Charlie said, 'My employers take a very dim view of bribes and threats, Mr Haxalt. Come to mention it, so do I.'

He walked out of the bank into the sharp fall sunshine.

62.Martin was lounging back in the front seat of the car reading Power Man and Iron Fist. Charlie climbed in beside him and started the engine. 'Glad to see you're reading something improving.'

Martin said, 'Did he fix it up for you?'

'No. It seems to me that Alien's Corners is low on helpfulness, apart from being a poor place to get a good steak. I'm going to try the direct approach.'

'What does that mean?'

Charlie steered away from the green and out toward the Qua.s.sapaug Road. 'That means a direct frontal a.s.sault on Le Reposoir, with all guns blazing.'

They drove for four or five minutes in silence. Then Martin said, 'Dad?'

'Uh-huh?'

'We don't have to do this, Dad. I mean, it isn't totally necessary, is it?'

Charlie glanced at him. 'What do you mean, it isn't totally necessary?'

'I mean, if it's private, n.o.body who reads MARIA is going to be able to eat there anyway.'

Charlie nodded. 'You're right. You're absolutely right. But the argument against that is that / want to eat there.'

Martin said nothing more to dissuade him; but all the same Charlie began to feel that he was distinctly worried about their driving up to Le Reposoir and forcing their way into La Societe Gastronomique without being invited. But the more reluctant Martin showed himself to be, the more determined Charlie became. Perhaps he was punishing Martin in a way, for lying to him last night. Perhaps he was just being stubborn and b.l.o.o.d.y-minded, like he always was.

They drew up outside the entrance to Le Reposoir and, to Charlie's surprise, the wrought iron gates were open. He hesitated for a moment, craning his head around to see if there were any security guards or parking valets around, but there 63.was n.o.body there at all, neither to greet them nor to prevent them from driving inside. Charlie looked down the wide, shingled driveway, which curved in between two dense banks of maculata bushes. The house itself was out of sight, although Charlie thought he could glimpse rows of black chimneys through the bright yellow maculata leaves.

'Well,' he remarked. 'Not so reclusive after all.' 'We're not going in?' asked Martin. 'The gates are open, why not?' 'But it's private!'

'Since when have you been concerned about private?' 'Dad, we can't just drive straight in. You heard what that deputy said about trespa.s.sers.'

'We're not trespa.s.sers. We're potential customers.' Charlie didn't really feel quite so confident about venturing into the grounds of Le Reposoir, but he was determined to show Martin that he was in complete control of everything he did, and that he was scared of n.o.body and nothing. If he backed out now, Martin would regard him for the rest of their vacation together as a flake and a wimp; and if that happened their relationship would be ruined for ever. He didn't mind if Martin thought he was a flake; but he had to be a brave flake; like Murdoch in The A-Team.

Charlie eased his foot off the brake and the Oldsmobile rolled forward between the gates and down the curving drive. The car windows were open, so that they could hear the heavy crunching of shingle beneath the tyres. The morning which had started sunny was now dull. The eastern sky behind them was as black as Bibles. They could hear ovenbirds and protho-notary warblers singing in the woods, but apart from that the air was curiously still, as if their intrusion into the grounds of Le Reposoir had been noticed by nature at large, and a general breath was being held until they were discovered.

They turned a bend in the driveway and Martin unexpectedly covered his face with his hands.

64.'What's the matter?' Charlie asked him. 'Martin? What's wrong?'

Martin turned his head away, and pushed at Charlie with his left hand, like a linebacker warding off a tackle. At the same time, the house in which Le Reposoir had been established rose up in front of them, sudden and dark and almost wickedly elaborate. It was built in the high Gothic style, the kind of house that Edward Gorey drew for The Dwindling Party or The West Wing, with spires and turrets and twisted columns, and a veil of long-dead wisteria over the porch. Charlie slowed the car as he pa.s.sed between two old and stooping cedar trees, and drew up at last on a circular shingled turning s.p.a.ce, with weeds growing up through the stones. He pushed on the parking brake and killed the engine, and then almost immediately he stepped out of the car and stood leaning on the open door, his eyes narrowed against the light wind, looking around like a man who has discovered an uncharted valley, or a garden which has been secretly neglected for fifty years.

