Free Ghosts of Columbia by L.E. Modesitt Jr. Page A

about France?” I grinned. “The food?”
    “Ah, yes, the food I miss.” Her eyes clouded for a moment, and she swallowed more wine.
    “Or the singing, the culture?” I prodded gently.
    “Johan, you understand … and still … you are here. She shook her head.”That I do not understand.”
    “There is little more culture in the Federal District of Columbia than here in Vanderbraak Centre. The most popular play at Ford’s Theatre is the updated revival of The Importance of Being Earnest . The most popular classical music is either Beethoven’s Ninth or the 1812 Overture. Yes, there is more to choose from, but given the choice …” I let the words drop off.
    She finished her wine, and I poured the last of the San Merino into her glass.
    “You sing better work than often appears in Columbia.”
    “And yet, I am here, forced to teach spoiled Dutch burghers who believe one note is much the same as another.”
    After looking at the remainder of the fettucini, I nodded to the waiter, who removed both plates.
    “Some coffee?”
    Llysette shook her head.
    “Perhaps a brandy?” I asked.
    “Not this evening, Johan. Perhaps we should go. You must rise early.”
    “The check, please?” I beckoned, and the waiter nodded. He returned as Llysette drained the last of the wine.
    I left a twenty and a five, and we walked to the front, past a scattering of couples in the main room.
    “How was the dinner?” Angelo stood by the door as we left.
    “Very good, as usual. The barley soup—I’d like to see that more often. And,” I winked at Llysette, “perhaps a shade less tomato in the tomato rice potage.”
    “What can I say, Doktor? Your taste in wine, women, and food is impeccable.”
    “The lady is even more discriminating in wine and food, but more tolerant in men, thankfully.” I nodded.
    Angelo bowed to Llysette.
    Once we were in the courtyard, Llysette glanced back toward the restaurant, and then toward me. “Here, no one believes a woman has taste—except you.”
    “That’s because few men or women have taste.”
    “Johan, sometimes you are more jaded than I.”
    “Only sometimes?” I helped her into the steamer.
    A light rain began to patter on the roof of the Stanley as I drove back out the
old Hebron Road to Llysette’s cottage. Her tiny Reo runabout was still parked in front of the porch, and her trousers got damp when we scurried up to the front door, despite my trying to keep the umbrella over her.
    “Thank you for the evening, Johan.”
    “Thank you.”
    I bent down and kissed her. Her lips were warm, welcoming, but not quite yielding. I did not even suggest I should come in. The next morning, I knew, would come all too early, and I had an hour-and-a-half drive westward to the Blauwasser River to catch the train in Lebanon.
    “Good night, dear lady.”
    “Good night, Johan.”
    I stepped back into the rain, and to the Stanley, but I waited until she was inside before I pulled out of the graveled drive and onto the road back to Vanderbraak Centre.

CHAPTER EIGHT

    I caught the early-morning Quebec Express in Lebanon and took it into New
    Amsterdam, and then the Columbia Special from there to the capital—the Baltimore and Potomac station just off the new Mall. Even with stops, it took only a bit over six hours, and the sun was still high in the autumn sky when I stepped into the heat and looked toward the marble obelisk on the edge of the Potomac.
    I still couldn’t believe that they’d finally finished the Washington Monument after more than a century of dithering. Now they were talking about a memorial to Jefferson, but the Negroes were protesting, especially Senator Beltonson, because they said Jefferson had been a slave owner, not that there had really been that many slaves after the horrors of the Sally Wright incident. Speaker Calhoun’s compromise had effectively led the way to civil rights for the Negroes, and Senator Lincoln’s Codification of the Rights of Man had set an amended