The Tormentor

By Jacques Meyer

Monsieur Arthur Valois Dourville de Montrissart was a short cynical man who distrussed everything and demeaned almost everybody. The lack of refinement in his personality, his devious attitude betrayed his self proclaimed aristocratic name of Valois Dourville de Montrissart. Arthur was far to be a chivalrous knight. As the owner of a classy Fren

• Language: English
• Publisher: URLink Print & Media, LLC
• Release date: Feb 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9781647536442

Jacques Meyer

Born in Belgium, Jacques A. Meyer displayed his rapidly developing spirit of adventure early in life. He enlisted in his country’s paratroops unit at the age of nineteen, and found himself in the middle of Africa, the Democratic Republic of Congo (formerly the Belgian Congo). At the close of that country’s turmoil, the author decided to immigrate to Canada and on to the United States which has become his own country. He worked as a freelance writer and as a journaliste de passage in war-torn Cambodia. Being a Los Angeles Legacy Marathon runner, Jacques is also a world traveler and a great lover of nature. He is the author of Terre Mon Amie-A Journey Around The World On A Low Budget and Embrace the World. Meyer lives in Los Angeles

Book preview

The

Tormentor

Jacques Meyer

The Tormentor

Copyright © 2021 by Jacques Meyer. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law.

The opinions expressed by the author are not necessarily those of URLink Print and Media.

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Published in the United States of America

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021900784

ISBN 978-1-64753-642-8 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64753-643-5 (Hardback)

ISBN 978-1-64753-644-2 (Digital)

14.01.21

Contents

Foreword

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Author’s Note

About The Author

Foreword

IN HIS MOST recent book, The Tormentor, author Jacques A. Meyer weaves a fascinating tapestry of characters. In the fashion of classic stories of human overcoming, Pierre Choucart is a dedicated, hard-working, intelligent, and resourceful man. He, of course, being focused on doing good becomes easy prey for his paranoid and narcissistic employer, the classically evil Arthur Valois Dourville de Montrissart.

Meyer’s story is about the powerful and the powerless; superiors and their subordinates; the controllers and those they would control. The scenarios he describes are all too common between bosses and their direct reports. Unfortunately, the disparity of power between business owners and those who work for them are accentuated by the disparity of resources available to them.

It’s the tale of the haves versus the have nots. More specifically, it’s about the liberties the haves can take with the have-nots. Apparently there are only two recourses the have nots have available to them (1) Don’t stand for the treatment they receive at the hands of the haves (i.e. resign and go to work for another have somewhere else) as Meyer’s character, Robert Leansing, did or (2) become a have themselves, thereby deflating and power the haves have over them.

Readers, especially those, who must work to survive, will no doubt find much of themselves manifest in the character of Pierre Choucart. Others will not be hampered one way or the other as Meyer’s character, Melanie, doesn’t seem to be. Hopefully, if a reader is consciously aware of how similar he or she is with the most disagreeable Arthur, the reader will seek immediate help from a competent executive coach or psychotherapist.

Author John Hoover Ph.D

How to Work for an Idiot: Survive and Thrive Without Killing Your Boss.

Another nonfiction book by Jacques A. Meyer

TERRE MON AMIE

A Journey Around The World On A Low Budget

Terre Mon Amie takes us from the ubiquitus poverty, overcrowding and street violence of Calcutta to the limitless plains and crisp climate of Australia ‘the last frontier’, from a jubilant arrival in Europe at the Port of Le Havre to a Jeep ride through machine-gun fire on a jungle road in Cambodia. The universal expression of human love in different cultures establishes the theme throughout Terre Mon Amie.

—Vantage Press

A charming travel-adventure book with vivid descriptions of exciting places and delightful impressions of people the author met on his way.

—The New York Times

Jacques trust the readers of his book will find inside into the character and deep feelings of the author whose main intention is to give the world a message of love and peace among all human being, wherever they are.

—World-Wide News Bureau

To Grace…for being there

Chapter 1

MONSIEUR ARTHUR VALOIS Dourville de Montrissart, the owner of the French Restaurant Le Cerisier (The Cherry Tree) located in Sherman Oaks, California was a short burly man, only five feet in height with rubber lifts in his shoes to draw himself tall. He had a round face with fat smooth cheeks and thick bull neck, deep lines on his forehead with enormous hairy ears the size of New Zealand mussel-shells. His nose ‘the charm of painters’ was quite peculiar, prominent but still harmonious, a distinguishing trait from one generation to another; parted lips and penetrating almost unblinking eyes with sometimes a dangerous gleam. His head was crowned with carefully styled silky white hair with a little thatch that stood-up like the cockatiel’s feather and the size of his fat belly was considerably increased by the shortness of his arms and legs.

Arthur’s voice with such a melodious French accent has become harsh and staccato yet people loved it. This along with unfaltering manners can be the secret of his brilliance, of his ingenuity in business as he elevated himself to the pinnacle of power with the family fortune.

Born in Labège par Castanet near Toulouse, France Arthur who claimed his ancestral line was of the old feudal aristocracy was ironically without any chivalry or true nobility. Here was one of his pet sayings: I’m the head of the noblest branch of the family. In reality Arthur was living in dishonor to the very name he so proudly carried. Instead of showing courage, sobriety and strength he developed a reputation for being frivolus, cowardly and irresolute. Although he became a perverted predator always skulking behind corners his general appearance was jovial. Among customers with that engulfing smile he appeared to be charismatic and just a bon vivant. If one didn’t know Arthur well he seemed to be the most honest person in the world with a curious façade of gentility.

Arthur with his perpetual chatter on all subjects was a great entertainer and fabulist. He also had gathered about himself a group of loyal followers. Just like ‘The Little Corporal’ with the gift of gab he was equally a redundant orator with good industry experience. Recurrently his moral and social failings were allayed by his expertness as a great restaurateur. Pushing his way by his talents as a salesman, this man could sell snow to Eskimos. And in order to please some of his regular wealthy patrons Arthur would bow in front of their wives with polished, pleasing sentences the way an Englishman would have bowed to his queen. Arthur seriously believed with grandiloquence to be proficient but he willfully would entrap a friend into a disastrous speculation or bad deed. When people disallowed his views he would growl like a lion, but Arthur would praise any man that would praise him as compliments would carry him to seventh heaven.

