Extraits

- Alors maintenant, je vais passer à des choses plus terre à terre. Voici ma liste des dix choses que l'on devrait faire dans la vie. Je vous accorde que le nombre est classique, mais je parie que le contenu ne l'est pas tout à fait... Exactement comme moi ! 1. De temps à autre, prenez l'addition de votre ami au bar. 2. Apprenez à conduire avec la boîte à vitesse, à nager au moins sur cent mètres et à faire une omelette. 3. Travaillez beaucoup. La chance c'est bien pratique, et Dieu sait que j'en ai eu ma part, mais vous ne pouvez pas compter dessus. La ténacité et le cran sont pour beaucoup dans la réussite. 4. Efforcez-vous de toujours dire la vérité et exigez-le de la part des autres.

Il s'arrêta pour boire une gorgée d'eau.

- 5. On peut se comporter bêtement parfois tant que l'on ne fais pas de mal à autrui et qu'on en assume la responsabilité ensuite. 6. Évitez de faire du mal à ceux que vous aimez et, si ça arrive, faites votre possible pour vous réconcilier rapidement. 7. Soyez dur avec vous-même, mais pas trop, de peur que cela ne vous empêche d'aimer vos proches. 8. Dites "merci" et "je t'aime", et n'oubliez jamais que vous avez de la chance de pouvoir dire ces mots si précieux. 9. Ecrivez-vous des petits mémos pour ne pas oublier de dire "merci" et "je t'aime", et toutes les autres choses que vous devriez faire.

Il attendit que les rires s'arrêtent.

- Et pour finir, 10. Jamais, au grand jamais, n'acceptez de faire un discours de Class Day si vous n'avez pas vous-même suivi tous ces prétendus bons conseils, et avez donc perdu tous ceux que vous aimiez.

** Extrait offert par Tracy Kelleher **

1

Septembre

Dans un pays de l’ex-Union soviétique — une région reculée, totalement coupée du monde

Nick Rheinardt, à plat ventre sur une table de pierre, espérait désespérément que c’était de la sueur qui imprégnait la serviette sur laquelle il était allongé. Il serra les dents pour étouffer un grognement de douleur tandis que le masseur, torse nu, accroupi sur lui, se déplaçait le long de son épine dorsale en faisant des sauts de grenouille.

Cette situation humiliante aurait pu prêter à rire si la douleur avait été moins atroce. Il ne pouvait imaginer de souffrance plus intense, même pas celle d’un traitement radiculaire sans novocaïne. Mais il se domina, refusant de gémir ou de crier grâce.

Bien obligé. Les caméras continuaient de filmer.

Mais qui avait eu cette idée saugrenue de tourner plusieurs épisodes de son émission sur les cuisines du monde dans ce pays perdu à l’autre bout de la planète ?

Jusqu’à cet instant, cette série d’émissions s’était déroulée sans anicroche.

Mais le tournage venait de se transformer en un cauchemar en haute définition, filmé par un cameraman sardonique et un preneur de son très susceptible. Pas étonnant que les guides Michelin et Lonely Planet n’aient jamais songé à vanter les mérites des merveilles de ce village perdu, et encore moins de ses bains douches !

Nick sentit craquer une vertèbre cervicale tandis que le masseur poursuivait sa séance de torture en silence. Et, ironiquement, c’est à ce moment-là qu’une pensée lui traversa l’esprit. Qui était le crétin qui avait eu l’idée de parcourir les provinces mystérieuses de l’Est, parties de l’ex-URSS — des pays comme l’Ouzbékistan, le Tadjikistan et le Kirgizstan ? Ce même crétin qui avait fantasmé sur les yaks et les yourtes, les paysans fougueux et l’affreuse architecture communiste ?

Lui.

Le masseur poids plume choisit cet instant pour glisser ses bras musclés sous ses aisselles et forcer ses deux coudes à se joindre dans son dos. Un petit cri étouffé s’échappa de sa gorge, et il se dit avec horreur que ses membres supérieurs allaient dorénavant pendiller le long de son corps inutilement. Il se voyait déjà passer le reste de sa vie sous le regard de spectateurs curieux faisant des remarques du genre : « Et dire qu’autrefois, le grand Nicholas Rheinardt était capable de désosser un gigot d’agneau comme personne… »

Le masseur lui donna une tape sur les fesses — couvertes par une serviette ! —, lui indiquant sans doute que la séance était terminée. Du moins l’espérait-il.

Georgie, le producteur de l’émission, se tourna vers le cameraman.

— C’est bon. Coupez ! lança-t-il. Alors, dis-moi, Nick, comment as-tu trouvé ce massage ? Il m’a eu l’air plutôt… énergique. En même temps, c’est ce qu’on nous avait dit, pas vrai ?

