photo of this event would find its way into the pages of Sud Ouest. Then Ivan appeared, wearing his white chef’s blouse and toque. He must have dashed here from his restaurant to attend. One particularly enthusiastic blow came from the meaty fist of J-J. This affectionate ordeal complete, the baron gave him a glass of champagne, and then they all stood back, expectant grins on their faces, and Bruno realized with embarrassment that he was now expected to make a speech.
He raised his glass to them all. “I’m ambushed, stunned and overwhelmed. And I’m deeply grateful to you all for your friendship, and particularly to Pamela, our charming and beautiful hostess this evening. I suppose the great merit of birthdays is that with each succeeding one, we have more opportunities to make good friends like you all. So thank you for making this the most memorable birthday of my life.”
Bruno lifted his glass in salute, first to Pamela whose eyes were glowing, and then taking in the entire company. Speeches did not come easily to him, but emotion did, and he felt a stinging in his eyes that suggested tears were not far away. He blinked to hold them back, and then shook his head, surprised at how moved he felt.
“These are just the friends I had room for,” Pamela said. “But many more wanted to come, and they have all signed this.”
She led him to the far end of the room that stretched the full width of her ancient farmhouse, where a large card, three feet square, was covered in signatures. Some were accompanied by tiny smiling faces or small sketches of Bruno done by childish hands, and he recognized the names of the boys and girls he taught to play rugby and tennis. The town’s rugby teams had signed, and the staff of the mairie, and he recognized the names of stallholders from the market.
“We kept it hidden in the closet in my office,” said the mayor. “We had a warning system every time you were in your office. I’m amazed we kept the secret.”
“And we took it to the rugby game with Lalinde when you were away on that course,” said Joe.
“Unbelievable,” said Bruno, blinking hard again as the baron refilled his glass.
“I took it up to Perigueux so you’ve got most of the cops and the prefect,” said J-J. “I wanted to get it up to Paris, but there wasn’t time, so we’ve stuck this piece of paper on the corner.”
Bruno bent down to see, and there were the signatures of the brigadier and Isabelle. He understood why she wasn’t here, but felt a pang at the thought that she was alone in a hotel just down the road.
“And now it’s time for your present,” Pamela announced. “Baron, the blindfold, if you please.”
Bruno closed his eyes as a black cloth was tied around his head and laughed nervously. He felt someone remove his champagne glass and then a firm grip was taken of each of his arms and he was steered out of the house and into the cool evening air, the crunch of gravel under his feet. From the sound, everybody else was coming too.
He summoned up his mental map of Pamela’s property. They were turning left, away from the swimming pool and the tennis court and toward the separate gite where Fabiola lived. But no, that was more to the other side of the courtyard, so they were heading to the old barn where Pamela kept her lawn mower, and beyond that were the stables and the kitchen garden at the rear of the farmhouse. It must be something hidden in the barn; some special wine, he thought, remembering that Hubert and Nathalie were there from the cave and Julien from the vineyard.
Then he picked up the scent of roasting meat on the faint breeze. Had the hunters caught a wild boar and were roasting it in the open air? But it didn’t smell like boar, or like venison, and there was no smell of woodsmoke that would have signaled an open fire. He felt the ground change under his feet from gravel to what felt and sounded like concrete and then he smelled the stables and suddenly he knew. They have bought me a saddle of my own, he told himself, something that would have been beyond his own slender purse.
Bruno felt straw under his feet and the smell of horses was very strong. Through the blindfold he sensed a glare of light. He was steered forward and then turned, and he heard the rest of the party lining up behind and around him.
“This is the one,” he heard Pamela say, and someone took his hand and placed something round and smooth in his palm. He felt a stem. It was an apple. Then the blindfold was removed and he was temporarily blinded by the flare of light.
“Bruno, this is Hector,” Pamela said. “Hector, this is Bruno, your new master, and he’s going to give you an apple.”
A soft muzzle brushed against his hand as Bruno’s vision cleared and he found himself looking into the intelligent eye of a horse the color of a perfectly ripe chestnut. Its ears were alert and pointed, its mane dark and its teeth white and strong as gently it took the apple from Bruno’s paralyzed hand.
“You can stroke him,” came Pamela’s voice. “You can even ride him if you want. He’s yours. Happy birthday, dear Bruno, from all your friends.”
“We began collecting at Christmas, just after you got those Chinese kids out of the fire. Everybody who signed the card contributed to your gift,” said the mayor, as they took their places around Pamela’s table, every leaf installed to stretch it to the fullest extent.
A generous serving of pate de foie gras studded with truffles lay before each guest, with a glass of chilled Monbazillac to accompany it. There were two more plates beneath the foie, two more wineglasses at every place, and from the array of knives and forks and spoons that surrounded his plates Bruno knew that a feast lay in store.
There was an empty place, and then Ivan bustled in from the kitchen to fill it, sweeping his chef’s toque from his head and sitting down, raising his glass to Bruno. He must have closed his restaurant for the evening to be here, and from the look of him Ivan was doing the bulk of the cooking.
“No,” he said when Bruno began to speak. “I’m not allowed to tell you the menu. I can say it’s half English and half French, but that’s all.”
“The foie comes from the cupboard full of preserves that our friend Hercule left to me in his will, and I’m pleased that something of him is with us tonight,” the baron said. “And that’s Hercule’s wine in the carafes, a Chateau Haut-Brion, ’89.”
“Hercule bought four cases through me en primeur when I told him it was going to be one of the great wines,” said Hubert from down the table. “Back then, I got it for him at three thousand francs a case. Then that American Robert Parker gave it a hundred points, and the prices went through the roof. These days, if you can find it, the prices start at a thousand euros a bottle.”
Bruno looked down the table, where places were set for twenty people and a row of carafes of the richly dark wine stood glowing before them. Most of a case of Haut-Brion, he thought, and looked across at the baron and raised his glass.
“To Hercule,” he said. “Would that he could be here with us tonight.”
He savored the foie gras and its truffles, the creamy, refined richness of the foie and the earthy perfume of the truffle blending warmly together, two opposites that attracted each other and together created something much grander. He sipped the last of his Monbazillac as the plates were cleared, and then Ivan brought in the first of five large tureens, each with its own ladle, and began by serving Bruno.
“Ecrevisses a la nage,” Ivan announced, crayfish atop a broth of celery and fennel, onions and carrots. “I used the same Bergerac Sec that our friend Julien has provided to drink with this course.”
“It’s the one I made with Hubert’s advice,” said Julien, piling freshly opened bottles onto the table. He looked years younger than the dispirited man he had become when his wife was dying, and before the mayor had arranged for the entire town to invest in his vineyard. “We’re calling it cuvee Mirabelle, after her. It’s sixty percent sauvignon blanc, thirty-five percent semillon and five percent muscadelle. At the Domaine we’ll be making twice as much of it this year.”
A spoon was being tapped on a glass at the far end of the table. Bruno looked up to see Ivan standing there.
“Now for the English course, courtesy of Pamela,” he announced, and on cue, Pamela entered bearing a giant silver dish on which steamed an entire shoulder of beef.
“Courtesy of Ivan’s ovens,” Pamela said as she put the dish down on the table. “Mine wasn’t nearly big enough.”
With a theatrical flourish, Ivan waved a huge Sabatier knife and began to carve.
“The roast beef of old England,” said Ivan. “With Pamela’s own raifort which the bizarre English called the
