An Infinity of Mirrors by Richard Condon Page A

room where they would be joined by his daughter as a witness. When he took the blindfold off we were in our small dining room where the windows had been masked. Clotilde served the meal wearing only a black leotard, a white lace apron, a black mask and a white lace cap, and Monsieur Lesrois actually sniffed his disapproval.”
    â€œHe must have thought he was in a bordello.”
    â€œI think so too, because he wanted to say something but my being there seemed to stop him. Well, the food began to appear. Monsieur Lesrois just wept quietly while he wolfed the caviar. It was the roe of the yellow-bellied sterlet.”
    â€œHow in the world did your father ever get it?”
    â€œA Russian Grand Duchess.”
    â€œOh, of course.”
    â€œFew foreigners, indeed few people anywhere, have ever tasted it; it had always been reserved for the Russian Imperial Court before the revolution. Monsieur Lesrois kept wolfing it and weeping and saying, ‘Where did they get it, Bernheim?’ Papa answered, ‘The late Tsar liked this little place—he came here a great deal incognito. I suppose he left them a barrel or two of the stuff.’”
    â€œOh, the poor man. But then, he did go beyond his depth when he offended your papa.”
    â€œThe bourride du Midi came next, with a good Tavel served—inside a ripe watermelon—you know, la pastèque de la Provençe . Monsieur Lesrois began to mumble a prayer of thanksgiving at his first taste of the Salmis de palombe d’Etchalar . Those were the only words he spoke for the remainder of the meal. He kept his beady little eyes fixed on the kitchen door when his plate was empty. Concentrating utterly, he just ate and wept and wept and ate. After the gras-double au safran à l’Albigeoise came the contrast of a gratin de ris de veau truffé , and at this, Monsieur Lesrois began to whimper pitiably.”
    â€œBut who was this great chef, my dear? The knowledge of such food grayed Lesrois overnight you know, and the lines in his face became absolutely harrowing.”
    â€œThat was the cruel part of Papa’s revenge,” Paule said sadly. “When the last ice disappeared, Monsieur Lesrois pleaded for the name of the restaurant and the name of the chef, but Papa refused, smiling. Monsieur Lesrois bullied and cajoled, saying he could make the chef the most famous man in France. Papa just smiled, and Clotilde served a ripened meringue layer cake. By the time Monsieur Lesrois was sipping Papa’s epic Calvados his face had taken on a desperate, lost expression which I shall never be able to forget. I could see in Monsieur Lesrois’ face the knowledge that he would have to fill the time until his death knowing that within Paris there was food such as he had just eaten, but that he would never enjoy again.”
    Tears filled Dame Ellie’s eyes and she dabbed at them with a handkerchief. A boy banged on the dressing-room door and called, “Fifteen minutes.”
    â€œAnd the name of the chef?” she asked. “I will never tell. I won’t even tell Alan.”
    â€œThe chef was Miss Willmott, who had been Papa’s English nanny. She is one of the geniuses of our epoch.”
    â€œWhat contours doth justice have,” Dame Ellie intoned. “Perhaps it is better, at that, that Monsieur Lesrois never know that the cook of the greatest meal of his life was an Englishwoman. But justice did not halt right there, you know, my dear. Your wicked Papa was repaid for his cruelty. Years later he told me that he had spent the entire wager on flowers for an auto magnate’s wife who, in what your father considered to be one of the best-kept secrets of all Paris, he discovered to his bitterness to be a devout Lesbian.”
    The old woman kissed her goodbye, and Paule picked her way across the debris of the backstage and left the theatre feeling as euphoric as though she were accompanied by her father himself.