Zane Pella: Fanchon_s Book

But the climax of our farewell performance would have to wait. Business before pleasure-and I had an interview to conduct. The new maid was due any minute; literally and figuratively, I had to gird my loins for the encounter. True, I had already given my consent, practically-sight unseen, as it were-to take her on for a trial period. But I meant to be thorough, nonetheless, and had every intention of putting the girl through an exhaustive inquisition first.

Dressing presented no problem. Lingerie, a negligee, the mules with the furry pompoms; Rosalba scurried around to get the things I needed. My mental preparations were less manageable, however, and I continued to view the affair somewhat shakily, conscious of my own prejudice and yet-with good reason-unable to conquer it. Could any maid measure up to my faithful Rosalba?

"Tell me about her," I said. "You're sure she's safe?"

"Safe?" Rosalba frowned quizzically. "But I've told you that, Madame. Kristi isn't the gossiping kind-or else I wouldn't have recommended her."

"I hope you're right. Not that I don't trust your judgment, but I do have to think of my husband's career. Even the barest whisper of scandal could be tragic."

"Kristi won't give you any trouble. Not that way. About the other things, though-well, like I said, you might have to break her in slowly. This is her first job as a lady's maid, you know. She's so young and inexperienced. And shy, too."

"You make her sound like an innocent child."

"Mmm, a child, maybe, but not exactly innocent."

Rosalba's twinkling leer was eloquently suggestive. "You'll like her, Madame, she's really very pretty."

"That's small comfort. I'm not looking for beauty in a maidservant, all I need is someone who can-" The melodic cadence of the downstairs chimes cut me short; I shrugged lamely and gestured for Rosalba to go to the front door.

"It must be Kristi," she said. "Will you want to talk to her in the living room?"

"Uh… no, I think not. Bring her up here."

Where better to interview a prospective personal maid than in my own bedroom? I checked my appearance in the mirror, then lit a cigarette and stretched out upon the chaise lounge in leisurely fashion. But I was awake to my rapidly burgeoning curiosity; now that the zero hour had actually arrived I felt a prickle of excitement at the thought of meeting Rosalba's replacement.

Nor could I help but notice how provocative a posture I had fallen into. Did I hope to dazzle the girl? Deliberate or not, the indolent pose displayed my mature figure at its voluptuous best. The negligee, slinky and sheer-lemon-yellow to set off my brunette coloring-had pasted itself to every curve and contour, vividly limning the post-nubile ripeness of my flesh. Lower down, the carelessly tossed folds revealed a daring length of nude leg. Patently alluring admittedly, if not downright lurid; wreathed by the spiraling haze of blue cigarette smoke, I could almost see myself playing the bitch-goddess of the boudoir in a Hollywood lust epic. In glorious Technicolor yet.

Oh, I was proud of my body-and justly so. Let the girl gawk. Why shouldn't I use my undeniably luscious assets to good advantage? Let my new maid survey and scrutinize the succulent flesh that would be hers to attend; let her savor its spicy appeal and thus be apprised of the non-pecuniary rewards of her job. Surely she would reckon the mundane weekly wage a mere pittance in comparison with the munificent nightly fringe-benefits.

As a matter of fact, it was something of a pittance; unfortunately I had a limited budget to abide by and couldn't be lavish in matters of money. High as my husband ranked in the government, we lived rather sparingly and avoided any ostentatious luxuries that might impair his "poor but honest" political image. Whether our quasi-poverty was strictly sham I truly didn't know; I suspected as much, having heard rumors about hoards of untold wealth cached in foreign banks. But I had never discussed it with Oliver, nor was he the kind of man to whom I could even broach such a ticklish question. So I held my peace and stayed within my meager allowance, keeping household expenses-maid's salary included-down to a minimum.

Which accounted, in part, for my now-overt compulsion to dazzle the girl. Aside from the inherent rationale of ego and libido, there was the unremitting concern with frugality. My taste in maidservants was esoteric, to say the least, and might well have been expensive; in my dubious economic circumstances I could only afford someone who would deem her service to me virtually a labor of love. Wasn't it logical, then, that I should be so mindful of making a devastating first impression? With my near-naked body as bait, there would be little need for concessions about wages and hours and"Madame?"

"Hmm? Oh, it's you, Rosalba."

"Yes, Madame. And this is Kristi."

"Kristi… " I beckoned lazily but with a hint of implied authority. "Come in, child. Over here where I can see you."

Battered suitcase in hand, the girl sidled close to my chaise; diffidently she set her burden down and dipped into a curtsy. Not until she straightened up did I get a good look at her face. The vis-a-vis confrontation. And at that moment-mired in the engulfing gaze of those great green eyes-I lost track.

I damn near lost myself!

Certainly I lost whatever smug complacency. My own acknowledged beauty had engendered. If I didn't stir and shatter the statuesque elegance of my pose it was because of simple paralysis, nothing else; not lofty insouciance, not sexy showmanship-merely a stunned wonderment that delayed the next tick of the clock and held me immobile in the infinite interim. The most I could do was blink and goggle in disbelief. I had never been in the presence of such perfection.

A butterfly? Ah, yes-fair and fragile, a tremulously anxious butterfly, poised in delicate balance between fear and fascination. Or an angel, perhaps, a seraphic spirit gone astray, unsettled and apprehensive out of its celestial element; a divinity in female form, all cream and gold-somehow I couldn't cope with any less ethereal concept: in that split-second syllable of timeless time I saw a purity too sublime to be of this workaday world.

Smoke curled from my cigarette in a tranquil wisp. Somewhere, miles away, I heard Rosalba clear her throat. There was no other motion. No other sound. Only the static silence of the cosmos on its headlong rush toward eternity.

Then, abruptly, the butterfly and or angel broke the spell, bending eagerly to move the ashtray and catch the smoldering stub about to scorch my fingers. I smiled and patted her cheek in approval. She hung her head demurely, but not before I got a fleeting glimmer of responsive warmth from beneath the lowering curtain of her long lashes. And I realized that the lovely creature had found her earthly niche; Kristi was mine, my own heaven-sent handmaiden, the servant to satisfy my every wish. A willing worker in the workaday world. And oh, so beautiful!

In a manner hardly more than perfunctory I zipped through the dreary business of the interview. If indeed it could be called that. What need had I of petty details when I could look into those shining eyes and see the reflection of my own rapture? We came to terms readily, almost intuitively-as if we had already achieved a rapport verging on utter unanimity.

The maid's room was next door to mine-a convenient arrangement, verily-and I shooed both girls out, telling Rosalba to help Kristi unpack and get settled in her new home. Alone then, in a state akin to intoxication, I counted my blessings and gave way to rosy visions of the future. But my prophetic imagery took a singularly significant tack, and even in my beatific semi-swoon I felt a tiny twinge of conscience.

Sex? So soon? Is that all you can think about?