Fri, May 18 2012
A week had passed since Passepartout's latest quest for chocolate on behalf of his Master. With luck, he would be visiting Therese in about two weeks, after the obligatory reminder appeared beside Phileas Fogg's coffee cup.
Therese always sent two smaller boxes of truffles back with Passepartout along with his Master's order. One, she called the 'remember box.' Those chocolates were for Passepartout's personal consumption. The other, she called the 'return box.' This provided that little 'extra' reminder to Phileas Fogg - just in case the exquisite quality of her wares was forgotten amidst his adventuresome lifestyle; it also provided the excuse for Passepartout to return to her. She was not only a creative lover, but a smart businesswoman as well. Such a woman deserved extraordinary things, of that Passepartout was convinced.
He sat forlornly at a table in his workroom, surrounded by ordinary things: bits and pieces of wire and string, as well as a variety of nuts, bolts, gears, pulleys, levers, hammers, nails, rope, grape vines and assorted wooden beads. To Passepartout, this was the stuff that dreams were made on, because from such odds and ends he could create the extraordinary. Unfortunately, creation required inspiration and the valet was currently suffering from 'inventor's blank'. It happened to Jules Verne, from time to time, when writing; Jules would become frustrated by a drought of imagination.
It was the same with Passepartout; he was currently staring blankly at a wall as he rolled a single ball bearing absently back and forth between hands.
He shook himself to vanquish the clinging lethargy. Passepartout sighed, stretching his arms behind him, before suddenly leaning forward and letting his forehead smack the table in frustration. He had a woman; this, he knew. A woman likes gifts; this, he also knew. The difficulty was that the woman he had made gifts usually given to women. To present Therese with a box of chocolate was absurd, seeing that anything he could give her would be of a lesser quality than Therese could make for herself.
Lifting his head from its resting place, he considered his options. He could offer her flowers. Women always liked flowers. Except that Therese used flowers in her truffle creations. Flowers were a necessity to her business and might even remind her of business and Passepartout wanted this gift to be unique and unrelated to work in any way.
Jewelry? All women adored jewelry, but Passepartout could not replace the simple gold wedding band that adorned Therese's fourth finger; to give her something less than that seemed like an empty gesture.
This left only his imagination and the pitifully ordinary things of his workshop.
Passepartout contemplated the wondrous devices that he had encountered while working for his Master: the Phoenix, Count Rimini's rocket packs, and the infamous Mole. True, the creations were used for evil purposes, but they were brilliant, nonetheless.
It can be done, Passepartout resolved. He could devise something worthy like Steely Joe, only for Therese - something that could help her, especially when he was not available.
Passepartout shuffled through the cards of his imagination. His face brightened as he turned over an ace.
Perhaps he could make her a 'Steely Josephine'! If he could improve on the design of the hands, then Josephine could make truffles! His mind scurried along this particular path of logic and stopped at a very self-serving thought: if Josephine could make truffles, Therese would have more time…for Passepartout! An unexpected cachinnation erupted from him as he mused that he liked Josephine very much.
Passepartout considered his hand. Flexing the individual digits slowly, he solemnly studied their movements. Hands were very intricate movers, he thought. God provided a most masterful design with the hands. Very God-ish. Fingers were wonderful. Oppositional thumbs - brilliant. Recreating oppositional thumbs - difficult, very difficult.
Josephine would need wrists as well, he pondered. Passepartout examined his own wrist as he swirled an imaginary truffle in a bowl of nonexistent melted chocolate. By analyzing the mechanics needed to glaze a single confection, he decided that wrists were an absolute necessity.
No, to develop a Steely Josephine with such fine coordination would take him years and he would be visiting Therese sooner than that. It would have to be some other device.
She was his woman. This alone was enough to entice him to gift giving, but she was also a rare woman in his mind. Therese was a delightful mixture of feminine practicality and artistry; her creativity did not end with truffles.
