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There was.
Two months later came the first proposal. A thousand francs to me if I would give them my recipe for paëlla antillaise and allow them to put it on their menu. Mamie Framboises paëlla antillaise, as mentioned in Hôte amp; Cuisine (July 1992) by Jules Lemarchand. At first I thought it was a joke. A delicate blend of freshly caught seafood subtly melded with green bananas, pineapple, muscatels and saffron rice I laughed. Didnt they have enough recipes of their own?
Dont laugh, Mamie. Yannick was almost curt, his bright black eyes very close to mine. I mean, Laure and I would be so grateful
He gave a wide, open smile.
Now dont be coy, Mamie. I wished they wouldnt call me that. Laure put her cool bare arm around me. Id make sure everyone knew it was your recipe.
I relented. I dont actually mind giving out my recipes; after all, Ive given enough out already to people in Les Laveuses. Id give them the paëlla antillaise for nothing, plus anything else they took a shine to, but on condition that they left Mamie Framboise off the menu. Id had one narrow escape. I wasnt going to court more attention.
They agreed so quickly to my demands and with so little argument. And three weeks later the recipe for Mamie Framboises paëlla antillaise appeared in Hôte amp; Cuisine, flanked by a gushing article by Laure Dessanges. I hope to be able to bring you more of Mamie Framboises country recipes soon, she promised. Till then, you can taste them for yourself at Aux Délices Dessanges, Rue des Romarins, Angers.
I suppose they never imagined that I would actually read the article. Perhaps they thought that I hadnt meant what Id told them. When I spoke to them about it they were apologetic, like children caught out in some endearing prank. The dish was already proving extremely successful, and there were plans for an entire Mamie Framboise section of the menu, including my couscous à la provençale, my cassoulet trois haricots and Mamies Famous Pancakes.
You see, Mamie, explained Yannick winningly. The beauty of it is that were not even expecting you to do anything. Just to be yourself. To be natural.
I could run a column in the magazine, added Laure. Mamie Framboise Advises, something like that. Of course, you wouldnt need to write it. Id do all that.
She beamed at me, as if I were some child who needed reassurance.
Theyd brought Cassis with them again, and he too was beaming, though he looked confused, as if this was all a little too much for him.
But I told you. I kept my voice level, hard, to keep it from trembling. I told you before. I dont want any of this. I dont want to be a part of it.
Cassis looked at me, bewildered.
But its such a good chance for my son, he pleaded. Think what the publicity might do for him.
Yannick coughed.
What my father means, he amended hastily, is that we could all benefit from the situation. The possibilities are endless if the thing catches on. We could market Mamie Framboise jams, Mamie Framboise biscuits Of course, Mamie, youd have a substantial percentage
I shook my head.
Youre not listening, I said in a louder voice. I dont want publicity. I dont want a percentage. Im not interested.
Yannick and Laure exchanged glances.
And if youre thinking what I think youre thinking, I said sharply, that you might just as easily do it without my consent-after all, a name and a photographs all you really need-then listen to this. If I hear of one more so-called Mamie Framboise recipe appearing in that magazine-in any magazine-then Ill be on the phone to the editor of that magazine that very day. Ill sell him the rights to every recipe Ive got. Hell, Ill give them to him for free.
I was out of breath, my heart hammering with rage and fear. But no one railroads Mirabelle Dartigens daughter. They knew I meant what I said too. I could see it in their faces.
Helplessly, they protested:
Mamie-
And stop calling me Mamie!
Let me talk to her. That was Cassis, rising with difficulty from his chair.
I noticed that age had shrunk him; had softly sunk him into himself, like a failed soufflé. Even that small effort caused him to wheeze painfully.
In the garden.
Sitting on a fallen tree trunk beside the disused well I felt an odd sense of doubling, as if the old Cassis might pull aside the fat-mans mask from his face and reappear as before, intense, reckless and wild.
Why are you doing this, Boise? he demanded. Is it because of me?
I shook my head slowly.
This has nothing to do with you, I told him. Or Yannick. I jerked my head at the farmhouse. You notice I managed to get the old farm fixed up.
He shrugged.
Never saw why youd want to, myself, he said. I wouldnt touch the place. Gives me the shivers just to think of you living here. Then he gave me a strange look, knowing, almost sharp. But its very like you to do it. He smiled. You always were her favorite, Boise. You even look like her nowadays.
I shrugged.
You wont talk me round, I said flatly.
Now youre beginning to sound like her too. His voice, complex with love, guilt, hate. Boise
I looked at him.
Someone had to remember her, I told him. And I knew it wasnt going to be you.
He made a helpless gesture.
But here, in Les Laveuses
No one knows who I am, I said. No one makes the connection. I grinned suddenly. You know, Cassis, to most people, all old ladies look pretty much the same.
He nodded.
And you think Mamie Framboise would change that.
I know it would.
A silence.
You always were a good liar, he observed casually. Thats another thing you got from her. The capacity to hide. Me, Im wide open.
He flung his arms wide to illustrate.
Good for you, I said indifferently. He even believed it himself.
Youre a good cook, Ill give you that. He stared over my shoulder at the orchard, the trees heavy with ripening fruit. Shed have liked that. To know youd kept things going. Youre so like her he repeated slowly, not a compliment but a statement of fact, some distaste, some awe.
She left me her book, I told him. The one with the recipes in it. The album.
His eyes widened.
She did? Well, you were her favorite.
I dont know why you keep saying that, I said impatiently. If ever Mother had a favorite it was Reinette, not me. You remember-
She told me herself, he explained. Said that of the three of us you were the only one with any sense or any guts. Theres more of me in that sly little bitch than the pair of you ten times over. Thats what she said.
It sounded like her. Her voice in his, clear and sharp as glass. She must have been angry with him, in one of her rages. It was rare that she struck any of us, but God!.. her tongue.
Cassis grimaced.
It was the way she said it too, he told me softly. So cold and dry. With that curious look in her eyes, as if it was a kind of test. As if she was waiting to see what Id do next.
And what did you do?
He shrugged.
I cried, of course. I was only nine.
Of course he would, I told myself. That was always his way. Too sensitive beneath his wildness. He used to run away from home regularly, sleeping out in the woods or in the tree house, knowing that Mother would not whip him. Secretly she encouraged his misbehavior, because it looked like defiance. It looked like strength. Me, Id have spat in her face.
Tell me, Cassis-the idea came to me in a rush and I was suddenly almost out of breath with excitement-Did Mother-do you ever remember if she spoke Italian? Or Portuguese? Some foreign language
Cassis looked puzzled, shook his head.
Are you sure? In her album-
I explained about the pages of foreign writing, the secret pages I had never learned to decipher.
Let me see.
We looked over it together, Cassis fingering the stiff yellow leaves with reluctant fascination. I noticed he avoided touching the writing, though he often fingered the other things, the photographs, the pressed flowers, butterflies wings, pieces of cloth stuck to the pages.