Nick laissa monter un grognement du fond de sa poitrine, la seule partie de son corps qui était encore intacte. « Attends un peu que je fasse le commentaire en voix off de cet épisode quand je serai de retour à New York, songea-t-il. Parce que tout me revient à la mémoire à présent, la façon dont entre d’innombrables vodkas l’autre soir c’est toi qui m’as suggéré insidieusement de goûter à ce petit bout de couleur locale. Oui, toi, Georgie. »

— Ça fait mal, hein ? demanda Georgie d’un air faussement apitoyé.

Nick songea un instant à lever la tête, mais ce léger mouvement exigeait trop d’énergie.

— Bon, disons les choses ainsi, je suis prêt à accepter de faire absolument tout ce que tu voudras plutôt que de subir cette épreuve une nouvelle fois, marmonna-t-il. Et de préférence si c’est à proximité de chez Nathan et ses célèbres hot-dogs. Je meurs de faim.

Sans aucune honte, il tendit le bras et ajouta :

— Aide ton seigneur et maître à se relever, si toutefois c’est possible.

Georgie le remit en position assise sans ménagement. La serviette qui lui entourait la taille glissa sur ses hanches, et les muscles de son ventre autrefois si fermes retombèrent sur le tissu éponge de qualité médiocre.

Il soupira, résigné. Il n’avait que trente-sept ans et jouissait d’un bon héritage génétique, mais il n’avait pas ménagé son organisme. Dès sa trente-cinquième année, son grand corps maigre s’était ramolli, malmené par un amour immodéré de bons petits plats et de boissons alcoolisées de tous les pays.

Il ne regrettait pas ce style de vie, bien sûr. Il sourit au souvenir de ses excès gastronomiques les plus notoires — ou du moins de ceux qu’il se rappelait encore.

** Extrait offert par Tracy Kelleher ** (VO)

September

A Former Country of the Soviet Union—Far, Far Off the Grid

Nicholas Rheinhardt lay on the hard stone table, belly-side down, and hoped like hell that the moisture on the towel beneath him came from his own sweat. He gritted his teeth to stifle a groan as a seminaked and thoroughly oiled masseur squatted above him and frog-hopped down the length of his spine.

The humiliation would have verged on the comedic if the pain weren't so excruciating. He couldn't imagine anything worse, not even a root canal—two root canals—without Novocain. But he refused to whimper and beg for mercy.

After all, the cameras were rolling.

Whose idea had it been anyway to shoot several episodes of his travel-and-food show in this country so far off the beaten track?

Up until this point, the whole television thing had been a pretty good gig.

Now life had turned into a high-definition hellhole as recorded by a sardonic cameraman and a highly sensitive soundman. Was it any wonder that Frommer's, Michelin or Lonely Planet guidebooks had failed to extol the wonders of this remote village, let alone the bathhouse?

Nick felt the vertebrae cracking in his neck as the otherwise silent masseur worked his torture. And, ironically, that's when it came to him. The jackass who'd suggested they make a trek through the mysterious eastern provinces of the former Soviet Union—countries like Uzbekistan, Tajikistan and Kyrgyzstan? The same jackass who'd had this romantic notion that they'd see yaks and yurts, fiery peasants and dreadful communist architecture? It'd been him.

The bantamweight masseur chose that moment to slip his sinewy arms under Nick's armpits and force his elbows to lock together behind his back. A small ugh emitted from Nick's throat. After this workout, he seriously wondered if from now on his upper limbs would dangle uselessly at his sides. Most probably he would go through the rest of life with curious onlookers remarking, "And to think he once was able to debone a leg of lamb with the best of them."

"So, tell me. This massage you're getting. It looks pretty…ah…strenuous. Still, it's all it was cracked up to be, right?" Georgie, his jovial producer, asked from off camera.

Nick growled deep in his chest—the part that hadn't been crushed as of yet—and thought, Just wait till I do the voice-over commentary to this bit back in New York. Because now it all comes back to me, that, between multiple vodka shots the other night, you were the sly dog who suggested this bit of local color. Yes, you, Georgie.

The masseur slapped Nick's towel-covered rump, signaling the end of the session.

Georgie turned to the cameraman. "That's a wrap." Then he bounced jovially across the stone floor to his damaged on-air talent. "That bad, huh?"

Nick thought about raising his head off the table, but that small motion required too much energy. "Let's put it this way, I will absolutely, positively agree to do anything else rather than go through this again—preferably something that involves close proximity to a Nathan's Famous hot dog. I'm starving." Knowing no shame, Nick held out an arm. "Help your lord and master get upright, if it's at all possible."

None too gently, Georgie hoisted Nick to a sitting position. The towel, which was wrapped around Nick's waist, slipped to his hip bones, and his once-taut stomach muscles—once, as in a good ten years ago—sagged around the cotton terry cloth that had a thread count of about negative twenty.

Nick might have been thirty-seven in chronological years, and genetically blessed with a fast metabolism, but those had been hard-lived years. After turning thirty-five, even his long and lanky body could no longer bounce back from the harsh treatment due to overimbibing of fine food and not-so-fine drink.

