Read Online The Sunrise by Victoria Hislop - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Victoria Hislop
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her a kiss on both cheeks at the end of an evening.
When Savvas came out on to the terrace, Markos noticed Aphroditi, in green, behind him.
Crème de menthe, he thought. That’s what she reminds me of.
It was a dislikeable drink, one that he never encouraged people to have. Serving something that tasted like mouthwash was counterintuitive to him, even though it was popular among a certain type of guest.
He watched as one of his staff took over a tray of drinks. It seemed to him that Aphroditi did not acknowledge the waiter as she took a glass. At least Savvas had the courtesy to give a little bow before resuming his conversation. If only the boss’s wife had the same manners. She was as cool as mint, as cold as crushed ice.
At eight, everyone was ushered away and seated in a small dining room that would be used for private receptions. Tonight there was a buffet, as this was the best way to show off the talents and ambitions of the chef and his team.
The head chef had trained in Paris. He did not produce meals. He created banquets. Colour and shape were important, and if he could make one thing look like another, he would. A fish, for example, might be transformed into a swan, or perhaps a many-petalled flower. Desserts should aspire to some kind of fantasy: a multi-layered castle or an ancient trireme.
Savvas had adopted the manner of a ship’s captain, and was professional and courteous at all times with both passengers and crew. As far as he was concerned, the hotel was no different from a cruise liner. It was a contained space in which it was possible for everything to be in precise order, and routine was paramount.
Aphroditi spoke mostly to the wives, while Savvas discussed politics and finance with the bankers, businessmen and wealthy retirees who were their first guests. It was a relatively intimate gathering.
By the time the desserts were laid out, the guests had almost run out of superlatives.
Frau Bruchmeyer, who was sitting at the top table as guest of honour next to Savvas, clapped her hands together with delight. Though she maintained her slim frame, she had a sweet tooth and sampled a small portion of each of the dozen or so tarts, gateaux, mousses and charlottes. Even then, her bright pink lipstick remained immaculately in place.
The highlight of the evening for her would be the visit to the nightclub. At the end of dinner, some guests drifted away to smoke cigars and drink brandies on the terrace. Women excused themselves to go to the ladies’ room to powder their noses. The nightclub was about to open its doors.
The first guests arrived on the dot of eleven o’clock. They were offered a complimentary drink, and with most of the whiskies costing more than one pound for a single measure, few of them turned down the invitation.
Markos moved from table to table, holding out his hand to greet everyone personally and making each client feel that this was his or her own private place. Everybody was charmed. Nobody was in a hurry to leave such an environment or to say good night to the host.
He showed Frau Bruchmeyer to a seat close to the stage. She was a little deaf in one ear and he wanted her to be able to appreciate the act. A couple from Athens whom she had met during dinner were her companions that night, and within a few hours they had already developed an easy familiarity that made them seem like old friends. Frau Bruchmeyer ordered a bottle of champagne for the three of them.
‘Hang the expense!’ she said as a toast to them all.
‘To life!’ said the husband, delighted by this unexpected, effervescent company.
Around one in the morning, the piped music faded out and the purple curtains behind the stage parted. A woman emerged. A murmur of surprise rippled around the audience. What they saw was the spitting image of Marilyn Monroe.
She sang the English lyrics impeccably, in a sweet, husky voice that raised the temperature in the room, but when she spoke to the audience between
When Savvas came out on to the terrace, Markos noticed Aphroditi, in green, behind him.
Crème de menthe, he thought. That’s what she reminds me of.
It was a dislikeable drink, one that he never encouraged people to have. Serving something that tasted like mouthwash was counterintuitive to him, even though it was popular among a certain type of guest.
He watched as one of his staff took over a tray of drinks. It seemed to him that Aphroditi did not acknowledge the waiter as she took a glass. At least Savvas had the courtesy to give a little bow before resuming his conversation. If only the boss’s wife had the same manners. She was as cool as mint, as cold as crushed ice.
At eight, everyone was ushered away and seated in a small dining room that would be used for private receptions. Tonight there was a buffet, as this was the best way to show off the talents and ambitions of the chef and his team.
The head chef had trained in Paris. He did not produce meals. He created banquets. Colour and shape were important, and if he could make one thing look like another, he would. A fish, for example, might be transformed into a swan, or perhaps a many-petalled flower. Desserts should aspire to some kind of fantasy: a multi-layered castle or an ancient trireme.
Savvas had adopted the manner of a ship’s captain, and was professional and courteous at all times with both passengers and crew. As far as he was concerned, the hotel was no different from a cruise liner. It was a contained space in which it was possible for everything to be in precise order, and routine was paramount.
Aphroditi spoke mostly to the wives, while Savvas discussed politics and finance with the bankers, businessmen and wealthy retirees who were their first guests. It was a relatively intimate gathering.
By the time the desserts were laid out, the guests had almost run out of superlatives.
Frau Bruchmeyer, who was sitting at the top table as guest of honour next to Savvas, clapped her hands together with delight. Though she maintained her slim frame, she had a sweet tooth and sampled a small portion of each of the dozen or so tarts, gateaux, mousses and charlottes. Even then, her bright pink lipstick remained immaculately in place.
The highlight of the evening for her would be the visit to the nightclub. At the end of dinner, some guests drifted away to smoke cigars and drink brandies on the terrace. Women excused themselves to go to the ladies’ room to powder their noses. The nightclub was about to open its doors.
The first guests arrived on the dot of eleven o’clock. They were offered a complimentary drink, and with most of the whiskies costing more than one pound for a single measure, few of them turned down the invitation.
Markos moved from table to table, holding out his hand to greet everyone personally and making each client feel that this was his or her own private place. Everybody was charmed. Nobody was in a hurry to leave such an environment or to say good night to the host.
He showed Frau Bruchmeyer to a seat close to the stage. She was a little deaf in one ear and he wanted her to be able to appreciate the act. A couple from Athens whom she had met during dinner were her companions that night, and within a few hours they had already developed an easy familiarity that made them seem like old friends. Frau Bruchmeyer ordered a bottle of champagne for the three of them.
‘Hang the expense!’ she said as a toast to them all.
‘To life!’ said the husband, delighted by this unexpected, effervescent company.
Around one in the morning, the piped music faded out and the purple curtains behind the stage parted. A woman emerged. A murmur of surprise rippled around the audience. What they saw was the spitting image of Marilyn Monroe.
She sang the English lyrics impeccably, in a sweet, husky voice that raised the temperature in the room, but when she spoke to the audience between
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