He smiled as he recalled the peppermint. Therese will sentence me to starvation, he thought. First, I cannot smell chocolate because I think of her; now, it is peppermint. Soon, I will be doomed to a diet of broccoli. I do not believe that Therese will find a buyer for broccoli-flavored truffles - but you never know.
Perhaps it would be best to modify some other idea, an idea that was brilliant but not quite suited for truffling purposes. In his mind, he shuffled the cards once again, systematically turning over each idea…
Rocket packs. "Therese's shop is small; she has no need to fly around her kitchen. And, I never liked those dead peoples…" he mused.
The Phoenix. "If she goes back in time to when I am with her, there would be two Thereses. One Therese could make the truffles and the other Therese could make love to me, but then which Therese does what? What if they both want to make love to me?" A wide grin froze on his face as the image tore through his brain like a cat on fire before he violently shook his head to clear his mind. "What if they both want to make truffles?? No, this is not a good idea," he decided. "And, it would take longer to make a Phoenix than a Steely Josephine."
The Mole. "The Mole is good for a gardener, but Therese does not have a garden. But if it was shrinky, like the size of a hand and could be controlled…and…manipulated…with…vibration?"
Passepartout threw his head back and unleashed a deep, rich laugh that resonated throughout the house. Grabbing the nearest sheet of paper, he began to sketch an outline in pencil. He paused, looked at the drawing dubiously, and then crumpled it into a ball. He retrieved another sheet, and glanced down at his lap before sketching furiously as another fit of laughter pealed out of him. Perhaps, Queen Victoria would not be overly concerned with this Mole, he thought.
Passepartout was ready to begin.
Three weeks later, he was a miserable man. What had begun with such hope had turned hopeless. Passepartout had deliberately ignored Therese's 'return box', believing that if he eliminated the reminder, he would have more time to work. But only another week had passed before his Master requested truffles. It seemed that Phileas Fogg no longer required enticement now that truffles were part of his routine. Evidently, the gentleman's stomach had a most excellent recall for chocolate, much to Passepartout's chagrin.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he rubbed his temples in frustration, as self-recriminations slithered through his mind. "I work for three weeks on presents for the Darches and this is the best that I, Jean Passepartout, can offer? Pere Noel deserves his sainthood. Such an honor His Holiness could never bestow upon Passepartout. Certainly not when producing two gifts confounds me for three weeks! No sainthood for you, my friend. A nice long stay in purgatory is more in order."
Sighing, he bent over, placed two items in a sack, and slung it over his shoulder. He turned, closed the cabin door of the Aurora, and left for the streets of Paris.
Passepartout slogged towards the truffle shop of Therese Darche. His shoulders and countenance drooped as he proceeded through the bustling city. He looked weary and his posture was bent by his burden, though the bag he carried only contained two items: a smaller one for the mother and a larger one for the child. He prayed someone would be pleased tonight, though with every step he took, his doubt escalated.
It was not heavy load, certainly not of such substantial weight as to slow his progress to a crawl, yet crawl he did. No, what was heavy was his heart; Passepartout was disappointed in himself. He had tried. He had truly tried to invent a gift for Therese that would put all others to shame, one that would imprint his name on her heart forever. It was a gift that only a lover could conceive and only inventor could give - even though the idea was ridiculous and the creation did not work. It was a gift of vanity. Perhaps that was why he labored in vain, he reflected.
What Passepartout had created was a small mole. A 'pleasure mole,' he called it. A relatively harmless one, designed for personal use: easy to transport, simple to use, and sculpted to enhance a woman's sensual enjoyment. What female could resist a lover with such a gift? Even when Passepartout was not with Therese, it would be as though he had left a part of himself behind. A very important part. A part that he was quite fond of except…that the prototype had exploded, and the second melted, and the third… He sighed, swearing under his breathe that this mole was not evil. Passepartout doubted that even the League of Darkness could make his mole function properly, because despite Passepartout's best efforts, this mole refused to vibrate. This mole just lay there. It was not evil, only blessedly useless. A failure. However, it was a failure with the best of intentions. The only reason that he even brought it along was to ask Therese's opinion.
