 |
| Roger, Langeron that is. And the wife or mistress, whichever the case may be. |
Louis Shalako.
 |
| The food was good and then there was Steve from Vancouver. |
The food was good—very good.
It wasn’t just that the cooking was good. It was more
than good—the presentation showed the hand of a real master, hovering in some
aggressive perfectionism over a kitchen of real devotees, all of whom were
engaged in a labor of love.
Introductions had been made, and they had all gotten
acquainted to some extent. To Gilles’ relief, no one had made any real reaction
to his name, but they were all foreigners, which was a stroke of luck.
Americans, British, one Italian and one of the single
ladies was from Brazil. Some Canadian guy leaning over from the next table,
obviously interested in one or all of the more single and unaccompanied
ladies…this was Steve from Vancouver.
Staff were clearing dishes, coffee and brandy was
being offered. Sooner or later, the folks at the head table would decide it was
time for the speeches. People were lighting up, males mostly, but some of the
ladies as well…he was sort of awed by one grand
dame, with some sort of ebony cigarette holder as long as her arm. The
lorgnette, glasses on a stick as Ann
had said once, was almost unnecessary, as she peered through the eye-piece,
unexpectedly fixating on him, and
giving a languid finger-wave, moving on with her examination of those around
her.
He’d always sort of liked the smell of lighter fluid,
as he hit on the end of his own cigar.
Gilles would stub it out in a minute or so, and yet,
inevitably he would come back to it. It really was a vile habit.
Off in one corner was a platform, and a small
orchestra it seemed, was setting up. Twenty-five pieces, according to the
program, jazz, pop and classical. Some sort of lady singer, in a long and
silvery dress, as he congratulated himself upon his observations. Big deal. A
distinguished looking guy seemed to be presiding over them, and it would start
up soon enough—
And then there was the dancing. Margot.
She had eyes too, right.
Their eyes met. He inclined his head, shrugging
slightly.
They would cross that bridge when they came to it,
with as much grace and dignity as they could muster.
Margot was laughing at him.
Again—
That, was one very dangerous woman.
Her mouth opened and she stared.
He turned to look.
“Oh, my. Is—is that Joseph?” She clamped down and
shook her head.
 |
| Oh, my, is that Joseph...??? |
They were supposed to ignore each other, if possible.
The little man, in a plaid cape, for crying out loud…a
fucking Sherlock hat, and the pipe, and yes, a big magnifying glass. Which
would have taken three hands, but he was doing all right with only two.
Carrying a rather full brandy snifter, passing by on his way to somewhere else,
he turned and gave Gilles a big wink. Puffing away on the most monstrous cigar…
Oh, for crying out loud—you couldn’t actually see
LeBref anymore, but one could follow his progress by the laughs and shouted
remarks as the noise in the room picked up.
Would it never end.
There was that wine glass again.
The future is always rosier when viewed through the
bottom of a glass. That was D’Artagnan or somebody in some old French novel. The Three Musketeers, Alexander Dumas,
which he had read as a boy.
At least he thought he had.
***
END
Poor old Louis has books
and stories in, on, or at, Kobo.
Author's Note: there is something weird about that first caption, but I can't seem to fix it.
See his alleged works on
Fine Art America.
Thank you for reading.
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