 |
| Thank you, my dear. |
Louis Shalako
In the end, the people had been amiable, the
conversation had been tolerable, the intro from the head table interminable,
and the dancing something of a revelation.
They were learning, again, together. He wondered just
how long it had been for her—dancing, just dancing. For him, at least fifteen
or twenty years. A shitty little thought.
Margot had leaned in, on the first dance, a slow waltz
and informed him that her son was bugging her to take music lessons. Her
daughter had just been confirmed into the Roman Catholic Church. The youngest
had been taking Catechism, and was just about ready for her First
Communion—which required some kind of informed consent, as he recalled,
whatever that meant at that age. She was trying to tell him to loosen up and
that she was a professional.
There was nothing to worry about.
That, well, it had been enough, and it was like some
small and insignificant elastic little band, a little red band, barely go
around your little finger twice sort of band, had snapped inside of him.
Fuck, it was just duty and any embarrassment at the
current situation would sort of dissipate, if not Monday morning, then surely
by Tuesday, or by Wednesday at the latest.
She’d laughed upon hearing that, and Gilles had sort
of settled into it, and at least he had remembered enough footwork to get
by—there had been a time, quite some time ago, when he might have been a little
better at it. He and Ann would have been a lot younger, perhaps a little more
sober, and that was pretty much it, perhaps a little more practiced.
The music ended, they shuffled back to the table, and
it seemed as if the executive committee had made up their minds; even though
their minds must have been made up a long time ago, considering the fact that
the trophies had to be engraved ahead of time and all of that sort of a thing.
Someone had to know what was going on.
Someone had to know what was in that envelope.
***
Roger slipped into the seat beside him, ignoring
Margot.
“Gilles, I’ve had a brainstorm. I’m thinking of
talking to the manager, sort of seizing all the passports, and shit like that—”
“Who? Why. This is all bullshit.”
Langeron’s breath stank of alcohol, but then
Maintenon’s probably did too.
“…that way, we get at least half of them…”
Gilles laughed out loud.
Yes, but only half—for whatever reason.
“Let’s not and say we did.”
“What?”
“Why don’t we just get them to make us a list. We can
always shut them down before they leave town.”
He waited.
“All you have to do is talk to the Minister of the
Interior.”
Roger sat, considering it. Well, it was an idea—
The other folks at the table were more interested in
other things, and in fact one of their married couples were rising, making
their goodbyes and obviously interested in leaving, above all else.
“But—but.”
 |
| Let's not, and say we did. |
The man at the microphone stopped talking and right
about then, Roger’s voice seemed very loud.
Looking around, no was paying the slightest attention.
The band was striking up a polka.
Gilles rose, extending a hand in Margot’s direction.
“My dear? I may be a bit creaky, but I honestly
believe I can do this—”
She laughed, but she pushed the chair back and they
were on the floor in a minute…following along, in a short queue between the
tables. Poor old Roger was sitting there looking flabbergasted, or nonplussed,
or maybe just underwhelmed. Fuck, it was still an idea.
“I suggest we sort of pick a dark corner…we’ll end up
there, dance our way over, and then, if necessary…” They could abandon the
attempt.
Margot was willing enough. They’d both had a few
drinks, and that helped. She stuck her lips up close to his ear. Chin to chin,
ear to ear and pelvis to pelvis. She had nice bone structure.
“My husband’s working overtime at the munitions plant
again.” She gave him a little poke in the ribs.
He grinned from ear to ear. He stuck his mouth up
close to her ear—
“Thank you for that, my dear.”
Her chuckle was low and throaty and as long as they
went along with the crowd and didn’t trip over anyone, they might even get
through this. Turns out, he still remembered it; that and the feel of hot, wet
perspiration dripping down the inside of the shirt. It was a brand-new shirt,
but fuck the cost anyways. He’d gotten all the straight pins out of the
packaging, and that was really something these days.
It was better than a sharp poke to the old jugular.
He wondered if she was sweating too.
He leaned in and told her all that and she gave him
another poke.
After a while, he noted Levain and his wife, dancing
along and doing quite a good job of it, she was pregnant as things stood. He
did listen, of course, but after a while, it all went in one ear and out the
other. They’d been friends for many years, and it had all come down to that.
With a start he recognized another officer, companion unknown, and they were
good enough to ignore him…that one was from the traffic department. They were
all volunteers, here.
Margot gave him a look of one sort or another, when he
told her that Nichol had been pregnant for the last thirteen months and people
were beginning to wonder…
“Now, now, Gilles.” She did laugh, though.
He grinned over her shoulder, studiously ignored by
the male of another nearby couple, his eyes wide open but the lady clearly in
some kind of physical trance-like state…one could sort of see where this was leading.
Good
luck with that one, sir.
