Fanchon's Book(61)

There were a few sober interludes, of course, as we discussed the serious business to come. Not that I had much to say about it-the terra incognita of subtle poisons and post-mortem procedures and the farsighted avoidance of police investigations-but Kristi spoke with surprising sophistication and I listened in awe and caught the contagion of her bravura; apparently the dark deed would be accomplished more adroitly than I had imagined. And far more slowly, what with long-drawn-out plans and rehearsals that might go on for months. There was just no hurry. The first step she outlined seemed a simple if somewhat tedious one: I had to be seen with Oliver in public often, regularly, with increasing frequency-and thus impress the populace as a loyal and loving wife to my distinguished and venerable husband. Aside from that, nothing, no change; the clandestine continuum could go on undisturbed. And so the grisly raison d' etre of our strategy conclaves-murder for money-took on a rather remote aspect.

So much for plots and intrigues; meanwhile the precious minutes became the accumulated hours of 24-carat-pure golden days. I considered working on my novel, but that was as far as it went-I merely considered it. Besides, I was getting close to the finish and hadn't yet come up with an idea for a plausible ending; nor could I recapture the creative urge when there were so many amusing delectations to distract me.

Amusing-hah!-the ingenious imp had more creativity in her little pinkie that I had in my entire plenum; oh, the whimsical concepts, the extravagant improvisations! She even went shopping and bought a maid's outfit for me, the sexy kind with the low-cut bodice and high-cut skirt (two sizes tight and I had to use a waist-cincher; perfectly scandalous!) and I couldn't figure out where she had gotten such a droll notion, but I was just infatuated old fool enough to put it on and wear it and love it and practically live in it; I curtsied to my exacting mistress and lit her cigarettes and served her breakfast in bed and brushed her hair and bathed and dried and powdered and perfumed her beautiful body and bowed to her demand for a daily manicure and pedicure-ah, what joy to kneel at Miss Kristi's feet and paint her toenails and then kiss them, one by one, in the hope that I might be permitted further liberties-and only after our sweet holiday-at-home suffered its eventual disruption (the return of Oliver, alas!) did I realize that throughout my tenure and observance of a maidservant's rank and customs and duties I hadn't once thought about the "acting game." Not once-even though I was actually playing it.

But the golden days were gone and I laid away my naughty costume and settled down to the grim business at hand. Although I couldn't call it grim, exactly; I dropped in on Oliver at the ministry and teased him into taking me to lunch and we both drank a little too much and fell into a festive mood. Like old times, he told me gaily, radiating sentimental charm-and so it was, really, just like old times, except that my husband was famous now and we got the plush-carpet treatment from the people in the restaurant. A bailiff is not without honor in his own bailiwick, I was pleased to note, and I felt pretty good just being there with him. I gazed at his kindly old face across the table and wondered how I could even think (if killing such a nice person, and yet I knew I would-because I had to-because she willed it; and wasn't I her slave?

Then-that extra aperitif, perhaps?-Oliver's sentiment went from mellow to maudlin, and before I could surmise the tragic trend of his maundering, he hemmed and hawed into the macabre theme of his possible assassination. While I sat in congealed stupefaction with a curdled smile on my face; assassination, what a shock!-did he suspect something? But no, his concern was genuine but only in a general way: these recurrent political crises were putting him in considerable danger, he informed me gravely, and with agitators from abroad fomenting revolution in every corner, he had judged it prudent to provide a small sub rosa reserve fund for the future. My future, not his-and he sincerely wished he could have done more to insure my financial security. But come what may, there was some money for me in a foreign bank, not much, certainly no great fortune, but sufficient to ease the immediate burden of my bereavement. So even if the worst happened and his death caused a collapse of the government, well…