Jon Reskind - Uncle Gaston and niece Voluma One

Gaston Larreau smiled to himself. Guests, noting the expression, anxiously returned it with one of their own, but truly the little man was smiling in his own amusement. It pleased him that celebrities and others of importance vied for invitations to his weekly affairs. It gave him a certain inner sense of superiority. He knew what they thought of him… Canada's czar of the underworld; yet, to be seen at one of Gaston's Larreau's Mont Royale affairs was to be mentioned in the society columns of the Montreal World. He hated them all; they were frauds and parasites; yet, he appreciated them too, for they gave him an air of legitimacy.

Gaston Larreau stood five-feet-seven-inches tall in his exclusively hand designed, one-hundred-and-fifty dollar elevator shoes; he was abundant of girth, broad at the shoulders, balding, and meticulous of dress. His head, like his face, was round and set close to his shoulders, and his small grey, almost colorless, eyes were spaced too-wide apart, just as his too-small ears clung tight to his head. The cicatrix left from an aged razor wound ran the length of his right cheek, ending at the corner of his mouth, making the flesh there puffed and malformed until he smiled, and then the line of strong golden upper teeth became predominant.

Presently, he smiled with her by his side and moved amongst them, always hating yet always appreciating, lashing and cutting with his bitter tongue, but forever enjoying, listening to the whispers, staring down the men and lecherously eyeing their women, while unendingly squeezing her hand. She would be his ultimate moment this evening. He looked forward to it as might a connoisseur saving the finest wine until last. She had no idea what was to come. The expression on her lovely face would be as exciting to him as a moment of actual seduction, he thought. He could wait; to savor in anticipation was often greater than the act itself.

They whispered: She is the niece?

She is Antoine's new wife three months, I think. But of course, he's adopted, you know.

I didn't know. I thought he was actually related.

Hell, no. He's not a Larreau; his name is Poirier. That monster adopted him when he was twelve… conscience, I suppose… inasmuch as he killed the boy's parents. A struggle for power within the syndicate, as I understand it, and the lad's mother happened to be in the car when the bomb went off.

My God! Are you certain, Chapput? That's a dreadful thing to say unless you're certain…

Certain? Who's certain about anything these days, M. Minstre? I'm simply a reporter.

She is devastating, a female voice commented jealously.

Sexy, I believe is the modern term, my dear, replied her male companion.

They say she comes from the Gaspe… that horrid place, spoke another female. Unbelievable… such a lovely creature…

Breathtaking. But why doesn't he have his own daughter act as hostess, seeing she is home from college? It doesn't seem right, does it?

Annette? Don't be silly. They don't get on, you know… an estrangement of some sort between them… at least, that's what I hear. Probably over her mother… she's in an institution… has been for years.

I've heard, but I know little… Tell me, is M. Larreau as vile and evil a man as they say? tittered the first female voice.

Ask Chapput. He's the reporter, came a male retort.

Don't ask me anything. I need my job. Just look around you and consider yourself one of the chosen… the czar has commanded your company.

Look! She's lovely. Isn't she lovely, Chapput? What to say to him.

My God! She's lovely. Isn't she lovely, Chapput?

Tonight, she's lovely; tomorrow, well… one hesitates to guess…

Madeleine Poirier watched her handsome young executive husband from across the room. Uncle Gaston's so-called secretary, Ginny Novak, continued to cling to his arm. It irked the beautiful, raven-haired girl, but there was little to be done about it; Uncle Gaston's Friday night cocktail-dinner parties were a social must on their calendar; they had no choice but to attend, it seemed, their wealthy and powerful benefactor having chosen her to act as hostess and remain at his side. It was a distinct honor, Antoine insisted, especially now that Annette was down from Quebec where she attended Lavel Universite. Madeleine tried, as she had for the past eight weeks, to enjoy the distinction, attempting to put her own inner burden temporarily from mind as she assumed a false, worldly attitude, while the squat mighty overlord clung to her small soft hand inside his own fat, sweaty one; but invariably she felt uneasy… hardly equal to the task, and the manner in which the glamorous twenty-nine year old blonde from the States hung possessively to her Antoine was annoying her to no end.

Ginny Novak was never a secretary; in fact, Madeleine wondered if she could write her own name correctly. She was Uncle Gaston's mistress and nothing more. There had been a great number of them over the last dozen years according to Antoine, ever since Aunt Yolande had been put away in some institution or other… a mental case the family said; no one ever went to see her. Antoine, himself, could hardly remember her; he was fifteen at the time of her commitment, and he doubted if Annette remembered her at all. She had been only nine, and he remembered no mother-daughter relationship. A calloused, if, strikingly attractive girl, Madeleine had opined from their very first meeting, and constantly at odds with Uncle Gaston, seemingly taking pleasure in defying him. Now, she looked about the room, but the nineteen year old lovely was nowhere to be seen.

"Come, ma chere," Uncle Gaston said, distracting her fixed dark eyes from Ginny Novak who was laughing gaily into the slender handsome face of her husband. "It's time we reviewed this assemblage of social leeches, eh?"

Sometime earlier in the evening, Madeleine had fastened a perpetual little smile to her delicate-featured, oval face. She offered it to him in answer as the emperor maneuvered her about the luxurious room, always holding to her hand, introducing her to new guests as his Madeleine, "… wife of that adopted nephew of mine. Magnificent, isn't she? Sometimes, I wonder if the boy realizes how lucky he is…"

After awhile, Madeleine no longer blushed at his syrupy compliments before others. It was natural that these praises should react upon her ego, never in her poor existence having known such flattery, but she hardly felt parallel to them and she was pleased when other topics dominated the conversations, especially politics and more worldly subjects in which she was not expected to be versed. It gave her the opportunity to look intelligent with pretended interest while her mind actually wandered on many planes.

Sometimes, she could not believe this new, luxurious life she had become a part of and she would have to pinch herself to know that it was real. Then the lump of near-ultimate happiness would rise into her throat, but always followed by the little tears of pain as thoughts of her tiny Igat would rush to mind. Her shame… her child… her dreaded secret… Dear God, how she longed to hold the beloved little creature in her arms… to cuddle her… to mother her… her own precious Igat. What would all of these people think of her if they knew? What would Uncle Gaston say? But more important than all, what would Antoine believe of her, then? Oh God, she dare not even think of that; she loved him so.

Now, automatically, she let her eyes search the room until they found him again, and the little lump of near-happiness arose in her throat. He stood among several guests engaged in conversation, that blonde vixen beside him… he stood taller than the others, not handsome really, she supposed… his face was too thin and his nose too long, but it had been his gentleness of eye and his firm, thin-lipped mouth that had first attracted her… that she had fallen in love with.