must come before everything else—his wife, his children, his country. He asked, ‘Before God?’” The old chef threw his head back and laughed. “I told him, ‘God is another conversation.’”
“Indeed,” I said. “God is many other conversations.”
He snorted. “I put it to him bluntly; he had to give up Giulietta. Ah, sacre bleu ! You would have thought I had asked him to give up both his arms, to cut out his heart, to lay his head on the block. He said, ‘I love her.’ ”
Chef Meunier looked tired, and I didn’t know whether it was from the effort of remembering or from the memories themselves. The room had become so dim that his face had darkened into planes and shadows. I lit the oil lamp on the tea table and poured myselfanother cup of wine. It was no longer hot, but I settled back in my chair, comfortable in the warm pool of light that encompassed us. Wind and rain battered the window and slammed the shutters against the house, but Chef Meunier, caught up in his memories, seemed oblivious.
He said, “I gave him enough information to make his decision. Then he left. He later told me that he walked the dark streets all night with his head down and his hands clasped behind his back. He listened to the echo of his footsteps on the cobbles, thinking and thinking. Oui , as we all did, I suppose.
“He didn’t come to work the next day. When we spoke again, he told me he was honored by my offer, but he thought it unfair.”
Chef Meunier raised his palm to stop my surprised retort. “ Oui , unfair. Amato was standing on the threshold of a perfect life with Giulietta and he felt ambushed. Embusqué ! As I said, he understood nothing.” The old man closed his eyes and murmured in French. When he opened them again, he looked sad. “In the end, Amato persuaded himself that he could have it all. He didn’t give her up, he asked her to wait. Sot! But he kept this from me until it was too late. He waited a full year to tell me about it. By then the tragedy was un fait accompli , too late to do anything.
“Without my knowledge, Amato had arranged a rendezvous with Giulietta in a secluded piazza. He said they sat on a bench holding hands, and she asked why Amato had missed work. He gathered his courage and told her their wedding must wait. She wrenched her hand away and asked, ‘How long?’
“He feared that if she left him he wouldn’t be able to watch her go. But she didn’t leave. She wept, then she pleaded, then she raged and beat his chest with her tiny fists. She accused him of having another woman. There were more tears, more accusations, and then, suddenly, she capitulated. I can imagine her straightening her little girl shoulders and saying, ‘Fine. I’ll wait.’ Amato had no idea that Giulietta had scheming instincts. Many women do, you know.”
“Sì.” Francesca. Again.
“ Oui . She intended to wait only as long as it took to become pregnant, which was not long at all. But when she came to him—with a thicker waist and her wedding dress already sewn—she was astounded to learn that Amato still wouldn’t marry her.” The old chef picked at his shawl as rain pummeled the roof. “Perhaps if he had come to me then … Ach, I flatter myself. The damage was done.
“Giulietta’s pious family threw her out. That was to be expected. So Amato took her to his mother’s farm to wait out her confinement. He visited every week—although, at the time I thought he was only visiting his mother—and every week Giulietta complained to him. His mother didn’t want Giulietta’s pregnancy to interfere with her son’s ambitions. The two women resented each other, and Amato felt pulled between them.”
“A tight place for any man.”
“Amato tried to reassure Giulietta. He took her for long walks across farm fields smelling of cut grass. They hid in the honeysuckle, where they made love and then lay in each other’s arms listening to the crickets. It hurts me now to think of
“Indeed,” I said. “God is many other conversations.”
He snorted. “I put it to him bluntly; he had to give up Giulietta. Ah, sacre bleu ! You would have thought I had asked him to give up both his arms, to cut out his heart, to lay his head on the block. He said, ‘I love her.’ ”
Chef Meunier looked tired, and I didn’t know whether it was from the effort of remembering or from the memories themselves. The room had become so dim that his face had darkened into planes and shadows. I lit the oil lamp on the tea table and poured myselfanother cup of wine. It was no longer hot, but I settled back in my chair, comfortable in the warm pool of light that encompassed us. Wind and rain battered the window and slammed the shutters against the house, but Chef Meunier, caught up in his memories, seemed oblivious.
He said, “I gave him enough information to make his decision. Then he left. He later told me that he walked the dark streets all night with his head down and his hands clasped behind his back. He listened to the echo of his footsteps on the cobbles, thinking and thinking. Oui , as we all did, I suppose.
“He didn’t come to work the next day. When we spoke again, he told me he was honored by my offer, but he thought it unfair.”
Chef Meunier raised his palm to stop my surprised retort. “ Oui , unfair. Amato was standing on the threshold of a perfect life with Giulietta and he felt ambushed. Embusqué ! As I said, he understood nothing.” The old man closed his eyes and murmured in French. When he opened them again, he looked sad. “In the end, Amato persuaded himself that he could have it all. He didn’t give her up, he asked her to wait. Sot! But he kept this from me until it was too late. He waited a full year to tell me about it. By then the tragedy was un fait accompli , too late to do anything.
“Without my knowledge, Amato had arranged a rendezvous with Giulietta in a secluded piazza. He said they sat on a bench holding hands, and she asked why Amato had missed work. He gathered his courage and told her their wedding must wait. She wrenched her hand away and asked, ‘How long?’
“He feared that if she left him he wouldn’t be able to watch her go. But she didn’t leave. She wept, then she pleaded, then she raged and beat his chest with her tiny fists. She accused him of having another woman. There were more tears, more accusations, and then, suddenly, she capitulated. I can imagine her straightening her little girl shoulders and saying, ‘Fine. I’ll wait.’ Amato had no idea that Giulietta had scheming instincts. Many women do, you know.”
“Sì.” Francesca. Again.
“ Oui . She intended to wait only as long as it took to become pregnant, which was not long at all. But when she came to him—with a thicker waist and her wedding dress already sewn—she was astounded to learn that Amato still wouldn’t marry her.” The old chef picked at his shawl as rain pummeled the roof. “Perhaps if he had come to me then … Ach, I flatter myself. The damage was done.
“Giulietta’s pious family threw her out. That was to be expected. So Amato took her to his mother’s farm to wait out her confinement. He visited every week—although, at the time I thought he was only visiting his mother—and every week Giulietta complained to him. His mother didn’t want Giulietta’s pregnancy to interfere with her son’s ambitions. The two women resented each other, and Amato felt pulled between them.”
“A tight place for any man.”
“Amato tried to reassure Giulietta. He took her for long walks across farm fields smelling of cut grass. They hid in the honeysuckle, where they made love and then lay in each other’s arms listening to the crickets. It hurts me now to think of
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