Yet, it didn’t take long for his faithfull employees to realize that their employer was just a paper tiger with a mother complex who faints at the sight of blood. He was just a faux cultivated intellect. With that insipid pretence that his life was fine, he secretly objected to other people’s happiness because in reality he had lost his own. With his dull insensibility to all that is charming Arthur actually hates happy people just as eunuchs hate successful lovers. Drinking was as necessary to him as daily bread as he was often in a woeful state of drunkenness-of tipsy confusion. If one didn’t know anything about his grossly primate behavior this man could probably have succeeded in any field anywhere- as a public servant in D.C., as a preacher and for sure as an actor or comedian.

To express a Navy saying the owner of the restaurant in addition was ‘an old saltwater sea dog.’ He once sailed the big oceans with a mandolin in his bag fluttering like a bewildered bee on a flower from Europe to Africa and all of South America. Those experiences on the high seas aboard Les Lignes de la Marine Marchande-French Lines made him a skilled diplomat sneaky like a fox.

Later on when Arthur had shaken off the salt of the sea for work on terra firma he continued fearing everyone at first sight. By trying to swallow up contentment of so many people one will soon realize that the pugnacious Arthur as a basket of pestilent corruption even more elusive than a serpent occupied a far lower place than the offspring of a Neanderthal. In short he was a fool-a vicious fool as well for a man that can betray friendship also violate honor. And just like in Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels, would anyone doubt after reading this book that such a person like Arthur had really existed?

Le Cerisier restaurant represented a typical inn you would discover in the rich valley land with deep virgin forests and giddy precipices of The Massif Central or in Provence amidst French formal gardens and gay arabesques overlooking the Mediterranean. With beams across the ceiling, the establishment was vastly decorated with shining brass ornaments and striking paintings hanging on the walls that were paneled in fake red bricks with shelves of books all around. A long-case polished grandfather clock stood like a security guard near an authentic Austrian marble-table desk. Very old tapestries depicting rural figures of men and women from the sixteenth century were drooping on display in the conveniently designed private room where ten people could comfortably sit. The entire dining room was well furnished in such exquisite taste. The booths upholstered with Venetian velvet enhanced warm intimacy as every table was decorated with a bouquet of fresh cut flowers enlivened next to a lighted candle. Stained-glass windows representing a few harvest scenes were imbedded on either side of Le Cerisier’s front entrance. Outside, in the street one can observe a plant under each one. A little further, almost at the edge of the sidewalk, there was a curious tree with its branches intermingled in a strange embrace.

As soon as the sun was low above the western hills, when the twilight was covering the San Fernando Valley under its umbrella the restaurant would open its doors. It was on such time that Arthur in spite of a hip surgery would leap in the air like a grasshopper to lightheartedly lead the customers to their reserved tables. With the habit of embracing everyone to make them feel at home he would congratulate women on their great looks before ruling the place like Louis XIV, le roi soleil ruled Versailles. With such manners some of our patrons would meet Arthur with a vivacity that could only flatter him…

I am Pierre Choucart, a Belgian from Woluwé Saint Lambert, a Brussels suburb. Balding, but endowed with shining skin and clear eyes I still present the impression of youthfulness. With the years passing by a little stoop has come to the shoulders. My late parents by no means wealthy nonetheless enjoyed a contented life in that corner of the large metropolis.

Prior to the arrival at Le Cerisier, I have known Arthur Valois Dourville de

Montrissart long ago when we both managed one of the establishments from the restaurant’s chain La Fricassée which locations were in Los Angeles’ finest spots. I was le directeur de salle at La Fricassée Rotisserie on Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills. Arthur oversaw La Fricassée Grillade on the Sunset Strip. Because of his unique culinary experience Arthur had thoroughly won my esteem and admiration. Taken generally at that time he was of mild disposition, honest and very polite.

As the unsteady economy dictated it, the chain went out of business. Furthermore the owner of the chain Mr. Henri Wizain drank himself to death and his wife was

left a widow. But the enthusiasm for taking over the chain had been buried with her husband’s demise…

Suddenly the unemployed Arthur eagerly decided in partnership with a wealthy actor to open a new place: La Mousson, a hideout for Hollywood celebrities and suitably situated on Vine Street. Soon, Arthur’s life and my life had diverged. Fortunately for me, my childhood dream, my château en Espagne of travelling the world came to fruition.

To break the monotony of a regular life I took to foreign travel like an eagle takes to air, filled with a zeal for discoveries. As a spendthrift with a small backpack and a great amount of joie de vivre I boarded a southbound bus that would carry me to the first stage of an extended trip. This represented a journey that would lead me to the far reaches of the earth traveling by buses, trains, boats, camels, on foot enduring fatigue, submitting myself to privation and exalting in pleasure. Frequently I slept on park benches à la belle étoile, in religious temples even in pauper’s cemeteries. From the Panama Canal Zone after that long bus ride through Mexico and all of Central America I embarked on a Spanish cargo ship headed for Europe and from ‘terra firma’ on to the Middle East and Central Asia.

The pervasive spirituality in India among the poor and hungry, determined not to change their ways enlivened my penchant for writing. I came alive with a pen in my hand, la plume de ma tante as I immersed myself into literature. At this point my life was more accurately described as vagabondish but with the mind of an observer, getting more involved in creative writings, working off and on as a free-lance. What I first become aware about India was how happily even merrily people could live on such little cost. Afterward I discovered the mighty Ganges winding its way into the vermin ditch at

Varanasi where scarcity too bitter to describe is as naked as babies are; where sickness seems to be a companion of famine. This was so different from the comforting world I always knew. Wearing just a loincloth I bathed and prayed in the sacred water.

