by John Oram
They shook hands with a pretty, black-haired girl whose skin and eyes hinted Eastern ancestry.
Solo asked, "What's with a pig? I thought goose was the main dish."
She laughed musically. "This is for the risengrod—the rice porridge. In families where there are children, it is the custom to hide a single almond in the dish. The one who finds it in his portion wins the marzipan pig.... Somehow, it always happens it is the littlest child who finds it."
Illya nodded. "I know. We've played in such joints. The wheel is crooked."
"Please?" She looked puzzled.
"That," said Solo, "was a subtle Russian joke. Ignore it."
The goose, stuffed with apples and prunes, was a masterpiece. There were lager and akvavit and cheeses and pastries and little torpedo-shaped cakes of almond paste. With the coffee Gütte poured a golden liqueur that held the glow of summer suns and filled the room with the fragrance of orange groves.
"This," she told Solo, "can have a devastating effect on one's inhibitions. As they say in England: 'Drink hearty!'"
Later they switched off the electric light, lit the red candles and danced around the tree while the three girls sang the old traditional Christmas songs.
"It is perhaps as well," Illya said, "that Mr. Waverly cannot see as now. I doubt if he would approve of such flagrant sentimentality."
Gütte said, "Come and help me to find some nice music." She led Solo over to the record-player. Sorting through discs in the dim glow of the candles took a little time. Gütte put a Henry Mancini LP on the turntable. The orchestra began to give softly with Moon River.
Gütte patted the cushions invitingly on the long divan, and put the orange liqueur and glasses within easy reach. "Come," she said. "Now we can be comfortable together."
Somehow, suddenly, they were alone in the room.
Solo took her in his arms. His hand caressed the rounded curve of her cheek.
And outside, in the hall, a telephone shrilled.
Gütte sighed and disengaged herself.
"Don't tell me," she said bitterly. "Your Mr. Waverly chooses the damnedest times...."
THE END
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posted 4.8.2004, transcribed by Connie
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