The frustration was enormous; he had no one to confer with on this invention and Passepartout enjoyed sharing ideas with like-minded souls. Usually, that meant Jules Verne, but Passepartout could not speak with Jules, or his Master or Miss Rebecca about this matter. So, he tried to create in a vacuum; and to his knowledge, only God succeeded under such circumstances. No, it was certainly not God who was visiting Therese Darche tonight.
Despite his reservations, he would present it to her. With luck, she would laugh and refrain from thinking too poorly of him. She might even forgive him his idiocy and his arrogance for thinking that he could replace flesh with metal. Therese knew about Steely Joe, though he had not equipped Steely Joe with a 'pleasure mole.' He sighed again as he found himself standing before her doorway. Time would tell. He knocked and entered the shop.
Therese entered the outer room from her kitchen carrying a plate full of truffles. She held the door open with her hip and watched as her daughter, Rose, crawled along beside her. Her eyes never wavered from the child as she began speaking, "Good evening, Gerard. You are a bit early today. I have not boxed your order, but it will only take a moment…Jean?"
Therese, looking up and seeing Passepartout, nearly lost her grip on the plate of truffles. She recovered from her surprise, but for an instant, the truffles teetered disastrously on the far side of the plate, until Therese reacted and tilted it back towards her body, thus saving her wares from falling.
"What is wrong?" she asked anxiously.
Passepartout sighed with resignation and let the sack slip from his shoulder. It fell to the floor with a dull 'thud' as he gazed at her dejectedly.
Shaking his head with sadness, Passepartout began, "I am sorry, Therese. I cannot come here and pretend for you. I must tell you how very sorry I am. I wanted this to work. I did! But…it was not meant to be. Even from the very beginning… it…it has never really worked for me. I was a fool to think otherwise."
Therese stood stunned by his confession, her eyes widening in disbelief before she recovered her wits and turned to place the truffles down on the nearest counter. Passepartout expected her to tell him that he was not a fool, merely foolish. But instead she knelt, scooping up her daughter into her arms. Rose struggled against her mother's embrace and released a wail as she squirmed, attempting to regain her freedom. Therese held her tight; she used the baby like a shield, covering her heart and protecting her countenance by distraction. Her voice contained only the slightest quiver when she quietly answered, "I see."
Her answer was not what he had anticipated and he rushed to reassure her. "It is not your fault. The failure is mine, as is the blame. I should have kept my expectationisms within reason. I thought that perhaps, with more time, things would work out. You are a good person and I am sorry, so sorry that I could not make this work for you…for us."
Rose's incessant battle for release was rewarded, as her mother bent low to floor and let her crawl away. The baby headed directly to Passepartout and used his pants leg to pull herself up to an unsteady vertical position.
"It is all right, Jean," she replied calmly. "Would you mind remaining here? I will only be a moment."
The excited blush that had colored Therese's cheeks when Passepartout first entered had noticeably faded, as had the light in her eyes. Her expression was dull as she turned toward the inner room.
"Why, yes, Therese," he answered, his brow knitting a bit at the change in her. He had not even shown her the gift and she was upset already. "If you wish."
Therese disappeared into the kitchen as Passepartout turned, knelt, and began rummaging through the sack, searching for the box that contained the useless 'mole'. Rose plopped down into a sitting position next to him and following Passepartout's lead, poked her head into the sack as well. He retrieved the box, tousled the child's dark hair, and expectantly waited for his lover's return. He could understand her being disappointed about the gift, but why was she upset? Next time he would bring her a bouquet as well, for additional insurance, he decided.
Therese reappeared holding two boxes; both were filled with truffles and decorated with ribbon, bow, and flowers. She offered them to Passepartout, struggling to suppress the trembling of her hands. Therese's voice, however, was steady and business-like, with no hint of falter.
"It has been a pleasure to do business with you, Monsieur. Your Master should find these to his liking. May he enjoy them in good health. And may God keep you safe in your endeavors."
