The Parisian Prodigal by Alan Gordon

Author:Alan Gordon
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

* * *

We stopped by the market on the way to the bordel, but saw no sign of Sylvie, so we continued on. As we crossed the yard between the leper house and the bordel, we were hailed from above. I turned and looked up at the window, shading my eyes from the late morning sun.

“Good day to you, Fools,” called my leprous admirer.

“And to you, senhor,” I replied, making courtesy.

“You are too early,” he said. “The ladies will not be at their posts until mid afternoon. They are still asleep.”

“They are fortunate to have you watching over them,” I said.

“I did not watch enough, alas,” he said mournfully. “I will miss that fiery redhead. Will you perform for me when you are done with your errand?”

“Certainly, senhor,” I said. “But it will have to be dumb-show, for my music may wake the slumberers.”

“If they can sleep through a murder, they can sleep through your music,” he said.

“I thank you for the comparison,” I said, bowing again.

Carlos didn’t even bother raising both eyelids this time. One bleary eyeball acknowledged our existences, then was hidden again. We took that as permission and went inside.

The only stirrings we heard came from the direction of the kitchen, accompanied by some wonderful aromas. We followed them in to find Sylvie up and cooking.

“Good morning, Na Sylvie,” I said. “I have come in my new capacity of tutor.”

“A waste of time,” she muttered. “These women are good at one thing, and one thing only, and reading will not make them any better at it.”

“On the contrary, a mistress who can read to her patron may find that she may soothe him just as readily as by lovemaking,” I said. “Or she may arouse him to new heights. It all depends upon the subject matter being read. Do you read and write?”

“Enough to copy down my recipes,” she said haughtily. “More than that, I have no time for.”

“So, you are a veteran cook?” I asked.

She nodded.

“I am not surprised, given the tantalizing odors emanating from those pots,” I said. “I take it that you haven’t worked in this house in its principal activity?”

“Certainly not,” she snapped. “And I will thank you to show some respect for my station.”

“As a consumer of food, I respect all cooks,” I said. “Helga here has been showing some promise in that area. Could she assist you in exchange for some tips?”

“Can you stir a pot, girl?” asked Sylvie.

“One with each hand,” said Helga. “And a third with my right foot if necessary.”

“We have two only pots to stir,” said Sylvie, handing the girl two long spoons. “Keep your feet away from both of them.”

“Has the Abbess replaced La Rossa yet?” I asked.

“Why, do you want the job?” sneered Sylvie.

“Not I,” I said.

“Then what business is it of yours?”

“Curiosity,” I said. “Having avoided bordels all my life, I am fascinated to find myself actually in one. I want to know everything about it.”

“You have children,” said Sylvie.

“Obviously.”

“You know how that happened, don’t you?”

“Of course.

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