Satori

the resources to replicate a French country house, albeit with a karesansui. Doubtless they’d calculated that he would absorb his French “cover” through some sort of decorative osmosis, just as doubtless after consultation with a “psychologist,” one of those priests of the new American civil religion. Nevertheless, the room was pleasant and stimulating to the appetite.

So was the aroma coming from the kitchen. Delicate, with a trace of wine perhaps, and he thought he detected the musty aroma of mushrooms. Solange returned and set a stoneware casserole on the table, removed the lid and announced, “Coq au vin. I hope you like.”

The smell was tantalizing.

He said, “I have not had European cuisine in many years.”

“I hope it will not upset your stomach,” she said. “It is necessary, though, that you eat mostly French food from now on.”

“A pleasure, but why?”

Solange pursed her lips into a pretty pout, then answered, “I wish to say this delicately, without giving offense…”

“Please be blunt,” he said, although he doubted that bluntness was in her repertoire.

“As it is,” she said, “you smell like a Japanese. Il faut que vous ayez l’odeur d’un vrai francais.”

“I see.” It was so, of course. In his prison cell, he could discern the nationality of someone coming down the corridor by his odor. The Americans had that beef smell on them, the Russians the strong scent of potato, the Japanese guards smelled of fish and vegetables. And Solange? All he could smell was her perfume.

“May I serve?” she asked.

“Please.”

She ladled out a healthy portion of the rich chicken and wine dish, then took some asparagus spears from another dish and put them on his plate. Then she poured him a glass of rich red wine. “It is good to serve the same wine in which you braised the chicken. Good French wine, monsieur.”

“Call me Nicholai.”

“Eh bien, Nicholai,” she answered. “Please call me Solange.”

“What a lovely name.”

She blushed, and it was very pretty. Then she sat down and served herself, but waited for him to taste his food. When he did, she asked, “Do you like?”

“It’s extraordinary.” He was telling the truth. The flavors, subtle yet distinct, burst in his mouth, and the taste of the wine recalled boyhood meals at home with his mother. Perhaps, he thought, I might take up European wine… if I survive. “My compliments to the chef.”

She bowed her head. “Merci.”

“You made this?” he asked, surprised.

“I love to cook,” she said. “I’ve had little chance these past few years, so it is a great joy.”

Solange took up her fork and ate with a relish that would have been considered unbecoming in a Japanese woman, but in her was quite appealing, a joie de vivre that Nicholai hadn’t seen during the long years of war, the hungry occupation, the lonely prison. It was a pleasure to watch her enjoy the meal. After a few minutes he said, “So the man I am meant to imitate, he ate French food even in Asia?”

“I believe so.”

“How did he manage that?”

“Money,” she answered, as if it were obvious. “Money makes all things possible.”

“Is that why you work for the Americans?” he asked, instantly regretting it and wondering why he felt an impulse to offend her.

“Tout le monde,” Solange said. “Everyone works for the Americans now.”

Including you, mon ami, she thought, smiling at him. She got up from her chair. “I made a tarte tatin. Would you like some?”

“That would be nice.”

“Coffee?”

“I would prefer tea, if you have it.”

“Coffee for you now, Nicholai,” she said. “Un express avec une cigarette.”

She left for a minute, then returned with the apple tarte, a small pot of espresso, and a pack of Gauloises and set them on the table.

“I apologize for my rudeness,” Nicholai said. “I have become unused to conversation.”

“Pas de quoi.” She liked that he apologized.

The tarte was delicious, the coffee, surprisingly more so. Nicholai sat back in his chair and Solange nudged the pack of cigarettes toward him. “Take two,” she said, “light them, and give one to me.”

“Seriously?”

She laughed. “Didn’t you ever go to the cinema?”

“No.” It always seemed an odd concept to him, to sit and stare at other people’s fantasies projected through a strip of celluloid.

“I love the cinema,” Solange said. “I wanted to be an actress.”

Nicholai thought to ask what had prevented her – certainly she was attractive enough – but then decided that the answer might cause her sadness, so he refrained. Instead, he shook two cigarettes from the pack, put them both in his mouth, then struck a match and lit them. When the tip of one glowed, he handed it to her.

“Formidable,” Solange said. “Paul Henreid would be jealous.”

Nicholai had no idea what she meant, but he inhaled the smoke and endured a spasm of coughing. It hurt where the stitches were. “It’s been a while,” he said when he recovered.

“Apparently.” She laughed at him but he didn’t feel in the least offended or embarrassed. It was more as if they were sharing an amusing moment, and he started to laugh himself. Again, it hurt a little bit, and he realized that it had been a very long time since he’d laughed with another person.

Solange discerned his thought. “It is good, no? We have not lived through laughing times, I think, you and me.”

“Nor the world at large,” Nicholai said

She refilled his wine glass, then her own, lifted it and said, “To better times.”

“To better times.”

“You must learn to smoke, Nicholai,” she said. “All Frenchmen smoke.”

“I sneaked cigarettes when I was a boy in Shanghai,” Nicholai answered. “The Chinese smoke like chimneys. Smoke, and spit.”

“We can do without the spitting, I think.”

After lunch he strolled in the garden.

It had been very well done, indeed. Pathways led around an area of gravel carefully raked to replicate the ripples of the ocean. A small “island,” of short grass and stone, in the middle of the “sea,” represented the mountains of Japan. Shrubs had been perfectly placed around the path to offer a fresh perspective at every curve.

Like life itself, Nicholai thought.

7

THE NEXT FEW WEEKS passed in pleasant routine.

Nicholai woke early and went into the garden to meditate. When he came out, Solange had a cafe au lait and a croissant ready for him, and while it took him some time to get used to the concept of bread for breakfast, he came to enjoy it. After breakfast they engaged in conversation, during which she corrected his accent and suggested current slang and vernacular. Solange was an exacting taskmistress, which Nicholai appreciated.

For her part, Solange knew that the slightest slip, a careless anachronism or a lapse into a stilted formality,