The board beside the sink was strewn with culinary promise. Ripe young tomatoes, cloves of garlic, large fresh carrots, French onions, a bright green pepper, rosemary, bay leaves, a bouquet of thyme, parsley, and the best Mediterranean black olives. Michelle was cutting pork rinds into bite-sized squares which would give the red-wine sauce body as well as rich flavor. The heart of the stew, which she called la daube, was a rump of beef cut into squares about the size of the palm of her hand and about a third of an inch thick. After scraping the carrots, peeling the onions, and skinning the tomatoes, she sliced them all, placing them into an earthenware oven pot with the rinds and olive oil. Carefully the meat slices were laid over the bed of vegetables before placing the open pot over a medium flame. Moving with the knowledgeable ease of someone born to haute cuisine, Michelle readied the sauce by bringing a pan of red wine to a quick boil, igniting it to burn off the alcohol, and then pouring the boiling wine over the meat. Covering the pot, she slipped it into the oven and let it begin its two-and-a-half- hour simmer to perfection.
Michelle gazed through the kitchen window. Outside, it was Hyde Park and raining.
“Hmmm, smells like what they serve when you die and get to heaven,” said Ritter as the rich odor of the stew spread through the large one-room efficiency flat he had rented after deciding to stay in London to research the hunt. “I guess being French, even half French, means never having to eat badly.”
“They say the way to a man’s bed is through his stomach.” She smiled.
“Who says that? There are more direct routes, you know.”
“Really?” She placed a hand on her hip, thrusting it out suggestively.
“If you just happen to wander over this direction…”
She strolled to the couch where he had been lying. Her blouse was open and she was wearing nothing under it.
In the cozy warmth of the flat, the penetrating spring cold and rain were easily forgotten. La daube simmered undisturbed.
They lay on the day bed together, enjoying the sound of rain outside, their nakedness and the peaceful intimate moment together. She was toying with the finely crafted silver cross he always’s wore around his neck.
“Where’d you get this? I’ve been meaning to ask. It’s beautiful.”
He stared distractedly at the window. “Gift from a friend. A long time ago.”
“Nice gift.” She hoped to provoke more information.
“Nice friend.” Offering nothing further, he closed his eyes as she trailed her fingertips along his chest and stomach.
She accepted the hint. “Brian?”
“Hmmmm?”
“I’ve got a question.”
“Okay.”
“You won’t be angry?”
“Why should I?”
“Well, if you’re really writing a book, why don’t you have a typewriter or any papers around?”
After nearly a week of restaurants and meals produced on a small stove at Michelle’s flat, Ritter realized his efficiency had a better-equipped kitchen. There had been good reason for not inviting her in earlier. His story about writing a book would never hold up. The most academic item he had in the place was a copy of Time magazine, so her question was not totally unexpected. “I, uh, well, you see, they’re packed away.
I took a break for a couple of days and stored all the notes so the maid wouldn’t get them mixed up.”
“You’re the only writer I ever met who could keep a flat tidy.”
“That’s me. Mister Neatness.”
A pause.
“Brian?”
“Hmmmm?”
“How much have you written?”
“Written?”
“Your book.”
“Oh, uh, you see, I’m uh, still researching it. Haven’t actually gotten around to writing anything yet.”
“Do you have an outline?”
“Don’t need one. Story’s all in my head.”
She didn’t believe him. For a long time they lay together silently, stroking and nuzzling each other. Ritter had never been very good at keeping secrets from people he liked. An overwhelming urge to tell her rose in him. What difference would it make anyhow? She wouldn’t hurt his chances, she was too involved in her own research to mess with his. Anyway, it wasn’t his nature to keep up a lengthy masquerade.
“I’m not really writing a book,” he said.
“What have you been doing in the reading room, then?”
“Checking out a real hunt.”
“I didn’t believe you were a writer, you know.”
They both laughed.
“My dishonest face?”
“Dummy. You don’t talk like an author. You never discuss your work. I’ve known a few writers. All they ever talk about is their books. You never mentioned the matter after the first day at the library. Also, your note-taking was not organized. And when I saw your apartment, I knew it didn’t belong to a serious writer.”
“Spot a phony a mile away, eh?”
She kissed him. “There are phonies and there are phonies. I try not to make value judgments. In fact, there are some phonies I rather like.” She kissed him again.
“Can’t stand ’em myself. But I’m glad you’ve got room for at least one.”
“You’re not a phony, Brian Ritter. Just a lousy liar. Is there really a treasure?”
He nodded.
“How do you know it’s there?”
“One of the guys who put it in the ground told one of my partners.”
“Partners?”
“There are three of us. An older English guy whose brother-in-law was involved and a Greek guy who’s putting up some money and who’s going with me to Greece.” He quivered as her hand ran teasingly along him. “Hey!”
“What kind of treasure is it?” she said softly, her warm mouth beginning to move downward on his body.
“British army gold,” he said. His concentration slipped away with each of her arousing moves.
“Sounds like a lot of money. Are you definitely going next week?”
“Yeah.” He sighed as her tongue touched him. “Research is pretty well wrapped up.”
“Could I come?” she said, raising her head for a moment.
“Hmm, sure,” he said without thinking, suddenly lost in the erotic, exotic pleasure of the moment. Time stopped, the treasure vanished, as he gave himself up to her deeply satisfying attention and needs.
Much later, as she lay contentedly by his side, he tried to forget the conversation. There was no place for a woman on this trip. She’d just get in the way. On the other hand, Michelle’s presence could add another dimension to the hunt: body comfort. But that was crazy thinking. Khoury would never let him do it. Still, having her along would definitely help their cover. They were going as tourists, and who could imagine the two of them taking a holiday together? With Michelle along, it would be more convincing. More dangerous perhaps, but certainly more exciting.
“Could you afford to come to Greece?” he asked.
“My father’s family was in real estate and commodities. The family made, how do you say, a killing in land speculation during the American depression. Anyhow, when my father died, his brother set up the fund for my mother and me. I get a check for $1,400 every month. It’s not a lot, but it’s very nice. I have been able to follow my studies without worrying where the next meal would come from. It’s made life much easier.”
Her voice suddenly rose. “Brian,” she shouted, “la daube!’ She leaped up and ran to the oven. The cooking odor had been replaced by something slightly stronger. She pulled the pot out of the oven, removed the lid with a quickly gloved hand, jerking her head back as a cloud of steam geysered out.
“Saved it,” she exclaimed triumphantly. “Just in time.” Standing naked in the kitchen holding the top of the earthenware pot, she was a wonderful sight. She had lovely breasts. The legendary perfect handful. Her body was slender without being skinny. Her legs were nearly perfect. And her blondness was natural.
“Time to eat,” she said.
“La daube?”
A lusty grin spread across her face. “For a change.”