Don Winslow: Satori

But it was her voice that affected Nicholai the most. Low but gentle, with that particular Gallic softness that was simultaneously genteel and sensual. “Welcome to my home, monsieur. I hope you will be comfortable.”

“I’m sure I will be.”

Solange offered her hand to be kissed, as if most of his face weren’t obscured by bandages. He took her hand in his – her fingers were long and thin – and kissed it, the cotton of the bandage touching her skin along with his lips. “Enchanté.”

“May I show you to your bedroom?”

“S’il vous plaît” said Nicholai. The long flight from the United States back to Tokyo had tired him.

“S’il vous plaît,” she said, gently correcting his pronunciation to hold the “a” sound a touch longer.

Nicholai accepted the criticism and repeated the phrase, echoing her enunciation. She rewarded him with a smile of approval. “Your nanny was from Tours, perhaps? The purest accent in France. But we need to give you an accent du Midi.”

“I understand that’s why I’m here.”

“I am from the south,” she told him. “Montpellier.”

“I’ve never been.”

“It is beautiful,” she said. “Sunny and warm. And the light…”

His bedroom was simple but tasteful, the walls a yellow that was cheerful without being oppressively chirpy, the spare furniture painted a middle-range blue that perfectly complemented the walls. The large bed – after the cot in his cell it looked massive – was covered with a blue duvet. A single chrysanthemum had been placed in a vase on the bedside table.

“It is a Japanese flower, no?” Solange asked.

“Yes.”

“And you have missed them?”

“Yes,” he said, feeling oddly touched. “Thank you.”

“Pas de quoi.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The proper response would be to say ‘ je vous en prie,’ “she said, “but the- comment vous dites – the ‘vernacular’ would be ‘ il n’y a pas de quoi ’ or simply ‘ pas de quoi .’ Vous voyez? ”

“Très bien.”

“Very good,” she said. “But roll your ‘r’ on your tongue, please. Comme ça .” She formed her mouth into a shape that Nicholai found rather attractive. “Très bien .”

“Très bien.”

“And a bit more through the nose, please.”

He repeated the words, giving the ending a nasal twang.

“ Formidable ,” she said. “Notice the trace of a ‘g’ at the end, but just a ghost of one, please. You don’t want to sound like a rustic, rather a cultured man of the south. Are you tired or would you like to take lunch now?”

“I am more hungry than tired.”

“I have taken the liberty of preparing something.”

She led him into a small dining room. The window gave a view onto a karesansui Japanese rock garden bordered by a high bamboo wall. The garden had been done with skill, and reminded him of the garden he had so meticulously constructed at his own home in Tokyo. He had found a measure of contentment in that home before making the decision to kill Kishikawa-sama. He asked, “Am I allowed the freedom of the garden?”

“Of course,” she said. “This is your home for as long as you are here.”

“Which is for how long, please?”

“As long as it takes you to recuperate,” she said, effortlessly deflecting the real question. Then, with a smile that was just mischievous, she added, “And to learn proper French.”

Solange gestured to a chair at the table.

He sat down as she walked into the kitchen.

The room, like the rest of the house’s interior, was completely European, and he wondered where she had acquired the furnishings. She probably hadn’t, he decided, it was more likely her American masters who provided 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 français.”

“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.