The oven timer dinged.
In
an almost pavlovian response, Carmen jumped up from her seat. She placed her
tiny hands in the large oven mitts, reached for the oven door, then paused.
She
had made lemon hazelnut tarts dozens of times with her grandmother, but this
one was special. It was the first she had made completely on her own. The sense
of responsibility was almost overwhelming, the weight of tradition crushing her
young mind like walnuts in a nutcracker. Had she folded the eggs properly? Did
she butter the pan sufficiently? Were the peaks of the meringue stiff enough?
“The
meringue!” she yelled to the empty room. Her grandmother had told her
countless times how important timing was in baking. It was almost an hour
until midnight, and if the tart wasn’t successful there wouldn’t be enough time
to bake another.
She
opened the oven door, reached in with the over-sized mitts, and pulled out the
tart. Carmen sighed in relief as she looked at the pie. The meringue had just
started cracking. Her grandmother had said this was the sign of a well made
tart. She giggled with glee as she set it on the counter to cool. Soon it would
be placed out by the Christmas tree, a thank you for the merry gift giver.
Her
mother walked in just as she closed the oven door. She looked at the tart on
the counter and beamed.
“Très
magnifique, ma fille! The viceregal consort would be proud.”
A
large smile filled Carmen’s face, then quickly faded.
“Thank
you, mama. But it is not the same, not without Mémé.” She dropped her head so
her mother wouldn’t see the budding tear drops.
She
was surprised to find a pair of arms lovingly embracing her. A product of the
Institut Villa Pierrefeu, her mother was the epitome of virtue, elegance, and
sadly, emotional aloofness.
“Let
it out, ma fille, let it out.” Carmen felt her mother’s gentle hand caress her
hair as she softly hummed Gloria, her grandmother’s favorite carol. This
last gesture broke Carmen’s resolve, small streams running down her face.
As
she finished the song, her mother held up a handkerchief. As Carmen wiped her
face, her mother spoke again.
“Did
you know that your grandmémé started the tradition of this tart?”
Carmen nodded.
“When
I asked her why we couldn’t have bûche de Noël or tourte à la viande like the
other children, do you know what she said?”
“No
one was ever special by being just like everyone else.”
“You
were listening to her tales? Then know that she treasured you very dearly. You
are the only one who can carry on this tradition.”
“But
why can’t you, mama?”
“Have
you ever seen me making food myself?”
Carmen
thought hard. Louis was the chef her parents had hired last year, but before
that it had always been her grandmother doing the cooking and baking.
“But
didn’t she teach you?”
“Oh
she tried, ma fille, she tried.” Her mother started chuckling. “After the
fourth time of the oven catching fire, we talked, and decided the kitchen was
not a place I belonged in.”
Carmen
started giggling at the thought of her austere mother setting a confection
aflame.
“When
she first took up residence with us, shortly after you were born, she insisted
on doing all of the cooking and baking. She said she had to make up for the
time she spent as the Châtelaine of Rideau Hall.” Her mother held her hands
while smiling at her softly. “Enough of the past. There is still the
réveillon to finish here in the present. When we are done, the tart
will be cooled, and we can then leave it out for Père Noël.”
Carmen
smiled and nodded silently. She glanced back at the tart as she followed her
mother out of the kitchen. She was the only one, she thought to herself,
and smiled.
With
a heavy sigh, Carmen trod her way into the kitchen, letting the door swing
freely closed behind her. The réveillon had all but exhausted her. Had she
taken another bite, she was afraid her corset would have burst. The only food
she cared about now was one she had no plans of eating immediately.
She
walked over and placed her slender hands on both sides of the now cooled tart.
Deftly she removed it from the tart pan and placed it upon a silver serving
dish. The crust was a perfect shade of gold while the meringue had a warm
tinting of hazel, just like the delicious nuts that were baked inside. Mémé
would have been proud indeed.
“I
almost forgot!” Carmen exclaimed in shock.
She
went over to an old, faded chartreuse cupboard and slid open the lowest drawer.
She pulled forth a single small mug and small porcelain plate. Closing the
drawer, she practically skipped back to the tart. She gazed at the former mason
jar turned mug. A small glass handle was affixed by the same nameless craftsman
who had etched the snowflake patterns on it, or so her grandmémé had told her.
The plate had a single green ring painted crudely along the edge with an
equally crude lone sprig of holly was painted slightly off center. Her
grandmémé had told Carmen that she had bought both items many years ago, when
she herself was a young girl. Regardless of their actual worth, to Carmen they
were priceless heirlooms.
