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| Rubbing elbows, as it were. |
Louis Shalako
They said woman, the unfair sex, (wasn’t that Ambrose Bierce,
the noted literary cynic?), was a mystery, wrapped in a riddle, encompassed by
an enigma, and a few more things besides. Bierce, as he recalled, had
disappeared under mysterious circumstances…
Somewhere in the southern
hemisphere. The Mexican Revolution or something like that.
Margot, on the other
hand, was right there, they were literally rubbing elbows.
It was an uncomfortable
discovery that she smelled like a garden of flowers, and in a mysterious
fashion decipherable to women, or woman,
the world over, for surely there was only one woman—yes, they were all sisters
under the skin, where men were mostly rivals, all of it written on the outside
and sitting there like a big chip on the shoulder.
But it seemed that she
had nipped out to the lavatory and slipped into a dress, a dress that could
only have cost some money, real money. Had she run out and bought that
yesterday? He didn’t care to dwell upon it.
An electric blue kimono, not a straight line upon it, but
all the hems and the lines had been cut in curves. It was loose where it
mattered, plunged, also where it mattered, and it clung in all the right
places. Just loose enough, one could still dance in it. The shoes were
revealing enough in their own way—she had one of the little bun hats, a short
fringe all around the rim, and a fur stole around her shoulders. She had her
working outfit, a professional working woman sort of outfit, in a shopping bag
and that would be going home with her. Practical enough.
Gilles was uncomfortable
in his thoughts.
Home, what the hell is
that.
Home is where the
heartache is.
Home is where they send
the bills.
She seemed to be ignoring
him, the pair of them perched, facing backwards, on the fold-down jump-seats of
the big black Citroen. Cigarette smoke enfolded them in its intimate embrace as
Alphonse’s skilled hands guided them though the usual evening traffic, only to
pull up sooner than expected in front of the hotel. Flunkies in top hats and
tailed coats stepped forward smartly to open the door and hold it against the
wind. Yes. Let’s all clamber out now.
She looked over
unexpectedly, and the liquid-clear eyes were something else.
“Don’t worry, this will
all be over soon enough.” A good quote, from four out of five dentists.
He nodded, reassuringly,
dry in the throat all of a sudden.
Margot laughed and looked
away, Alphonse’s quick glance in the mirror was appreciative. Roger’s companion
looked over, right in the eyes, and then looked away. Something lurched in his
guts, and then a quizzical-looking Roger made a universal gesture—Gilles
reached into a pocket and pulled out one of his interminable dark little
cigars. That was what people called them.
“Thanks, Gilles. I
honestly have, ah, given them up. But this seems like a special occasion…” He puffed.
“My, God, but that snow is really coming down.”
The lady was wearing
evening gloves, in some kind of revelation as he thought about wedding rings
and things like that.
He still wore his, habit
as much as anything else, a kind of shield perhaps…
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Gilles...???
Merde.
Poor old Maintenon hadn’t had a moment to think all the damned day long, what
with three new cases, a conference with Langeron, and a few other things
besides. More wind, more gusts, more darkening skies…same old fucking shit,
right, only there was this one complication. He hadn’t gotten a nap, either,
small surprise that was.
Think of it as a party, Maintenon—
Argh.
As for poor old Gilles,
he’d taken a late-day shave in the men’s room, changed his shirt, brushed the
old teeth with a wet toothbrush but nothing else. The shoes looked well enough
for a cop’s shoes, and hopefully, they could remain in the background and just
observe. Show the flag and go home early, God willing…he could have shaved
again, and it wouldn’t have made all that much difference—whiskers seem to
speed up or something, getting faster with age or something. He could have
shaved in the car, just outside the front door and it still wouldn’t have made
any difference at all.
Who in the fucking hell
cared what he looked like anymore…it was damned cold out there.
Sure.
He just wasn’t built for
parties anymore.
***
There was a reception, with clumps of folks standing around with glasses in their hands, waiters with trays of canapés, and serving folks bearing bottles of bubbly wine, white or pink or whatever.
Having gotten rid of the coats and hats, there was
only one thing for it, but to head on in and mingle.
