The Cherry Blossom Corpse Read Free Page B

her cigar, and sat there silently watching us from her malevolent little eyes.
    â€œNice,” muttered Jan.
    The single table stood out the more because the rest of us were seated at two long tables—not crowded together, but still forced to mix, to make ourselves known to each other. I think in normal circumstances this would have worked very well, and brought the party happily together. But there we were making embarrassed little social gestures under the dark, contemptuous eye of the Buddha in black over by the fireplace, sipping periodically from her brandy and water. It was also ludicrous. I began to laugh, and Jan, on the other side of the table, began to giggle too. Cristobel said “Shh,” scandalized, so we both subsided. Everyone seemed subdued, even Amanda, who had come down intending to queen it, and found herself talking in hushed tones, for no pin-downable reason.
    From the next table I heard a quiet-looking young woman whom I took to be the black monster’s companion say in a whisper: “Lorelei Zuckerman,” and then repeat it to another questioner.
    â€œIt’s Lorelei Zuckerman,” I hissed to Jan.
    â€œWell, I didn’t think she looked like a Doreen Smith,” she hissed back.
    Meanwhile the bombazined figure was taking in a deep slurp of soup, alternating this with a sip at the brandy and water, her eyes all the time on us, as if evil-mindedly contemplating our idiocies. For an instant social icing-over, her presence would have been hard to beat, so thateven those of us who had bought a bottle of wine hardly felt more cheerful or more relaxed with our fellow delegates by the time the meal ended. I formed the conviction that I was going to have to make for the bar when this gastronomic experience was over. But before that could happen, there was an interesting little scene.
    The meal finished with an extremely good crème caramel. The cooking at KvalevÃ¥g Gjestgiveri was not adventurous but it was extremely satisfying, and as over the next few days I got to know the horrors of the cooking in the larger hotels of Bergen I came to appreciate it more and more. When the meal was over there was nothing to keep us there. Our conversational gambits were nervous and short-lived, as if we knew we were being bugged by the KGB. We began pushing back our chairs and discussing what we would do next, and we did not notice that Amanda—in a vivid green and over-dressy frock—had swanned it over from her table and had gushed her way up to the black Buddha.
    â€œI couldn’t forbear coming over to say hello,” she cooed. The black eyes stared at her, the mouth puffed cigar smoke in her direction. “A little bird told me you’re Lorelei le Neve.” A pudgy hand went down to the brandy and water, and the glass was raised, while the eyes continued to regard Amanda consideringly, as if she were a rat in a laboratory. Even Amanda faltered. “And I just wanted to say . . . to say how very much I enjoyed The Belle from Baltimore . . . and all your other lovely stories . . .”
    She faded into silence as she met with no response. Then she pulled herself together, and with a sort of bravery that I admired her for, she thrust forward her hand, and said:
    â€œI’m Amanda Fairchild.”
    It was touch and go. Lorelei Zuckerman gazed speculativelyat Amanda’s beringed hand. Then slowly, with palpable reluctance, she raised her own pudgy mitt towards it. Flesh touched flesh, for perhaps half a second.
    â€œGood night,” said Lorelei Zuckerman.
    She beckoned to the pale young girl whom I had taken to be her companion, and together they painstakingly raised the Zuckerman bulk from the table. The ridiculous thing was that none of us liked to help, or to precede her out of the dining-room. We stood there, awkwardly, as if we owed her deference, and we made a sort of path, down which Lorelei Zuckerman royally hobbled, like