Subsequent to cavorting with the locals and appreciating being the recipient of their hospitality la grande aventure took me for that Kodak moment in front of the Taj Mahal and further on to Southeast Asia presenting myself as a journaliste de passage and soldier of fortune in war-torn Cambodia. Finally, in Australia kicking up the dust in so immense a land ‘Down Under’ I passed by the gleaming hill-slopes and the bushes along the road that stretched away towards the rising sun. I was left with fifteen dollars in my pocket. Being fatigued with travelling I came off the road. At first, to find employment was a hard task. Fortunately a belt-operator quit in desert Kalgoorlie’s gold mine and I landed the job…

A year passed by. Escaping the humdrum of daily routine at the mine with a side-trip to Papua-New Guinea, Japan and Korea I finally boarded a Greek ship in Sydney, bounded for Acapulco via New Zealand and Fiji.

Upon my return to California after trekking the globe I was thrilled to see the saga from my day to day journal published into a book.

Still in that adventurous spirit, vibrant with daring experiences, I drifted for awhile in San Francisco, feeling as free as a homeless gypsy. Trudging barefoot in the city by the bay, cloaked with a blanket over my shoulders I was there for a culture of love, listening in a concert hall foyer to a ‘Siddhartha by the river’ exposé.

Thereafter as fate would have it I accepted Arthur’s offer to work with him at Le Cerisier, his brand new place in Sherman Oaks. For long he had conceived the idea of having his very own establishment.

At Le Cerisier restaurant I was christened ‘the dummy.’ Arthur bestowed me with this title as he decided one day to boost his present unstable personality by creating mental turmoil. As I scrutinized his face I knew at once that he wasn’t the same. I rapidly discerned what sort of a man he really was. It looked as if my employer took a vow to be extremely disagreeable to me. He set himself on a pedestal of infamy and his plan was to instigate tension, implying the severe wounding of one’s pride. I would have never before suspected the evil traits lurking in the character of Arthur.

As I recalled, when we both worked at the Fricassée’s chain restaurant Arthur seemed quite cheerful. I had liked him eagerly with such a warm fervor as he displayed such a courteous attitude. Now a strange subdued expression showed upon his countenance. He also became even quite vulgar. He would look at me with a curious dream-like fixity. In his face a crushing impression flaunted as for the possibility to make life of his subservient underlings miserable. In order de se faire valoir-to be worth I became his bête noire. In the illustration from Herman Melville’s Billy Budd, regarding the mean Master-at-Arms Claggart, one can discover an analogy with my employer’s character. My employer …was the mania of an evil nature, not engendered by vicious training or corrupting books or licentious living but born with him and innate, in short ‘a depravity according to nature.’

Arthur never acknowledged to any of our customers that prior to becoming my boss, at one time in the past we both held the same management position. During that earlier period I navigated my way from busboy to waiter and night host.

Now, because of the owner’s shamed mentality I was bestowed a new name. If Caligula made his horse a consul of the empire Arthur baptized me with another epithet: the village idiot, subject to constant mockery. And just like in the military my employer was now expecting from me to ‘high hats’ him. Becoming totally nonsocial, along with vexations and humiliations my tormentor-boss indignantly enjoyed picking on me a little more every day with any new rotten things, making me the butt for his satire. Thinking about our friendship from the past I was bitterly disappointed with his new attitude. Just as in Sigmund Freud’s theories Arthur became a great killjoy, discovering hatred at the root of love, malice of the heart of tenderness and guilt in generosity. He turned into a Thanatos, thus carrying an aggressive instinct. There is still in my mind that vivid image of Arthur laughing at me like I was his marionette giggling for a deranged puppeteer; a marionette pulled by unskilled fingers that dislocated me! So often I felt that instead of blood, acid run in his veins as he would give me that gawk reminding me of the cold intentness of a curator. That man was impelled to cast me down at any opportunity. Still, because of my experiences in India I decided to do the best I could at work. Under the circumstances I was peacefully waiting for the outcome.

As I arrived at the restaurant on this cold month of January, the day grew darker and the air was rather chill. Shortly, the dull sky was sending down herald drops of rain when the stagnant air changed into a fitful breeze. Arthur would greet me with those three French words: Bonjour la bête- good morning beast!

Whenever a customer graciously offered me a glass of wine, the boss with his throat thick over the aftertaste of too much bourbon would arrive at the table in a strange trot like a clumsy horse. And in an abrupt savageness, snatching the glass from my hand with the sure instinct of an animal going to its prey he would shout in a high pitched howling laugh with a sort of peremptory flash in his eye:

Don’t give it to that ass. He is a nincompoop with the brain of a fly, too stupid to appreciate good wine! Give him a Ripple, he won’t taste the difference, and he would add: You know what else? For being so gullible, Pierre believes that Taco Bell is a telephone company and that the Easter bunny lays hard-boiled eggs! This would indulge a barrel of laughs amidst our patrons. Casting a still surreptitious glance, Arthur said further in a different tone of voice: One day I picked up Pierre in the street. He was wild, barefoot and wearing a dirty shirt on his back. He smelled so bad, but I taught him good manners and showed him how to be handsomely dressed. Now he’s all shining clean with well-fitted clothes. He still has to learn everything but now he has become ‘an obedient, quite submissive soldier.’ At that precise moment I asked myself the question: Have I been living in a dream or was this for real? Afterward Arthur began to entertain even more hostile feelings, making my life unendurable.

At one time I came to the table where he sat with customers. As I asked if everything was fine, the boss poured himself another beer and simply blew suds at me meaning just go away idiot. Still on another occasion when a satisfied patron complimented me for my work, Valois Dourville de Montrissart bestowed me with another one of his volley of profanities. With some kind of narcissism my gauleiter would compare this faithful employee as being just ‘dead wood, part of the furniture and just lifeless!’

His insults along with the smacking of my ears and cheeks came upon me with such cruelty. He even used a word extremely disgusting, so odious my pen couldn’t write it down. This was his way of amusing himself. All in all, from that day on my joy in life had been shattered for I felt I was so utterly worthless, as worthless as the bottom of somebody’s shoe! Being so unjustly calumniated those silly jokes fostered with vulgarity and obscenity were going on and on like a broken record. Arthur did not let an exceptionally quiet moment go by without inflicting one of his lowly tricks.

