A Brush With Death by Joan Smith Page B

else. It was a disappointment that he hardly glanced at me. His lustrous eyes were scanning the new arrivals. Perhaps for the man he had forbidden to call him?
    I continued down the line and soon regrouped with John and Gino. “Wow!” was all I could think of to say. “Did you get a load of that Bergma!"
    “As cool a cucumber as ever stepped out of the refrigerator,” Gino said. “I wonder where he got that suit."
    John gave a disparaging look. “Don't tell me you fell for that greaser."
    To call Jan Bergma a greaser was like calling Catherine Deneuve a bleached blonde. There may have been a daub of something on his hair, but it was hardly the paramount impression. John was just jealous, of course, so I raved on to reinforce this emotion. If I had to put up with Hot Buns, why should he get away with no more competition than Gino?
    “Let me have the job of watching Jan,” I begged. I called him Jan instead of Bergma to infuriate John.
    “I'd better circulate and see if I can find Denise,” he retaliated, and stomped off.
    Gino and I, awash in a cloud of garlic oil, watched Bergma for a while. It was a night right out of my dreams. Everyone was there—even the premier of Quebec, with his beaky nose and glasses. There were lots of politicians, financiers, people from the performing arts—actors, singers, a famous ballet dancer in a dress much like my own, and a gaggle of anonymous society people. The pop of flashbulbs and whir of TV cameras told us the press was them.
    “I should've sprung for a new jacket,” Gino said, looking at Bergma. “That'l1 teach me to spend my hard-earned money on a dishwasher. Did I mention I got Ma a dishwasher for Christmas?"
    “Three or four times, but don't let that stop you. Repetition is the mother of learning."
    “It has four settings. I got gold, to match her red kitchen."
    “That sounds—bright."
    When Bergma moved away from the door, I took a sharp look to see who he was with. Since it was the Minister of Culture, I acquitted him of being a murderer and took the chance to have a look at the exhibit. It was gorgeous. I'd return later to study it more thoroughly, but enjoyed a quick glimpse of the various displays. The jewelry was whimsical, with birds and flowers and animals fashioned of gold and gem stones. Cartier had some intriguing jewelry and small sculpture, and of course Erté was handsomely exhibited. What a genius! His fashion designs were extravagantly lovely. The twenties lived again in those elongated, ladies in sweeping robes. I wasn't mad about his new line of watches, but they were interesting.
    “What do you figure the watches go for?” Gino asked.
    “Over a thousand, I imagine."
    “What suckers! This little beauty cost me twenty-five bucks.” He proudly displayed an ugly hunk of chrome with many insets on the dial. “Never loses a minute:"
    Across the room, I spotted John and Denise examining a painting. I was gratified to notice John was keeping a close eye on me. He wore a pugnacious expression, but when he caught me looking, he turned and beamed an oily smile at Denise. Hot Buns was in white, a rather matronly and unattractive affair with a long,, boxy jacket that thoroughly hid her charms. Maybe the museum didn't want her to look like a hooker. From the neck up, she foiled them. The mane of red hair was frizzed to a fare-thee-well, and her earrings were even bigger and gaudier than mine. Waiters, decked out like nineteenth-century footmen for some unclear reason, carried around trays of champagne and hors d'oeuvres. Gino speared us a glass and a plate.
    “What the hell. This is costing John a bundle. We might as, well get his money's worth,” he said. He took a bite of one of the hors d'oeuvres and gagged. I was afraid he was going to spit it out on the floor. “What is this stuff?"
    “Looks like a pâté to me."
    “Yuck. It tastes like lard. I thought Angelina's was bad. And look at all these high-class people gobbling it up.” He put it in