"The second box is yours. It is equal in quality and size to the one for your Master, since in my eyes…you have always been his equal."
She sounded so grave and distant. Therese must place a great significance upon the exchange of gifts, he reasoned. He received the packages with some befuddlement; looking at her questioningly he answered, "Thank you, Therese. This is very generous of you."
"I eliminated the 'return box,'" she continued, "since it is no longer necessary." Her eyes were glassy but resolute.
"Necessary?" Passepartout recalled that this time his Master had requested truffles without being reminded and continued, "Yes, I suppose that is true. Therese, I am truly sorry."
"It is all right, and thank you…for your honesty." Clasping her hands together, Therese managed a bittersweet smile as she continued, "Another man might have continued the charade, instead of telling me the truth. I, too, am sorry that this has not worked out." She whispered, "I will miss you."
"I know that you miss me Therese, which is why I have the gift! True, it is not like Passepartout really, especially since I always work and this 'mole' has never really tried, in my opinion. I gave it many opportunities, you know. I ordered it, I said, 'You there! Mole! Move!' Nothing. I thought if I pleaded it might help, but it just stayed there. I think the 'mole' is lazy." Passepartout paused to take a breath after unfurling his monologue. The effect of this speech propelled Therese from grave to panicked and unable to phantom the reason for yet another change in her mood, he questioned her sincerely, "Are all Belgians so serious regarding presents? Because you are having much aboveness of reaction."
"How could you bring an animal in here?" she asked incredulously.
"What animal? Where?"
"Jean, stop this. I cannot have a mole in here. You should know that! What if it should bite Rose? A…gift?"
"Yes, a gift," he answered, waving his box to attract her attention.
Therese became more confused and he could clearly hear her voice quivering with uncertainty, "I don't understand. Jean, please tell me. Have you found another lover?"
"Another what? No!" His jaw dropped open a centimeter in disbelief.
She hesitantly asked him, "Do you no longer wish to be…my lover?"
"Wha...? Therese, I am your lover. That is why I have the gift!!" He stood there pointing demonstratively to the box he held in order to make her understand.
Therese wrapped her arms tightly around herself as if trying to contain her emotions. Biting her bottom lip, she released a sigh of relief as she closed her eyes and then gripped the countertop to steady herself. Recovering, she pushed a loose tendril of dark hair back into place, and asked, "What precisely are you talking about?"
Passepartout strode over to her and handed her the box, "I am speaking of this gift, for you Therese, from me, Passepartout. I speak many languages, but not one of them is 'woman', I think."
With his words, her statement cleared, revealing a glow of happiness that radiated out manifesting itself in a luminous smile and girlish dimples. As she reached for the box, her hand touched his and she squeezed it affectionately. "For me?" she confirmed.
Passepartout nodded, smiling back at her.
Therese placed the box on the counter to open it. As she lifted off the top and pushed the paper aside, her expression changed from that of curiosity to befuddlement. The gift resembled a metal carrot. Shaking her head with mystification, she shot a tentative glance at Passepartout.
"I am not sure what to say…thank you," her hesitant smile reduced her dimples to mere shadows of their previous depth.
"You…like it? It does not work."
"Work? Does a carrot work? Vegetables are rather passive."
"It is not a mechcaniacal carrot!" Passepartout cried, his agitation exploding at her misinterpretation. "This is a 'pleasure mole'…for you! It is supposed to vibrate. I wanted to show you how much…" His voice trailed off as searched for very precise language to express himself. "Therese, I wanted to give you something…unique! I just wanted…to give…" His exasperation culminated in resignation; his eyes pleaded for her forgiveness.
"What nonsense are you talking?" She watched him with puzzlement, unable to comprehend the reason for his shame. "You speak as if you have nothing to offer - that you have never given me anything."
"But, I have not…"
"Jean, you have given to me. You just fail understand the nature of your gifts because…I have never told you." There was no reprimand in her voice, only the desire to enlighten. "You are my lover. You have given me more than presents can express."
