at the waiter. This slight error of taste made the whole edifice crumble. Mustard . . . One might as well suggest a glass of vinegar to accompany the tasting of the Château Lafite that they were about to be served!
The wine had been poured and he was just enjoying its bouquet when the French doors separating the restaurant from the lounge crashed open, making everyone jump. Annoyed, Canterel could not help but turn around to identify the vulgar individual who was capable of so arrogantly displaying a lack of education.
Clawdia Chauchat was advancing between the tables, smiling and imperial. She was wearing a brownish-pink suit of wool serge, with a belted jacket, a skirt that narrowed at the ankles, and a hat with a wide, raised brim decorated with a double knot of umber silk in front, oversized and jauntily tilted to the side like a propeller.
She came straight toward them, carried by a wave of tense looks containing a mixture of naïve admiration from the men and annoyed suspicion from their wives. Holmes was the first to react, rising to greet her.
“Lady MacRae, what a surprise!”
“I would say, rather, what a landing . . .” scoffed Canterel, clapping slowly and silently. “Such finesse, well done, bravo!”
“May I ask what you are doing here?” Holmes asked gravely.
“You didn’t really think I’d let you head off to the ends of the earth without me, did you?”
“This is a mistake. I told you how dangerous this expedition could prove . . .”
“Don’t listen to him, dear madam,” said Mardrus, genially. “Look around you: we are in a five-star restaurant on wheels, the only danger you could meet here is boredom . . . or indigestion,” he said, leaning back to let the server slip a Lobster en Bellevue onto his plate.
“Dr. Charles-Joseph Mardrus,” said Holmes, with a pointed look at Clawdia. “He is traveling with us to Irkutsk.”
Grimod waved to the head waiter to set a place at their table for Lady MacRae.
“How did you do it,” he asked, “I mean, get here at the same time as us?”
“A train from Glasgow to London, a boat to Ostend, and a mail-coach to Moscow. We arrived two days before you.”
“We?” asked Canterel.
“My daughter and I, of course. She is the compartment next to mine. Kim keeps constant vigil over her.”
“This is madness,” said Holmes, bringing a huge mouthful of Siberian sorbet to his lips. “I don’t understand how you could have done such a thing!”
“But what could be the problem with her traveling with her child?” said Dr. Mardrus. “On the contrary, it can only aid in her education, pique her curiosity, contribute to the development of her character. Really, I don’t see what is making you so anxious, you’re doing her a great service!”
Clawdia took a sip of wine and looked at Mardrus with that kind of studied coldness, the feigned insensitivity that misfortune forges.
“It so happens that my child, Verity, is the victim of a mysterious illness that has kept her asleep for the last eight years, two months, and fourteen days. I very much doubt whether she will be able to enjoy the voyage other than in her dreams, or even whether she is aware of any of it.”
Dr. Mardrus looked at her fixedly, tucked his hair behind his ears, and responded in a tone that chilled them, despite or perhaps because of its mildness.
“Once the pleasure centers have been damaged,” he said, “it is impossible to know anything but segmented joys. But rest assured they are joys nonetheless, Madame, real, deep joys.”
“You’re sure it won’t be too bad?”
“Positive. It will probably feel a little warm, but no more than Tiger Balm or strong mint. Remember?”
“Not very effective, as I recall . . .”
“And it gave me canker sores.”
Carmen has gotten wind of a new recipe for awakening her beloved’s passion. This time, she is taking the method from a documentary she saw on TV. A film about beekeeping and the countless benefits of honey.
“An old folk remedy. Apparently people used it to treat arthritis. I don’t see why it wouldn’t work for you.”
“If there was a joint in there, we’d know about it, don’t you think?”
“Who said anything about a joint? The point is to make it swell, using venom. It expands and constricts the blood vessels and then . . .”
“Oh, oh, oh!” says Dieumercie, striking a pose from an operetta.
But Monsieur Bonacieux is not reassured, even less so when he catches sight of the jar that his wife is taking out of the cupboard. There are live bees imprisoned in it. A good number of them.
“Let’s see,” says Carmen, sticking the Post-it note where she has written out the procedure to his forehead. “First step, the tourniquet . . . Will you get your little bird out for me, please?”
“I’m not so sure about this. . .”
“Come on, doudou, it’s for a good cause.”
She helps him undo his fly and pull out his penis. He touches her breasts, trying to visualize salacious images. If he can get hard, here, right now, this whole business with the bees can be forgotten. He tries imagining his wife sucking off a dog, a huge dog, a Great Dane, but to no avail, as usual. In the meantime, Madame Bonacieux has looped her hair tie around his cock. She slides it up toward the base and finds the best position for the pink plastic bear cub on the band.
“This looks stupid . . .”
“On the contrary,” says Carmen, patting his testicles, “you’re very cute. This is already driving me wild.”
As if to prove it to him, she pulls her thong down from her under her dress and shakes it off the tips of her toes. She has washed her hair, shaved, put on makeup. The fresh scents of soap and lavender emanate from her body as she cozies up to him to read the next part.
“Step two: we put them to sleep.”
She takes the jar in both hands and shakes it vigorously, like a cocktail shaker. It works: inside, the dazed bees are still. Carmen unscrews the lid and takes two bees by their wings. With one bee between the thumb and index finger of each hand, she kneels down in front of her husband.
“Here we go,” she says, focusing, as if she is getting ready to hook up electrodes to someone in cardiac arrest. “You ready?”
“Do it, dear,” he replies bravely.
“Okay. Clear!”
Madame