'Now this is what I call a restaurant,' he said, although he was quite aware that Martin was making a determined effort not to listen to him. He stepped away from the car and walked a few yards out across the shingle, the soles of his brogues crunching in the fall silence. 'What a locale! It merits one star for locale alone. Did you ever see a locale like this?'

The house was enormous, yet for all its blackness and all of its size, it seemed to float suspended in the dark air, like a mirage, or a grotesquely over-decorated man of war. There was a central entrance, reached by wide stone steps, and flanked on either side by eight gothic pillars, each of them different in design with spirals and diamonds and hand-carved ropes. Between the pillars stood an arched mahogany door, with bra.s.s handles and engraved gla.s.s panels, all highly polished. On either side of the central entrance, the house stretched over 300 feet to the east and 300 feet to the west, with tier upon tier of glittering windows. A weather vane in the shape of a medieval dragon creaked and whirred to itself on the highest spire.

There was an odd smell on the wind, like burning fennel.

'You know something?' said Charlie, leaning back into the open automobile, 'I never even knew this place existed. Can you believe it? I'm supposed to be one of the top restaurant inspectors in the continental United States. I got an award, did I ever tell you that? So how did I get to miss a place like this?'

'Dad,' Martin begged him. His voice was odd and edgy. 'I don't want to stay here. I want to go on to Hartford.'

Charlie had heard the tone in Martin's voice but he feigned a brash, tourist enthusiasm.

'You don't want to see what goes on here? Look at this place? It's probably unique. Some of the really old colonial houses were built on designs the Pilgrims brought over from England. I'll bet you anything the place is haunted by Nathan Hale's great-grandmother.'

Martin begged, 'Dad, please.'

'What's it to you?' Charlie demanded. He felt a little cruel now; but he felt that Martin had been equally uncaring about him, refusing to talk about the small figure he had met in Mrs Kemp's back yard, and refusing to tell the truth about the visiting card he claimed he had found.

'Dad, I just don't like it here. I want to go."

'Come on, Martin, there's nothing to get worked up about. It's a restaurant. And let me tell you something about people who run restaurants - even the worst of them have some sensitivity. You have to have some sensitivity, whether you're running an a la carte or a greasy spoon. You're dealing with people's stomachs, and there isn't anything more sensitive than that.'

At that moment, quite unexpectedly, a deep, cultured voice said, 'You're right, my friend. The alimentary ca.n.a.l is the river of human life.'

66.Charlie involuntarily jerked in surprise. He turned around to find a tall man standing only five or six feet away from him. The surprise was that the man could have approached so close without making any noise at all, especially over a shingled driveway. And the man wasn't just tall; he was unnervingly tall, at least six feet three, and he had the predatory appearance of a well-groomed raven. His black hair was slashed straight back from his hairline. His forehead was narrow and white. Beneath two thinly curved eyebrows his eyes looked like two shining silver ball bearings, and were equally expressionless. His nose was thin and hooked, although there was an angular flare to his nostrils. He sported a thin, black, clipped moustache. By his clothes, Charlie could tell that he was a man of taste, and a European. He wore a dark blue pinstripe suit in the Armani style, although obviously more expensive than Armani, a pure silk paisley-patterned necktie, and gleaming handmade shoes.

His most arresting characteristic, however, was not what he wore, but his bearing. Like the elaborate house behind him, he seemed almost to float a fraction of an inch above the ground. It was something that Charlie found impossible to a.n.a.lyse, and it was highly disturbing, as if the man were not quite real.

The man held out his hand and Charlie shook it. The fingers were very cool and limp, like wilted celery.

'That's your son?' he asked, nodding towards Martin.

'Martin,' said Charlie. 'And you must be M. Musette.'

'Well, well,' the man smiled. 'My reputation has reached even the ears of M A RI A.'

Charlie looked at him suspiciously. 'You know who I am?'

'I am in the gastronomic business, Mr McLean. It is my business to know who you are. Similarly, I know the inspectors from Michelin and Relais & Chateaux. Forewarned, you see, is forearmed.'

'Haxalt told you,' said Charlie.

67.'You are being unfair on Mr Haxalt,' M. Musette replied. 'Mr Haxalt would never betray anybody's trust. Even yours.'

Charlie put his hands on his hips and surveyed the black Gothic building. 'The main reason I came was to see whether your restaurant was worth putting into the guide.'