Not that he regretted his lifestyle, mind you. Nick smiled at the memory of some of the more infamous escapades, at least those he could still remember.

His so-called adult life had taken a meandering path. After dropping out of college, he'd bummed around the world by scrounging low-paying jobs and harboring absolutely no ambition other than occasionally finding food, alcohol and the eye of a good-looking female. One winter in Paris, where he'd squatted in a tenement that lacked a shower—not to mention a toilet—he'd landed a job as a dishwasher in a traditional bistro in Montmartre. And voila! Nick had found his calling. Eventually he'd risen up the restaurant food chain to become a well-regarded though not quite top-tier chef.

Achieving greater fame would have required greater talent, a little more luck and, if he was going to be totally honest, a lot more dedication. Even the sudden acclaim he'd garnered for his book, a bare-knuckle look at the restaurant world, had been more of an accident than a well-planned career move. After all, he'd written the damn thing in fits and spurts after shifts at various restaurants, fueled by cigarettes and booze—more than a little, actually—and bouts of righteous indignation.

So it was hardly surprising that as Nick looked down at his body he felt a certain measure of disgust. And that was before he glimpsed his upper arm. The tattoo circling his right bicep was undulating with involuntary muscle spasms. An enormous Maori had given him that tattoo on a warm spring day on the north island of New Zealand. Now, that had been a good shoot, he recollected.

He raised an eyelid and saw Georgie silently chuckling. "What?" he asked with a snarl.

"Is that a promise?" Georgie asked, not bothering to hide his amusement, so secure was he in his worth as a producer. "That you'll go anywhere provided it's within sniffing distance of a New York hot dog?"

Nick contemplated the wisdom of getting up. "As long as it doesn't involve rubdowns."

"Last I heard, New Jersey specialized more in rubbing out than rubbing down."

"New Jersey, you say?" Nick opened his jaw slowly and experimented with trying to shut it again. He got halfway. "You know, I was born and raised in Jersey."

"Excuse me. Like I wouldn't know? I was responsible for hiring that underpaid intern to write your bio for Wikipedia."

Nick grumbled. "You know there's a reason unions were invented—to regulate the outrageous behavior of unscrupulous employers like you."

"Too bad, that's all I can say," Georgie said without any remorse. "Which is why I have decided to accept a request that came to the office last week."

"I suppose this is my cue to say, 'Could you be more specific?'"

"My pleasure. By the unfettered powers vested in me as producer, I plan to accept the offer for you to be the Class Day speaker at your old alma mater, Grantham University, this coming June," Georgie announced proudly. "Naturally we'll use it as an episode for the show—I'm not that generous."

"Come again?" Maybe his brain was also starting to fail.

"You know, the Commencement ceremonies for the graduating class? The day before they do the whole diploma-giving-out bit, you will speak with wit and with a soupcon of encouragement to the seniors."

"Soupcon of encouragement? Are you kidding me?"

"Well, their families will be there, as well. I think it's only right and proper," Georgie explained.

Nick stumbled to the dressing area and eased on his clothing. He didn't bother with the button or the zipper on his jeans. If his pants fell down, so be it. He couldn't be any more humiliated than he already had been.

He joined the others at the entrance to the dank, tiled bathhouse, nodding appreciatively to the manager, who had a severe lazy eye, which made eye contact difficult. The man would no doubt be dining off tales of the crazy Americans for years to come.

Georgie pushed open the heavy wooden door, and their little group instinctively huddled together. A horse-drawn cart, loaded with hay, clopped down the dirt road in front of them. Its driver paused and yelled to two men standing cross-armed in the narrow doorway of a coffee shop across the way. His loud monologue was seemingly cheerful sounding, but who could be sure?

Where is our friendly translator when we need him? Nick thought.

Then the squat and hairy horse turned its head at the sound of his master's gravelly voice, and proceeded to do his business in the middle of the street.

Nick looked over at the steaming deposit. "I think that just about sums it up." Then he creaked his neck in Geor-gie's direction. "You realize of course that I never graduated from Grantham, don't you? A little thing called the Junior Paper that I could never quite wrap my head around?"

"I don't think they're gonna rescind the offer, and frankly, I think they probably already know that."

"True, failure has been one of my favorite biographical topics. Still, what would be the point? I mean, I do thirty minutes of hopefully semihumorous anecdotes about the world of food and travel—minus my usual four-letter words since, as you say, kiddies are likely to be present. And then what have you got? An hour's TV show? I think not."

With that, the horse, the cart and its owner moved on. The two men with grizzled beards and in severe need of good dental work, peered suspiciously at Nick and the rest of the crew before turning to enter the gloom of the coffee shop.

"Think of the bigger picture, Nick." Georgie waved his hand across the gray and unforgiving sky. "The whole idea of graduation as the culmination of those happy college days, which, being happy, had to have included the customary drinking and eating of large quantities of food."

"You want to check out dining-hall fare?" Nick asked, unconvinced.