Blitzed(84)

The other man turned and glared at Francois before turning back and chuckling. It was the first time I'd seen him smile. It was hidden under a very thick layer of terseness. "Francois is right. I’m sorry, Miss Banks. I’ll make sure you have another blanket when the evening comes around."

"Thank you. I suppose asking for wool socks, a thermal undershirt, and keys to your car are too much?"

"The socks and shirt I can do something about, but I’ll keep the keys to myself," he said. "Although you’ll have to make do with men's size clothes."

"I have a sweatshirt you can borrow," Francois said, "but my only other pair of socks are dirty. What about you, brother?"

"I packed extras, you know that."

As the two brothers jawed back and forth, I gained a sense of the relationship between them. Francois was more playful, and certainly more relaxed than his brother. It wasn't that his brother — I still didn't know his name yet — was cruel or mean, he was just very serious. He was also easily exasperated by his brother's joking tone, yet tolerated it. Francois, for his part, knew exactly how far to push before backing off and acquiescing to him.

True to his word, Francois was ready with breakfast within ten minutes, bringing over bowls of easily identifiable but messy huevos rancheros. "The corn tortillas are but chips, but I think the spirit is still there," he said. “My culinary skills aren’t up to par."

"Considering it is Mexican-American style cooking served in a bowl by a Frenchman, I’m not expecting Michelin stars," I wisecracked, before seeing Francois face. "Sorry."

"She does have you there, though," the other man said with a grin. He dug in with his spoon, taking a bite. “It’s good. What is the red sauce?"

"Just some salsa that I cooked down and added some extra lemon juice to. I had to cannibalize our midday snack for this. So no nachos."

"Okay, that confirms it," I said with a chuckle. I took a bite of the food and thought that Francois was being humble. The food was excellent, considering the things he had to work with. "You may be part French, I can hear that in your voices and in your name, but you two aren't totally French. Do I get to know, or can we play Twenty Guesses to find out?"

"It can't hurt," Francois said to his brother, who nodded. "We are French, yes. But also Roma and American."

"Roma? As in Romania?" I asked. "I thought that was called Romanian."

The other man shook his head. "Not Romanian. Roma. What is commonly referred to as gypsies."

I nodded in understanding, excited that I could place a part of their background.

"We were born in the United States," Francois said, “but we’ve spent our lives living in many places in the world. Fiction distorts many things about our culture, but there are things they get right too.”

"You must have had a very interesting childhood growing up," I said, taking a bite of my breakfast. The avocado added just the right amount of creaminess to offset the salty eggs. “Pretty good,” I admitted.

Francois nodded in gratitude. "I hope you enjoyed because you might be here longer than we anticipated. Our dealer is being . . . uncooperative on our extraction. We might be here a few days."

I shrugged, it wasn't worth getting upset over just yet. "I see. Well, I won't worry about my job, I'm sure they have you on video dragging me out of there or something. I doubt my boss will assume I just walked off with you two. No offense."

"None taken," the other brother said. "Enjoy your food. If you will agree to not try and go near the door or window, you can stay out here near the fire. Also, don’t go anywhere near the swords either. I don’t want to lock you in the cold bedroom, but I will if I must."

"You're not much for conversation, are you?" I said with a smirk. "I thought the French were supposed to be these great conversationalists, yet you're worse than a Parisian waiter to tourists."

Francois looked at me in surprise while the other brother glared at me for a moment before grumbling under his breath and digging into his breakfast, finishing it off in five large spoonfuls.

“I’ll wash the dishes," he said quietly before getting up and going outside. I watched him go, shutting the door behind him. I looked over at Francois, who shrugged.

"The water pump is outside. If it were me, I'd have gotten a bucket of water and brought it inside, but Felix is Felix. Oh dear, I've told you his name now. Please don't tell him. He’s angry enough with me as it is."

I grinned and nodded. "Your brother’s a very serious man."

"He has a lot of weight on his shoulders," Francois said to me. “He doesn’t like complications.”

“So you plan to disappear amongst the Roma," I said. "A group that does not trust the government as it is. I assume you plan on going overseas again?"

"Smart woman," Francois replied. "Yes, at least for the beginning, we’ll go back to Europe. Felix has responsibilities there — grave ones. After that, though, our lifestyle is not like most people's. We’re nomadic, more than even most of the Romani. Our father ensured that."

"How so?"

"It has to do with our lives, and why Felix is the leader while I’m just the younger brother. You must understand the Romani have what we call Romanipen to be able to understand it all. You’re far too typical American to understand. You grew up, where, Santa Barbara?"