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| Oh, dear. One must choose, of course--but can she cook. |
Louis Shalako
Earlier, Gilles had interviewed his first prospects for a housekeeper. He had the appointments all lined up, and had come home early from work, something of a rarity for one such as he.
He glanced at the clock. Sylvestre was asleep, apparently, heavy and warm in his lap and the rain really was pounding down now.
He looked at the phone, but it was already too late—
Or maybe he was just getting old, but no. It really was late for a business call.
This was a decision to be made, and yet not one to be taken lightly.
The trouble was, almost anyone would do, and yet, with multiple choices, one had to make a decision. Surely, he could interview others. It would inevitably be a very small number, and yet he had felt out of his depth. Such a simple thing, and yet he had floundered. It also took time, more precious time. He didn’t have much of that these days, and his off time was exceedingly precious.
While he didn’t much care what people thought, the youngest one, and thoroughly attractive, might not be a very good idea. She had experience, and yet it was with a young family…poor old Gilles was a different kettle of fish. That one might not be much of a cook, but then she wouldn’t have to be. Simply doing most of the scut work might have been enough in her previous employment. Doing endless loads of laundry, and keeping the children quiet, and amused, might have been enough. Running a broom about the place on some daily basis might have been enough.
Then there was the oldest one. Madame had no family of her own, or not much of one. Madame Lefebvre, his old housekeeper, had been the matriarch of quite the brood of her own. She came in, did her job, took his money, gratefully enough, and then she went home.
He wasn’t looking for a butler, and that was for sure—for that reason, he hadn’t interviewed any males. Perhaps it was a kind of chauvinism…truth was, with unemployment running high, a man, any man, might be forgiven for seeking domestic work. It might be a pretty soft touch, as compared to some of the alternatives, digging ditches for example. As far as the pay, they could do better elsewhere, as he had to admit.
Even so, it was his house—and his prejudices mattered in some way. It was his money, as the saying went. One must also assume such prejudices on the part of other males, which sort of made the ones that did apply, sort of suspicious. Looking for an easy touch, maybe. Or maybe they were just unfit for other work, which was not exactly a glowing recommendation.
Gilles wasn’t so much looking to be adopted by someone who might well be a lonely old spinster. Perhaps even a little desperate, not that he didn’t feel for the elderly females, too many of whom ended up in a little garret somewhere subsisting on bread, cheese curds and water and little else.
All alone, no way to change the outcome. Nowhere to go, and no one who cared.
He shook off the guilt.
His turn would come soon enough…
Then there was the middle one. It was unlucky. If three really competent prospects had come along, he might have pulled a name from a hat and lived with the results. As it was, he could either keep looking or perhaps the decision had already been made…
He would figure that one out tomorrow.
***
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| Fuck. It's all up to me now. |
Maintenon had, while seated on the toilet of all places, recalled the reactions to the cat, as varied as the individuals in question. The oldest lady, Madame Denis, had made a face and, admittedly gently, shooed the animal off of her chair, before brightly looking up at Maintenon, about to begin his first interview.
The middle-aged lady, Madame Toussaint, had simply ignored the animal, during this interview, now laying on the back of the couch. She must have been aware of it, one must assume—
The cat was not much interested in these goings-on, even though the two of them had been alone in the house for what, in the end, had dragged on for two or three months—possibly even longer when he put his mind to it.
Ah, but Sophie—he had already decided not to call her Mademoiselle, for surely she was a grown woman in her own right. Sophie Valliere, young, strong and healthy, had gone straight to the cat, perhaps a little nervous, and then taken a seat, cradling the heavy fellow in her lap and answering Maintenon’s questions with half a smile on her face. Sylvestre had cheerfully submitted to this treatment, and had sort of curled up and waited for a belly-rub, although there was definitely a sting in that tail if one went too far with such familiarity. Gilles had the scratches to prove it, many of them over time, but she’d emerged unscathed.
If she could handle it, Gilles could—he had never been a lecher, and while attractive, and while she was dressed up, but it was also fairly sensibly. Truth was, a bit of youth in the place might be just what was needed, and of course, that was one important animal. Gilles wouldn’t have parted with him for a thousand francs, and when he had told her that, a genuine laugh, perhaps the first laugh heard in that room in months, should have been enough to convince.
No, it was the cat that had made the decision.
Normally, Madame Lefebvre hadn’t come in on weekends, but Gilles only had the weekends off and damned few of them, sometimes, when crime was raging and the bodies were piling up and that was just the way things were for someone in his position.
He’d figured it out.
