Shibumi

Part Four.

Uttegae

St. Jean de Luz/Biarritz

The open fi shing boat plowed the ripple path of the setting moon, quicksilver on the sea, like an effect from the brush of a kitsch watercolorist. The diesel motor chugged bronchially and gasped as it was turned off. The bow skewed when the boat crunched up on the pebble beach. Hel slipped over the side and stood kneedeep in the surging tide, his duffel bag on his shoulder. A wave of his hand was answered by a blurred motion from the boat, and he waded toward the deserted shore, his canvas pants heavy with water, his rope-soled espadrilles digging into the sand. The motor coughed and began its rhythmic thunking, as the boat made its way out to sea, along the matte-black shore toward Spain.

From the brow of a dune, he could see the lights of cafés and bars around the small harbor of St. Jean de Luz, where fishing boats heaved sleepily on the oily water of the docking slips. He shifted the weight of the duffel and made for the Café of the Whale, to confirm a telegraph order he had made for di

Hel’s tap at the back door brought Mademoiselle Pinard to peer cautiously through the curtain, then a broad smile cracked her face, and she opened the door wide. “Ah, Monsieur Hel! Welcome. It has been too long since last we saw you! Come in, come in! Ah, you are wet! Monsieur de Lhandes is so looking forward to your di

“I don’t want to drip on your floor, Mademoiselle Pinard. May I take off my pants?”

Mademoiselle Pinard blushed and slapped at his shoulder with delight. “Oh, Monsieur Hel! Is this any way to speak? Oh, men!” In obedience to their established routine of chaste flirtation, she was both flustered and delighted. Mademoiselle Pinard was somewhat older than fifty—she had always been somewhat older than fifty. Tall and sere, with dry nervous hands and an unlubricated walk, she had a face too long for her tiny eyes and thin mouth, so rather a lot of it was devoted to forehead and chin. If there had been more character in her face, she would have been ugly; as it was, she was only plain. Mademoiselle Pinard was the mold from which virgins are made, and her redoubtable virtue was in no way lessened by the fact that she had been Bernard de Lhandes’s companion, nurse, and mistress for thirty years. She was the kind of woman who said “Zut!” or “Ma foi!” when exasperated beyond the control of good taste.

As she showed him to the room that was always his when he visited, she said in a low voice, “Monsieur de Lhandes is not well, you know. I am delighted that he will have your company this evening, but you must be very careful. He is close to God. Weeks, months only, the doctor tells me.”

“I’ll be careful, darling. Here we are. Do you want to come in while I change my clothes?”

“Oh, Monsieur!”

Hel shrugged. “Ah well. But one day, your barriers will fall, Mademoiselle Pinard. And then… Ah, then…”

“Monster! And Monsieur de Lhandes your good friend! Men!”

“We are victims of our appetites, Mademoiselle. Helpless victims. Tell me, is di

“The chef and his assistants have been cluttering up the kitchen all day. Everything is in readiness.”

“Then I’ll see you at di

“Oh, Monsieur!”

They took di

Di

From each of these dishes, de Lhandes took the smallest morsel that would still allow him to have all the flavors in his mouth at once. His heart, liver, and digestive system were such a ruin that his doctor restricted him to the blandest of foods. Hel, from dietary habit, ate very little. Mademoiselle Pinard’s appetite was good, though her concept of exquisite table ma

“It’s appalling how little we eat, Nicholai,” de Lhandes said in his surprisingly deep voice. “You with your monk’s attitude toward food, and I with my ravished constitution! Picking about like this. I feel like a rich ten-year-old in a luxurious bordello!”

Mademoiselle Pinard went behind her napkin for a moment.

“And these thimblesful of wine!” de Lhandes complained. “Ah, that I have descended to this! A man who, through knowledge and money, converted gluttony into a major art! Fate is either ironic or just, I don’t know which. But look at me! Eating as though I were a bloodless nun doing penance for her daydreams about the young curé!”

The napkin concealed Mademoiselle Pinard’s blush.

“How sick are you, old friend?” Hel asked. Honesty was common currency between them.

“I am finally sick. This heart of mine is more a sponge than a pump. I have been in retirement for—what? Five years now? And for four of them I have been of no use to dear Mademoiselle Pinard—save as an observer, of course.”

The napkin.

The meal ended with a bombe, fruit, glacés variées —no brandies or digestifs —and Mademoiselle Pinard retired to allow the men to chat.