The Swiss Suitcase (LSD, #1)

14. You Can't Always Get What You Want

You Can't Always Get What You Want

I'm not late for dinner. Without me, there is no dinner. Katja explains she's invited; she doesn't work in the hotel's kitchen. Cooking, like cleaning and caring, didn't form part of her training. Rostov did follow an intensive course in the kitchen, one hour daily and extra hours during the weekends, but all he learnt from his mother was how to make tea, and it took him three months to learn how to cook water without letting it burn. That leaves me to do the cooking.

My parents have a butcher shop. If you want to sell quality food, you have to know how it tastes. The success of my parents' shop comes mainly from their good taste. My mother's secret recipe for Blutwurst from Diekirch is world famous. My dad's birthday, in the summer, always ends with a barbecue for the complete village. Cooking is part of our family DNA, and although I'm not as good as the rest of my family, I'm good enough to make a majestic midnight meal for three. Rostov and Katja are sitting at the small table in the hotel's kitchen (Rostov tries to make conversation while Katja tries to avoid it) while I run around between stove, refrigerator and pantry.

Rostov tries to impress Katja: "Every day I can only think of how to make you laugh, just because I like so much to see your smile, the most beautiful smile in the entire world."

"If you shut up for the rest of the night, I'll give you a smile when I leave."

"In the movies, when a handsome man like me says something romantic to a gorgeous woman like you, she bends over to kiss him."

"I can give you a Shanghai Kiss, which is some ancient Chinese martial art sort of head-high flying tackle that breaks your nose and keeps you quiet until after dessert."

Rostov persists in his death wish: "You need kissing badly."

"I'd just as soon kiss a pig."

"There's no accounting for tastes."

I interrupt the two lovers: "This is not a twosome. This is a threesome. Katja and I will not talk about work, you and Katja will not talk about getting married, and you and I will not talk about football, cars and sex because we all respect the company we're in. We all have our responsibility to make this dinner a success. If not, you can open a can of dog food and forget about my contribution."

"Sorry, Lux. You're right."

"Sorry, Lux. What's in that frying pan? It smells delicious..."

I've made a green salad with a dressing of blue cheese for a starter. The main dish is chicken cordon blue with baked potatoes and a spicy sauce with tomatoes, paprika and onions. For dessert, we have the hazelnut meringue and the strawberry cheesecake that survived today's lunch. The art of good cooking includes good timing: with the meat and potatoes on a low flame, I serve the salad, ready to enjoy dinner as much as Katja and Rostov.

This was Rostov's best idea of the day; the dinner is a success. Rostov has found a Chilean wine that takes the last bit of Katja's suspicion away, and Katja shows she can be pleasant company if she wants. To avoid talking about work and missing suitcases, we pick a neutral topic for discussion: if you can choose, where would you like to live? Katja can't choose between the nightlife of London, the culture of Florence and the feeling-at-home of Luxembourg City. Rostov loves Vienna, with Paris and Madrid following at a nose-length. He tells us some entertaining stories about living in Moscow, and invites us to visit him when we're on a mission in the neighbourhood. I don't contribute much to the conversation: I'm from a small village. Although I spend most of my time in big cities, thanks to the work I do, I'd prefer a place in the countryside when I retire, but most of all I realise that I never thought of retiring; I worked so hard to get this spy job that I want to enjoy every minute of it. For me, thinking about retiring is like thinking about going home on the first day of your holiday.