Her words provided little comfort for Passepartout as he stared at the useless device. He wondered what possessed him to offer such an abysmal failure to this woman whose creations consistently succeeded. He wanted to give her something memorable-something that no other man could give her. At least, he hoped not. His shoulders slumped as Passepartout decided that this was an excellent time to study his shoes for scuffmarks.
Therese watched as his face fell with disappointment. She released a small sigh, and turning, paced away from him. Her demeanor was distracted as though debating some inner dialogue; Therese wrung her hands together as she moved away. By the time she pivoted, the debate had ended; Therese was calm. She retraced her path, but halted a few steps short of where Passepartout was standing. Her voice was soft and her cocoa eyes revealed a vulnerability that few ever witnessed.
"Jean..."
He looked up. She suddenly seemed very small, almost child-like, as she stood there waiting for his undivided attention. Passepartout wondered if she were an only child. He had never thought to ask her. He had never thought to ask her many things, things he suddenly wanted to know. Passepartout studied her in silence, and as she spoke, her words were soft and tender.
"I know that I rarely speak of Emile, and that you are too much of a gentleman to ask about him. What we do not say communicates as much as what we do, no? Then, let me tell you now. Emile was a good man. Like you, he had a truly kind heart, but…" A shadow of pain flitted across her face as she continued. "He was also twenty-six years my senior. I was his second wife; Rose is his only child. He was not…a vigorous man, but he was the only man I ever knew…until you."
She paused briefly. When she resumed speaking, the words came out slowly - painfully wrenched from a secret place inside her. Passepartout, seeing her falter, instinctively moved closer, his expression concerned and his eyes darkening with compassion.
It was Therese's turn to avert her gaze; whether from modesty or embarrassment, he could not tell. The words stumbled out of her, "And you…you do not realize…your body…it is a marvel to me. The pleasure it gives…how you make me feel…I have no words…the thoughts alone..." Her voice choked with emotion, Therese fell silent as she struggled to compose herself. Taking a deep breath, she gave a determined nod, and focused on him. The pause did not quell the passion of her speech; he did not doubt her sincerity.
"I might never have known what a man and woman could have…together, if you had not knocked on my door that night. That is a gift…that I never expected and am not even sure I deserve." Therese's reserve cracked at her eyes where tears had started to slowly seep out and journey down her cheeks.
Never, in all his varied life, had he heard such words as these, Passepartout thought. Words like these were not spoken between men and women. They remained silent and unsaid, except perhaps, for the wedding night because then two were made one before God. But to fill his ears with such sweetness as this when she knew… She knew! Therese knew that he could offer her no more than a mechanical carrot.
Passepartout felt his heart swelling inside his chest. For a moment, he thought that it might burst; he was overwhelmed by emotion. He was so touched by her revelation, that Passepartout's eyes blurred with tears as he came towards her. He felt the fluttering within her breast as he pulled her to his chest and enfolded her in his sheltering embrace. Kissing her hair lightly, Passepartout could not speak above a whisper when he told her, "You deserve these things, Therese. You do."
"Perhaps," she answered, resting her head upon his shoulder. "…If that were the only consolation you offered. But you also give me your laughter. And that is a gift you can never truly appreciate, unless you have lost it…as I did. It is a poor woman who cannot see the angels in her own baby's smile."
Therese turned and gazed up at him, her dimples reasserting themselves as the corners of her mouth lifted higher. "Laughter is what makes life bearable. You gave that back to me; I would not sacrifice that laughter for all the jewels in the Empress' crown."
Passepartout smiled whimsically, and using his most philosophical tone, said, "You may find this hard to believe, Therese, but sometimes, I do not even mean to have such levitousity."
His own grin increased as he felt her lips brush just below his left ear.
"That is because you are unaware of your own generosity. Do you know that you give me something to look forward to? Or, that to keep your Master persistent in his demand for truffles, I offer Mass for Phileas Fogg's sweet tooth every day? I can only believe it is one of the more bizarre petitions that God entertains." Her voice lilted with the hint of a giggle.