Roger and the wife, (he was pretty sure by now), moved
off in one direction and Gilles and Margot split, his first instinct being the
fireplace and a grouping of chairs and settees, and her for the bar. Long,
narrow, the room was a couple of hundred feet long, more a large hallway than
anything else, with big doors on both ends, and the sort of formal entrance
from the outdoors. That was on the west side, as he reckoned, trying to orient
himself.
She turned and looked, and he gave her a nod and a
thumbs-up.
There was a chair if he wanted it, but he stood, back
to the fire and idly looking around the room. There were at least thirty or
forty people, not two or three hundred…not yet, anyways. There was still a half
an hour to go. A few more people came in…
Nervous laughter, titillating; up and around from one
small group, and shortly after, a real belly-laugh from a group of mostly
males…some of those guys had what looked like whiskey in their glasses, and
that was a good thing to know too.
So far, no one seemed to have taken any notice of him,
or them, or all of them really.
Margot returned, bearing wine glasses.
“Ah, thank you.” This one was very red, very grapey,
if that was indeed a word, and just the perfect balance of dryness had been
struck.
When he got a minute, he’d take a quick peek at a
label and maybe write that one down.
Margot sipped, nodded as if reading his thoughts.
“Hmn. This might not be so bad after all.”
“Huh.”
Merde—she’d
removed her wedding ring, but there was a discolouring, an indentation of the
skin due to long occupation by aforesaid ring. Sometimes, there was nothing but
bad compromises, all around.
As for her—
She grinned, looking around, where animated
conversations were taking place, all well-dressed people and no sign of
Sherlock impersonators.
“…so this is a bunch of mystery writers.”
He nodded, spluttering in the midst of a swallow.
She thought, studying them perhaps just a bit more
carefully…
They seemed rational enough at first glance. Judging
by the clothes, the shoes and the hair, there seemed to be money in it. Someone
here was going to win an award, after all. These were the successful ones, she
realized. The one percent or less, in other words. The ones-in-a-million. They
could afford the price of admission.
There were a couple of big doors wide open on the
interior side, and on the other side of that, a banquet hall with dozens of
round tables, chairs, with a crisp white linen, floral arrangements, place
settings for what looked like a few hundred at least. Was it silver, or more
likely, silver plate. Who cared. One had to admit, it looked all right.
People were still arriving at both ends, some from
inside the hotel, obviously, and some from the street as another blast of cold
wind made its presence felt halfway into the room.
“Well, I don’t know about you.” He indicated a chair.
“I think you might be right about that.” Margot was a
sensible woman, it had been a long day and that chair looked very nice right
about how.
***
 |
| Nom de Dieu... |
The head table was all reserved, as one might expect
and they didn’t want to be there anyways. Everything else was first come, first
served. A certain type of person, a certain kind of group, naturally gravitated
to the front of the room. Some groups filled a table or two, and they sort of
clumped together, all very chummy, noises predictable. Then there were the
ones, the twos and the threes, looking at a bit of social awkwardness as they
tried to decide whether to sit here, or there, or perhaps somewhere else might
be better. Gilles and Margot had grabbed a couple of slots, about halfway up
the room. There was already another couple there, and another couple, not
caring too much either way, decided this was about as good as anything…there
was always room for one bore, as the gentleman said.
Gilles chuckled dutifully as bright blue eyes regarded
them all.
The male looked up, waved, and two women, perhaps
single but at least acquainted, accepted the idea and the gentleman held their
chairs. These people at least all seemed to know each other, authors or their
fans. They’d seen each other already, at events, panels or just around the
hotel. A full table, and there were still an empty few in the corners and the
back of the room, which might fill out as time went on and the fashionably-late
straggled in.
Gilles was gratified to see waiters burst forth from
the kitchen doors on the end. Carts and trolleys and platters and in the meantime
there were hot buns, butter and getting to know one another.
***
END
Louis has books
and stories on Kobo.
See his
art on ArtPal, which helps to feed stray cats in the wilds of
Plympton-Wyoming.
Other than that, you are on your own…
Thank you for reading, ladies and gentlemen.
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