NEVER TELL MOTHER. Benedict turned the page of the Dostoyevsky novel.
His brother puked in the bidet, too much cheap wine, Benedict thought, but he’ll be fine. He immersed himself deeper into the Russian world of murder and fear and dark corners. Crime and Punishment was one good tale all right. Even the book cover held the attention, he thought, turning it briefly over. His brother’s moans interrupted the puking. Benedict asked an are you all right? There was a groan of response. Benedict recalled the time he had been in that condition in Yugoslavia the year before, same cause: too much cheap wine. And that beautiful guide came to his room
to see how he was and sat on his bed and all he could think of was when would the puking end. No thought at all of her presence there, her body so close, her perfume making him more nauseous. She was Croatian, he thought, pausing at the page of the Dostoyevskian novel. And that waitress he and his brother had liked in the restaurant at the Yugoslavian hotel. Fanny. Yes, that was the name. Got no where though. Just the luck of the draw. His brother returned from the bathroom and flopped on the bed. The puking over maybe, Benedict thought and his brother hoped, pale of complexion, perspiration on brow.
Outside the window the Parisian streets echoed with life: Cars, coaches, buses, people, natives, tourists, males and females. Tomorrow they’d be out on the streets again. Sit in restaurants where the famous once sat over coffee or beer: Hemmingway, Sartre, Picasso, Henry Miller and the others. Art thrived here. Ideas born from philosophic minds. Benedict book marked the page and closed the book and put it aside. Some one laughed outside in the street, another sang, voices of ghostly singers of the past, breathed from the walls. His brother returned to the bathroom, more puking. Benedict thought: poor brother.
Of course, he mused, gazing at the Parisian night sky, they’d never tell their mother.