"Masses for the Master," he laughed. "Somehow, I think Mister Fogg would find that infinitively amusing."
Rose, meanwhile, was still exploring Passepartout's sack and its contents. The child managed to unveil enough of the treasure hidden inside to squeal a crow of delight. She exclaimed, "Pa-pa! Ma!"
Passepartout froze momentarily at the child's words. Therese broke away from him and walked towards her daughter and the sack. She bent over the child and gently reprimanded her, "No, Rose. That is not for you, my sweet."
Pa-pa? The word still rang in his ears. He had forgotten Rose's newest word…for him. Passepartout shook his head as his countenance turned from panicky to sweet. Shaking his head, he followed Therese to the child and stayed her hand as she bent to lift Rose up. "No, she is right, Therese. That =is= for her. I have many extra componiments in my workshop, and when I was frustrated by the mole, I began to tinker with some of them and I found that I made…this." He bent down and completed the unveiling that Rose had begun.
The contraption resembled an abacus run amuck.
It was mounted on a wooden base from which Passepartout had inserted four thin grapevines bent into various loops. At different points, the vines snaked between and around each other, until they resembled a maze. The vines were then laced through wooden beads of various sizes and colors - red, yellow, and purple - before being secured back into the base about 60 centimeters from its point of origin.
Rose immediately leaned over and grabbed a bead with one chubby hand and pulled it along the vine-path. Jean sat down crossed-legged besides her, grinning with delight. "Therese! She likes it! She knows what to do!"
The child released the bead at the apex of one loop and watched it slide down. She clapped her hands, turned to her mother and cried, "Ma!" before grabbing a different bead and repeating the exercise.
Passepartout's eyes lit up excitedly, "She is a genius! Look!"
Rose bent forward, closer to the gift, and attempted to gnaw on a bead. Therese knelt down next to Passepartout and smiled, "More likely, she is hungry, I think. I will bring her in the back." She lifted up Rose who wailed at being separated from her toy.
Passepartout popped to his feet and followed behind them, carrying the invention and as he explained, "If Rose puts the beads in her mouth, Therese, there is no hurting there. I dyed them with the skins of onion, cabbage, and berries. Jules thought I was preparing soup. Jules often thinks with his stomach, you know. Is another mark of genius. And I am telling you that your child has much potentiality. Do you know this?"
In the kitchen, Therese handed her daughter a crust of bread and a slice of pear and placed her on the floor, while Passepartout set the bead maze down near the entrance of the bedroom. The child automatically gravitated to the toy, but did not lose her grip on either piece of food. When she reached it, Rose placed the crust beside her, chewed on the pear slice, and began threading another bead along a vine. Content, she amused herself, fascinated by the device.
Therese crossed her arms as Passepartout came up and stood behind her. She turned and glanced at him before returning to watch her daughter play. She smiled, "Thank you, Jean. It is wonderful. This should keep her busy for a while, I think."
He leaned into her and said slyly, "That was my hope, Madame."
Therese spun to face him. Surprised at his admission, she queried, "Really?"
"Of course," his eyes twinkled mischievously. "The mole refused to vibrate, so, keeping Rose occupied is the next best thing, no? She is not the only one who is hungry, you know."
"Oh. I see," Therese said with amusement. "Someone craves peppermint, perhaps?"
Passepartout let out a belly laugh that made Rose pause for a moment and look around before returning to her play.
"I have a different flavoring in mind, actually," he said, his voice deepening as he drew his finger down her neck and across her shoulder.
"And, that would be..?"
He slipped his arm around her waist, his hand resting on the small of her back, pulling her to him. The other hand tugged lightly at the comb in her hair, which, offering no resistance, freed her dark tresses from their confinement.
"You don't know?" he said, as if the answer were obvious.
She shook her head slowly, as he whispered huskily, "La saveur de Therese."
fini
Chapter 1 || Chapter 2