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Christmas short story

Humiliation

William Boyd

Wednesday, 12th December 2007

The Spectator's short story for the holidays

In the Couderc that evening, Benoît, the young écailler, brought me my dozen oysters, open on the half shell, nestling in a gleaming bed of ice. He arranged the plate of bread, the cold butter, the little bowl of chopped shallots and red-wine vinegar neatly around them. He topped up my glass with chill Sauvignon Blanc. Bon appétit, Monsieur Hill, he said, with a tiny bow. I felt the seduction of France surround me again, its effortless, complex civilisation. ‘Merci infiniment, Benoît,’ I said and discreetly slipped him a 100-franc note.

What is it about the oyster and its curious, subtle narcosis? I drizzled lemon juice over them, added the tip of a teaspoon of shallots and vinegar to one, scraped the meat clear of its restraining muscle and forked it into my mouth, where I chewed the oyster, two or three bites (chewing is absolutely essential — the true oceanic taste is not otherwise released) and swallowed. A corner of bread, a swig of chill wine: it is a drug, and powerfully addictive, one could eat 100, 200 — some people do — but I always stop at 12.

I laid down my last shell. Closed my eyes for a moment, masticated. That taste.... I opened my eyes to see a tall man in a pistachio tweed suit entering the Couderc and looking around. He saw me and strode over. I recognised him instantly and felt a kind of falling, a nausea, as if I had driven too fast over a hump-backed bridge.

‘Yves Hill?’

‘Ah, yes?’

‘I’m Raleigh Maltravers.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Maltravers, Raleigh Maltravers.’

I allowed myself a baffled smile while my guts writhed like eels in a pot. ‘The name is vaguely familiar,’ I said, dabbing my mouth with my napkin, ‘have we met?’

‘We’re both in the same hotel,’ Maltravers said.

‘Simple but comfortable.’

Maltravers stroked his chin. For the first time I noticed he had a near-transparent blond half-goatee, a gesture at a Van Dyke beard but, oddly, no moustache. He gave a great exhalation, as if he had decided something very important.

‘I reviewed your novel Oblong. For Illuminations. George asked me.’

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