quaintly sleek, like the Packard in the garage; silver DC-3s and Lockheed Vegas flying in to Burbank airport, tall palms against the sky, everything more spread out, less crowded, almost sleepy…
Michael looked up from the manuscript with a glazed, distant expression. Before the war. Days of the late Depression, easing now that Roosevelt was rearming the country.
Days of comparative peace before the storm.
Kristine seemed to regard Westwood a* the center of the universe. She knew ail the best restaurants there—"best" meaning good food on a slightly more than meager budget — and she had chosen a less crowded one this evening. It was called the Xanadu, which both discomfited and amused Michael. The decor was dark wood paneling inlaid with somewhat oriental, somewhat Art Deco scenes beaten into brass sheets. White silk canopies depended from the ceiling. Its fare was not Chinese food, but nouveau French, and Kristine assured him everything was very good despite the reasonable prices. "The chef here is young," she said. "Just getting started. He'll probably be gone in two or three months; some body else will hire him, and I'll never be able to afford his cooking again." They were seated at a corner table by a waitress dressed in tuxedo.
Kristine gauged his reaction as the waitress wobbled away on high heels. "So it's not consistent," she said, laughing.
"Xanadu's an odd name, isn't it?" he asked. "For a restaurant like this?"
She shrugged. "I suppose they intended it to mean… a pleasurable place, extravagant, not necessarily Chinese."
Michael felt a strong, all-too-adolescent urge to bring up his unusual familiarity with Xanadu, but he resisted. He would not impress Kristine by being any odder than he already was.
"Have you been reading about those hauntings?" she asked.
"Yes. In the papers."
"Aren't they strange? Like the flying saucer waves. Really spooky, though."
He glanced down at the side of his chair, where he had laid the envelope containing the copy of the manuscript. Time to change subjects completely, he decided. He brought it up to table level. "I made a copy," he said.
She glanced at the envelope, obviously aware of the gingerly way he supported it on his fingertips. "How did it come out?"
"You can look for yourself." He handed it to her.
"It's very clean." She pulled it halfway out of the envelope. "I didn't think it would copy nearly that well."
"We're in luck," Michael said.
"Thank you." She riffled the pages, returned it to its envelope with a broad smile and slipped it in her voluminous canvas purse. Her smile changed to concern. "Are you feeling all right tonight?"
He nodded. "I'm a little nervous," he admitted.
"Why? Is it the restaurant?"
"No. What will you do with the manuscript now?"
She shrugged, an odd reaction, as if it all meant very little to her. Then an excited smile broke through her nonchalance, and she rested her arms on the table, leaning forward eagerly. "I'll show it around ^ie department. There are plans for a concert in the summer… July, I think. If we can get it prepared by then, perhaps we can perform it. And I'll show it to Edgar." The waitress returned for their orders, and Michael chose poached halibut. There were no vegetarian dishes on the menu; he felt less uncomfortable eating the flesh of sea-creatures but knew that a Sidhe would abhor even such non-mammalian fare.
Kristine ordered medallions of salmon. The waitress poured their wine, and Michael sipped it cautiously. He had drunk wine only once before, at the Dopso's house, since his return, and he had reservations about how it might affect him in his present nervous state. He did not want to become even mildly drunk; the very thought bothered him. But the wine was agreeably sweet and light, and its effects were too subtle to be noticeable.
One evening, the soul of wine sang in its bottles…
Baudelaire. Why the line seemed appropriate now, he didn't know.
"I'm starting to have my doubts about this
Michael looked up from the manuscript with a glazed, distant expression. Before the war. Days of the late Depression, easing now that Roosevelt was rearming the country.
Days of comparative peace before the storm.
Kristine seemed to regard Westwood a* the center of the universe. She knew ail the best restaurants there—"best" meaning good food on a slightly more than meager budget — and she had chosen a less crowded one this evening. It was called the Xanadu, which both discomfited and amused Michael. The decor was dark wood paneling inlaid with somewhat oriental, somewhat Art Deco scenes beaten into brass sheets. White silk canopies depended from the ceiling. Its fare was not Chinese food, but nouveau French, and Kristine assured him everything was very good despite the reasonable prices. "The chef here is young," she said. "Just getting started. He'll probably be gone in two or three months; some body else will hire him, and I'll never be able to afford his cooking again." They were seated at a corner table by a waitress dressed in tuxedo.
Kristine gauged his reaction as the waitress wobbled away on high heels. "So it's not consistent," she said, laughing.
"Xanadu's an odd name, isn't it?" he asked. "For a restaurant like this?"
She shrugged. "I suppose they intended it to mean… a pleasurable place, extravagant, not necessarily Chinese."
Michael felt a strong, all-too-adolescent urge to bring up his unusual familiarity with Xanadu, but he resisted. He would not impress Kristine by being any odder than he already was.
"Have you been reading about those hauntings?" she asked.
"Yes. In the papers."
"Aren't they strange? Like the flying saucer waves. Really spooky, though."
He glanced down at the side of his chair, where he had laid the envelope containing the copy of the manuscript. Time to change subjects completely, he decided. He brought it up to table level. "I made a copy," he said.
She glanced at the envelope, obviously aware of the gingerly way he supported it on his fingertips. "How did it come out?"
"You can look for yourself." He handed it to her.
"It's very clean." She pulled it halfway out of the envelope. "I didn't think it would copy nearly that well."
"We're in luck," Michael said.
"Thank you." She riffled the pages, returned it to its envelope with a broad smile and slipped it in her voluminous canvas purse. Her smile changed to concern. "Are you feeling all right tonight?"
He nodded. "I'm a little nervous," he admitted.
"Why? Is it the restaurant?"
"No. What will you do with the manuscript now?"
She shrugged, an odd reaction, as if it all meant very little to her. Then an excited smile broke through her nonchalance, and she rested her arms on the table, leaning forward eagerly. "I'll show it around ^ie department. There are plans for a concert in the summer… July, I think. If we can get it prepared by then, perhaps we can perform it. And I'll show it to Edgar." The waitress returned for their orders, and Michael chose poached halibut. There were no vegetarian dishes on the menu; he felt less uncomfortable eating the flesh of sea-creatures but knew that a Sidhe would abhor even such non-mammalian fare.
Kristine ordered medallions of salmon. The waitress poured their wine, and Michael sipped it cautiously. He had drunk wine only once before, at the Dopso's house, since his return, and he had reservations about how it might affect him in his present nervous state. He did not want to become even mildly drunk; the very thought bothered him. But the wine was agreeably sweet and light, and its effects were too subtle to be noticeable.
One evening, the soul of wine sang in its bottles…
Baudelaire. Why the line seemed appropriate now, he didn't know.
"I'm starting to have my doubts about this
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