'Le Reposoir?' asked M. Musette, with obvious amus.e.m.e.nt. 'I fear not, Mr McLean. This is hardly a roadside hamburger stand. It is a private dining a.s.sociation, open only to subscribing members. It would be very unfair to your readers if you were to suggest that they could obtain a casual meal here as they wandered through Connecticut looking at the autumn leaves. Or, selling their patent cleansers.' That last remark was an undisguised dig at MAR I A's strong a.s.sociations with travelling salesmen.

'Men who sell patent cleansers provide an honest service,' Charlie replied, more sharply than he had meant to. 'Just like most restaurateurs.'

'I'm afraid that does not include me,' said M. Musette. 'I am hardly what you could call a restaurateur. I am more of a social arbiter than a chef.'

At that moment, the mahogany doors opened, their windows reflecting the dull silvery sky, and a young woman appeared, pale-faced, in a black ankle-length cape. M. Musette turned, and gave her a wave which meant that he wouldn't be long, and that he would be with her in just a moment.

'Madame Musette?' asked Charlie.

'It is probably time for you to leave,' said M. Musette, affably but adamantly.

'There isn't any chance of eating here, then?' asked Charlie.

'I regret not. We are a very exclusive society, and I am afraid that the presence of a restaurant inspector would not be regarded by our membership with any particular warmth.'

The young woman who had been standing on the steps came closer, stepping on to the shingle driveway and watching Charlie with solemnity. She was almost alarmingly beautiful, 68.with a fine oval face coloured by only the slightest tinge of blusher, soulful blue eyes, and very short gamine-style hair, a blonde bleached even blonder. She remained completely covered by her cape, and Charlie had the unsettling fantasy that, underneath it, she was naked, except for black silk stockings and stiletto shoes.

'Aren't you going to introduce us?' asked Charlie.

M. Musette looked at Charlie in a way which Charlie had never been looked at before. His eyes betrayed not malice but a total lack of interest in Charlie as a human being; as if he were nothing more than one of twenty thousand blurred faces in a baseball stadium crowd. 'You should not come here again without a prior appointment,' he said, and this time his tone was completely dismissive. 'Although it might appear that you can drive into the grounds un.o.bserved, we have very attentive security services.'

Charlie looked around the grounds of Le Reposoir one last time, and then shrugged. 'All right,' he said. 'Have it your way. I must tell you, though, I could have done with a top quality French meal. This leg of the trip is always a desert, gastronomically speaking.'

'I am sure you will be able to find somewhere to satisfy your appet.i.te,' said M. Musette. There was lightning flickering on the horizon, and a few heavy drops of rain fell on to the shingle and the roof of Charlie's car. He waited for one moment more, and then climbed back into the driver's seat, stretching over to fasten his seatbelt. M. Musette came up and closed the door for him.

'I'm sorry for intruding,' said Charlie, although he didn't sound sorry and he didn't particularly mean to.

M. Musette said nothing, but took two or three theatrical steps back. Charlie slowly swung the car around in a wide circle, and headed back the way he had come. As he did so, he glanced in his rear-view mirror at the young woman who might have been Mme Musette. Now that the rain was falling 69.more heavily, she reached with one hand out of the darkness of her cloak to tug a large hood over her head.

The car was moving; the rear-view mirror was joggling; the morning was dark with thunder. All the same, Charlie was convinced that what he had seen was not an illusion, and he stared at Martin in amazement and perplexity, and slowed the car down for a moment. Then he turned around in his seat to stare at Mme Musette even harder.

Martin said, 'Dad? What are you looking at?'

'That Mme Musette, the woman in the cloak.'

'What about her?'

Charlie turned back again, and steered the Oldsmobile at low speed all the way up the curving driveway between the bushes. Martin repeated, 'Dad?' but Charlie wasn't sure whether he wanted to tell what he had seen or not, particularly since Le Reposoir had seemed to upset him so much. 'It's nothing,' he remarked, although he couldn't help looking back in the rear-view mirror just one more time, before Mme Musette disappeared into the house like a shrinking shadow. What had alarmed him so much had been that hand - that hand which had emerged from the blackness of her cloak.

That hand on which there had been only one finger, a forefinger, to hook down the fabric of her hood and keep away the rain.

CHAPTER SIX

By six that evening they were lying with their feet up on their beds at the Windsor Hotel in West Hartford, watching what looked like a Venusian version of Diffr'nt Strokes because even the black people had green faces.

