Free A case of curiosities by Allen Kurzweil Page B

two kitchen servants loved each other dearly. The cook, in rushing around as she did, made the scullion thankful for the work she did not have to perform. And the scullion, in pursuing her warm-footed sloth, allowed the cook to imagine she ran the entire mansion house, which, in fact, she did. The one defined the other.
    When Marie-Louise finally came down from high boil, she had a chance to welcome Claude, which she did by hugging him tightly, transferring a bit of perspiration from her cheek to his. Catherine did not add her own embracements. She kept such shared gestures, frequent as they were, private. This was probably just as well. She was wearing a printed apron so tightly wrapped around her ample chest that the cotton's tensile strength was sorely tested. Claude marveled at the design. "The Abbe chose it," she said. "Brought it from Geneva."
    Despite the differences in the way the two women greeted Claude, they were in agreement that his arrival was a good thing. The nine-fingered Pencil Boy, while not producing the excitement that had attended the installation of the lightning pole or the pleasure that came with a shipment of island sugar, would undoubtedly add a certain electrifying sweetness to the mansion house. He would release the Abbe from bouts of melancholy, nights when the rest of the servants heard their master, through the chapel doors, shout and play mournful music with a companion he did not admit to having. The boy's arrival, in more practical terms, meant that Marie-Louise could fill a new mouth and Catherine could fill a new ear. The pot scrubber did just that moments after he came into the kitchen.
    "Let me tell you," Catherine said, "that you should not go bringing up the Church in front of the Abbe." She didn't wait for a why-is-that. "He will not tolerate any religious reference. Ask Henri." Henri, present but silent in the corner, said nothing. "Ask Kleinhoff. Tell him, Kleinhoff. Tell him about the pears!" Like Henri, Kleinhoff the gardener preferred to let Catherine explain.
    "Well," she said, "if they will not tell you, I guess I must. The Abbe won't allow Henri to keep colors with religious names. Same with Kleinhoff. He can't grow magdalenes, though bastard musks are fine. So are the great blankets and the orangemusks he gives out on session day. But absolutely no church pears. Why? No one knows the real reasons for the hate. The Abbe is a man of secrets, that much he will tell you himself. He's not to blame completely for the problems on the property. The accountant controls the purse. No appreciation for the work we do here." Marie-Louise ran between the pots and the table. Catherine continued her banter. "Can you believe how much is expected by that accountant? Never lets us have a moment's rest. Look at Marie-Louise. The poor thing. Shocking. If the accountant allowed a new apprentice to move in, he must have extracted all sorts of promises from the master. You know why you are here, of course. It is the Hours of Love."
    "Quiet yourself," Kleinhoff finally said, protectively. "The boy will find out about that when he is supposed to find out. And from the Abbe, not you." The gardener turned to Claude. "Perhaps I should tell you what the Abbe says about these two women. He says that Marie-Louise provides the ragout, while the other one provides the ragot, the gossip of the mansion house." There was a general round of laughter as Marie-Louise arranged the common pewter and announced the evening meal.
    That night, when Claude's head touched the pillow—a stuffed onion sack that was substantially softer than what he had known at home—he sketched through the events of the day: the Abbe's talk, the tour of the stores, the printed calico dragons with tongues of flame that ran across Catherine's substantial chest. He called up the supper, spoonful by spoonful. He had accepted two servings of a cinnamon-laced boar's head soup, accompanied by less exotic helpings of haricots and peas. He had been