At first they were clever. They asked for nothing. They were concerned for me living alone, gave me presents-a food processor, shocked that I didnt already have one, a winter coat, a radio-offered to take me out Even invited me to their restaurant once, a big barn of a place with gingham-print faux-marble tables and neon signs and dried starfish and brightly colored plastic crabs wreathed in fishermans netting on the walls. I commented, rather diffidently, on the décor.
Well, Mamie, its what youd call kitsch, explained Laure kindly, patting my hand. I dont suppose youre interested in things like that, but believe me, in Paris, this is very fashionable.
She leveled her teeth at me. She has very white, very large teeth, and her hair is the color of fresh paprika. She and Yannick often touch and kiss each other in public. I have to say it all rather embarrassed me. The meal was modern, I suppose. Im no judge of such things. Some kind of salad in a bland dressing, lots of little vegetables cut to look like flowers. Might have been some endive in there, but mostly just plain old lettuce leaves and radishes and carrots in fancy shapes. Then a piece of hake (a nice piece, I have to say, but very small) with a white wine shallot sauce and a piece of mint on top-dont ask me why. Then a sliver of pear tartlet fussed over with chocolate sauce, dusted sugar, chocolate curls. Looking furtively at the menu, I noticed a great deal of self-congratulatory stuff along the line of a nougatine of assorted candies on a mouthwatering bed of wafer-thin pastry, bound with thick dark chocolate and served with a tangy apricot coulis. Sounded like a plain old florentine to me, and when I saw it, it looked no bigger than a five-franc piece. Youd have thought Moses brought it down from the mountain, to read what theyd put about it. And the prices! Five times the price of my most expensive menu, and that was without the wine. Course, I didnt pay for any of it. But I was beginning to think that all the same, there might be a hidden price in all this sudden attention.
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