'If you had to judge racial harmony in America from nothing but what you saw on hotel televisions, you'd think we were the most integrated nation on earth,' said Charlie, sipping Miller Lite out of the can. 'The red people get on with the purple people, the orange people get on with the blue people. . .'

Martin didn't even smile. He had heard the same remark so many times that he scarcely heard it. It was just Dad being Dad.

They watched the end of the programme, and then Charlie swung his legs off the bed, and pushed his hand through his hair, and said, 'How about something to eat? The restaurant here isn't too bad.'

'Do I have a choice?' asked Martin. A last c.h.i.n.k of sunlight had penetrated beneath the blinds, and gilded his eyelashes.

'Sure you have a choice. This may be work for me, but for you it's a two-week vacation.'

'Then do you mind if I stay here and watch television? I couldn't eat another meal, not right now.'

Charlie shrugged. 'It's all right by me if it's all right by you. Are you sure you won't come along just to keep me company? You don't have to eat anything.'

'Dad,' said Martin, 'we haven't been getting along too well, have we?'

Charlie straightened his narrow blue woven necktie. 'It's early days yet. We hardly even know each other. I'm the father who was never at home, and you're the kid I never came home to. We'll get along. Give it some time.'

Martin said, 'Why?'

'Why what? Why give it some time?'

Martin shook his head. 'No - why didn't you ever come home?'

'There were reasons. Well - there was one big reason and then there were lots of little reasons. It isn't too easy to explain, not at one sitting, anyway. Before you go back to your mother, though, I'll tell you exactly what happened, and exactly what it was all about. People sometimes lead lives you wouldn't even guess at, do you know what I mean? That savings bank manager, that Haxalt, for all we know he goes home at night and dresses up like Joan Crawford. And as for that Musette dude ... well, he's some kind of weird character if ever I saw one.'

'What are you trying to tell me?' Martin demanded.

Charlie looked down at Martin's young, sunlit face. G.o.d, how lucky he was! Only fifteen, and all his chances still ahead of him. Old enough to be argumentative and arrogant, but not yet old enough to understand that argument and arrogance never got anybody anywhere. He said, gently, 'What I'm trying to tell you is that I had another life, apart from the life you already know about; and that one life was always fighting against the other life.'

'And the other life won?'

Charlie said, 'You don't resent me, do you? You don't still feel bad about me?'

'I don't know,' said Martin. 'That's what I came along on this trip to find out.'

Charlie was silent. It hadn't occurred to him that Martin was vetting him just as much as he was vetting Martin. He rubbed his forehead, and turned around so that Martin could 72.see only his back, and then he said, 'What happens if you decide that I'm not the kind of father you want?'

'Then I'll go back to Mom and that will be the end of it.'

Charlie picked up his coat off the back of the chair. The hotel room was wallpapered in a brown bamboo pattern, and there were two prints on the wall of Boston & Maine railroad locomotives of the i88os. He had stayed in rooms like this so often before that he had almost no sense of place, only of time. 'You're sure you don't want to eat?' he asked Martin. 'You could call room service and have them send you a hamburger or a sandwich or something. They do good ribs here, as far as I recall.'

Martin said, 'It's okay. I'm not hungry.'

'Well, I'm not either,' Charlie told him. 'At least, not for the kind of food they serve up here. But, that's the way it goes. Some people work so that they can eat. I eat so that I can work.'

He gave himself a last unnecessary check in the mirror, and then he went to the door. 'You can join me any time you want to, if you change your mind. I'll be glad of your company.' : 'All right, sir.'

'Will you call me Charlie, for Christ's sake? My name is Charlie.'

'Yessir,' said Martin. Then - almost without pausing - 'Have you given up on Le Reposoir? I mean, are you content to go to your grave never having eaten there even just once?'

Charlie frowned. 'What? There are millions of restaurants I'm never going to get to eat in - tens of millions. I've never eaten at La Colombe d'Or in Houston. Why should I be worried about Le Reposoir?'

'Because it's special,' said Martin; and then, with devastat-ingly cold observation, 'And most of all, because they won't let you in.'

Charlie stood by the door, his hand on the chain, with the feeling in his heart that if he didn't quickly take steps to make 73.sure that Martin became his friend, he was going to finish up by being his very worst enemy. A little unevenly, he said, 'You know what Groucho Marx told that club that refused his membership application?'