Little Indiscretions A Novel

1 nestor, the cook Sunday, twenty-ninth of March (in the small hours) His mustache was stiffer than ever, so stiff a fly could have stepped out to the end, like a prisoner walking the plank on a pirate ship. Except that flies can't survive in a cool room at twenty below zero, and neither could the owner of the blond, frozen mustache: Nestor Chaffino, chef and pastry cook, renowned for his masterful way with a chocolate fondant. And that's how he was found hours later: eyes wide open in astonishment, but with a certain dignity still in his bearing. True, his fingernails were scratching at the door, but there was a dishcloth tucked into the string of his apron as usual, though looking smart is hardly a major preoccupation when the door of a 1980s-model Westinghouse cool room, two meters by one and a half, has just shut automatically behind you with a click. And click was the last sound he heard before congratulating himself on his luck, Bloody brilliant, but it can't be true, since incredulity often precedes fear, and then: Jesus, why now of all times? The housekeepers even warned me about it before leaving, and there's a notice in three languages posted prominently in the kitchen, stressing the importance of not forgetting to take certain boring precautions like lifting the bolt so the door doesn't accidentally swing shut behind you. You can never be too careful with these old models. But Christ almighty, I can't have been in here more than two minutes, three at the most, stacking away these boxes of chocolate truffles. No doubt about it, though, the door went click. You must have done something to upset it, Nestor, and click it went. Now what? He looked at his watch: four in the morning, said the phosphorescent handsclickand there he was in the pitch dark, inside the spacious cool room of a country house, almost empty now after a dinner party at which maybe thirty guests had assembled. . . . But think, think, for God's sake. Who's staying the night? Let's see: the owners of the house, naturally. And Serafin Tous, one of their old friends, who arrived at the last minute. As it happened, Nestor had made his acquaintance a few weeks earlier, briefly though, very briefly. Then there were the two employees of Nestor's catering company, Mulberry & Mistletoe, whom he had asked to stay on and help him clean up in the morning: his good friend Carlos Garcia and the new one (he never could remember his name). Karel? Koral? Yes, it's Karel, the Czech boy who does weights and is so handy around the place, beating egg whites to a stiff peak and unloading a hundred boxes of Coke without working up a sweat, all the while singing "Lagrimas negras," a Caribbean son, with his rather unfortunate Bratislava accent. Who would hear him shouting and kicking the door, again and again, bang bang bang, each blow resounding in his skull as if he were on the receiving end? Bloody brilliant. Thirty years in the trade and not one accident, now this. Just great! Who would have thought disasters could pile up like this, Nestor? A couple of months back you were diagnosed with lung cancer, and just when you're starting to get over the shock and accept it, you end up locked in a pitch-black cool room. Dying of cancer is unfortunate, but it happens to about one in five people. Freezing to death on the Costa del Sol is just ridiculous. Keep calm; it's going to be all right. Nestor knew that American technology, even the most dated, was designed to handle all eventualities. Somewhere, maybe near the door frame, there had to be an alarm button that would ring a bell in the kitchen, and someone would hear it. The thing was to stay calm and think clearly. How long can a man in a short white jacket and checked cotton trousersPosadas, Carmen is the author of 'Little Indiscretions A Novel' with ISBN 9780375508851 and ISBN 0375508856.