Chapter 51: 51 Maison de Lumière

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51: Maison de Lumière 51: Maison de Lumière Kairan returned from the locker room, his lab coat still a little too loose on his shoulders, and Renoir, who was pouring something into a pot, looked up and stopped mid-pour, the ladle suspended in midair.

“Mon Dieu,” he said, approaching with a couple of heavy steps, leaning slightly to look him in the eye.

“What’s that in there?

You look like you just stepped out of one of those…

what were they called, my grandson always looks at them…

anime, I think.” He straightened up, laughing heartily.

“Guys, look at those eyes!” Some of the children closest to him burst out laughing, not maliciously, but with that light laugh that spreads when someone breaks the monotony.

Agatha, from the other side of the kitchen, took a few steps closer, drying her hands on her apron, and gently took Kairan’s chin between two fingers to get a better look, like a grandmother would with a new grandchild.

“How wonderful,” she said, smiling.

“I’ve never seen anything like it in all my years.

How beautiful, really.

You have a mother somewhere who’s proud of you, I’m sure of it.” Winifred rolled her eyes from the stove, saying nothing, but the way she stirred the pot more vigorously than necessary betrayed an annoyance she couldn’t entirely hide.

“I was born this way,” Kairan said calmly, turning to Agatha.

“Well, you were born well, then,” Renoir said, still laughing, then quickly became serious, or almost.

“Well, now stop wasting time.

Come here.

Today we’re making lunch and dinner all at once, so you don’t have to come back twice—it usually takes a good two hours.” She led him to a worn wooden cutting board, where a basket full of zucchini, carrots, and potatoes was waiting to be worked on.

“Do you know how to use a knife?” she asked, taking one from the block and showing it to him.

“Yes,” Kairan said.

“Good.

“Julienne them for me.” He held out the knife, handle first.

Kairan took the knife, weighed it in his fingers, then asked, without hesitation, “Julie what?” Renoir froze, his eyes widening for a moment of pure amazement.

“Julienne!” he repeated, his voice rising a tone.

“Thin strips, all the same size, like matchsticks!

He’s French, boy, like me—don’t tell me you’ve never heard that word!

He took a carrot from the basket, placed it on the cutting board, and in four quick, precise movements, sliced it into a row of paper-thin strips.

“Like this,” he said, pushing the rest of the vegetables toward Kairan.

“Do it.” Kairan looked at the cut for just a moment.

He picked up a carrot.

The blade came down.

Not four movements.

Eight, in half the time, each identical to the last with a precision that bordered on the absurd.

Renoir stared at the pile of perfectly julienned carrots, then looked at Kairan, then back at the cutting board.

“But…” he said, his voice losing all trace of anger.

“Incroyable.

This is faster than I do it.” Agatha came closer to watch, clapping her hands softly, delighted.

“Look at that,” she said.

“A true gift, this.

Winifred, come and see how wonderful it is.” “I can see it perfectly well from here,” said Winifred, without turning, her voice slightly sharper than necessary.

“Do it again,” said Renoir, pushing a zucchini forward this time.

Kairan did so.

Same speed, same precision.

Renoir burst out laughing again, this time with genuine admiration.

“A natural talent,” he said, patting him on the shoulder.

“Formidable.

I haven’t seen one like this in years, my boy.” And so it was with the rest of the chopping: whatever vegetables were handed to him, Kairan worked faster and more precisely than anyone else in the kitchen, the pile of ready ingredients growing at a pace impossible for the others to keep up with.

Not even half an hour had passed, and Renoir found himself staring at the already overflowing cutting boards—everything that normally took two full hours of work between lunch and dinner, completed in a fraction of the time, with Winifred and Agatha at the stove almost struggling to keep up with the volume of ready ingredients Kairan was constantly producing.

Renoir paused to take in the work as a whole—Winifred and Agatha bustling about at the stove, Kairan now chopping three times faster than any other child present, and the remaining nineteen who, by comparison, seemed almost useless, with little to do but watch.

He called Kairan aside, his voice lower, almost Confidential.

“Boy,” he said, “how about we always cook for everyone, just the four of us?

You, me, Winifred, Agatha.

No more nineteen kids getting in the way to slow everything down.

Vraiment, with you here, we don’t need that.” “Of course,” Kairan said without hesitation.

“Cooking is nice.” Renoir looked at him for a moment, surprised by that simple answer, then raised his voice to the rest of the kitchen, clapping his hands.

“Boys” That’s all for today.

Now you can go back to your dorms.

Starting tomorrow, the shift will be easier for everyone: the four of us will take care of it.” The nineteen children dispersed quickly, leaving the silent kitchen within minutes.

Agatha, before leaving for the evening, stopped beside Kairan, placing a light hand on his shoulder.

“You’re a sweet boy,” she said.

“Tomorrow I’ll let you taste my apple pie, you’ll see.” “There’s some left,” Winifred murmured, gathering up her coat with more energy than necessary, before leaving without a word.

It was only at the end, when the last pot had been washed and put away, when Winifred and Agatha had also left into the cold evening, that Kairan remained behind, the last with Renoir, who was rearranging the last knives in the block next to the cutting board.

“Still here?” asked Renoir, surprised, looking up.

“I wanted to ask you something,” Kairan said.

“Vas-y, tell me.” “Where are you from?” “France, right?

How did you end up here, in London?” Renoir paused, knife in hand, and for a moment his face changed expression: not surprise, but something deeper, almost emotional.

“Does anyone ever ask me that?” he said softly, putting down the knife.

“In eight years here, none of these guys have ever asked me anything about my life before this kitchen.” He leaned against the table, his gaze lost for a moment in the distance.

“I come from a small village near Lyon.

My father was a baker, my mother worked in the fields.

I came to London at thirty-six, looking for work, and I’ve never looked back.

France…” He smiled, a wistful smile.

“It’s magnificent, lad.” Green and golden, with fields stretching to the horizon, not like here, all stone and smoke.

“I miss my mother’s bread more than I’d admit to anyone else in this city.” He continued, for a few minutes, recounting how those years had passed, until his arrival, years later, at the Ashford Orphanage.

“In the afternoons, I work at a French restaurant here in London called Maison de Lumière,” Renoir said.

“What if I wanted to learn French?” Kairan asked when Renoir finished.

She looked at him for a long time, surprised again, then a slow smile crossed his face.

“Come half an hour early tomorrow,” he said.

“And every day after that, if you want.

I’ll teach you.” “Is that okay?” “Okay,” Kairan repeated, her pronunciation now almost perfect, and Renoir burst out laughing, this time with pure joy.

“Ah, mon garçon,” he said, shaking his head as he took off his apron.

“I don’t know what you are, where you really come from, or why you chop vegetables like a master with thirty years of experience.

But I like you.” And tomorrow I’ll teach you my language, I promise.” Kairan nodded and headed for the kitchen exit, but Renoir remained alone for a moment, tidying away the last of the utensils, his thoughts returning insistently to that strange child, so out of place yet so natural in everything he did.

“I have to talk to the director about this,” he thought, as he put on his coat.

“Mrs.

Hargrove.

Early tomorrow morning.”