Page 8 of Kept 4
I smile in relief.
“Solar business doing well then?”
“Yes,” he says, before going into a long-winded explanation of his latest business dealings with a solar panel manufacturer in Mexico using American backing and Chinese technology. I zone out for some of it but phase in with the occasional question, so he thinks I’m listening. Really, I’m wondering if maybe Thailand, which frankly I’d plucked out of thin air, might not be a bad idea after all. It is certainly far, far away from here.
By the time I get off the phone from him, having agreed to meet up when I return at some point, and to keep in contact by phone, I have resolved I will fly to Asia, not Spain, after a brief stop-over in Rennes. It is my ancestral home. My French grandparents heralded from there before moving to the US and making a new life. It was someplace I had always vowed I would see before I died.
I shudder as I remember Elsbeth’s attack – I almost hadn’t made it, so I want to take the opportunity now, just in case.
I’ve also determined I willnotcall Nicholas. I must leave him to his world now and make my own way in mine – the human world.
TAGINE D’AGNEAUX AUX AUBERGINES
Ingredients:1kg diced lamb, quarter cup olive oil, 2kg aubergines, half a kg of onions, garlic, 1 preserved lemon, cumin, turmeric, black olives, fresh coriander or parsley.
Method:
Sear and seal the meat in the hot oil.
Chop the aubergines into small squares, slice the onions and fry in a separate pan.
Place meat, aubergines, onion, spices and lemon into a tajine.
Cook on stovetop on low for about an hour or until the meat breaks up when forked.
Serve with fresh herbs and black olives
Note: You can substitute fresh lemon for preserved lemons.
Note: If you want the dish more full of flavour, double the spices and lemon. Serve with a good Beaujolais.
4
The smile on my face seemingly won’t slip as I wander the streets of Rennes, transfixed by the beauty of the buildings, the strange almost Germanic use of timber and plaster, the cobbled streets, the little cafes and bars, the tiny restaurants.
Everything about this place, I love.
I’ve settled into a tiny shared room in an auberge de jeunesse a few blocks away, and as soon as I stowed my gear and paid my eight euro per night fee, I had set out immediately to sample the delights of the town.
Tonight was my third night here, and I hadn’t seen a tenth of what I wanted to explore.
Tomorrow I plan to visit the church and see if I can find any records of my relatives. I know nothing about my grandparents, they had already passed away by the time I was born, and I had been too young to remember anything my mother might have told me about them before she too died. My father had only met them a few times; they hadn’t approved of the marriage. Hopefully, the local church might be able to fill in some details for me, if not the church, some other municipal building. But either way, I was sure there is something here for me to discover.
Now though, it is a beautiful, if somewhat cool evening and my stomach is telling me it is time for a meal.
Following my nose, I wander into one of the little roadside restaurants bustling with patrons and pull up a chair at the only remaining table in the back corner of a small establishment that smells heavily of exotic spices.
The little restaurant is bustling with conversation. I feel safe, warm and completely at ease where I sit, watching the flickering of the flame upon the candle in the old wine bottle where it sits in the middle of the tiny table. Years of wax has run down to cover the label and much of the glass, creating a work of rustic, misshapen art out of what others might think of as trash. It was about as far away from Ereston Manor in feel and décor as I could possibly get, and yet I felt totally at home here.
The kitchen, separated from the diners by only a long, low bench, is visible from my table and I watch, smiling, my chin resting in my hand, as the cook shakes a pan and turns his head to the side to avoid the delicious steam hissing into the air from whatever concoction he is sautéing.
Looking up, he catches my eye and winks, and I smile back. He is possibly in his thirties, of African descent, dark-skinned, almond-eyed, and if his grin is anything to go by, a bit of a ladies’ man. I wonder as I think this, if this profession attracts that kind of man, after all, Ricardo too was a showy and confident cook and an equally confident lover; a real favourite with the ladies.
I watch as, setting his pan aside, the cook wipes his hands on his white apron, and heads in my direction.
“Hello, beautiful mademoiselle, what may I get for you, this evening?”
“How did you know I speak English?”
