seen a last one where there was none—but I know, yes I know which spike that one is. It’s the one Abdul’s ghost has planned for me. He waits with it in the darkness, waits for me to fall.
Walk on, Picard, the river lights are calling.
Lamplight and moon, splashed on the river—he approached slowly, heard voices from the water, on the houseboat docked there, saw the dog, the water wolf who sat by himself on deck, watching the river.
The dog turned, feeling someone’s gaze upon him, his eyes the tiniest lights on the river, and the most expressive. He stared at Picard a moment, then turned slowly back toward the river, resuming his watch over the passing darkness, in which humanity played the least interesting part.
From the Quarter came the Spanish songs, the Spaniards drunk now and renewing themselves with melodious memory, of Granada, Malaga. Picard went through the music, humming as he passed them, his barrel tones sombre and few, something like a hound’s growling.
His stomach was growling as well; he pushed through the doors of the Restaurant Hindustan.
“Paul!” Armand came toward him, hand outstretched.
“How’re you, amigo?”
“I have an incomparable stew tonight.”
* * *
“Don’t let that bit of mold trouble you, Paul.” Armand set down a disreputable little bread basket, whose straw edges bore the marks of a rodent who’d sharpened his teeth there.
“What do you know about Ric Lazare?”
“His wife is a...” Armand made an obscene noise with his mouth.
“Anything about Lazare himself?”
“The usual crap. You know how thieves exaggerate.” Picard took a piece of bread, examined it carefully, set it back down. “Lazare is known to them?”
“He cleaned out Vienna, so they say.”
“How did he perform there?”
“Very well, to judge by the joint he’s purchased on the rue de Richelieu. That stew is something, eh?”
Picard stared at the grey concoction of grease and bones, regretting he’d consumed as much of it as he had. “Aside from the hairs floating there...”
“It’s that Turk I have cooking for me,” said Armand, grabbing the bowl and looking into it. “I told that son of a bitch to trim his mustache!”
Armand led the way back to the kitchen. The Turk and a grizzled old dishwasher were taking turns with a slingshot, stoning a small plaster statue of Louis Napoleon. Louis’s head had been shot off. The Turk was drawing back the rubber, let fly a stone that tore the Emperor’s legs off and the little statue tumbled over. In the excitement the Turk dropped his cigar butt in the large soup pot. He stirred around in it for a few moments, but was unable to locate the stub.
“Here, Paul,” said Armand, taking the slingshot, “have a shot.”
“I’ve no quarrel with Louis,” said Picard, smiling.
Armand placed a stone in the sling. “This, Louis, is from the peerless restaurateur you seek to ruin.” He turned to Picard. “You know our sovereign has decreed that this street shall be widened and my café torn down?”
“I didn’t know.”
“There will be no more incomparable stew...” Armand took aim. The band stretched to its ultimate length, the sling snapped, the stone flew to its mark, shattering what was left of the Emperor. The dishwasher made a mark on the kitchen wall, which was already covered by numerous score lines. He turned to Armand and saluted.
“We’ve destroyed one hundred Louis Napoleons, my captain.”
“This calls for a celebration.” Armand went to the wine cabinet, brought out a dusty bottle and held it to the light. “A disgusting wine from one of the worst years.” He opened the bottle and filled four glasses. Putting the wine to his lips, he tasted it and grimaced. “Distinguished by its superb sourness. How was your stew, Paul? Tell me truthfully.”
“Matched only by this wine,” said Picard, pouring it into a large rubber plant beside the kitchen door.
“Omar,” said Armand, pointing
Walk on, Picard, the river lights are calling.
Lamplight and moon, splashed on the river—he approached slowly, heard voices from the water, on the houseboat docked there, saw the dog, the water wolf who sat by himself on deck, watching the river.
The dog turned, feeling someone’s gaze upon him, his eyes the tiniest lights on the river, and the most expressive. He stared at Picard a moment, then turned slowly back toward the river, resuming his watch over the passing darkness, in which humanity played the least interesting part.
From the Quarter came the Spanish songs, the Spaniards drunk now and renewing themselves with melodious memory, of Granada, Malaga. Picard went through the music, humming as he passed them, his barrel tones sombre and few, something like a hound’s growling.
His stomach was growling as well; he pushed through the doors of the Restaurant Hindustan.
“Paul!” Armand came toward him, hand outstretched.
“How’re you, amigo?”
“I have an incomparable stew tonight.”
* * *
“Don’t let that bit of mold trouble you, Paul.” Armand set down a disreputable little bread basket, whose straw edges bore the marks of a rodent who’d sharpened his teeth there.
“What do you know about Ric Lazare?”
“His wife is a...” Armand made an obscene noise with his mouth.
“Anything about Lazare himself?”
“The usual crap. You know how thieves exaggerate.” Picard took a piece of bread, examined it carefully, set it back down. “Lazare is known to them?”
“He cleaned out Vienna, so they say.”
“How did he perform there?”
“Very well, to judge by the joint he’s purchased on the rue de Richelieu. That stew is something, eh?”
Picard stared at the grey concoction of grease and bones, regretting he’d consumed as much of it as he had. “Aside from the hairs floating there...”
“It’s that Turk I have cooking for me,” said Armand, grabbing the bowl and looking into it. “I told that son of a bitch to trim his mustache!”
Armand led the way back to the kitchen. The Turk and a grizzled old dishwasher were taking turns with a slingshot, stoning a small plaster statue of Louis Napoleon. Louis’s head had been shot off. The Turk was drawing back the rubber, let fly a stone that tore the Emperor’s legs off and the little statue tumbled over. In the excitement the Turk dropped his cigar butt in the large soup pot. He stirred around in it for a few moments, but was unable to locate the stub.
“Here, Paul,” said Armand, taking the slingshot, “have a shot.”
“I’ve no quarrel with Louis,” said Picard, smiling.
Armand placed a stone in the sling. “This, Louis, is from the peerless restaurateur you seek to ruin.” He turned to Picard. “You know our sovereign has decreed that this street shall be widened and my café torn down?”
“I didn’t know.”
“There will be no more incomparable stew...” Armand took aim. The band stretched to its ultimate length, the sling snapped, the stone flew to its mark, shattering what was left of the Emperor. The dishwasher made a mark on the kitchen wall, which was already covered by numerous score lines. He turned to Armand and saluted.
“We’ve destroyed one hundred Louis Napoleons, my captain.”
“This calls for a celebration.” Armand went to the wine cabinet, brought out a dusty bottle and held it to the light. “A disgusting wine from one of the worst years.” He opened the bottle and filled four glasses. Putting the wine to his lips, he tasted it and grimaced. “Distinguished by its superb sourness. How was your stew, Paul? Tell me truthfully.”
“Matched only by this wine,” said Picard, pouring it into a large rubber plant beside the kitchen door.
“Omar,” said Armand, pointing
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