‘We’re having a Beaujolais with our starter. Want a glass of that? Or would you prefer champagne?’
‘The Beaujolais sounds lovely.’
‘Make yourself comfortable,’ he says and disappears out of the room. I walk to the window he had been standing at and look out. It faces the side I have not explored. An open meadow borders a forest. I wonder if that is where the wild boars live.
I hear him come up to me and I turn around to face him. He holds out my drink.
‘Thank you,’ I say softly.
He lifts his glass. ‘Here’s to the fireflies.’
I lift mine. ‘The fireflies,’ I repeat, looking into his eyes and knowing that we are not drinking to the fireflies.
First course is Madam’s famous Soupe à l’Oignon Gratinée made to a century’s old recipe. As the dish with a thick golden crust is put in front of me, Shane explains the laborious technique that Madam used to make it.
‘Baguette toasts, half an inch thick, are spread with butter and layered with grated Emmental cheese, sautéed yellow onions, and tomato purée. Over this construct she gently pours salted water. The dish is then simmered for thirty minutes and baked uncovered for an hour at 350 degrees.’
‘No wonder it looks almost like a cake,’ I say.
‘Bon appétit,’ he says.
‘Bon appétit,’ I reply and dip my spoon into it. The inside is so thick and thoroughly amalgamated it is impossible to discern the cheese from the onion or the bread. I put it into my mouth and catch Shane looking at me.
He raises his eyebrows and waits for my verdict.
I exhale and widen my eyes. ‘It’s to die for.’
He grins, happy, wholesome, irresistible. ‘That’s exactly what I think.’
When the soup bowls are cleared away, Madam serves pineapple tartare, finely diced raw pineapple mixed with salt and a hint of chili. It is the perfect palate cleanser after the richness of the starter.
Outside it gets dark and Madam lights candles. I notice that no lights have been turned on anywhere in the house.
‘Is there no electricity this evening?’ I ask.
‘Lights affect the fireflies. It interferes with their mating process so we keep it to a minimum during this season.’
In the flickering candlelight the dressed up Shane seems like the perfect host, sophisticated, charming, and urbane. A beast that can only be admired from afar. I almost wish for the Shane in the T-shirt and jeans that was just good fun.
A spruced up Monsieur Chauband wheels in the main course. ‘Gigot d’Agneau Pleureur,’ he announces proudly.
‘It translates as a crying lamb gigot because the meat is cooked in an oven, slowly, on a grill, with sebago potatoes and vegetables placed on a rack underneath it. The meat’s juices, the tears, fall on the vegetables and cook them,’ Shane explains.
I bite into a piece of meat and it is tender and succulent.
‘Tell me about your father. You never talk about him,’ Shane invites as he pours red wine into fresh glasses from a bottle of Merlot that Monsieur brought in.
I pick up my glass and take a sip. The wine is robust and fragrant. ‘I told you a lot about my family and my childhood, but you told me nothing about your family or your childhood. What was it like being from two different types of gypsies?’
He spears a capsicum on his fork. ‘I actually know very little about my Romany heritage. My mother doesn’t speak much about her family. All I know is when she fell in love
with my father, she had to elope because my grandfather was so furious with her. Not only had she chosen someone outside the clan, but she had chosen a well known gambler. On the day she got married he disowned her. She could never again go to see her family. Even when her sister died a few years ago her family were forbidden to tell her.’ A shadow of sadness crosses his face. ‘I know my mother misses her family very much, but there is nothing anyone can do while he is still alive.’
‘That’s so vindictive. Didn’t you say your father has already passed away?’
‘My father was murdered, Snow.’
My eyes widen in shock. ‘Your father was murdered? How horrible!’