Next day I walked into Le Cerisier in a joyful frame of mind as I still recalled an event at the Ralph’s supermarket in Santa Monica that morning: the long line of people at the cash-register had been as slow as a turtle walk. Just in front of me a blond, long-legged lady, the domineering type was holding everyone up… for a ten dollar food coupon that had been expired.

Well, it’s not my fault. I owned two houses; one in Brentwood the other in Palm Desert she said, bouncing her expensive stylish handbag, smelling of her Nina Ricci fragrance. With some inkling of arrogant enjoyment she added: At first I didn’t remember in which of those two residences I had left the coupon. Four times, the woman mentioned again the fact that she owned those two houses. Fluffing up her hair like an actress she said it in a tone of voice and with pharaonic gesture as if NBC was about ready to take her picture for the six o’clock evening news.

Now, she started a general commotion and concern as no one in the queue wanted to listen to anyone else’s problems at such a time of day. While refitting her glasses and dumping her purse on the counter, the lady finally related the entire story to the store-manager who, as a warm gesture had decided to honor the expired voucher. When it was time for me to have my Ralphs card screened, something flashed through my brain. I suggested to the employee in charge to verify if my card was still up-to-date because for quite some time I didn’t remember in which one of my ‘three houses’ I had left it. The roar of laughter and comments around the line of customers went uninterrupted:

Touché, young man!

That’s the spirit!

Maybe you left your card in your Lamborghini…ah…ah…ah?

An aged woman holding to her cane even offered me a candy…

Later, in the kitchen at Le Cerisier I was busy opening a can of foie gras for chef Picharon when my employer arrived. His hair was disheveled and his shirt unbuttoned as if he’d just got out of bed. Standing near the glassrefrigerator he started to devour a wheel of Brie on a piece of French bread. Afterward popping some baby-shrimps into his mouth, Arthur on the spur of the moment, sensing that I was in a particularly good mood decided to create another deception. He turned around, facing me. Afterward, he sucked his lips and, with pure malice and evil he smashed a raw egg on my forehead. In the most damned barbaric manner, with a careless mockery on his face Arthur laughed his head off. It was a horrible laughter, as unnatural and ghastly as a laugh in hell. That man so coldly cruel, so wickedly despotic was possessed by some sort of a demon. Spitting crumbs from his food, he scratched his stomach and conveyed indistinctly: I’m dreadfully sorry Pierrot; I really thought this was a hard-boiled egg. I meant you no harm whatever!

I really seemed to be upon the verge of comprehension that Arthur would do such a silly thing. Quite satisfied, I noticed that he had secretly chuckled over the wound he had inflicted in my mind. The broken egg had created huge splotches that had soaked through my shirt and apron. Still horrified at what Arthur had done, before I cleaned myself and the apron, my colleague handed me an extra white shirt that he always kept in his locker.

This was one of Arthur’s kicks in life: finding a perverted sense of gratification by performing a stupid prank simply because my happiness infuriated him. At other times my employer still using me as the butt of some unrefined practical joke would enjoy snapping a squelchy wet towel at my legs and buttocks as I hopped around like a cat while he continued the whipping. That man, that barbaric and cowardly creature had fallen lower than a cow’s droppings and became as sensitive as a public bathroom! I constantly had to use up that energy and sensibility which was dwelling in me in order not to quit my job. Oh yes, I was irritated. But like Gandhi I managed to contained myself. To some degree, I even felt compassion for my employer. The regulars who dined at Le Cerisier found his tasteless jokes amusing because after all they came to have a good time and enjoy a fine meal. The boss, on the other hand was charmed to receive the tribute of their laughter.

Arthur resented that I socialized with customers. The egotistical little man constantly reminded me to avoid talking to them as he ungraciously kicked me in the derriere the way you would kick a donkey. If I continued talking, my employer, with his lower lip wobbling would come down on me like a ton of bricks to strike again, yet much harder with the sound of a wild beast, his face twisted like that of a gargoyle’s scowl. Before telling the people that I was better to keep my mouth shut; that I was unhinged mentally, acting like a fool and an imbecile. He then pulled me back by the skin of the neck like a rabbit. Again I felt that intolerable encroachment of despair. This was another hour of torment when Arthur tried once more to dump his deep imprint on me. The owner would perambulate, bubbling over with his own importance, his only raison d’être, flattering his vanity and cracking other insolent dry jokes for the people at their table. At this point I started to realize once more how much of a vulgar person he was, like a poisonous fungi that grow beneath human society; no less than an insect that one can crush on a fingernail. That man, full of ironic pride had been misleading me into a deceitful friendship.

At another time, with his ears standing up as if about to bark, this boss of mine would openly insult me by claiming that I pissed on the bathroom floor rather than in the urinal. That affront; that humiliation which was being imposed on me came after other employees and customers visited the privy. On so many instances Arthur acted like a matador. With a sword that he kept sticking at me till I bled he tried to make me enfeebled a little more each and every day. He would hammer me obstinately until I became a malleable metal. My employer never fully realized how deeply I suffered by the monstrosity and personal insults created by those words he so indolently lashed at me.

With time I managed to keep the harm inside as not to give him that extra enjoyment he was seeking. I kept on sharing my thoughts between my actual position as a waiter and the great things I had done while circling the globe. What I learned during my travels is the simple fact that you must delight in the suffering as well as in the pleasure.

Frequently the stressful Arthur acted like a zombie, wandering with no direction in life because he didn’t know what he was living for. Infrequently, a few, very few concerned customers who were continually offended upon noticing the owner of the restaurant’s obnoxious attitude toward me wondered aloud why he treated me that way and why he hired me at the first place. Never to be caught off guard by such an observation, Arthur brooding on his malevolent thoughts would reply with boastfulness in his imbecile sneer: HERE WE DON’T DISCRIMINATE, WE HIRE THE HANDICAPPED.

As the clients focused in my direction I began to feel more uncomfortable than ever. It was as if I had been stabbed in the back by a man possessed by demons and I stood there in intense mental agony! For sure I did not feel I merited so much antagonism; so much hostility! Arthur had really been successful on his devilish mission.

