could follow. The lights were kept low so the plain wooden tables didn't look too shabby. There was no live music and no jukebox, but the door was always open so the customers could enjoy the sounds of a jazz band playing a couple of doors away at the corner of Bourbon Street.
Oliver and Irena sat across from each other at one of the small tables. He watched with a smile as she dipped the last of her half dozen oysters into the spicy sauce and popped it into her mouth.
"Am I doing it wrong?" she said.
"What's that?"
"The way you were looking at me, I thought maybe I was eating the oysters wrong."
Oliver laughed. "Not that I'm aware of. I'm just glad to see that you have such a hearty appetite. For a while, back there, I was afraid that you were a really sick girl."
"I told you I have a strange metabolism."
"Maybe so, but there's sure nothing wrong with the rest of you."
"Are you flirting with me, Mr. Curator?" she said.
"Just a little. Laying the groundwork, you might say."
Irena studied his face. "You don't look much like a curator."
"Oh? What does a curator look like?"
"Older, for one thing. Gray hair, getting thin on top. Wire-rim glasses. A slight stoop. Jacket with leather patches at the elbows."
"I do have one of those jackets at home."
"You still don't fit the image."
"If not a curator, what do I look like?"
Irena put two fingers to her cheek thoughtfully. "I don't know. Maybe a high-school football coach. Or somebody who races cars. Or a mountain climber."
"Those all sound very glamorous," he said, "but what I am is the curator of the New Orleans Zoo."
The waiter arrived with two platters of flaky pompano caught that morning in Breton Sound. It was served with lemon-butter sauce and feather-light French fries.
"They have a pretty good house chablis here," Oliver said.
"If you don't mind, I'd rather have a glass of milk."
"Why should I mind?" To the waiter he said, "One glass of milk and a small carafe of chablis."
"I'm not much of a drinker," she apologized.
"That is a shame, because I was planning to get you drunk and have my way with you."
"Oho, so that's why you were feeding me all those oysters."
"It was worth a try," he said with an elaborate shrug. Irena took a bite of the pompano and closed her eyes in pleasure. "This is delicious. I do love fish."
Oliver smiled, sharing her enjoyment.
The waiter brought the milk and the wine. Irena and Oliver toasted each other.
"So are you going to tell me just what the curator of a zoo does?" she said.
"Are you really interested?"
"Of course I am. I wouldn't have asked you otherwise."
"I'm not a vet myself, but I oversee the veterinary work. Do a lot of research. I'm responsible for buying the animals, when we have the budget for it. I also sell animals when we have a surplus of a particular breed. Set up the exhibits. And sometimes, when we get a donation or win a government grant, I'll head up an expedition."
"An expedition? Like into the jungle?"
"Sometimes."
"Now, that sounds exciting. You see, I knew there was something glamorous about you."
"I'm glad you think so, but most of my expeditions are into the bureaucratic jungles. A lot of the local politicians don't think New Orleans needs two zoos. Between you and me, they just may be right."
"How long have you done this kind of work?"
"Ever since I got out of college. That would be almost ten years now. But it really started when I was a kid. I was always comfortable around animals. Spent more time with them than I did with people. I still do, if you come right down to it."
"I love animals too," Irena said seriously. "They're so, I don't know, honest."
"I know what you mean." Oliver grinned suddenly. "I never knew a monkey who would cheat on his golf score."
Irena smiled politely.
"But that's enough of the Oliver Yates story for one evening. Tell me about yourself. Where do you come from? What are you doing in New Orleans? How did I happen to find you with your hand in my leopard's
Oliver and Irena sat across from each other at one of the small tables. He watched with a smile as she dipped the last of her half dozen oysters into the spicy sauce and popped it into her mouth.
"Am I doing it wrong?" she said.
"What's that?"
"The way you were looking at me, I thought maybe I was eating the oysters wrong."
Oliver laughed. "Not that I'm aware of. I'm just glad to see that you have such a hearty appetite. For a while, back there, I was afraid that you were a really sick girl."
"I told you I have a strange metabolism."
"Maybe so, but there's sure nothing wrong with the rest of you."
"Are you flirting with me, Mr. Curator?" she said.
"Just a little. Laying the groundwork, you might say."
Irena studied his face. "You don't look much like a curator."
"Oh? What does a curator look like?"
"Older, for one thing. Gray hair, getting thin on top. Wire-rim glasses. A slight stoop. Jacket with leather patches at the elbows."
"I do have one of those jackets at home."
"You still don't fit the image."
"If not a curator, what do I look like?"
Irena put two fingers to her cheek thoughtfully. "I don't know. Maybe a high-school football coach. Or somebody who races cars. Or a mountain climber."
"Those all sound very glamorous," he said, "but what I am is the curator of the New Orleans Zoo."
The waiter arrived with two platters of flaky pompano caught that morning in Breton Sound. It was served with lemon-butter sauce and feather-light French fries.
"They have a pretty good house chablis here," Oliver said.
"If you don't mind, I'd rather have a glass of milk."
"Why should I mind?" To the waiter he said, "One glass of milk and a small carafe of chablis."
"I'm not much of a drinker," she apologized.
"That is a shame, because I was planning to get you drunk and have my way with you."
"Oho, so that's why you were feeding me all those oysters."
"It was worth a try," he said with an elaborate shrug. Irena took a bite of the pompano and closed her eyes in pleasure. "This is delicious. I do love fish."
Oliver smiled, sharing her enjoyment.
The waiter brought the milk and the wine. Irena and Oliver toasted each other.
"So are you going to tell me just what the curator of a zoo does?" she said.
"Are you really interested?"
"Of course I am. I wouldn't have asked you otherwise."
"I'm not a vet myself, but I oversee the veterinary work. Do a lot of research. I'm responsible for buying the animals, when we have the budget for it. I also sell animals when we have a surplus of a particular breed. Set up the exhibits. And sometimes, when we get a donation or win a government grant, I'll head up an expedition."
"An expedition? Like into the jungle?"
"Sometimes."
"Now, that sounds exciting. You see, I knew there was something glamorous about you."
"I'm glad you think so, but most of my expeditions are into the bureaucratic jungles. A lot of the local politicians don't think New Orleans needs two zoos. Between you and me, they just may be right."
"How long have you done this kind of work?"
"Ever since I got out of college. That would be almost ten years now. But it really started when I was a kid. I was always comfortable around animals. Spent more time with them than I did with people. I still do, if you come right down to it."
"I love animals too," Irena said seriously. "They're so, I don't know, honest."
"I know what you mean." Oliver grinned suddenly. "I never knew a monkey who would cheat on his golf score."
Irena smiled politely.
"But that's enough of the Oliver Yates story for one evening. Tell me about yourself. Where do you come from? What are you doing in New Orleans? How did I happen to find you with your hand in my leopard's
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