Operation Isis. E. Hoffmann Price
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service sooner than the law required, Felix Garvin had given his mother a bit of general information in words that evoked memories of his father:
“I’ll show these Basque sons of bitches that they do not have a monopoly on flipping a ball against a backstop with a long wicker scoop like a pelican’s beak!”
The Low Garvinese was English he had learned from a Hollander who, toward the end of his world hiking, cycling, and busing tour, stopped in Bayonne to visit relatives. Having added to his fluent English in North America, he shared those improvements on the language of Her Gracious Majesty, the Queen.
The ball game to which Felix had referred was pelota. With so many Basques in Bayonne, each taking pride in his national sport, Felix had been oversensitive. Being in no position to tell those fellows, “My dad can beat your dad,” he’d had to prove his worth by performance. The game had finally hooked him.
And now, in an indirect way, his father’s impending visit teamed up with his feud with the pelota sharks to give him a logical escape from another of Mommie’s million unreasonable whims. Flora wanted him to sweat out the current Sudzo program.
“Sweet weeping Jesus!” Felix protested. “I do not have her shape, but I couldn’t sing much worse than her best!”
“And that is exactly why I want you to tape the whole show. Right after that lousy imitation of my act, there is going to be a historic number. A playback of my very first Sudzo show.”
Felix guessed that Flora wanted to tape the show to add long-ago memories to the sentimental richness of the family reunion. There was also another answer: Flora, as filmed a quarter of a century past, was expertly made up for facing the lights. She had the shape and the sparkle: nothing to do but transpose TV color to home lighting. What Flora did not know about makeup could be engraved on a pinhead, using a jackknife.
Felix had a very special date with Diane, the live-in housekeeper who was on vacation with pay until after the Governor-General quit Bayonne to head for North America. Before breaking out in a cold sweat, he got the answer from the hereditary built-in computer: “I’ve been working out for qualifying for a pelota match, my ass is dragging, and I couldn’t stay awake for that show to start. But I’ll help you connect the recorder.”
“I can do that myself! I really wanted you to see some family history.”
Felix retired to his quarters, the top floor of what had been carriage house and, later, garage and chauffeur’s apartment, until women and children could cope with things automotive. A head taller than the Old Man, he resembled him in temperament and facial expression; two years of military service had given him an appearance of maturity somewhat beyond his age. However, there was a difference: Instead of the Governor-General’s trick of leaving people wondering whether bawdy laughter or cold ferocity would take command, the son was never as explicit in either direction. His veneer of urbanity and the suggestion of “presence” must have been his mother’s contribution from the Helflins, as exemplified by Flora’s fifth cousin, the late Imperator.
Diane supervised the domestic help, managed the ménage, and could be considered the feminine equivalent of the Chinese “Number One Boy.” Except to another woman, Diane looked a dozen years younger than she actually was, and in any event she was a long day’s march from the barmaids near the barracks and the two or three whores who served a platoon or a company of recruits. She had class.
When the coast was clear, Diane, wearing nothing but woman under her dark robe, would edge into the young master’s apartment, slip out of that garment, and into bed.
“For a good-nighter. We’ll both sleep better,” she had said the first time. “No lights. Jamais! Madame your mother might wonder, and I’d be looking for another spot.”
He learned enough about Diane to develop fantasies and cravings and curiosities. What would she be like, dressed and with lights, and bit by bit, very deliberately, undressed, perhaps with his assistance. And then, pillow talk not whispered. And even waking up before dawn to fondle her before going home. Maybe not even going home for a few days or more...
Felix left the walled villa by the tradesman’s entrance. He walked briskly townward until, skirting St. Leon and the Parc des Sports, he came to the avenue that led to the Gate of Spain and into the walled city. Finding the pie-slice building facing 43 rue des Faures was no problem: Between pelota games at the sports park near the oak-shadowed spring of St. Leon, he had reconnoitered by daylight.
The ground-level épicérie was dark, as it should have been. Light leaked past the shades of the upper floor. The new duplicate key fitted smoothly, as Diane had assured him it would. Being sworn into the army had done much for Felix. Having a key to a woman’s apartment was the thirty-third, though there really should be a thirty-fourth, degree in machismo.
Felix was not sure whether he ascended stairs or walked the most ethereal of air.
Out of deference to Diane’s job and his mother’s prissy notions, he would have to leave well before dawn. Naturally there would be a lot of talk about meeting the father he had never seen. And then the door at the head of the stairs confronted Felix.
Before he could fumble for the evasive bell button, the bolt slid aside, a muted metallic whisper, the voice of romance, of intrigue. The door opened on bewilderment and total dismay. The pint-size, black-haired girl who faced him—
Christ on a life raft!
The key had worked, but this was the wrong apartment.
The dainty package laughed softly, caught him with both arms, and stood on tiptoe for a mouth-to-mouth kiss.
“Chéri, don’t look so blinking bewildered! C’est moi!”
Crepe de chine blouse gave hints of curves that, though never before glimpsed, evoked tactile memories.
“Maybe it was the lighting. You just didn’t look like you at all!”
Taking his hand, Diane nudged him to the sofa, where a floor lamp made an island of half brilliance; the remainder of the room was left in shadows accented by glints of bronze, the twinkle of ceramics, the gilt of a picture frame, and the glint of decanters and goblets on the buffet.
“Your hairdo. And—” Felix was still embarrassed. He must have gaped like the village idiot!
“It’s more than the frivolous hairdo that a housekeeper simply does not wear!” Diane dipped into shadows and produced a black dress and white blouse, quite crisp, stiff, and impersonal,
“First time you’ve ever seen me wear anything but this. Like the girl in the camera shop. And sensible shoes. And makeup that simply is not makeup.”
Diane flipped the horrible examples into the shadows and stepped back a pace, giving him a good look at dainty strap sandals, red reptile with high heels. These, and the burnt orange brocade skirt of exactly the right length, amazed him—he had never suspected that this or any other woman could have such lovely legs and exquisite ankles.
“Of course I am someone else, and I love it! And you knew the difference between the dragon housekeeper, herding the staff around and browbeating tradespeople. Right now, you are not the young master and there is no one I address respectfully as ‘madame’!”
By now, Felix was back to normal. Instead of being a juvenile moron, he had paid her a compliment. “You even smell different.”
“Of course I do! Does a female major domo use perfume that competes with madame la châtelaine! Do sit down! You need a drink.”
She poured Denis Mounier Fine Champagne cognac into medium-size warmed snifter goblets. Inhaling the fragrance of cognac, with occasional birdlike nips of the liqueur, has in spirit something in common with the stately Japanese tea ceremony; although there is nothing ritualistic in the enjoyment of good brandy, there is communion between drinkers and drink.
After pouring the cognac, she had seated herself in a chair facing Felix. Each regarded the other: This was so different from the “good-nighters” to which they had become accustomed. That