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LAST TANGO IN PARIS "You know," Itmana had said over lunch a week or so ago, "this holistic-health thing of yours is really going over well." The clinic had just closed for the evening, and they were sprawled, exhausted, on chairs in the waiting room, devouring the brown-bag lunches they hadn't had time to properly address earlier. Cautiously pleased at this news, despite sniffs of contempt from the Gargoyle (now managing to look deeply disapproving while simultaneously organising her desk, watering the spindly ficus next to the filing cabinet, and putting on her jacket), Hermione had sipped her orangeade to hide a sigh of relief. "Oh?" "Mm. That stuff you've been giving out for colds, for instance - I think you told Julien it was an infusion of majorica? The peppery stuff, smells like cloves?" Julien was the clinic's pharmacist-on-staff, recently returned from his vacation in Nice. Hermione nodded. "Well, he's had six patients asking for it in the last four days. He wants to know if it can be dispensed without a prescription, so he can keep some in stock in the pharmacy." "Sure," Hermione said without thinking. "Just give me a chance to brew some more." "Brew?" Itmana laughed. "In a cauldron, I presume?" Hermione smiled uneasily to hide her slip and decided to try for levity. "But of course,"she said lightly. "The open flame's crucial to the process - no electric range will do. And if you try to make it in a saucepan, it'll make the macaroni taste funny for months." "Touché." Itmana grinned and leaned forward over the table. "So," she continued. "Where are you getting your herbs, anyway? Do you have to import them?" Hermione, back on more familiar footing with this question, shook her head. "I've got an old school chum at the paleobotany museum in the Jardin des Plantes," she said. "He keeps me fairly well supplied. There's not much he doesn't know about medicinal plants." "Really." Itmana looked intrigued. "I'd like to meet him," she said. "I bet there are lots of people in this neighbourhood who would come to a lecture on homeopathy, if we sponsored one through the clinic … just about every self-respecting housewife in the Goutte d'Or has a vegetable plot on the roof or at least a windowsill garden. Herbal remedies are right up their alley." She took a bite of her curried-eggplant sandwich and regarded Hermione expectantly as she chewed. "Think he'd be interested?" "I don't know," Hermione said doubtfully, thinking of quiet, self-effacing Neville volunteering to give a lecture and mentally predicting his likely response: not a snowball's chance in hell. At Itmana's disappointed look, however, she shrugged and pasted on a more hopeful expression. "Guess it never hurts to ask, does it?" ** Neville, by his own admittance, was a reluctant public speaker. Ever accommodating, however, he had agreed to discuss the possibility over Saturday-night dinner, and now the four of them - he, Hermione, Itmana, and Khaled - were slurping oysters at an outside table of an Art-Deco brasserie in the Opera Quartier (called, rather optimistically in Hermione's opinion, Les Grands Capucines, after the bustling boulevard facing its stained-glass windows) - or rather, Hermione and Khaled were slurping oysters á deux, relatively unimpeded by the need to speak. They wouldn't, Hermione thought ruefully, have gotten a word in edgewise if they'd tried. Itmana and Neville had spent the first five post-introduction minutes of their dinner staring dumbstruck at each other across the table, another five racing through the obligatory business that was the initial object of the meeting, and were now - having successfully navigated the treacherous Tell-Me-About-Yourself Conversational Rapids - happily ensconced at the far end of the table, trading horrendous-spring-break-in-Miami stories (probably, ironically enough, the one experience they held completely in common). Apparently, Hermione mused, Itmana was still a sucker for Sensitive Guys - a weakness she'd readily admitted to back in the steamy no-secrets schoolgirl haven of the hammam - and there was no question that Neville pretty much had the market cornered on that particular brand of masculinity. He was giving back as good as he got, too - the lure of those dark dancing-girl eyes was considerable, after all. And while the conversation had remained relatively casual so far, at least in terms of its topic, their body language had violins and palm-trees stamped all over it. Well, I didn't see this one coming. The upside to this unexpected love connection, of course, was that neither of the smitten parties seemed much interested in the hors d'ouevres. Hermione tossed back another oyster, washed it down with a swallow of table wine, and