Free Letter from Casablanca by Antonio Tabucchi Page B

—I don’t want to deprive you of this pleasure.—
    I groped desperately in the search for a title worthy of the occasion. Madame Delatour’s eyes pierced me like two pins, searching and skeptical. —Bliss … Heavenly Bliss,—I said. —It’s a traditional
moribana
,—I continued in one breath. —It means the enchantment that is born in the soul of the masters of the house upon the arrival of welcome guests.—
    Madame Delatour finally let her glacial expression melt. Her drawn face relaxed (it seemed to me to be uglier, I must say) and opened in an affable smile. She was about to surrender. I left it to Giuseppe, who was coming in with thecart, to conquer her once and for all. The roast pheasant, gently laid on the
flambé
tray, was superb. Before entrusting me with the cart, Giuseppe drew out the tail feathers which ornamented the tray, uncorked the champagne, and opened the cognac with impressive calm, and only then did he say—Monsieur Delatour, there’s a telephone call for you from Paris.—He had some unexpected talents, the good Giuseppe, perhaps I had underestimated him. In the meantime the ladies had united against Monsieur Huppert in regard to hunting. Proceeding from the pheasant the conversation had come to hunting in general, and Monsieur Huppert, somewhat rashly, had confessed his passion for safaris.
    —What!—(Madame Delatour spoke in her detached tone of voice but was visibly scandalized.) To shoot down a gazelle, that mass of
élan vital
contained in the gracefulness of a slender body, to kill that marvel of creation, was not this a crime against nature?
    Monsieur Huppert tried to explain, without too much enthusiasm, that on safaris not only gazelles were killed, or at least not exclusively. He appealed to the thrill of danger, of man pitted against the animal, he even cited Hemingway. But he was clearly at a disadvantage. And then he was isolated. I refrained from getting into the situation. It seemed risky to me.
    Monsieur Delatour returned with a rather worried expression, sat down distractedly, seemed to be far away. The conversation resumed with a certain weariness. It was just the moment to
flamber
. It would revive the atmosphere a little. —Oops,—I said, carrying the match from the fireplace like a torch. —The infidel is condemned to the funeral pyre. Justice is served!—It seemed an appreciable witticism to me, but nobody laughed. I made a fiasco.
    —At Dakar didn’t you make the contacts we had decided on?—Monsieur Delatour suddenly asked, staring at Monsieur Huppert.
    Monsieur Huppert started slightly, was silent for a momentas if uncomfortable, drank a sip of champagne. —I’ll explain later,—he said. —It wasn’t very easy this time.—
    —I don’t believe it’s necessary,—continued Monsieur Delatour. —I have received some
very confidential
information from Paris, and you know from which source.—He spoke in a dry, neutral tone, without a shade of courtesy, as if he had never seen Monsieur Huppert. —The Germans settled the deal, as was foreseeable. Now we can leave everything in the warehouse to age.—
    The cognac on the pheasant was burning merrily, with a sizzling blue flame full of promise. The recipe called for at least one minute of flame, but probably it didn’t last that long; I hadn’t put on much cognac. On the other hand, it was better this way. I felt it was just the moment to come to the point: the eye had had its share, now it was the stomach’s turn. I carved hurriedly and called Giuseppe to serve. Madame Delatour took a morsel of breast hidden under a truffle. She was on a strict diet, the embalmed beauty. Damn! Madame Huppert, perhaps not to embarrass her guest, followed her example. When Giuseppe offered me the tray, I remained undecided whether to do the same. There was an upper thigh with two threads of meat of much reduced dimensions that might do well enough, inasmuch as after supper I’d always be able to pay a little visit to