Oftentimes following such a statement and somewhat worn out with the bullying, I wanted to know all the thoughts that passed through his head. Just like the Russian writer Anton Chekhov’s temperament, readers will find more and more bewilderment with the mind of yours truly: "…a gentle, suffering soul’ and a wise observer with a wistful smile and an aching heart". I already knew that some might even classified me as simply being an irresponsible victim while others might conclude that I was a watcher of characters with unique moving experiences…

Melanie, Arthur’s daughter was a woman of steel. Her strong personality effervesced in intellectual activity with good oratorical skills that she inherited from her father. Along with expensive tastes and a greedy thirst for luxury ‘the little princess’ donned herself with a well-furnished wardrobe. There was in her that je ne sais quoi, certain boundless appetite. Being a spoiled child, money was the motivation for nearly everything as she contracted an almost pathological compulsion to sue everybody as the opportunity presented itself.

Her mouth ravishingly curved, revealing a gleam of the loveliness of her teeth was slightly full and well etched, and her artfully rumpled hair was streaked with blond. She had the Madonna-like eyes with penciled, almost invisible eyebrows. I watched her grow up since she was a gawky, wide-eyed sixteen, a healthy athletic child with cheek like an apple. At the same time she was really the contrast to her mother who was the most feminine of women.

At eighteen with her beautiful hair framing her face with a smile on her lips she was still having some marked reluctance to attend balls and other festivities unless accompanied by her father. And as bizarre as it may seem, Melanie probably bored with her easy lifestyle as a child heeded the spiritual calling to join a religious order to live a life of contemplation.

However she quickly realized that the convent was a living grave. The oath of obedience, poverty, chastity and the rituals of walking with a veil over her face with eyes fixed on the ground took little hold upon her mind. Prior to taking her final vows, ready to be forever the bride of Christ, that piouslyminded girl had doubted the truth of her faith. For awhile on certain days she still venerated ‘the sacred heart.’ She would remain in meditation for at least an hour in a local church. But I could never think that her belief was more than skin-deep for with time even that she carried a rosary in her pocket as a tool of her piety she became notoriously godless.

She had been a spoiled child and now later in life she turned into an even more spoiled lady. The physical attribute she inherited from her mother become more and more apparent: big hips, exploding breasts and skin as fine as silk. Now that she possessed all the charming outlines of the woman, she became the reigning queen of Le Cerisier, a Victorian Dowager. Not just bossy, but the bossiest person in the restaurant beside her father. She was a tower of strength, blossoming like a beautiful wildflower nevertheless with eyes full of malice. Frequently her laugh was garrulous. She still carried the childish vice of finger biting and the strange habit of standing like a boy, legs far apart with her head thrown back. The pain she suffered from lumbago did not deter her from being a fine golf player. Furthermore she was still the best pastry chef in town.

Melanie kept busy at home by tending a flower garden in a small corner of the backyard when listening to her favorite music. Her social life was hobnobbing with society women. She liked partying in ritzy Bel Air estates wearing great feminine attire with seductively scented perfume. On other occasions, alike George Sand’s eccentric conduct Melanie would dress like a man …a suggestion which she was only too glad to adopt. Clad in a loose blouse, or in coat and trousers she felt stronger, felt as though she was acquiring a degree of virility… Such demeanor, she thought would give her some stature in the eyes of her several Malibu girlfriends.

During the day Melanie worked as a secretary for a law-firm in MissionHills. Prior to her job with the attorneys her dad had opened a small coffee and pastry shop near the Malibu Colony. It was called The Malibu-Paris Place. Because of Melanie’s expertise in cooking wonderful cheesecakes, she had been gratified to supply the business with them and be intrusted with its management.

However some of her Malibu’s friends had connived at her desertion of her duties and responsabilities. With the beach nearby, the lure of the waves and the warm California sun shining almost all year round Mademoiselle Melanie thought of just one thing: to feel the warmth into every part of her body and to get a glorious tan while sniffing out the scents of the faint breeze, along with the same friends. On other occasions she would enjoy an afternoon at Zuma’s nudist camp. Most of the time, affixed on the shop’s window one could read the sign: Closed-will return at 5 PM.

A steady customer from Le Cerisier had reported the situation at The Malibu-Paris Place to Arthur. Upon hearing this, my employer was angry at his daughter and quite disappointed. He decided to dump the place for good: Adieu la boutique.

Chapter 2

MY FELLOW COUNTRYMAN Leon Nicolas Van Meerstellen was my colleague in the dining room. Given that his name reveals a Flemish background, Leon was a typical French speaking Carolingien, inhabitant from Charleroi, Belgium. Tall with finely chiseled features he had darkbrown hair and thick dark-brown beard he wears to cover an ebbing chin. He had been thin-skinned child. Because of the exceptional length of his legs and long arms hanging down people used to call him: Leon l’asperge- the asparagus, and Pipi Longstocking, tall as a publicity pole. With his small head at the end of an extended neck some of our lady customers would refer to him as ‘the giraffe.’ He also had a physical need for a rather violent eau de cologne. Sometimes as he spoke I was able to detect bronchial rattles and he repeatedly sneezed. He regularly cleaned his soul with a diet of prune juice before meditating straight on the toilet, his place for peace and serenity.

As a former Stanford University student and a member of the fraternity ‘Gamma Phi Beta’ Leon had a great reservoir of knowledge; a real walking encyclopedia, and at once he became Arthur’s protègé. On the campus bowl luncheonette from Stanford which accounted from that state’s superiority over so many other institutions my colleague would carry on a long discourse with his student-friends about astral plane, empyrean transcendental philosophy, Plato’s Timaeus, Critias, or differential calculus. At about the same time, each afternoon at the restaurant while twiddling contentedly at his beard Van Meerstellen would announce in a strong resounding voice the arrival of the boss: "Here comes Le Petit Napoléon, the mighty potentate like a king in his castle." On many occasions he mockingly pictured Arthur as a trumpeted warrior with blue and red plumage nodding over his high-crested helmet in a suit of armor waving his saber and blowing his horn. In reality Leon was obviously aware that Arthur was un cabot; a ham actor no less than a scary Lilliputian.

