bundles suspended from the ceiling. What was missing was the sturdy, middle-aged matron who reigned over kitchens the length and breadth of the land. In her place was a fleshy, bearish-looking man with a coffee cup in his hand and a sour look on his face, glaring out at the workers through a bay window in the back. He was unkempt, his nose was the hue and shape of a turnip, and he smoked a cigarette in imminent danger of burning his lips.
'Who in hell are you?' he snarled, in heavily accented English.
'I'm the new assistant,' I answered. 'Who in hell are you?'
'I am the cook.' He was French, I decided. '†'Allo, Assistant.'
'Hello, Cook. Is that coffee I smell?'
'That depends. Do you like coffee?'
'I'd decimate an entire native village for a good cup about now,' I said.
The man crossed to a silver pot by the stove and poured coffee into a stout mug. 'Spoken like a man. Noir or au lait, monsieur?'
'Noir, s'il vous plaоt,' I answered in my best schoolboy French.
'Come over by the window and sit,' he said, pointing to a small table with two chairs. 'I am Etienne Dummolard.'
'Thomas Llewelyn,' I replied, grasping his offered hand, as broad as a flipper, and sitting down.
'So tell me, Monsieur Llewelyn (it came out 'le Vellan'), how do you like my cooking so far?'
I hesitated to be honest but took the chance anyway. 'It must be difficult to keep all these spices from accidentally falling into the food.'
The cook smiled and tossed the last of the cigarette onto the flagstone floor. 'Very droll, monsieur. It is unfortunate that you have arrived in the middle of a disagreement between your employer and myself. I contend that he has no taste buds. I could cook one of his books for him and he would eat it without comment. I wished to discover just how bad my cooking could become before he would complain, for scientific purposes, you understand. Nothing so far. My Scottish feast was a work of art, wouldn't you say? Not so much as a grain of salt in the entire meal. A Frenchman would have shot me dead on the spot.'
'You can cook, then?'
'I am a chef, trained in Paris, monsieur. I own the best French restaurant in Soho, La Toison d'Or. Would you care for an omelet?' He went to the stove, lit another cigarette on the hob, and took down a saucepan.
'Yes, please! So, why work for a man with no ability to appreciate your cooking?' I asked.
'Mon capitaine and I, we have a long history together. I could not desert him now. It was he who financed my restaurant. I work here in the mornings, and in my own kitchens during the afternoons and evenings. I leave the evening meals for Monsieur Mac toЕ what is? Heat up? Heat over?'
'Why do you call him capitaine?' I asked, watching my employer in his shirtsleeves working in the garden.
'Because that is what he was, a ship's captain aboard the Osprey, a steamer trading along the South China Sea. I was his galley cook. He was a good captain, though not above cracking the occasional skull or two.'
I leaned forward, conspiratorially, and asked, 'What happened to his eyes?'
The Frenchman put a knowing finger aside his purple-veined nose. 'Not my secret to tell, mon ami. Here is your omelet.'
He set down a plate containing a perfect semicircle of eggs. Cheese and mushrooms spilled from the center. It was golden, fragrant, and beautiful. I took a bite.
'My word, that's incredible,' I said.
'I hope you don't mind a little cigarette ash in your eggs. You didn't complain about it in the stew yesterday. More coffee? You don't know how refreshing it is to see someone in this house who enjoys my cooking. Mac won't touch anything that isn't blessed by his rabbi, and the last fellow was a damnable Chinaman who picked at my food as if I'd put a rat in it. I almost did, just to spite him.'
'I hear the fellow died,' I said, pressing for information.
'Oui, but not from my cooking. As your police say here, he caught the 'lead flu.' It's good to have you here, Monsieur Llewelyn. I believe I shall declare the contest at an end and return this house to proper cuisine, but only for your sake, not for mon capitaine. Unless you think I should try some haggis. I've never stuffed a sheep's stomach before.'
'No haggis, please. I suppose I had better go out and see if Mr. Barker needs me. Thank you for the wonderful coffee and the omelet. Au revoir.'
'Really, monsieur, whoever taught you French has a grudge against my country.'
I was shaking my head at Barker's choices in help as I stepped out of doors. Chinese gardeners. Jewish butlers. Lazy clerks. Temperamental French cooks, and last but not least, downtrodden Welsh assistants. I stepped out into a regular flurry of Chinamen. Barker was easy to spot, being the only one of us over five and a half feet in height. Harm sunk his teeth into my boot in jovial greeting, and I dragged him across the white pebbles to his owner.
'Morning, sir! What are our plans for today?'
Barker put down his rake and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. 'We are attending Mr. Pokrzywa's funeral in about an hour.'
'His funeral? So soon?'
'Not soon. In fact, it is late. The Jews do not embalm their dead, you see, and the body must be in the ground within twenty-four hours, if possible. They believe the body should be treated reverently and allowed to decay according to nature's timetable.'
'I've never been to a Jewish funeral. Are Gentiles allowed?'
'We are, provided we observe their rituals. I'll explain everything as we go along, but you must pay close attention. Though they may be intent on the ceremony, there will be many eyes upon us. You must act with respect and sincerity. If you do, it shall cement our relationship with the community. If you fail, we might as well send a note to Sir Moses declining the case.'
'I'll not fail, sir,' I promised.
'Good lad. It is a beautiful service, with deep meaning behind every action, different in some ways from our own funerals. In fact, you'll hardly believe that such a service goes on in London every day.'
'You say different, sir. In what ways is it different?' I asked, hoping to prepare myself.
'What?' Barker asked. 'You want me to give away the surprise and miss the chance to watch you squirm? Not hardly. You'll get on. Or you won't.'
While the workmen showed signs of leaving for the day, we went inside. Barker went upstairs to change, while I chose a more somber waistcoat and tie. When we stepped outside, Racket and his cab were just pulling up to the curb. The warm sun lit up Racket's red beard, which fairly glowed against his dark clothes. We clambered up into the vehicle and made our way east, skirting the Thames.
I had passed the old Jewish cemetery a time or two in the past, on the way to an interview, but I had never stopped to peer inside. Aside from the Hebrew lettering on the gravestones, the main difference between this and any Christian cemetery was the lack of memorials and mausoleums. There was little to distinguish one family from another, just rows of similar-looking markers.
Beside the cemetery there was a prayer hall, not much different from a chapel. The entire ceremony would be graveside, and not, as I had supposed, in a synagogue. At the door, a man corresponding to an usher presented us each with four items: a skullcap, a hair clip, a black ribbon, and a small pin. As if he did such things every day (and who can tell about Barker, perhaps he did), my employer turned me about and attached the skullcap to the back of my head with the hair clip. Then he pinned the ribbon to my lapel. It was strange to see him in a skullcap, but he wore it with dignity.
Inside, we sat close to the back, but the room was small enough that I had a good view of the coffin. It was an unadorned pine box of simple workmanship, and I knew the body inside it was swathed in a shroud, just as the one to whom he bore an uncanny resemblance had been swathed nineteen hundred years before.
'That's a very plain coffin,' I remarked to Barker sotto voce. 'I thought he'd been paying money every month to his chevra-whatever.'
'They believe in simple burials. I assure you that Sir Moses, and even Lord Rothschild for all his millions, will have a similar burial.'