Sophie would get four hours, first thing Saturday morning, and this would be busy enough. It wasn’t a question so much of training the young woman, as basically letting her get a feel for the place, the man, and what her job might entail. She could have an afternoon off later in the week.
He’d left her with the cat, going through the cupboards and making a list.
As for himself, he’d gone to the market to get a few essentials. While he could eat at a restaurant any time, what with a pretty good salary, and money in the bank, he had been rapidly running out of ideas, or perhaps that was just enthusiasm.
Dining alone, a little too often, had lost its attraction.
As for when he was home, man does not live on bread alone—and as for tins of sardines, while Sylvestre might be happy to live on that until the end of time, Gilles had had enough. That also applied to jars of pickles, olives, and tins of watery soup and jars of baked beans. It especially applied to weevily old bisquits.
Enough was enough.
***
While he could have gone to the corner store, he needed a walk and the open-air market had the benefit of fresh air and a crowd. There were times when people, just plain people, really helped.
One brief shaft of golden sunlight helped…
Perhaps he was just old and lonely—of course he was.
Gilles had just been fondling the tomatoes. Perhaps not the best word, but he really didn’t squeeze them, rather it was a matter of weight, feel, and yes, whether or not the thing seemed squishy at all. A tomato had to be firm and hard, in order to properly slice it. Cutting thin slices from a squishy tomato was the worst of all—
“That was a wonderful speech.”
“Huh?” A tall man stood beside him, dressed like an Englishman…
Sort of. The accent was from somewhere else.
“Sorry.” The man extended a hand, and Maintenon allowed his own hand to be shaken. “Yes. Yes, Inspector, I was there.”
He didn’t know this man from Adam, as the saying went.
“Von Schleischer.” He clicked his heels. “Anton.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
The head bobbed in the incongruous deer-stalker hat. The cape, or rather the classic Macintosh, swirled in the stiff breeze as Gilles stood there at a loss.
He wore gaiters, a sort of golf or walking trews, and sturdy walking shoes. The only thing missing was a walking stick. The breeches had little slits at knee-level, one on each side of the knee, and little straps going through the cuffs...
All set for an athletic and sort of very hearty walking on the moors—the only thing missing was a ruddy complexion and a really big dog. And some moors to walk upon—
“Er.”
“Yes. Well, I was there at the commencement. Oh, you probably don’t remember me. I was sitting on the end of the second row, way over…on your right, it would be.” Not exactly a guest of honour, but invited, nevertheless, all part of the job as he put it.
“Ah.”
“Yes. Well. It’s a real privilege to meet you. You’re are quite famous, you know, even outside of France. I have always loved mystery stories.” He gave a self-deprecating gesture. “As you can see.”
Gilles had always regretted that particular magazine story. Never, ever, let your hair down. Good advice, if one could take it.
“Ah, yes. I have to admit, Sherlock Holmes was a big part of my, er, youthful reading.”
Under the blankets, at night, with a flashlight, which, as often as not, got him into trouble as it was strictly for emergencies, and if one was unlucky, might be conspicuous by its absence in the kitchen drawer—every kitchen had that one drawer, where all of those things that did not belong anywhere else, inevitably went. Then again, there was always the light, that glimmer under the door and one his parents had quickly learned to interpret.
“I am cultural attaché at the embassy here in Paris.”
A German dressed like an Englishman.
“Oh.”
“Quite frankly, it was a nice change. Your talk, I mean. Honestly. I have seen more chorale groups, more ballet recitals. The little ones are as cute as all hell, of course…more clog dancers from Brittany, really, than I ever would have imagined when I decided to enter the diplomatic service. Still, I am in Paris—”
“Quite so, quite so.”
They stood there looking at each other.
“Anyways, well. I won’t ask for your autograph. I’m not quite so bad as all of that.”
There was another pause as Gilles let the man have a small grin.
“Thank Heaven for small mercies.” It just came out and the man laughed.
“I really am a fan, you know.”
Clapping Gilles on the arm, the tall German nodded, and then turned away.
Now, what the hell was all that all about, he wondered. The side flap of his left coat pocket had somehow become tucked in, when the weather dictated that it should be out, and he absently pulled it out before turning again to the tomatoes and the patient old woman behind the stall, looking out on the world with a pair of sad, wise old eyes.
That one had seen a lot in her time on this good Earth.
END
Gilles keeps an MAB 7.65 around here and I think we might need it.
Louis has books and stories on Smashwords. Some are always free.
See his art on Fine Art America.
Check out his audiobook.
Thank you for reading.