My fellow worker cherished two hobbies which one can say clashed with each other. He was getting all riled up by the vroom…vroom, by the metal crashing of racecars and at the same time he relaxes with soothing classical music. He was an avid collector for sports paraphernalia and had a sharp ear for Shubert and Mozart. NASCAR being his first love Leon collected automobile race events on videos since 1986 and sold them worldwide through the miracle of e-bay.

On a hot summer afternoon, upon his invitation I accompanied him to his quite dilapidated apartment. With a pen in hand before he cleared a space on the table he first took a spoonful of his cough syrup. As he leaned forward, he proceeded to pinned down on a map of Europe and Africa on which he was tracing, meandering his fingers, pointing the route of the motor-cars rally Paris-Dakar and checking the caravanserai.

With a Socratic method of acquiring a sponge soaking knowledge his curiosity knew no bounds. A man of high academic education Van

Meerstellen was an oenophile as well; a great connoisseur of wines and beers, especially Belgian beers. This again made Arthur very pleased. Leon’s voice expressed such confidence and submission that he advanced insensibly in the good graces of the boss. Because of his talent as time passed Arthur carried the highest opinion of him. At all times the boss graciously praised Leon as a skillful, extremely reliable employee. Mephistopheles himself would have been charmed by it.

If a refined customer would request a particular wine for his meat or fish Leon was ceaselessly at hand to choose a good vintage bottle. If one disagreed with him, he was chivalrous enough to compromise (something Arthur was unable to do.) On the other hand Leon always showed an extreme gallantry to Arthur whom he admired devotedly. However, Leon always resented impolite customers. On one occasion, as he kept busy removing the wire from a Cordon Rouge champagne bottle, a client whistled at him for service. Turning around as he popped the cork that almost hit the wall he answered back in a dignified attitude:

Sir, I am a waiter, not a dog! On another occasion Leon gave this good lesson of humility over pride: a customer grabbed my co-worker by the edge of his apron asking about the delay of the duck à l’orange he ordered awhile ago. Five minutes later the same client stood up telling Leon:

"Maybe you don’t know who I am? I’m a California State Senator, Chairman of State Energy and Natural Resources Committee. In your language you will call it: Le Corps legislatif!"

Maybe you don’t know who I am. Leon retorted, "I’m the server who is in charge of your duck à l’orange. On another day a client left a pile of little change on the plate. As he left, Leon took the pile of change and threw it in the middle of Ventura Boulevard, saying: with all respect Sir, you need your ‘chicken scratch’ more than I do!’"

With his intellect Leon could have carved a brilliant career for himself with a flashy job in public accounting but he overlooked the opportunities for riches and fame. However his divorce from his wife Wendy, after so many disagreements that had darkened their love, that matrimonial disaster had finally created such a great wretchedness on him. From that day on he started to skip classes to finally quit Stanford and started to drink heavily. He so much indulged in drinking that it affected his walk. Lost, just like a sailor adrift without any ‘mariner’s compass’ Leon no longer found any pleasure in this world and he decided to live a life of recluse, considering himself a psychological disaster. Leon had sacrificing such an opportunity for a great position to his grief at being forsaken by a cruel, unfeeling woman. Once he announced: What do money; what do success matter if I haven’t Wendy with me to share in them? The lady’s warm body given to him in love had been as a yacht in which he had floated contentedly.

But one day, after so many disputes Leon saw his wife’s hand resting at the edge of the sofa. He rushed to take it but she withdrew it gently with sad, resolute dignity. On that instant Leon knew without any doubt that by this simple gesture as she now stepped away from him they were separated forever when their marriage was going to the dogs. But as soon Leon discovered marks of her infidelity, his excessive jealousy became troublesome. My friend had tried to renew that old intimacy with his wife but it was in vain. As written in Virginibus Puerisque: Marriage is not a bed of roses but a field of battle.

Their divorce made Arthur’s heart rejoice since he had always hated Wendy deeply. The boss had always anticipated a rapprochement between his own daughter and Leon; a rapproachement that so far never materialized…

And, all of a sudden Van Meerstellen found himself with a broken heart and a crushed ambition. Thereafter the desperate Leon would come to work with straw in his hair as if he had slept in a stable. Glazed by the encounter with the past he began drinking more and more heavily.

Strangely enough, as an atheist also neo-Darwinian and true iconoclast my colleague appeared to have embraced monasticism; the supreme abnegation. What’s more Leon expressed his admiration for the Bauls of India-A religious sect where the devotees prayed all their lives for the ultimate joy: that is the day they would die as they surely would attain great serenity. Leon was dragging his life like the ball and chains of a condemn man; more like a balloon which has lost its moorings as his thoughts were running in all directions.

His now ex-wife, the domineering and demanding Wendy as described by Arthur, in spite of her nose that quite too prominently reminded me of the Tower of London and with slightly droopy breasts was still a surpassingly graceful woman with a face that can launch a thousand ships.

During those early days of their relationship there wasn’t a drop of blood in Leon’s veins that didn’t throb for her. He always sought his former spouse with the most expensive flowers. She was the center of her own universe. With her unbound and floating hair, the color of autumn leaf Wendy was not just beautiful. She as well appeared to be an innocent virgin with a noble mouth, but malicious eyes quite overwhelmingly good to glance at. The down-to-earth lady, a major in psychology with her long, almost perfect legs and neat little feet who had been the delight of Leon’s life was a cosmetologist by profession. To use Steinbeck’s analogy in Travels with Charley, she was "…a prettyish blond girl trying her best to live up to the pictures in the magazines. A girl of products, home permanents, shampoos, rinses, skin conditioners…Her only company was found in the shiny pages of Charm and Glamour."

