Operation Isis. E. Hoffmann Price

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СКАЧАТЬ to their son. “So Felix is sleeping late.”

      “I told you that he moved into the chauffeur’s living quarters in what used to be the stable and carriage house. And he could have heard all the noise.” She braced herself resolutely. “The fact is, if he is not in bed with my jewel of a housekeeper, he is sound asleep after a busy night at her home.”

      “Mmmm... Felix romancing. She—”

      “Diane Allzaneau,” Flora prompted.

      “She must be young, beautiful, and a hot dish, or you’d not have gotten her out of the house well before I arrived.”

      “Oh, you bastard!”

      “Something I have never called Felix.”

      “That’s about the only thing you can’t rightly call him. But wait till you two get acquainted!”

      This was getting sticky. They were old marrieds again. Having moved out and away from Mars so that her natural daughter, whom he had adopted, could get the schooling and cultural advantages of France, Garvin felt under attack by Flora’s voice and attitude.

      “Fun’s fun, dream girl. Brief me?”

      “It was military service. He committed every known kind of perjury to get in before he reached the legal age. Told me that if I dared squawk, he would head for Morocco, hitchhiking outbound or homebound, if he ever wanted to return. He’d set out with that stinker of a young Dutchman, Droste. That’s how Felix learned Americanese. Low Garvinese.”

      “Things are getting scrambled,” Garvin objected.

      “Linguistics, a young Hollander who has been in north Africa and North America, and so Felix is sleeping with Diane Allzaneau. You’ve never seen her or you’d be imitating him.”

      “This is getting confused,” Garvin suggested reasonably.

      “I arranged it so he’d not be wallowing with the sluts that the soldiers play around with. You’re not supposed to know about it, and neither am I. If he ever suspected, he’d get stubborn and find some seaport floozie, but as long as he thinks he is putting something over, he’ll keep Diane busy.”

      Flora was on the verge of tears. “Oh, that awful Army language, it’s worse than yours.” And now Flora was in tears. “When I got more than broad references to those barmaids, those cantina girls, I suggested that there were really nice girls in Bayonne, if you looked for them.” Sobs choked her.

      “Darling.” He patted her shoulder. “He’ll snap out—” His effort was wasted.

      Flora’s voice rose hysterically. “And what that young whelp said about women told me something about his lowlife experiences. So I figured if he started with Diane, his taste might improve and he might amount to something someday. Instead of becoming an outright whoremonger.”

      “Honey, that was perfect strategy.” Already Garvin was sensing disaster: a honeymoon devoted to improving his son’s tastes in and attitudes about women. He glanced at his watch. “Christ, look at the time! What do we get for breakfast? Corn beef hash, eggs once over, lightly, toast and jelly?”

      Flora brightened. “Serve you right if that’s what I fixed! I’m all set for crab meat custard, and crepes suzette, and...”

      Garvin was convinced that Part Two of the Felix problem was all processed and ready to swamp him.

      Chapter 5

      Shortly after the cathedral clock bonged the fifth melodious note, Flora paused at the door of her son’s quarters. Instead of knocking, she balanced on one foot and gave the panel a flat-footed kick—she needed both hands to hold a tray of snacks. Garvin Senior stood by with a basket of bottles, glassware, mixers, and accessories. She had warned Felix by intercom that the Old Man would be over for cocktails. She got this answer:

      “Aw, hell!” he’d replied. “I ought to be going over to the big house to—”

      “To pay respects to your father,” she cut in. “Always the formal, continental gentlemen.”

      With Old World savoir faire, Felix accepted his mother’s restrained reproof. “I knew you two would be sitting up until all hours, and I didn’t want to break into your sleep.”

      “With you two men of iron roaring like lions and getting drunker than hoot owls, how would I ever catch up on sleep?” Now she said, “Don’t stand there gaping! Please take this tray.”

      Felix did so. The Old Man crossed the threshold and plopped the basket on what would be the study table when and if his son ever resumed school. Flora’s departure left two strangers confronting each other.

      Tightly spaced seconds followed the latch click of Flora’s departure.

      This was a new situation for Garvin. When he had met Azadeh’s son, his firstborn, the boy had been six years old and, since his grandfather’s death, head of the house. This was never in doubt, however his mother ruled him with an iron hand. Self-assured from birth, Toghrul Bek had accepted the newcomer as a foreigner to be accepted because his mother did so. Facing Felix, however, was dismayingly different.

      This fellow, a bit over two meters tall, regarded Garvin with self-assurance of an utterly different flavor: a critical appraisal, as if about to break into song, “I Am the King of Siam, I am!” All in good will and without a trace of condescension. Purely good fellowship. Not a suggestion of a skipper’s “Welcome aboard!” Nevertheless—”

      The Old Man thrust out his hand. “Long time, no see!”

      Felix took the hand, grinned, and wagged his head. “I should be saying, I’ve heard so much about you that it’s almost as if I’d known you all my life.” Urbane, whimsical, Felix was clearly enjoying the oddity of the situation. “There’s a lot the books don’t cover,” he added.

      “Such as?”

      “Well, if someone called me Jesus, I’d have to say, balls, mister, I am only his second begotten son.”

      “For someone your size and grown-upness, the books do not fit. I am Rod, not God, so I won’t be calling you Jesus. Not even if we get to Latin America.”

      Felix reached for a bottle, and they drank to realistic nomenclature.

      The place was stark as a noncom’s room in barracks. A pair of foils and another of épées were in a wall rack; cestas, the pelican-beak-shaped wicker claws of the pelota player, kept them company.

      Garvin eyed the array. “I’d say that pelota is the man-killingest of the lot.” In pelota, the ball was smacked about at pistol-bullet velocity.

      “Those Basque players have made that plenty clear to me! You ever play?”

      “Wars and the world trying to decide whether I was going to be an air freighter or a space tramp kept me too busy, but I did see some pelota in Cuba and Mexico.”

      Thanks to the North American tourist trade, Felix had found a bottle of real bourbon, Old Grandmother—Barrel Proof, at Chevigny’s liquor store on rue Pont Neuf. The Senior Garvin, utilizing spare time in Paris, had located a bottle of Hudson’s Bay Company СКАЧАТЬ