L.

[5.] When He Is Very Happy

While Dasius sat in my kitchen on the telephone, I listened. While I listened, the polite gentleman he had brought with him crept into my room. 

"Hush," I whispered to him. "What is your name?"

"Hush," he whispered back to me, trying to kiss my ear. "It's Marco."

In the kitchen Dasius was talking to his lawyer, and I wanted to hear news of America, but it was impossible with this Spaniard at my ear asking to suck on my toes. 

I pushed him back against the headboard gently, which made him grunt, and if he was so easy to hurt, perhaps he wasn't be worth the work. As much as could be said for his curls and his well-cut suit, what do those things matter on a corpse? 

"I only ask that you be expedient in this matter," I heard Dasius whispering. "It's ready to go at this end even now. I understand that you have reservations over the visa but you must understand our position." 

I unfolded myself slowly, my eyes low. "Stay here, Marco," I said. Despite saying so, while I sat in the kitchen with Dasius, I saw Marco go out, cursing us. 

On s'en fiche. Don't care at all.

 "I will give you the resources. I do not know you to be so conservative, and I must say you make me impatient."

While I sat beside him, Dasius took my hand in his and rubbed the back of it with his thumb. Once, I broke a blade trying to cut my hand off. He is tender to my hand. He still loves me. If he were smarter, he would leave me alone. Bad hand. Wandering. 

"Do you want to kiss?" I mouthed at him. 

"Mr. Carter, I do not have time to argue the fine points. If it is possible, find the way to it. Yes, that is all."

He had been with Carter for many years, but he never called the lawyer "Martin". I called him "Cervil" because he reminded me of a small, wild cat. The lawyer had a slinky, sneaking way about him. His suits were cut slimly, in the Italian style. He wore silver ties.

Dasius hung up and I asked, "Do you want to suck on my toes?"

He let go of my hand. "You asked me that once already and I said no."

"When did I ask you?"

He bent down to take off his shoes.

"Take off the socks, too. Or do you have other business in Paris?"

"Not this time."

Polished wingtip shoes. Tiny black laces tied twice. Laced tight enough as to be nearly unbearable. Nearly. Gauzy white curtains in the kitchen window.

"Nothing to buy? Nobody to hang?" 

"I don't hang people," he said, solemn and incredulous.

Absolutely all subtlety is lost on him. He is completely without humor about certain things.

When he looked up and saw my face, laughing at him, he sighed and said, "You asked me in 1723, after that party you made me go to. With your boyfriend that week. Gilles. Or Guy or Guillame. That jumped up crofter bastard you insisted upon."

"You know what his name was. Don't pretend you don't know his name."

"Gilles."

"Why do you pretend not to know?" I asked, while he sat there and went down a to-do list in his head, staring into space barefoot like an idiot.

"I don't know. I don't care what you do." He looked into my eyes and said, "Yes, OK. I'm boring. I don't want to suck on your toes. What would you do while I did it? Sit there looking at your nails."