Page 25 of The Bookshop of Forbidden Books

The meal lasted less than an hour. As the two men ordered coffees, Mitch paid his bill and slipped out. As he was walking away from the restaurant in one direction, Anna was approaching it from the other.

Chapter 13

The Art of Conversation

The moment Anna was through the restaurant’s revolving door she began scanning the dining room, looking for the maître d,’ whose slight frame she quickly spotted emerging from the kitchen. The place was beginning to empty out, and Anna made a beeline for the man, greeting him with a friendly smile.

“Table for lunch, madame?” he asked in a clipped accent.

“You’ve got a stain on your jacket there,” she said, flashing a playful wink. “You really shouldn’t be out front like that.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s me, Walter – Anna. Don’t you remember me? I used to be a waitress here.”

Walter pressed his lips together and frowned, his forehead folding like a tiny topographical map.

“I see,” he said, though he obviously didn’t see very much. “Are you looking for a job?”

Anna shook her head.

“A serving position, perhaps?”

“Nope, still no.”

“Really?”

“Really. Is José in the kitchen?”

“José is no longer with our establishment.”

“How long ago did he leave?”

“It was some time ago,” the maître d’ answered curtly, making no effort now to hide his impatience.

“Do you know where I might find him?”

“You didn’t tell me where you were going when you disappeared without handing in your notice. And even if you had – out of professional courtesy perhaps – you would have expected me to keep it to myself, no?”

“José was my friend. I’d like to see him again.”

“The question is whether he’d like to see you.” He glanced at his watch, as if the answer might be found there.

“I hope you’re enjoying yourself, Walter.”

“It’s Monsieur Walter.”

“You’re not my boss anymore.”

It didn’t take a psychology degree to understand that he had no intention of helping her, and that the conversation was leading nowhere. Anna spun on her heels and stormed away – but hesitated as she reached the revolving door, and retraced her steps.

“Hi, Walter, remember me?”

“Very funny,” he said icily. “Are you sure you’re not looking for a job?”

“I’m not a waitress anymore. I’m a chef.”

“A chef!” he repeated disbelievingly. “And where, may I ask, might one have the pleasure of tasting your culinary work?”