have added tarragon.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, love,” she said, catching her breath as she took the head of his penis from her mouth, “you never knew the right use for tarragon.” She cupped her hands around his testicles. “For example, that salad in Rouen …”
Louis narrowed his eyes while his fingers continued exploring deep inside her. “And what was wrong with my salad in Rouen?”
“Oh,” she moaned in response to the strength in his hand. “I told you, love, it was the tarragon that was all wrong.”
“It was a superb…” He winced sharply. “Don’t bite,” he said. “It was a superb salad.”
“No, darling,” she answered, breathing heavily, “I’m sorry, but I didn’t mean to bite that hard. The salad was a disaster. You just can’t add tarragon to endive without making the endive schizophrenic. Oh, that’s marvelous,” she whispered.
Louis was on top of her. Her arms closed tightly around him. He began to penetrate. Slowly, slowly, slowly as he asked her, “And what did you think of my Pigeonneaux last night?”
Natasha pressed her fingers into his back. “Ach, mein Führer, the only thing better than your cooking is your fucking.”
…
Louis was taking a shower, and Natasha sat up in bed with the sheet pulled around her waist. If only they loved one another, she thought. Really loved one another. With passion and need, rather than affection and guilt. It was Louis who had taken her in as a child after her mother died. In truth, Louis and Hildegarde. They fed and clothed her, taught her a trade, got her a job as apprentice at Demel’s. Natasha had never known her own father, and Louis was “Papa Louis” to her, at least until her late teens, when she and Papa Louis would make love while Hildegarde was in the shop baking Schwarzwälder Kirschtorten.
Perhaps the problem was they had already known each other too well and cared for each other too much when they first became lovers. They were never emotionally insecure together, never sexual competitors. They were one, closer than she had ever been with Max. But she had felt more of a woman with Max.
Louis opened the door to the bathroom and a cloud of steam escaped, announcing his entrance. He was naked, still dripping from the shower and drying himself with a towel. “So, now that you are divorced, why did you ever marry him?”
“I don’t know. He detested oral sex.”
“I never liked him.”
“Who would you have liked for me, Papa Louis?”
“Don’t call me that.” He turned and walked into the bathroom.
“Hey, Louis,” she called.
“Yes?”
“You still got the world’s cutest ass.”
She remained in bed while he dressed. It was 6:00 A.M. and Louis was already late for his morning marketing at Covent Garden. She remembered the first time she had gone there with him, horrified at seeing the transition from lover to Gestapo agent (“Where are you hiding the good eggs? Don’t lie to me about these raspberries, I am not a fool. You will get me the flour I require. Would you wish to see your relatives eat these carrots?”) The second time, she followed behind him, listening and watching as he made unyielding demands upon the tradesmen. He sometimes spent half an hour selecting onions. Often he changed his day’s menu if the carrots were not good enough for the garni, if the veal was not pink enough for the pâté. Natasha would remain, at a safe distance, in embarrassment and in awe. But she always went, following behind him because it was at the market that she really learned to be a cook.
“Who’s in the kitchen at Arnaud’s?” she asked.
“Tuesday? Marco is off. It must be Mercuric.”
“Ugh. Is Franco still at Le Gigot?”
“No. He was fired for spitting in the soup. He went back to Lyons. They have some Greek refugee now who puts feta cheese in his Béarnaise.”
“Well, then where shall we eat?”
“I am thinking,” he said, putting on his coat “Chinese is the least aggravating. Lee is still on Frith Street.”
“I’ll see you there at eight.”
He walked to the door. “What will you do all day?”
“I have to see Achille later.”
“That pig. Do you go to bed with him?”
“Why, Louis.” She smiled teasingly. “That would be like sleeping with my father.” He slammed the door.
It was after seven when Natasha walked into the lobby of the Connaught. She had her room key and went right upstairs without stopping at the desk.
At eleven she was awakened by someone knocking on the door. “What is it?” she asked, putting on her robe. “I hope for your sake it’s a fire.”
The knocking continued and she opened the door.
“Good day, miss. Are you Natasha O’Brien?” A tall, pinkish, balding man with steel-rimmed glasses looked at her.
“What do you want?”
“Are you Miss O’Brien?”
“Yes, I are. Who are you?”
“I am Detective Inspector Carmody of New Scotland Yard.”
“Oh, not about that business at the airport…”
“May I come in?”
“Why? What do you want?”
“Yes. Why? Has something happened?”
“May I come in?”
“What is it? What’s happened?”
Detective Inspector Carmody walked past Natasha into her room. She closed the door and followed him.
“When was the last time you saw Mr. Kohner?”
“What the hell is it? Was he in a fight at the market?”
“Mr. Kohner is dead.”
“Oh, my God. No.” She sat on the bed. “There must be a mistake.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What… what happened?”
“I’m afraid he was murdered, miss.”
“Murdered?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Is this a joke? Did Max Ogden send you here?”
“Louis Kohner is dead.”
“Murdered?”
“Yes.”
“By whom?”
“We don’t know.”
She began crying. “But I just saw him. We … how?”
Detective Inspector Carmody cleared his throat. He looked directly into Natasha’s eyes. “He was baked.”