Read Online Utz by Bruce Chatwin - Free Book Online

region. He had always cared for his stomach, always befriended chefs.
    How often, in the war years, especially in moments of terror, did he recollect the pleasures of the table! The day the Gestapo took him for questioning, he had been unable to focus on the abstractions of death or deportation: only on the memory of a particular plate of haricots verts, at a restaurant by a white road in Provence.
    Later, during the worst of the winter shortages, the months of cabbage, cabbage, cabbage and potatoes, he comforted himself with the thought that, when sanity returned and the frontiers were open, he would eat once again in France.
    He studied the guide with the fastidious dedication he usually reserved for porcelain-hunting: where to find the best ‘quenelles aux écrevisses’, the best ‘cervelas truffé’ or a ‘poulet à la vessie’. Or the desserts — the ‘bourriouls’, ‘bougnettes’, ‘flaugnardes’, ‘fouasses’. (One could hear the gas in those names!) Or the rare white wine of Château Grillet, which was said to taste of vine flowers and almonds — and behave like a capricious young woman.
    Putting his new-found knowledge to the test, he reserved a table at a restaurant beside the Allier.
    The day was warm and sunny: sufficiently warm to eat outside on the terrace, under an awning of green-and-white striped canvas that flapped lazily in the breeze. There were three wine glasses set at each place. He watched the reflections of the poplars z-bending across the river, and the sand-martins skimming over its surface. On the far bank, fishermen and their families had spread their picnics on the grass.
    The waiters were fussing over a ‘prince of gastronomes’ who was paying his annual visit. He had come in after Utz, flushed crimson in the face and perambulating his stomach before him. He tucked his napkin inside his collar, and prepared to plough through an eight-course luncheon.
    At last, when the menu came, Utz gave a grateful smile to the maitre d’hôtel.
    He ran his eye over the list of specialities. He chose. He changed his mind. He chose again: an artichoke soup, trout ‘Mont Doré’ and sucking-pig ‘à la lyonnaise’.
    â€˜Et comme vin, monsieur?’
    â€˜What would you suggest?’
    The wine-waiter, taking Utz for an ignoramus, pointed to two of the more expensive bottles on the list: a Montrachet and a Clos Margeot.
    â€˜No Château Grillet?’
    â€˜Non, monsieur.’
    â€˜Very well,’ Utz acquiesced obediently. ‘Whatever you recommend.’
    The meal failed to match his expectations. Not that he could fault its quality or presentation: but the soup, although exquisite, seemed savourless; the trout was smothered in a sauce of Gruyère cheese, and the sucking-pig was stuffed with something else.
    He looked again, enviously, at the picnickers on the opposite shore. A young mother rushed to save her child, who had crawled to the water’s edge. He would like to be with them: to share their coarse, home-made pies that surely tasted of something! Or had he lost his own sense of taste?
    The bill was larger than he expected. He left in a bad mood. He felt bloated, and a little dizzy.
    He had also come to a depressing conclusion: that luxury is only luxurious under adverse conditions.

I n the afternoon the clouds came up and it began to rain. He lay down in his room and read some pages of a novel by Gide. His French was inadequate: he lost the thread of the narrative.
    He put the book aside, and stared vacantly at the chandelier.
    Why, he asked himself, when he had steeled himself to the horrors of war and revolution, should the free world present so frightening an abyss? Why, each time he sank onto the mattress, did he have the sensation of falling, like the elevator, through the floors of the hotel? In Prague he slept soundly. Why did sleep elude him here?
    He would lie awake and