Black Diamond

think I’ll become a regular here, even though they didn’t get the risotto quite right,” said Fabiola. Murmurs of satisfied approval around the table made it clear she spoke for them all. The baron was nodding happily as he signaled for the bill. But before it came, Pons ambled over, bringing a tray with four small pottery cups and a stone bottle so cold that beads of moisture sparkled and ran down the sides.
    “This is something special I’d like you to try,” he said. “We offer it to all our guests on their first visit. It’s called
mijiu
. It’s a Chinese rice wine that’s usually drunk warm. But I find it makes a fine digestif served very cold.”
    “How long were you in China?” Pamela asked. “And why don’t you come and join us? Most of your other guests have gone.” She waved a hand at the almost empty restaurant.
    “I’d like that,” Bill said, pulling up a chair between Pamela and the baron. “I lived in Hong Kong and Macao for nearly ten years, but with lots of trips to the mainland. I was in Shanghai for nearly a year, Beijing for a few months. And I spent time in Singapore and Bangkok. I loved Asia. Still do, but suddenly I started to feel a little homesick. Believe it or not, I hoped for a reconciliation with my father.”
    “But you weren’t prepared to compromise on the sawmill,” said the baron, “despite the family tie.”
    “No. But I offered to help pay for a new chimney scrubber.”
    “The latest problem was less the pollution than the location,” said Bruno. “It was too close to that housing block.”
    “It would have meant demolishing one building,” said Pons, with a bitter laugh. “Just a small storage shed, and donating about a hundred square meters to the commune. Then the sawmill would’ve been outside the excluded area. I offered to pay for the land and for a replacement storage building, but my father saw it as a matter of principle. Or perhaps he saw it as good business—he’s getting a generous grant to build the new sawmill over in St. Félix and a tax write-off for the old place. Anyway, he made it pretty clear that he wanted neither my help nor my company. But that’s enough about my dysfunctional family. Thanks again, especially to you, Monsieur le Chef de Police. I’d heard all about you from our mutual friend Alphonse, and I think it was mainly thanks to you that it didn’t turn out worse than it was.”
    “If violence breaks out, even one brief incident, it means I’ve failed,” said Bruno, feeling uncomfortable. “I can’t count that as one of my better days.”
    “Let’s try this Chinese wine,” Pamela said into the sudden silence.
    Bill poured. “Tell me what you think.”
    Bruno sipped and made polite noises, but it wasn’t to his taste at all. The baron put his cup down after a sip and muttered about having to drive and beware of the gendarmes. Fabiola, who made a point of putting honesty first, said it was not her idea of a digestif.
    “It’s interesting, different from what I expected,” said Pamela. “What did you do in Asia? Did you get a job or teach French or start a business or what?”
    “All of those,” he said, with a charming smile that even hisbruises could not dilute. “At different times, of course. I was a cognac salesman in Shanghai, ran a wineshop in Vientiane, taught French in Bangkok and even worked as a croupier in a Macao casino. But my primary business was to have a small share in what became a very successful restaurant in Macao and then Hong Kong. That’s where I met my chef, Minxin Hu. He’s become a good friend. Let me introduce him.” He rose. “Anyone want coffee?”
    “I have to work tomorrow, so I don’t want to be too late,” said Fabiola. “Let’s say hello to your Chinese partner as we get our coats.”
    Bill headed for the kitchen and quickly reappeared with the tall and solemn-looking Chinese man. The clothes were impeccable, gleaming white and freshly pressed, as if he had just put them on. Bruno, who had seen Chinese cooks drenched in sweat after working close to their steaming woks, was surprised. “Thank you for a memorable meal,” said Bruno, rising to shake Minxin’s hand. The man gave a tight-lipped smile and a short bow.
    “
Merci, merci
—my French very bad,” the chef said, and shook hands all around as Bruno asked Pons once more for the bill.
    “You are my guests tonight,” he said airily.
    “No, it’s kind of you, but we can’t accept that,” Bruno