She’ll
pass out first, or she’ll puke in your lap…
He’d seen it happen before.
The next dance was another fast one, and maybe he
should have known better. There was some sort of formula for this sort of
thing, and of course they were bound to play a nice, slow and romantic one
sooner or later.
It was funny, how all of that had become so much
clearer, thirty or forty years later.
He thought of Ann, he thought of Esther. So many years
ago. Both of them dead, both of them painful memories in their own degree. Ann was
his wife and his first love. Esther had been an accidental fling, yet not
without emotion, even real affection. If only he hadn’t come along, she might
still be alive. Things might have been different, with Esther—something else he
had just seen clearly. Perhaps not for the first time, but clearly.
They got about halfway through it when Margot gave his
upper arm a quick squeeze and it was time to break off from the action for a
while. There was a tap on the shoulder.
They stood back.
“…so…”
Steve, from Vancouver—
“May I cut in, my good man…?”
Hell, why not, it was as good a time as any.
She tipped Gilles a wink…
As someone had once put it.
***
 |
| Steve, from Vancouver. |
Gilles watched as Steve from Vancouver swept Margot up
in his arms and the pair danced away.
He’d had a brainstorm of his own, and just when he
thought he might get away unscathed, he found his way blocked by a stout young
woman who had been eyeing him from a table across the centre aisle…he had
wondered what that was about.
She was bound, bent and determined to get a dance, why
him in particular, was something of a mystery—
Damn.
With shoes about two sizes too small for her, the only
one she was fooling was herself.
“Well, just this one, my dear.” Suppressing any signs
of irritation as best he could, as they took up their stance, he was bemused to
see a vaguely-familiar figure…Schleicher.
Merde!
Like a punch in the guts…
From behind, he hadn’t actually seen the face, but the
figure was tall, built about the same way, and dressed in the first Sherlock
outfit they’d seen so far other than LeBref. A door opened and the person was
gone into the rest room, and here was poor old Gilles, looking around for
Levain, Roger, Joseph, Margot, anyone at all would have done.
She looked up with shining eyes, giving him a quick
and playful bat on the shoulder.
“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.” True enough—
“Oh, ah. Terribly sorry, my dear.” Merde.
He was tempted to march her straight backwards across
the floor, keeping an eye on that door, but to do so would have been to risk
disaster…the throng were going counter-clockwise in some internal and infernal
herd instinct.
Fuck,
there was nothing to do but dip, and twirl, and float around the room, and this
just kept getting better and better, all of the fucking time.
And of course by the time Gilles shook the lady off,
ah, Millie from Birmingham, with two novel-manuscripts under her belt and
another one coming out soon. Which was a real big break according to her, from
a very reputable publisher. Of course the washroom was empty, one solitary tap
dripping the only sign of recent occupancy. That and a faint smell of urine.
Fuck.
 |
| Schleicher. |
And of course, the lady was waiting for him. Right
outside the door.
The next musical piece was a foxtrot, and the thought
crossed his mind. What the hell, why not.
She smelled vaguely floral, face-powder and hair
spritz; arm-pit powder and God knew what else. He was rediscovering something,
and he wished he wasn’t—maybe he just needed the experience.
“So. You’re the great Gilles Maintenon.” She laid her
head on his shoulder.
His mouth opened, and closed.
“Don’t worry. I won’t tell.” She looked up, biting a
corner of her lower lip. “Honestly, you must think us a bunch of proper fools.”
He took a better look at the young lady.
“No…not at all.” He thought. “There…there must have
been some reason, way back…way back when. Way back, when I first thought of
becoming…you, know, a detective, a cop…a police officer.”
One had to choose, and to move on that goal, and the
books had at least stimulated such thoughts.
It might have turned out worse, after all.
“Some of the best criminal minds in the world are in
this room, right here, and right now.” He smiled. “They simply chose a better
path, over an actual criminal career. Which is, quite frankly, not quite so
glamorous as some books and films would imply—”
It was her turn to take another look.
“Yes. I can see why,
now.”
They had underestimated each other.
He could have been a criminal, after all, and he told
her so. And so could she—
Perhaps it was the wine.
It’s not like he didn’t have the mind for it, and she
laughed when he said it.
And of course, he had already forgotten her name.
Millie. It was Millie—he was almost sure.
She was a student, a fan of books and reading, and
she’d been in Paris for months. She’d recognized him from the paper. She’d
always wanted to write a book…lots of people tried and failed, she’s at least
finished a couple, thought Gilles. Hell, they might even be good.
Fuck.
***
END
 |
| Should have brought that thing after all... |
Louis has books
and stories on Kobo.
See his art on Fine Art
America.
Thank you for reading, ladies and gentlemen.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Please feel free to comment on the blog posts, art or editing.