Wendy at all times exquisitely well dressed was conscious of her appeal, and her eyes were sparkling gleefully. However, aside from charm and glamour it looked as if money was the one way to her heart. She thought for awhile that Leon was well off; that he was to conduct her to bouncing prosperity. But she kept on living in a world of dreams. Her foremost concern had been to parade the smart shops or sharing lunches with friends at Jeffrey’s, a lavish, outstanding beach restaurant in Malibu. But my friend left his wife without provision. An enthusiast on all subjects of interest, Wendy was of great intellectual radiance equal to that of Jezebel and Catherine de Médicis. Although she had become as cold as an iceberg, unable to make an adequate response to her husband’s display of affection, Leon still cared for her so much. He was determined never to give any other woman an opportunity of expunging the happy recollection. He would never again go down on one knee telling a lady that he loves her. Later on, I noticed some women, all good-looking and seductive with a sympathetic leaning toward him. But Leon stood there, silent, thinking that they all were trying to impose on him a miserable servitude fate; that they were striving to corrupt him for their own ends, leading to an immoral life.

At one point in his life (even as an agnostic), Van Meerstellen was convinced that his marriage had been arranged in heaven. He still recalled her bridal veil that fluttered harmoniously in the wind. He had been intoxicated with fever and amazement. In spite of frigidity from her part, there had been infidelity too. Leon suspected her of having been in love with a physician and with her hairdresser who was not only dressing her hair!

Once, Wendy who was rather sharply dressed with a Ralph Lauren outfits, all decked with brilliant ornaments, looking like a store-window mannequin came to the restaurant escorted by a Hollywood celebrity. Appearing tranquil and fresh with a sort of feline smirk she was beaming with joy as her smile illuminated her lips. With that wistful naughty charm, she had grown talkative. Leon kept on gawking witheringly, wide-eyed at his former spouse with an expression of disbelief dawning in his eyes as if he chanced upon her for the first time. He was exceptionally struck by the expression of melancholy on her face. How good looking she was, with such an angelic face. Never has Wendy looked more beautiful. For Leon it was like ‘a century of torment.’ As he realized that her beauty was still dazzling; that she had an agreeable and rapturous smile a cold chill swept through him. Van Meerstellen didn’t stop looking at her new friend, thinking of him as the villain who seduced his ex-wife. This kindled Leon’s desire for her with even more intensity. Van Meerstellen, inflamed with jealousy was disappointed in love as he realized that she was happy without him.

Soon, being a célibataire- a bachelor Leon lived alone. But as a good speaker he was too gregarious to immure himself like a complete hermit. He lived in solitude; not as a penitent or a saint but as someone who had missed the mark. At the restaurant, recurrently like in a lady’s boudoir the toilet was Leon’s refuge where in trance-like passivity he segregated from a restless world. Sinking into reverie he stayed in the bathroom long enough to make us think he had to go. On one occasion Arthur would find him asleep right ‘on the pot’, doggedly rooted to his seat as he started snoring. Leon would sit on a chair outside, lost in thoughts or performing Gregorian chant before the arrival of the first customers.

Van Meerstellen became a rather unobtrusive man, secluding himself in his now depressed and grimmest apartment that resembles a prison, away from society; from social events. On numerous occasions while conversing with one of our steady customer, in an emotionally drained and lifeless bitterly lamenting voice I heard him say:

I am a bastard and a complete failure. Later on, he articulated to me in a whisper: I feel like I’m pinned down in a foul cesspool no less than an antechamber to death. Now I’m ready to sleep ‘the big sleep.’

I was surprised by so much bitterness in his tone of voice and how his unhappy heart was torturing him. Leon never knew his real unsympathetic father who was never able to cope with him and ungratefully abandoned him as a child.

For Van Meerstellen, the surest way to be uplifted was to participate at a funeral and hear burial eulogies with the majesty of a hymn, as a noninvolved observer. One never can get Leon to go anywhere, except the cemetery. He loved those black corteges, delighting himself in the smell of decay strangely confounded with the scent of flowers. Even for a complete stranger Leon would find compassion. Every so often, in an incoherent mumbling, inarticulate despair, more like a sober humanist he would grieve over the grave of the death of a lovely young girl or boy cut off in the flower of their youth. I personally hate funerals but he loved them. Leon became fascinated by memorial orations. As he started to read about Peter the Great, he was thrilled by a passage related to Mary Hamilton who threw her illegitimate child in a well, and consequently was beheaded: "The beheading was a notable affair, with Mary Hamilton dressed handsomely in her finest silks. When her head rolled in the street, the Csar picked it up, kissed it twice and delivered a funeral oration. Then he kissed it again and threw it back into the gutter."

What’s more, compelled by force of habit my friend was a caffeine junkie carrying his own special elaborately patterned mug quite mechanically. Sometimes forgetting that the coffee was too hot, gulping at the still well nigh and scalding beverage he was recurrently driven back by the heat, blinking and gulping again. Within a few hours with his grip tightened on his mug Leon would drink an entire pot of premium Costa Rican freshly roasted coffee-the best in town. And after another swallow of coffee he thought that the adrenaline rush could stimulate his brains.

Leon’s view of the world has become more and more cynical as he grew older and as a result he hated conformity. Because of his black beard a few customers at the restaurant would refer to him as Bin Laden…

Chef Jean-Luc Picharon and his direct assistant Jesus Betancourt were les pilliers d’acier for kitchen preparations. The pantry chef Gustavo Santillas, an expert in his field was related to the dishwasher Bernardo Echeviran.

Bernardo with his quite young, almost boyish face with the first signs of a light beard showed two front teeth missing. He was skinny, weak-looking, somewhat frail in appearance with wrists as slim as spaghetti and trousers a shade too large for him, but very courageous and he laughted at everything just like children do. He also always wore a light blue turtleneck sweater.

All of the workers, with the exception of chef Picharon carried a submissive attitude toward Arthur. Reverently, with great courtesy they would address the owner of the restaurant as patron-the boss. They always saluted him respectfully as though they felt him to be a superior being. Jesus Betancourt learned all his expertise from Arthur and Jean-Luc.

Gustavo Santillas on the other hand was incumbent. His creative mind would design the most unusual very tasty hors d’oeuvres. However besides his extraordinary skills he would constantly come out of the bathroom with unwashed hands, thus disregarding Arthur’s warnings over that simple hygiene practice. It was so unhealthy. Arthur literally forced him to wear plastic gloves or he would be loosing his job.

