No orange juice or coffee either. Genevieve eyed the gray mass in front of her. It had a nasty, rancid smell.

“Céline?”

The sound of the front door being shut quietly. That damn girl had walked out!

Genevieve sat for a minute or two, drumming her fingers on the table. She had a strong urge to hurl the omelette at the wall, but with the maid gone she would be left to clear up the mess herself. She was about to pick up the plate and return it to the kitchen when the doorbell sounded. Céline, no doubt, having gotten as far as the lift before calming down and realizing how daft she’d been. Good. Genevieve was ready to hear her apology. Perhaps.

But it wasn’t the maid.

( thirty-nine )

OLGA WAS BENDING TO examine the rock crystal sculpture by Hungarian-born sculptor Gustave Miklos. It had a phallic thrust to it but was also angular, like a skyscraper.

“This is nice,” she said.

“Thank you.” The smell of that omelette lingered on in Genevieve’s nostrils. A nasty, gray, eggy odor. “Would you like some tea?”

Olga was wandering around the salon. Running her hand along the fine leather upholstery of one of the Bibendum chairs, peering at the walls—the silver geometrical landscape on shining black background. Taking the stopper out of the Lalique crystal sherry decanter to weigh it in her hand.

“You have very nice things.” There was a silvery quality about her. Her eyes and hair carried the same color as the shimmering salon walls.

“Excuse me a moment. I’ll order that tea.” Genevieve went out to the hall to call Céline, only to remember that she’d gone. Damn that girl! Uneasy about leaving Olga alone, Genevieve returned to the salon.

Olga was now perched on the Pirogue couch. “That doesn’t give out much light.” She pointed at one of the lacquered-woodand-painted-parchment standard lamps. “So what is it for?”

Genevieve tried to imagine what Olga’s own apartment must be like. Paolo’s stories and something in Olga’s manner had conjured in her mind a poky, dark interior—wet laundry and moldy walls and children with a look of hunger about them.

Olga was clearly not well today. She looked thinner than when Genevieve had last seen her, a mere four days ago at the shop. Her cream shift-dress emphasized her paleness. She coughed frequently into a handkerchief and seemed slightly breathless.

“Does Paolo know you’re here?” She took a seat on one of the Bibendum chairs. “Has he sent you with a message for me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Then why have you come? This surely isn’t a social call.”

“Where do you keep your shoe collection?” This was spoken with a false brightness.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Just interested. Shoes are my life, you know.”

“Really?” Genevieve took a cigarette from the ivory box before her and offered one across. Olga accepted.