Fata Morgana Read Free

in the dark, you feel like you’re lost in somebody’s underwear.”
    The shop was a riot of fabric—flowered muslins, brocade, crepe de Chine sewn with gold and silver stars. Picard felt feverish, heard himself babbling of cashmeres, taffeta, anything, to trick himself into thinking he was well. “I grew up next door to a dressmaker... spent my childhood peeking through a keyhole. The ladies... undressing...”
    “A blessed childhood,” said Albert.
    “Yes... I saw wonderful things each day...”
    “Marie-Rose, Marie-Therese...”
    “An endless stream of beauty...”
    “...Yvette, Denise...”
    “I floated in that stream...”
    “... Jeanette, Paulette, Lucy...” Albert named the names of women, like beads on a rosary. Picard stared through the dressmaker’s window, caught sight of a chemisette, tossed over the edge of a lacquered dressing screen. His battered spirit moved faintly, quickening, as a blue silk garter followed, and the owner of the shop snatched her curtains shut. Picard turned, they walked. “There was one lady from my childhood, Albert. I can still see her. I am at the keyhole, she is bending over. A deep wide-open neck... trimmed with ribbons...”
    “...and her tits...”
    “Like... nothing that can be imagined. At eight years of age such things...”
    “I’m ashamed to admit,” said Albert, leading them on down the street, “that my great memories—you know, the memories that stick in the heart like these tits you speak of—are all of robberies I committed. There was not even the rustle of my coat, nor the slightest breath. I was invisible. I search for such moments on every job, but they don’t always come. One is not always worthy of the God of Thieves.” He reached in his pocket, brought out a thin cigar. “But I’ve planned a new job... a great work of crime. I’ve decided to...” He struck a match to the cigar. “... steal the piece of the True Cross from the bedside of the Emperor. It rests there, in a tiny casket, between two hollow sapphires. You’ve heard of it? No? It was found on a chain around the neck of Charlemagne. I have an interested buyer. It is, of course...” He tossed the match away... the Pope.”
    They walked slowly, toward the Seine. Picard kept his good eye open. In the distance were other floating clouds of silk and velvet, and parasols twirling in the autumn sunlight along the river’s edge.
     
     

 
     
     
    He sat staring at the shabby wallpaper of his room. Two weeks in bed is enough to ruin a man. He turned toward the window, saw the young men again, in the building across the way. They were standing on their balcony, looking down at the rue de Nesle, and beyond it, toward Dauphine. Young hustlers of the Quarter. Figuring how to swindle a few francs this fine evening, and how to spend it.
    They turned, left the balcony windows open. The November wind blew the curtains. He watched them leave the room. They’re going lightly down the stairs now. The one with the beer belly will fart like a wild horse when he hits the street, and his pal will smile at the daughter of the concierge. I know what they’ll do; I watch from my window. Picard has turned into an old woman, keeps track of everything on the rue de Nesle. I used to break wine bottles over my head. For a joke. Now I sit here... like a turnip.
    He rose from his old leather armchair; he’d worn numerous holes in it, which were carefully stitched with cobbler’s thread. The chair had many scars, like its owner, and he’d always been comfortable in it.
    He reeled toward the kitchen, knocked dizzily about, his head pounding with pain.
    How can I report to the Prefect in such condition?
    He sliced some bread, took a dirty plate from the pile of dishes, pistols, and ammunition that covered his kitchen counter. The pistols were his favorites—a Colt .358 and the breech-loading Lefaucheux. Between them, guarded by their black barrels, was the gold snuffbox given him by Prince Vatra, a little