"Who said anything about a spectacle?" said Propinquor, up in arms. "The rides are open round the clock. You can go and get yourself shot in the middle of the night, in the wee small hours of the morning… Not so dumb, really, now that I think about it."
"I agree with Ludwig," Philippina cut in. "The designers of these machines must have been counting on a sudden loss of self-control, anguished midnight urges, early morning suicidal impulses-"
"Really, Philippina, have you ever entertained such thoughts?" ventured Orne in what he hoped was an affectionate tone.
"Not personally, no," she retorted, "but it could happen to other people, and such impulses can't always be satisfied when they arise. Even if you don't have a shotgun, a rope, or a sufficient quantity of sleeping pills on hand, you almost always have some cash or a credit card. And these machines take both forms of payment. They fill a real need. With the basics settled, all that's left is adapting to demand: price, availability, selection."
"Perhaps that's where the shoe pinches-in the, um, yes, what you said! Being shot twelve times is a bit harsh, don't you think?" murmured Gina Mordor, trailing her fingertips over the sensitive skin of her crossed arms.
"Twelve? Is it really twelve?" asked Blandeuil.
"It's a la carte," Orne replied. "Like oysters on the half shelclass="underline" a dozen or half a dozen. There's even a little round of just three. Of course, the price varies accordingly."
"I hope they haven't forgotten the coup degrdce;" rasped Macassar.
"Laugh if you want, but according to the piece by Lupus in the Rumor, there is indeed a coup de grdce."
Propinquor checked his watch with a worried eye. Homini Lupus, Ecorcheville's finest scribe, had promised to join them for dinner. "What's he up to? The owner of the Murky Maw will give our table away if we're too late."
"He knows where it is," said Macassar.
He was hungry, and didn't care much for Homini Lupus, whom he suspected of trying to sway Brunehilde into investing in the newspaper.
The Murky Maw had opened not long ago. It was just as good as, and less expensive than, Chez Pecunious, where its young chef had gotten his start. Orne managed to seat himself next to Philippina. Despite his age, he still never knew whether it was better to sit beside or across from someone you wished well, and from whom you hoped for the same in return. Doubtful that he made for a very inviting sight, he rallied to the solution of sitting at her side. He had reason to congratulate himself on his decision, for dinner went by like a dream in the nearness and immediacy of Philippina's bare shoulders and decollete. Orne was one of those men, to be both greatly pitied and condemned, who couldn't help believing that a woman who smiled while speaking to them was also romantically interested. Philippina didn't ordinarily smile all the time, but that night she was in high spirits, and so she smiled-at Orne, as at the champagne and the lights, the langoustines and the chablis, at the waiter, at Ludwig, at the sweetbread, at Gina, at the profiteroles… Homini Lupus never joined them; Macassar was secretly pleased. He was suffering losses and would have to seduce Brunehilde for the umpteenth time. Was she taken in? It remained a mystery. Gina pined away. She had always dreamed of an affair with a man like Propinquor. Upon his death, her husband had left her with a pretty stipend, but Ludwig was something else entirely: real money, concentrated, enriched the way one spoke of enriched uranium. She would have liked, much as fans stroke a boxer's biceps or a biker's calves, to press herself against that chest and feel his portfolio beating through his vest. Alas! Respectable women bored Ludwig. It was commonly known that he liked easy women. He paid Gina no mind, despite the licentious airs she tried to put on.
Orne deluded himself with hope. He imagined his dealings were going well because Philippina had smiled at him. He contemplated the best way to bring up, in an aside, the offer of a drink for just the two of them, to finish off the evening. Suddenly, a plump, fortyish stranger, olive-skinned and hook-nosed, with black curly hair and gleam in her eye, appeared at the table. A large gray parrot clung to a wooden perch set in a leather epaulette stitched to her gypsy dress. Frowning, Ludwig Propinquor looked about for the maitre d', but the parrot put his suspicions to rest with an amusing stunt. Not content simply to hail the guests one by one, telling men from women without fail, it called upon the former as witness to the latter's charms. The most marvelous part of the act was the aptness of the bird's compliments: it praised Gina's carnation, Philippina's decolletage, and Brunehilde's tresses. In a matter of moments, it had won over the table.
"Ladies and gentlemen," said the mistress of their new feathered friend, "my parrot can speak like you and I, but this is not the only gift God has given him."
She paused. Orne took advantage of the silence to sally forth with a remark he hoped would make Philippina laugh. Oh, Philippina's laugh, that brash workaday guffaw!
"Let me guess-it reads tarot cards?"
His neighbor's reaction filled Orne with delight. She opened her mouth, that pink grotto where frolicked the plump manatee of her tongue, and out came the laugh he'd been waiting for.
"Yes!" The gypsy pointed Orne's way an index finger whose sharp and tapered nail could, he thought, have enucleated rabbit or man with equal ease.
"Yes!" she repeated. "You've guessed it, sir, except that this bird has no need of cards to tell the future. Have you ever asked yourself how long you've left to live? Legends from my native land have it that our hearts know and sometimes warn us in whispers that our minds refuse to heed. Ask the question and my parrot will read the answer in your eves.
"Is it expensive?" asked Blandeuil.
"Next to nothing. Consider that if the date proves distant, this knowledge will either allow you to go on living more peacefully and happily than ever before-or, on the contrary, to take all the necessary measures. And yet such precious information will cost you almost nothing, for you can ask the bird three questions for the modest sum of one hundred francs each time."
"You mean I'll have to fork over a hundred francs a question?" Macassar asked.
"Exactly," the gypsy replied. "But whether the first answer frightens, upsets, or fully reassures you, nothing obliges you to go on, and you'll only have paid a hundred francs."
Ludwig Propinquor had come by the reputation of a freethinker, which he was fond of upholding. He pulled a roll of bills from his pocket and counted three out on the table. "By God, a Propinquor fears neither death nor spending. Here are your three hundred francs, all at once."
He turned to the parrot. "Well, my little pullet, how much time have I left to live?"
"Pardon me, sir," said the gypsy, "but that's not how to go about it. You must say, for example, `Handsome bird, have I more than twentyfive years left to live?' And he will answer yes or no. If you want to know more, ask him a second question, framed in the same manner: `Handsome bird, have I more than or just this many years left to live?"'
"I get it," Propinquor said. "So be it! Let's see: I'm thirty-nine; I belong to a family generally blessed with longevity. `Handsome bird, have I more than fifty years left to live?"' he asked, imitating the voice and burlesque mugging of Louis de Funds.
Impassive, the parrot waited for the merriment to die down before pronouncing its verdict.
"Yes!" it said at last, with conviction, before turning its head to preen itself.
Ludwig beamed at the applause. With a lordly flourish, he proffered the gypsy three bills. "I'm satisfied with my half century; keep the change!"