She
picked up a large chef’s knife and small silver pie server. She ‘blessed’ the
cake quickly, as her grandmémé had taught her, then ever so delicately made the
first slice into the fresh tart. It wasn’t until she slid the knife free and
exhaled that Carmen realized she had been holding her breath. She could feel
her pulse quicken with anticipation. Carefully she made the second cut, the
knife seeming to stick briefly as if it had caught something, only to cleave
the crust cleanly an instant later.
Sudden
fear began to rise up.
Was
the crust overcooked? Was the knife some how dull? Would the piece come out
cleanly?
Carmen
once again held her breath as she slid the server carefully under the piece.
She waited for the obstacle of a burnt crust to block her progress, but it was
nowhere to be found. She gulped hard as she steadied herself. With the anxious
concentration of a surgeon, she slowly lifted the piece. A huge smile enveloped
her face as she saw that both sides were cleanly cut.
Carmen
placed the slice on the plate, and removed the server. She then went over to
the refrigerator and produced a tall carafe filled with a pale yellow liquid
that smelled strongly of nutmeg. Her mother, in a rare moment of
capriciousness, called it ‘virgin nog’ and claimed that their regular eggnog
might result in a slightly inebriated Santa, and that could have dire
consequences such as falling off a roof or crashing his sleigh. While she
didn’t want any part of a Christmas catastrophe, Carmen couldn’t help but
giggle at the thought of an intoxicated gift bringer stumbling out of a
fireplace.
After
filling the mug, she went to the fridge to return the carafe. As she stood in
front of the open icebox door, she once again smelled the sweet aroma inside
the carafe.
Glancing
around quickly, a devilish grin crossed her face.
One
little sip wouldn’t hurt, right?
As
soon as she swallowed her body felt warm, her mouth and throat assaulted by an
unexpected sensation. Coughing roughly, she placed the vessel in the fridge,
trying in vain to compose herself. Carmen coughed once more harshly and found
her breath again.
Who
knew removing the alcohol from eggnog made it so harsh.
She
placed both plate and mug on a small silver tray and carried them out of the
kitchen. The dining room was already empty, the adults having retired for the
night as usual. She made her way to the sitting room where
the great Christmas tree stood trimmed in silver and gold ornaments
with strands of pale blue lights.
Carmen
set the tray on the end table next to the large armchair her father usually sat
in. She took a step back, beaming at the small display. She wondered to herself
what the reaction on Santa’s face would be when he tried her tart. She wondered
if he would be able to tell the difference. Would he like it? Would he spit it
out in disgust? Would she receive nothing but lumps of coal as a result? As
thoughts began swirling in her head, she felt her balance start to wobble.
She
caught herself on the arm of the large chair as the spinning slowly stopped.
Carmen lifted her head up, once again staring at the slice of tart and
nog-filled mug on the small silver tray.
What
if she didn’t have to wait?
A
devilish grin once again filled the young girl’s face. She went over to the
sofa and grabbed the throw off the back along with one of the large, ornamental
pillows. She then found a spot deep in the shadows of the far side of the room.
As she hunkered down, propping the pillow against her back, she covered herself
with the large throw, leaving just enough of a space to view the table and the
tree.
Bong!
Carmen
jumped at the chime of the old grandfather clock. It was half past one and
there were still no present.
He
would come soon—she was sure of it. She yawned in spite of her
determination. Hopefully very soon. She was in the middle of a second yawn when
another sound brought her to full alert.
It
was a faint muffled noise from the direction of the fireplace. As she was
straining to see in the pale blue glow of the tree lights a sudden whump
almost made her scream. Carmen watched breathlessly as a rotund, hoary man
garbed in scarlet stepped out from the shadows onto the hearth, an immense
satchel slung across his back.
He
made his way towards the tree, stopping in front of the end table with the
small silver serving tray on it. He placed his bag on the floor and gave a
hearty, familiar laugh. The jolly old elf picked up the glass mug and took a
sip, then gave another hearty laugh as he set it back on the tray. He then
reached for the slice of tart.
A
fork!
Carmen
knew she had forgotten something. As beads of sweat formed on her brow, she was
instantly relieved. The venerable benefactor simply picked up the entire slice
with his bare hand. She could feel her heart race speed up as the piece moved
towards his mouth. As he bit down she felt herself swallowing reflexively.
Crack!
