Adam: A Sensuous Coming of Age Tale by Anthony McDonald

could only be caused by the fact that she had garnished her dish with a sprinkling of finely chopped chives, whereas Christophe’s mother had seen fit to leave hers plain. Adam understood only too well his mother’s groping uncertainty. Were chives a faux pas on the Plateau de Langres? Or a brilliant innovation? Were people even now exchanging the news, goggle-eyed, of Jennifer’s culinary gaffe or – even less probably – applauding her garnish as a masterstroke of originality?
    Conversation meanwhile fluttered around items of local news: the inconvenience caused by roadworks in the winding streets of Langres, the replacement by an estate agent’s office of one of the old butcher’s shops in the old town, the increasing power of the hypermarkets (but how convenient …). Jennifer told the story of how, when she first arrived, she did not even know of the existence of the two big hypermarchés on the town’s outskirts and had attempted to buy a chicken in the town centre on a Monday. Not today, she had been firmly told. And tomorrow? she had ventured timidly . Non . Even more firmly. Poulet mercredi .
    The main course was a healthy-looking leg of lamb which had been roasted on a bed of garlic. The whole cloves were served, still in their skins, alongside the chunks of meat which Christophe’s father carved without undue ceremony or finesse. Green beans were the only other accompaniment. You were free to view the garlic as an inedible residue of the cooking process and leave it on the side of your plate or, more robustly, to see it as a vegetable in its own right – which Adam nowadays did, squeezing the soft milky flesh out from its husky covering with the side of his fork. When everyone smelt of garlic, he reasoned, nobody did.
    It became clearer to the adults as the meal progressed that none of the boys were speaking to each other but only to the parents and to Monique. It was also clear that Monique was the only person who would be able to tell them what the matter was and, equally, that she could not possibly be asked.
    The conversation of the adults grew more nervous. ‘ We’re having a swimming-pool built,’ volunteered Christophe’s mother at one point out of nowhere, and Adam could see mortification on the faces of her husband and children. ‘ Of course we can’t afford it,’ she added, and there was a general shared uncertainty around the table as to whether that made the matter worse or better.
    ‘ We had ours filled in,’ said Thierry preposterously. ‘ The leaks, the cleaning, the scrubbing with cyanide … More trouble than they’re worth.’
    ‘ Cyanide?’ echoed his father incredulously while his horrified mother said: ‘ Don’t be absurd,’ before turning to Christophe’s mother to reassure her. ‘ He’s becoming such a tease these days. We’ve never had a swimming-pool.’
    ‘ And we haven’t got peacocks either,’ Thierry added, looking hard at Adam.
    ‘ Did I tell you,’ Jennifer intervened, struggling valiantly to get the right tone in French, and looking brightly at everyone in turn except, pointedly, Thierry, ‘ did I tell you we’ve got a composer coming to stay with us next month?’
    This did at least shut everybody up and Jennifer was forced to elaborate. ‘ Well, he’s better known as a pianist, actually. His name is Gary Blake.’
    Although, apart from Adam, all the young people looked blank and so did Thierry’s parents, mercifully both of Christophe’s parents nodded vigorously, partly because they did indeed know of Gary Blake and partly because they were greatly relieved to be rescued from the unanticipated depths of the swimming-pool.
    ‘He gives concerts at the Salle Pleyel,’ said Christophe’s father in a respectful tone. ‘And you know him?’
    ‘ We studied together in London.’
    He came to Adam’s christening you know , thought Adam, but for once she didn’t say it. Instead she went on, ‘Anyway, we got back in touch recently and it