the Princess looked out from her tower as usual and saw a streak of fire burning the snow. A quick red line made a way through the snow, melting it on either side, as if spring had come. Without pause or stop, moving from side to side and leaving no print, the red fox ran through the wastes of the snow until he came to the palace.
The Princess herself had begun to run too, down from her high tower, down the winding stairs, and out into the white courtyard, where the fox, panting in red steam, lay down at her feet.
The Princess put our her hand and the fox licked it as she bent down, and his eyes pleaded with her. She touched him and her white hand was buried in the thick warm fur, soft as blood.
Then she stood up and signalled to one of her men. Her face was clear and cold. She had the servant draw his knife, take the fox by the scruff, andthen there was a second, only a second, when she hesitated, and looked for the last time at the brave pleading eyes and the strong head that offered no resistance.
The servant cut the throat out of the fox, and as the blood ran in a warm fountain across the icy cobbles of the courtyard, the servant staggered and fell under the weight of what he was holding. The fox was gone and the hunter lay dead in the yard.
You lay in my arms.
‘I don’t want to ask you for more than you can give,’ you said.
‘I’m the one who’s asking.’
‘We’re both asking.’
‘So what’s the answer?’
‘Not this.’
‘It feels like an answer, when we’re here, together.’
‘There’s a world outside.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Don’t start that stuff.’
‘World or no world, I want you with me.’
‘It’s too intense. We’d wear each other out in six months.’
‘Fire doesn’t burn itself.’
‘It burns out.’
‘Listen, I don’t want you to leave your marriage for me.’
‘Getting tired already?’
‘I want you to leave it for yourself.’
She got up. She hates this conversation and so do I. Why do we keep coming back to it like a crime we’ve committed?
I went after her, touched her shoulder, gently, sorry.
‘I’ll make us some lunch.’
I went into the kitchen. I love food. The clarity of it, the direct pleasure. I love it simple, absolutely fresh and freshly cooked. At my worst, like now, when nothing makes sense to myself, I’ll cook something as a way of forcing order back into chaos. As a way of re-establishing myself, at least in this one thing. It steadies my hands.
Take a dozen plum tomatoes and slice them lengthways as though they were your enemy. Fasten them into a lidded pot and heat for ten minutes.
Chop an onion without tears.
Dice a carrot without regret.
Shard a celery stick as though its flutes and grooves were the indentations of your past.
Add to the tomatoes and cook unlidded for as long as it takes them to yield.
Throw in salt, pepper and a twist of sugar.
Pound the lot through a sieve or a mouli or a blender. Remember—they are the vegetables, you are the cook.
Return to a soft flame and lubricate with olive oil. Add a spoonful at a time, stirring like an old witch, until you achieve the right balance of slippery firmness.
Serve on top of fresh spaghetti. Cover with rough new parmesan and cut basil. Raw emotion can be added now.
Serve. Eat. Reflect.
I put the steaming plate in front of her. She took a mouthful, then another.
‘This is fantastic.’
‘Food tastes better in Italian.’
Thickly, through a mouthful of spaghetti, she said, ‘My husband is in Oxford.’
‘Oh.’
‘I have to go there today.’
‘What about me?’
‘I’ve told him about you. Well, not everything about you.’
‘What exactly?’
‘How we met in Paris.’
‘I thought he didn’t know you were in Paris?’
‘I always tell him where I am, but not always who I’m with.’
‘Does he put up with that?’
‘We have an understanding.’
‘I wish I did.’
‘Look, a marriage has to survive in its own way.’
‘What about the
The Princess herself had begun to run too, down from her high tower, down the winding stairs, and out into the white courtyard, where the fox, panting in red steam, lay down at her feet.
The Princess put our her hand and the fox licked it as she bent down, and his eyes pleaded with her. She touched him and her white hand was buried in the thick warm fur, soft as blood.
Then she stood up and signalled to one of her men. Her face was clear and cold. She had the servant draw his knife, take the fox by the scruff, andthen there was a second, only a second, when she hesitated, and looked for the last time at the brave pleading eyes and the strong head that offered no resistance.
The servant cut the throat out of the fox, and as the blood ran in a warm fountain across the icy cobbles of the courtyard, the servant staggered and fell under the weight of what he was holding. The fox was gone and the hunter lay dead in the yard.
You lay in my arms.
‘I don’t want to ask you for more than you can give,’ you said.
‘I’m the one who’s asking.’
‘We’re both asking.’
‘So what’s the answer?’
‘Not this.’
‘It feels like an answer, when we’re here, together.’
‘There’s a world outside.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Don’t start that stuff.’
‘World or no world, I want you with me.’
‘It’s too intense. We’d wear each other out in six months.’
‘Fire doesn’t burn itself.’
‘It burns out.’
‘Listen, I don’t want you to leave your marriage for me.’
‘Getting tired already?’
‘I want you to leave it for yourself.’
She got up. She hates this conversation and so do I. Why do we keep coming back to it like a crime we’ve committed?
I went after her, touched her shoulder, gently, sorry.
‘I’ll make us some lunch.’
I went into the kitchen. I love food. The clarity of it, the direct pleasure. I love it simple, absolutely fresh and freshly cooked. At my worst, like now, when nothing makes sense to myself, I’ll cook something as a way of forcing order back into chaos. As a way of re-establishing myself, at least in this one thing. It steadies my hands.
Take a dozen plum tomatoes and slice them lengthways as though they were your enemy. Fasten them into a lidded pot and heat for ten minutes.
Chop an onion without tears.
Dice a carrot without regret.
Shard a celery stick as though its flutes and grooves were the indentations of your past.
Add to the tomatoes and cook unlidded for as long as it takes them to yield.
Throw in salt, pepper and a twist of sugar.
Pound the lot through a sieve or a mouli or a blender. Remember—they are the vegetables, you are the cook.
Return to a soft flame and lubricate with olive oil. Add a spoonful at a time, stirring like an old witch, until you achieve the right balance of slippery firmness.
Serve on top of fresh spaghetti. Cover with rough new parmesan and cut basil. Raw emotion can be added now.
Serve. Eat. Reflect.
I put the steaming plate in front of her. She took a mouthful, then another.
‘This is fantastic.’
‘Food tastes better in Italian.’
Thickly, through a mouthful of spaghetti, she said, ‘My husband is in Oxford.’
‘Oh.’
‘I have to go there today.’
‘What about me?’
‘I’ve told him about you. Well, not everything about you.’
‘What exactly?’
‘How we met in Paris.’
‘I thought he didn’t know you were in Paris?’
‘I always tell him where I am, but not always who I’m with.’
‘Does he put up with that?’
‘We have an understanding.’
‘I wish I did.’
‘Look, a marriage has to survive in its own way.’
‘What about the
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