Chapter Twenty-One
Marcel Lapin-Défunt, about this time, was wandering through the dim hotel corridors, unable to sleep and heedless of the prospect of meeting a murderer. Away from his mistress for several weeks, now, he was ravaged with an erotic ardour which, like a canary hurling itself suicidally against the bars of its cage, oblivious to the mat of moulted feathers on the floor beneath, had no place to go. Thus, he had turned, as a last resort, to his wife. His pride wounded by her obvious lack of interest, he was forced to formally instruct her, in writing, to fulfil her conjugal duties that evening, a missive she received with mockery and pointed refusal. He was left, therefore, to roam the empty hotel, until such time as he could safely return to his room, confident she had drunk herself to sleep, at which point he could please himself uninterrupted by her critical scorn.
He was pondering the wretched quagmire into which his life had descended, in glaring contrast to the fabulous dreams of his youth, when a noise, which he unhesitatingly identified as a woman crying, intruded upon his futile thoughts through the door of a broom cupboard. He put his ear to the door, to ensure he wasn’t mistaken, then knocked. The crying stilled. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“Oh, I’m very well, thanks! How are you?”
The wood of the door was unable to filter the sarcasm.
“May I be of some assistance?”
“Oh, well, if you boast the power to restructure the workings of the world so that all goes the way it should, Babel is reversed, and happiness comes out of the tap and has purpose, then, yes, please—go ahead.”
Lapin-Défunt chuckled, and tried to imagine who this might be. “As a man with some honour, I’m forced to admit that I can’t exactly do all that. My powers are significantly more modest, applying as they do to the gaming table and lawn bowls. But I do hope you’ll open the door, and let me help you, if there’s any way I can.”
“How would you do that, then?”
He shrugged, knowing full well she couldn’t see him do it. “Perhaps a game of bowls?”
The door opened a crack: a round eye in the darkness, beautiful and wavery with saltwater. “We haven’t any pins.”
He smiled. “Nor a lawn. But we’ve got charming conversation, already under way.”
The eye shut, rendering everything beyond the door black, but the door opened, and Miss Deirdre Laoghaire stepped out.
Lapin-Défunt had noticed her around the hotel, of course, but had not until now been so struck by her beauty. “Forgive me, but. . .I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.”
She was wiping her eyes on her forefinger. “What pleasure is that?”
“Of having made your acquaintance, of course.”
“Oh.”
“And so, to that end—my name is Marcel Lapin-Défunt.” He handed her his handkerchief.
“You’re the one with the beautiful wife.”
He somewhat stiffened. “I have that honour.”
She took his handkerchief, wiped her eyes, and returned it. It was sentimental of him, he knew, but, folding it and returning it to his pocket, he vowed not to wash it.
“Please tell me the matter,” he begged her.
She indicated around her.
“The broom cupboard?” he asked. “The mop?”
“I’d intended to indicate the whole world,” she explained.
“Oh! That is a problem, indeed.”
“Then why continue?”
“Why continue. . .what?”
“To live! Why?”
“Why—I don’t know. That’s an excellent question.”
She glared at him; at his smile. She had a feeling he was toying with her, but that was the least of her troubles.
“Why continue?” he threw back to her. “Why do you?”
She shrugged, and looked to the carpet. “Maybe I’m waiting for my standards to lower.”
He looked her over, and nodded. “Born into the wrong world. Yes?” he whispered. “Yes, I dare say you were.”