Santillas was tall, slightly obese and his swarthy complexion showed a full mouth. Occasionally he would express some strained grimaces as his nerves brittled from sleeplessness. He had two steady jobs; one at Le Cerisier, the other one in a Mission Hills Cantina. But, before we opened the doors of the restaurant fatigue took over him. Next he would lay down on a booth in the dining room, his hat tilted over his eyes. Before long he started snoring so hard that the walls would shake like a sixteen-wheeler passing by. At twentysix years old, still beardless Gustavo was completely without bristly appendage, anywhere on his body except for a full head of hair that was confined by a light net. There was a rabbit paw suspended from a gold chain spanning his shirt.

Nondescript as you watch him you can discover a synthesis of a multifarious indigenous source. Being from Puebla in the south part of Mexico, his Mayan blooded line predominated. He had an ancient face that crinkled in a smile but with a certain ascetic hardness.

The pantry chef enjoyed his beer. Every day he arrived at the restaurant, a cap on with a slanted visor almost down on his nose and his fly half unbuttoned (as he relished with great dignity and deference for the demands of nature to urinate gushingly in the back alley over a rhododendron bush.) Afterward he would hide his six pack of Corona in the refrigerator.

On occasions Santillas would become dysfunctional, showing a broody pestering mood to anyone that disagreed with his culinary expertise. Yet, I had the feeling that he was displeased with himself without really knowing why. However he was so proud to admit that he had been conceived in the back seat of an old Cadillac Eldorado, giving him that feeling of greatness!

In the week that followed the ‘egg incident’ all was quiet at work. It was a fall day such as we sometimes have in the City of Angels, cold and wet with a heavy fog that was lying over the city.

And suddeny in the dead of night I was awakened by a telephone call from the Calabasas Police Department. Arthur Valois Dourville de Montrissart was on the line, hysterical and emotional too. I sensed his uneasiness and fear as he stuttered like a little boy left out in the cold. My employer related to me that he had been arrested for suspicion of driving under the influence (DUI) and was handcuffed. He admitted to having only one drink; that he almost hit a Greyhound bus and barely passed the sobriety test. Even that the sergeant on duty at the police station let him off with a warning, he ordered Arthur to leave his car at the station and requested him that somebody should come and pick him up since he was drowsing. While still on the phone, as he was desperate and gasping for breath Arthur begged in a salvo of coughing:

Please petit Pierre can you come and get me at the station?

Noblesse oblige, I agreed to pick him up. As I cruised past the residential area of Calabasas, there was nothing but blackness with the wind whistling.

Nothing appeared to be alive except for the monotonously barking of stray dogs. And in the distance I observed a hint of light. The new white painted police station was quite isolated.

Inside the building I located a scared and nervous Arthur all shacking-up in a corner of a deafeningly quiet room. As he caught sight of me, the little fatbellied Buddha with his rimmed eye glasses on the end of his nose leaped in the air and stood-up like a meerkat from the African savanna. With bemused amazement he felt a surge of adrenaline and his face still gray as ashes abruptly irradiated with tremendous joy. About the same time a tall AfricanAmerican female police officer with a belly of a whale castigated him in a thundered voice to remind in his corner silently while the sergeant finished his paperwork. Shivering all over as a little mouse this scared little man politely squeaked in a low voice: Yes madam. And, just like a fallen soldier his convulsive shadow leaped and fell upon the wall as a sissy. My employer was now yelping and writhing like a dreamy dog. The sight of Arthur almost on his knees was so pitiful I was wrought up with tears in my eyes. As I looked at him, I felt a lump in my throat. For the first time I discerned how deeply frightened my employer was. What has become of that tiger, allpowerful ‘mighty king’, that shrewd human being obstinate as a mule that made my life so difficult; a boss who treated me like the retarded Charley Gordon playing with Algernon, his white pet mouse? An employer that regarded me as little more than a piece of furniture and who was now humiliated by a lady cop and under my mercy? Surely, the tiger had been tamed!

At the timid birth of another day as I drove him home, Arthur’s old cocky self surfaced once again and he smiled more blandly than ever. Now that he was out of danger from ‘the enemy’ he boasted:

Pierre, did you notice the way that fat, black policewoman talked to me? And in an even strong authoritative voice he announced: NEXT TIME I WILL SHUT HER TRAP! Having quickly forgotten his brush with the law Arthur, again in that good mood began to sing a very romantic song. He had learned its English version aboard a ship from the merchant marine, when on its way down to the Panama Canal:

Volare, oh, oh, cantare oh, ho, ho, ho. Let’s fly way up to the clouds

Away from the maddening crowds…

All that happened just as I have written it. It was irritating to peep at my employer’s radiant unscrupulous eagerness. I had never so clearly perceived his strange character, his weakness and puerile petulance.

After that event, everything was going on greased wheels as matters went on pretty smoothly for several days. Again, the boss donned his feigned amiability and cheerfulness toward us, his trustworthy employees. Being in that spirit he even decided to buy a little French red hair female poodle for his wife Angeline who was now suffering the early signs of diabetes. The pooch’s name was Pompadour; a name related to Louis XV’s mistress at the Court of Versailles.

Chef Jean-Luc Picharon a skinny short man with brown eyes and blond hair was a fair and best-mannered person. However he could become very rude under stress. Repeatedly he and Arthur exchanged horrified glances.

Once, Picharon was tackling the boss. He drove his head into his opponent’s stomach and this became a hand to hand fight. They were slashing at each other’s throats, pulling each other’s hair or seizing wrists over some specific food preparations or they would pace nervously across the kitchen yelling and hitting the knuckles of one hand against the palm of the other hand to decide on recent dishes from La Nouvelle Cuisine. Occasionally, a surge of conflict with whirling arguments erupted between them, and it lasted for days. At one time when my employer was on his knees fixing the wire from behind the glass-refrigerator, Picharon pounced forward and with his powerful hands seized Arthur’s ankles. The chef began to drag him about the kitchen as the boss’ pants stretched out. Arthur quickly changed