The
eternal elf dropped the slice and grabbed his throat, the heirloom plate
shattering on the floor. Immediately, he began pounding his chest, then
punching his stomach. He stumbled around, seeming to lose his balance, then
promptly fell over, flipping over the small silver serving tray as he fell,
sending the antique mug flying across the room to shatter against the far wall.
An
intense fear mixed with realization sent a jumbled mix of emotions through
Carmen’s body. She had forgotten to chop the hazelnuts, she coldly realized.
When she had cut the slice it must have been one of the nuts being pushed aside
that had interrupted the knife.
She
had forgotten to chop the nuts, and as a result she had just killed Santa
Claus.
An eerie long silence passed before
she started to move. She stood up, slowly, and made her way to where the body
of the beloved figure now lay lifeless.
Tentatively,
she reached out her hand. With a single finger, she poked the old man’s belly,
withdrawing it instantly. She poked a second, then third time, and still he did
not respond. Tears welled up in her eyes as she dropped to her knees.
“Why?”
she screamed. She pounded her tiny fist against the broad barrel of a chest.
She looked up at the ceiling. “Why?” she creaked inaudibly.
Bong!
The
grandfather clock seemed to answer.
Bong!
It
had all happened so fast—
Bong!
Carmen’s
thoughts stopped.
Bong!
Just
what time was it?
Bong!
Shouldn’t
it be only two?
Bong!
What’s
going on here?
Bong!
Now
she knew something was amiss
Bong!
It
was still dark outside.
Bong!
Was
she . . .
Bong!
With
the last chime, time seemed to slow down. Carmen felt her senses becoming odd
and disjointed. She had the sensation of swimming. Suddenly, she was viewing
the room and scene from above herself. She was paralyzed and couldn’t move.
Nothing seemed right.
The
oven timer dinged.
In
an almost pavlovian response, Carmen jumped up from her seat. She was reaching
for the oven mitts when she froze. Then she laughed. What a horrible, terrible
dream she had just had.
She
opened the oven door, reached in with the over-sized mitts, and pulled out the
tart. Carmen sighed in relief as she looked at the pie. The meringue had just
started cracking. Her grandmother had said this was the sign of a well made
tart. She giggled with glee as she set it on the counter to cool. She placed
the oven mitts on the counter.
“Mama,
mama,” she cried out, half laughing to herself. Her mother would scold her for having
such a dark dream.
Her
jovial mood was shattered as she entered the dining
room. Several RCMP agents were in the room. One
was speaking with her mother, who was seated at the table,
sobbing profusely.
“There
she is!” one of the officers shouted. Instantly she was surrounded, her hands
placed behind her back. The officers placed handcuffs on her wrists as they
lead her out of the dining room.
“Mama!”
Carmen yelled. Her face was covered in tears.
“Vous
êtes mort pour moi! I have no daughter.” With that she spat on the young girl. “Remove
her from my sight.”
“Mama!”
she cried again, but her plea went ignored.
Wordlessly
the police led her through the house, past the sitting room.
As
she walked past she looked up to see more police and photographers surrounding
the body.
Bong!
The
grandfather clock seemed to reply.
Bong!
This
was all too horrible.
Bong!
This
was all too cruel.
Bong!
If
only Mémé were still here, none of this would have happened.
Bong!
They
were at the front door.
Bong!
The police officer opened it.
Bong!
There,
standing outside, was not more police officers. It was not a media circus.
There simply stood a small, yet regal bearing old lady. She smiled softly at
Carmen.
“Mémé!”
Carmen exclaimed.
“What
are you doing? Why are you not enjoying the morning?”
Confused,
Carmen blinked wordlessly at the matron.
“Do
you really believe this is happening?”
With
the last question, a familiar sensation returned to Carmen. Once again, her
senses became disjointed. Once again, she had the sensation of swimming. As her
whole world started to darken she looked at the old woman again.
“Joyeux
Noël,” Carmen heard faintly.
Bong!
Carmen
sat up with a start. She was in the sitting room. She looked over to see the
front of the tree filled with presents. Gone were the shattered heirlooms, gone
was the overturned serving tray, gone was the tragic scene she had so vividly
experienced.
Carmen
walked over to the now empty plate and mug. All that remained was a small
folded piece of paper on the plate, her name written upon it in an exquisite
golden script.
Thank
you, it read, your Mémé would be proud.
Carmen
collapsed into the large armchair, tears of joy running down her face.
fin.
