Night Rounds Read Free Page A

without him. Mystics, dear boy. And he thrives on it! The old clown!"
    He rests his elbows on the edge of the balcony. Below, there's one of those tranquil squares you find in the 16 th arrondissement . The street lights cast an odd blue glow on the foliage and the music pavilion. "Did you know, son, before the war the house we're in used to belong to M. de Bel-Respiro." (His voice sounds hollow.) "I found some letters in a closet that he wrote his wife and children. A real family man. Look, there he is." He points to a life-sized portrait hanging between the two windows. "M. de Bel-Respiro himself in his Algerian Spahi officer's uniform. With all those decorations! There's a model Frenchman for you!"
    "A square mile of rayon?" offers Baruzzi. "You can have it dirt cheap. Five tons of crackers? The freight cars are tied up a t the Spanish border. You won't have any trouble getting an exit pass. I'm only asking a small commission, Philibert."
    The Chapochnikoff brothers slink around the Khedive, not daring to speak to him. Zieff is asleep with his mouth open. Frau Sultana and Violette Morris hang on Ivanoff's every word: astral flux … sacred pentagram … grains of sustenance from the Earth Mother … great telluric waves … incantatory paneurhythmics … Betelgeuse … But Simone Bouquereau presses her forehead up against the mirror.
    "I'm not interested in any of these financial deals," Mr. Philibert cuts in.
    Disappointed, Baruzzi and Hayakawa tango their way over to Lionel de Zieff's chair and pat his shoulder to waken him. Mr. Philibert thumbs through a dossier, pencil in hand.
    "You see, my dear boy," the Khedive resumes (really, he looks as if he's on the verge of tears), "I've had no education. I was alone when they buried my father and I spent the night on his grave. It was bitter cold, too, that night. At fourteen, the prison colony at Eysses … penal battalion, overseas … Fresnes prison … No chance to meet decent people, just washouts like myself … Life ..."
    "Wake up, Lionel!" shouts Hayakawa.
    "We've got something important to tell you," adds Baruzzi.
    "We'll get you fifteen thousand trucks and two tons of nickel for a 15 per cent commission." Zieff blinks his eyes and mops his forehead with a light-blue handkerchief. "Anything you say, as long as I can cram my belly full of it. Don't you think I've filled out nicely these last two months? Feels good, now that rationing is here to stay." He lumbers over to the sofa and slides his hand into Frau Sultana's blouse. She struggles and slaps him as hard as she can. Ivanoff sneers faintly. "Anything you say, boys," Zieff repeats in a grating voice. "Anything you say." "O.K. for tomorrow morning, Lionel?" asks Hayakawa.
    "Can I confirm it with Schiedlausky? We'll throw in a carload of rubber as a bonus."
    Sitting at the piano, Mr. Philibert pensively fingers a few notes.
    "Still, my boy," resumes the Khedive, "I've always hungered for respectability. Please don't confuse me with the people here …
    Simone Bouquereau is putting on her make-up in front of the mirror. Violette Morris and Frau Sultana have closed their eyes. The Oracle, apparently, is invoking the stars. The Chapochnikoff brothers hover around the piano. One of them is winding up the métronome, another hands a sheet of music to Mr. Philibert.
    "Take Lionel de Zieff," whispers the Khedive. "What I couldn't tell you about that swindler! and about Baruzzi! or Hayakawa! Every last one of them! Ivanoff a filthy blackmailer! Baroness Lydia Stahl is a highpriced whore!"
    Mr. Philibert leafs through the music. From time to time he drums out the rhythm. The Chapochnikoff brothers glance at him fearfully.
    "So you see, my boy," the Khedive continues, "all the rats have profited from recent 'events' to come out into the open. I myself … But that's another story.
    Don't trust appearances. Before long I'll be inviting the most respectable people in Paris into this living room. They'll address me as