caught Khaled's eye over the top of the bread basket. He tipped his head slightly sideways in his half-sister's direction, pulled a comical face, and raised his shoulders in a wry shrug. "It's her mating call," he murmured, leaning toward her across the table. "The minute she says, ‘I know exactly how you feel' … that means coffee and liqueurs right there. Should she follow it up at any point with ‘That's remarkably sensitive of you', it's an automatic invitation back to the flat to see her etchings. After that, the only way the poor guy can possibly screw it up is by arguing politics with her." Hermione laughed, but felt a wriggle of protective concern for Neville send up a tiny flare from the general direction of her conscience. "And how often does this happen?" she inquired casually, tearing apart a piece of baguette. Khaled considered this. "It's only happened twice, as far as I know. Before now, I mean." The flare fizzled and died. "Oh. I see." They shot a covert glance at the other side of the table, which went unintercepted; Neville might as well have thrown up a Barrier Charm right through the middle of the flickering candle centerpiece. Itmana was flushed and bright-eyed and swilling wine as casually as if it were root beer; "that's a fascinating point," she said now to Neville, her voice low and earnest, and Hermione and Khaled snickered uncharitably. "Tell me now," Khaled said, "for the sake of my brotherly concern. This Longbottom fellow - he's an honourable person?" "Completely," Hermione averred, shooting an anxious glance at the starry-eyed party in question. "Not a hint of the drageur about him, if that's what you're asking. I've never seen him look like this." "Excellent." Khaled leaned back, withdrew a stylish flat wallet from his inside jacket pocket, and nonchalantly flipped a stack of hundred-franc notes onto the table. "Then let's leave them to it and seek our fortunes elsewhere tonight. Do you gamble at all?" "Gamble?" Hermione's eyes went wide; of all the questions he could have asked, this was hardly what she'd expected. "Um. Not really. I mean, we used to play Expl—I mean, Snap—for a penny a point, back at school. But that's about it." "Ah. Well, that's a start." Khaled grinned. "This isn't my favorite part of town," he mused. "Too touristy, and I'm not particularly a fan of the theatre. But since we're here …" He jerked his head in the general direction of the multiplex cinema a block or so away. "There's a private casino in that block of buildings, and their restaurant serves a better dinner than anything you'll find on the street. And I'll teach you how to play baccarat afterwards, if you like." "Um." Hermione bit her lip. "Sounds lovely, Khaled. Really. But—" "You look very British when you're worried," he teased. "Don't get nervous. It's a bit glittery, I grant you that, but it's not the den of vice you'd expect it to be. Come on - it'll be fun." It's not the casino that's got me nervous, Hermione thought. It's the fact that this started out as dinner-with-friends and is turning into a date. She swallowed hard, about to object, then took another look at him and relaxed a little. The light of love was noticeably absent from his eyes; particularly when contrasted with the earnest, soft-spoken Neville, he looked exactly like what he was - a charming, bored princeling anxious for diversion. And baccarat did sound exciting. And very … well, French. "Okay," she said. "Lead the way." ** They turned right, toward the Seine, and strolled down the boulevard, companionably arm-in-arm to avoid being separated by the heavy foot traffic. This part of Paris juxtaposed the banal with the sublime, the glaringly modern with the ancient - the Opera-Comique and Church of the Madeleine snuggled up on the same block with Burger King and Copy Cop. The multiplex cinema was crowded with lines of moviegoers; Hermione glanced at the marquee and was surprised to see it advertising mostly Hollywood films. They crossed the street at the next light - "it's right here," Khaled said, pointing to a limestone building in front of them. Hermione blinked - the only eateries she could see on this block were McDonalds and Pizza Hut - but trotted along next to him anyway, mystified but willing to go along for the ride. He walked past the fast-food joints and turned the corner to the building's side-entrance - ah, this was better, a modest sign advertising a Chinese restaurant - but they went past that too, through a single unmarked door in the side of the building … and then Hermione understood, and caught her breath. She'd read about this, about the hidden courtyards of Paris - now that she was inside, what had seemed like an impenetrable block of stone was revealed as its true self: a fortress surrounding a garden. More