The Galley – Part 1: Soup of the Day

Every night at ten, the galley of the Pascal Paoli smelled of garlic, and every night at ten-fifteen, the chief steward walked past without eating.

Luc watched him go. He was twenty-nine, a seasonal cook from Lyon, with flour on his forearms, a tea towel on his shoulder and a bad habit of noticing people. The steward was thirty-two, tall and straight-backed, in a crisp white shirt, with dark hair slicked neatly and tired eyes. Antoine. He ran the ship's crew with quiet efficiency. He never smiled. He never sat.

"Sir?" called Luc, on the fourth night.

Antoine paused at the galley door. "Yes?"

"There's soup."

"Thank you. I am not hungry."

"It's fish soup. With rouille."

Something flickered in the steward's face. "My mother made fish soup."

"Then you must have a bowl."

Antoine hesitated for one long moment, then came in and sat at the narrow steel table. Luc ladled the soup, thick and orange, fragrant with fennel and saffron. He set down a plate of toasted bread rubbed with garlic. Antoine ate slowly, eyes closed. When he finished, he set down the spoon with exquisite care.

"Thank you," he said, hoarsely. "I had forgotten."

"Forgotten what?"

"That food could taste like that."

Luc leaned on the counter. The ferry rocked gently, and the engines hummed a long, deep note. Through the porthole, the Mediterranean lay dark and endless under a handful of stars.

"Can I ask you something?" said Luc.

"Yes."

"Why don't you eat?"

"I lost someone," said Antoine, simply. "In the spring. We used to cook. I stopped."

"I'm sorry."

"No. I think... it is good to taste something again."

"Green?" said Luc, softly, a word from the herbs.

"Green," said Antoine, very slightly smiling. "Very green. What is tomorrow's soup?"

Continue the story: Part 2 – Landfall.