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starting to understand him better and kind of liked the Rudeeisms. Fiat’s work, however, held a dark side for me. “Unless his bodyguards are keeping it from shining.” I explained by telling him what I’d seen the day of the rally on the Champs Élysées.
    â€œYou’re too suspicious,” he laughed and handed me a tiny box wrapped in silver. “Give this to Sashay for me, will you? I’ll be back in an hour, and I hope I will still recognize your little Yankee self.”
    He deposited me on the sidewalk outside Sashay’s place and drove off.

Ten
    I rang the bell at the side door and heard it echo from above. The door clicked open, so I started upstairs. The same foggy music that I’d heard in Rudee’s cab oozed down the hallway on a fragrant cinnamon and lavender breeze. Sashay welcomed me to her “chambers,” as she called her apartment, into a room that to me resembled a Christmas tree, without the tree. The room was lit by red candles. The light flickered off of a series of crystal ornaments hung at different lengths from a ceiling that was covered in waves of lacy white material that resembled frosting.
    â€œPlease be at home, little one,” she said, indicating a velvet chair as she sat in its identical twin. It was my first real look at Sashay D’Or. She wore a serene expression with quietly intense eyes. Her face, with its beautiful and timeless porcelain features, was topped with a golden hairdo that had that whipped, baked, and glazed look of pure confection. A permanent pout suggested a “pooh pooh” to all in sight. She sighed as she spoke, and her narrow hands fanned and fussed through the lavender cloud around her.
    â€œRudee asked me to give this to you.” I handed her the gift.
    She took the tiny box with an even tinier smile and sighed. “Rudee, forever the same,” as she opened it, revealing a pin in the shape of a silver peacock with its feathers about to unfold, hinting at the rainbow of colours to follow. “Ah, so elegant. He knew one of mine broke.”
    She paused and arched a painted lid at me. “You know about Rudee and me, I suppose.” I nodded but wasn’t sure I knew anything, really.
    â€œIt was ... l’amour at first, as it always is; and then it just was, oh ... je ne sais quoi .” At this point I felt like I knew even less than before. “Rudee was, and still is, the most loyal man I know. He fought for me. He protected me and he made me crazy. Maybe I’m not meant for love.”
    Her voice trailed off, a mixture of regret and resignation, then she seemed struck by a powerful memory. Irritation crept into her tone.
    â€œHe smells of beets!” I tried to swallow a laugh by coughing, but I don’t think it worked. “He sleeps with his gloves on, so the music never escapes his fingers, he says. This man stands on his head every morning. He claims it promotes hair growth. Has it worked? Non , of course not.”
    This time I couldn’t disguise the laugh that escaped me. Sashay seemed to be gathering steam as she went on. “And the music, mon dieu, always the organ, always those mournful minor keys. And those melancholic composers — Gruntz, Langosteen, and worst of all, Vladimir Ughoman.” Her lip curled beyond its usual pout as I recalled my own encounter with the Churlish Concerto that morning. One was definitely a full helping. She paused, sighed, and added quietly, “But Rudee loves me ... and I love him. It’s just better for me if he’s on the other side of Paris, you know. He calls me every day and tells me I’m the loveliest of all and that no one can dance like I can. Ah, maybe twenty years ago it was true, but now I get by on craftiness, some mysterious music, and the audience’s desire to be entranced. What used to be all me is now mostly lighting, dry ice, and a three-drink minimum at work.”
    She stood up to pour