carved wooden doors, these flanked by close-faced men in dark suits. When they saw Khaled, they nodded. "Bonsoir, Monsieur. Madame." "Bonsoir, messieurs." One of them opened the door, and they walked through. Beyond it was a curving staircase, lushly carpeted in crimson; as they emerged onto the first landing, Hermione caught a glimpse of the casino - shimmering, rococo, chandeliered, more like the Dauphin's drawing-room than the gambling den of her prurient fantasies - and had to hold back a gasp. "Beautiful, isn't it?" Khaled didn't pause. "One more flight," he said; "we'll see all this again after dinner. I refuse to gamble on an empty stomach." The restaurant was on the top floor, as bejeweled and resplendent as anything below it and yet somehow cheerful, brighter and more bustling than Hermione would have expected. They were shown to a corner table by a smiling maitre-d', after which food and wine appeared almost instantly, without benefit of wine list or menu. Hermione ate what was put before her - what seemed like dozens of tiny elegantly-sauced portions, a biteful of this delicacy, a thimbleful of that, her fork hardly touching her plate before it was whisked away and replaced with something else. "Is this the tasting menu?" she wanted to know, and Khaled - placidly forking in his uncomplicated plat of steak-frites - laughed. "No," he said. "It's two things, really. First of all, I never bring women here, so they're out to impress you. And secondly, you're an anglaise. They're trying to show you how it's done." "You know these people pretty well, don't you?" It was more a statement than a question; they'd had three waiters hovering round their table since they sat down, and more than one of them had lingered for conversation. Khaled nodded. "I come here a lot," he said. "Up in the Goutte d'Or, Itmana and I don't use our real names, or flaunt our real cash, or pretend to know anything about our real bloodlines … in fact, we're not even brother and sister, but just Yasmine and Zarif, doctor and administrator. Which is freeing in one sense, I suppose - I can do a lot of things as Zarif that I'd never have contemplated as Khaled - but on the other hand, it can be wearing, too. I used to visit this place back in the days when I didn't have a secret identity, so there was never any question of trying to preserve anonymity here. It's still just about the only place in the city where I can use my real name." Oh, God, Hermione thought, startled. I know just how he feels. I'll be inviting him to view my etchings next. ** She didn't, though. They'd finished dinner, played a few rounds of baccarat in the gilded little casino, and that had been that. Much to her surprise, he hadn't even tried anything, had merely kissed her cheek and put her in a cab. "Bonsoir, Doctor," he'd said. "See you at the office on Monday." The perfect gentleman. And now she was curled up in bed, staring into the dark and hating herself because for just a minute there, she hadn't wanted him to be. It had nothing to do with Khaled himself. It wasn't as if she wanted to date him, after all. But for just a moment, as he'd leaned down for that friendly farewell cheek-press that was as natural on the streets of Paris as breathing, she'd felt her whole body tighten and thrill with his nearness. It's been so long. So goddamn long. And after the longing came that ultimate of mood-killers, guilt: at least you're still alive. Yes. Alive. And drying up from the inside out. Damn it, Bill, I miss you. Her right hand slid up her knee in a parody of a lover's gesture, hesitated at the apex of her thighs. More heat - yes, yes, yes, insisted her expectant body, while her brain balked: you know this makes you twice as lonely afterwards, right? And you'll have that dream again, too. I know. But it's either this or Dreamless Sleep. And at least this isn't addictive. More than one kind of addiction, chérie. Don't kid yourself. You think this is what I want? You think I'd choose this? I'm just saying, that's all. In the end, she did it anyway - mostly because her hand was right there, and the bottle of Dreamless Sleep was on the bathroom counter, well out of arm's-reach. It was pretty much like she'd predicted: a few moments of pleasure, more grim than guilty, the welcome novocaine jolt of orgasm, and then pain, so crippling and intense that she shook with it - because no matter what the scientists claimed, sex was about more than just chemicals and proximity … and because she was reduced to foraging for scraps, when once she'd been a queen. The scariest thing of all, she thought, head buried in her knees, is that two hours ago, I thought I was happy. How can I fight this thing off, when I can't even see it coming? It was her last thought before she slept. ** |