Chapter 11 #2
Mercifully, the conversation reverts to the rice, which I find about as interesting as a muddy pond. But at least the focus is off me. Until Florian drags me in again.
“Do you know why they call this flying rice, Boss?” he says.
“No idea.”
“Because if it gets too ripe, and the farmers wait too long to pick it, it gets thrown violently off the plants and lands on the ground, and then it’s ruined.” He looks entranced by this mundane fact.
“So flying rice isn’t really the right word, then,” I say.
“Sure it is. Why not?” he says.
“Because if the stuff that flies away is wasted and never makes it to food, why are we calling this stuff”—I gesture into my bowl—“flying rice? This is the stuff that got harvested. This is the stuff that didn’t fly.”
Florian looks affronted. The little kids wrinkle their noses, thinking.
“You’re missing the point,” Florian says. “It can fly.”
“But this stuff didn’t. It’s a stupid name.”
“We don’t use that word in this house,” the tiniest kid says, looking shocked.
I glance at Breta. She nods. For fuck’s sake.
This is why you shouldn’t go visiting a few months after getting out of prison.
They’re lucky I didn’t let something much harsher than “stupid” fly.
And now I’m thinking about prison again.
The guards would let arguments and foul language slide most of the time, but if things got out of hand or if they were bored and in the mood for sport…
“Boss, are you all right?” Florian’s light touch on my arm brings me back. His eyes are full of concern. Everyone is staring at me.
“Fine. Sorry for my poor word choice,” I mumble.
“No problem,” Prevana says brightly, and then someone says something about dessert, and the awkward moment is over.
Though Florian keeps shooting little glances at me.
I wish he’d stop it. I don’t need him checking on me.
I concentrate on eating quietly for a while, determined not to make any more faux pas.
There follows a long conversation about the provenance of every single ingredient in the soup, all of which flies over my head.
Food is food, isn’t it? Who cares where it comes from?
After dinner, the little kids show Florian and me their paintings.
As usual they’re terrible, as all kids’ paintings are, but you’re not allowed to say that.
So I make vague impressed noises while Florian leads the conversation with his usual flair, oohing and aahing like we’re in the presence of genius.
After a while, Prevana looks out the window.
Light pinks and fiery orange spill from the sky like liquid, and the sun is a molten orange orb at the horizon.
The sentinel cacti look more solemn than ever at this hour of the evening, as though guarding deep secrets.
A feeling of stark peace takes over the sky.
Sunsets are nothing like this in Rhennes.
“What a beautiful evening,” Prevana says. “Would you like to take a turn about the garden with me, Florian?”
He leaps to his feet with gleeful haste and holds his arm out to her like a knight with a fine lady.
“Love to,” he says.
Is that a look of triumph he throws at me as the two of them leave the room? Before I have time to get angry, Breta is pinning me with a hard, questioning stare.
“So how’s it really going with him?” she demands.
“Fine. You heard. He’s getting the hang of digging now.”
“I’m not talking about digging.” She gives me an exasperated look.
“What then?” I say.
“Girls, could you go out and lock up the hens for the night?” she says to the little kids.
They grumble, wanting to eavesdrop, but they make their way to the door. Once they’re gone, Breta turns on me in earnest.
“So you’re still determined to hold him to this bet?” she says.
“Why shouldn’t I? He lost fair and square.”
She purses her lips. “Poor boy was probably dead drunk.”
“He’s a man, not a boy.”
Breta thinks everyone who’s more than ten years younger than her is a child.
Except for me. I never get this warm and fuzzy protective treatment.
But I don’t care what she thinks. Florian is old enough to take responsibility for losing the bet.
He was old enough to take responsibility when he ruined my life, too.
“Maybe you technically have the right,” Breta says. “Even so. Some people would let him off the hook.”
“Well, I’m not one of those people. He doesn’t have it that bad, Breta. I’m working just as hard myself. Harder.”
“You’re built for it.” She looks me up and down, scowling. “He’s a city boy. He belongs in the thick of things. I’m sure he’s lonely all the way out here in the desert.”
“He may have mentioned it once or twice.”
“You even have him calling you Boss,” she says angrily.
“So? I am his boss.”
She shakes her head. “You’re as bad as an aristocrat.”
“Florian is an aristocrat, and you seem to love him,” I point out. I sound sourer than the lemon juice we sprinkled over the dessert pancakes.
“Florian is different,” she says. “He’s sweet. You heard what he said. If he took time to learn cooking from his staff, he’s nothing like the rest of them.”
True. He’s worse.
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore, Breta,” I say.
“Well, I do. What you’re doing is wrong. You’re going to wear that poor boy out. It’s like cutting a flower and putting it in a vase.”
A flower? In what way is he like a flower?
“Stars, spare me the poetics,” I mumble.
What on earth has gotten into her? I didn’t know she could be so soppy. I stand up impatiently and cross to the window, looking out. No sign of Florian and the girl in the darkening empty landscape. Where are they?
“It’s two years,” I say. “Not thirty. It’s not as though he’s in prison. If he didn’t want to work for me, he shouldn’t have gambled. Someone has to teach him responsibility.”
Breta joins me at the window. She doesn’t seem to have an ounce of care that her daughter is out there somewhere, fraternizing with a known philanderer.
“Why is it your job to teach him?” she says.
I feel my face heat. “It… it isn’t my job. It just happened that I needed some cheap labor, and this was too good an opportunity to miss.” I smirk. “The dumbest aristocrat I ever met.”
“That’s unkind, Grimes,” she says. Suddenly I feel about the age of her youngest daughter.
“Okay. Yes, it was. But I wouldn’t say that to him.”
“I should hope not.” Her eyes are hard as she looks up at me. She barely comes up to my armpit, but I’m intimidated nonetheless. There’s too much calculation going on behind her warm brown eyes for me to be entirely comfortable with this conversation.
“There isn’t anything personal behind this bet, is there, Grimes?” she says.
“No. Not at all.” My voice is a little higher than usual. “Why should there be?”
Before she can answer, Florian and Prevana loom into sight in front of the window. They’re entwined like two trees growing together, lips locked in a passionate embrace. They pull apart, Prevana’s squeal of laughter reaching me through the window. My fists clench.
“That spoiled fucking...” I run for the door.
“Grimes, what on earth is wrong?” Breta shouts.
She follows me but her shorter legs are no match for mine, especially now I’m propelled by rage. I leave her for dust. Once outside, I run over to the young couple and grab Florian’s arm, hard.
“Come here,” I snarl.
He and Prevana stare at me, aghast.
“Boss, what the hell?” he says. “We were just talking.”
Fucking liar.
“You were doing a lot more than that,” I yell.
“So what?” Prevana’s hands are on her hips, a defiant scowl on her mouth. “We’re both adults.”
“He’s… he’s a guest here. He’s taking advantage of your hospitality,” I argue.
Breta catches up to us. “Nonsense,” she snaps. “What’s gotten into you? Let go of him.”
I drop Florian’s arm like I’m in a dream.
All of them are staring at me like I’ve gone mad, which just makes me angrier.
Rage pulses in my ears and I can’t unclench my fists as Florian stares at me with his pillowy lips redder than ever, his lip stain meshing with Prevana’s.
Why are they all acting like I’m out of line?
Florian has been a disgrace here tonight.
This is a respectable home, not a bawdy casino.
”We’re going home, Florian,” I say.