To call it the day from hell did not even approach it. I had walked the halls all night with Masson, who had his first earache. Thankfully, he passed out immediately after the doctor left him. I was just about to lie down myself when Christine, newly pregnant, bolted for the bathroom. Unlike the early days of her pregnancy with Masson—when she was the picture of health—this time she stayed queasy until noon. Under the circumstances, it hardly seemed chivalrous to turn over and try to sleep, never mind that she'd slept like the dead while I was up with Masson. That was not the sort of argument which fared very well with a woman in her state. I fetched her some soda crackers and a bit of ginger tea and staggered back to the kitchen.
I was only able to coax a few drops from the carafe. I pulled a face and griped at the empty kitchen: "What? No goddamned coffee?"
Darius shuffled past me in his bedroom slippers, snatching the carafe from me sullenly.
"I just finished making an omelette," he hissed. "I'm on it."
Well, if you hadn't got her That Way the first night you hung your trousers on the chair, you wouldn't be in this fix right now, would you? I thought. Clearly, there were far too many pregnant people in the house, but as I saw it, fresh coffee is of an infinitely higher priority than Anci's frigging omelette. We glared at each other like tomcats. Darius had turned a right surly bastard since he'd gotten himself a woman.
"Good morning, gentlemen," Reza sashayed in, perfectly groomed and well-rested. We both wheeled on him, startling him.
"What the devil do you mean, killing the coffee?" I demanded. "Have you gone mad?"
"Erik, you look a mess. So do you, Darius," he chuckled.
"You may die today," I threatened.
"Hm. You know, my friend, I think you may be too old for this."
"I'm having a bath," I growled. "There'd better be coffee when I get back!"
Darius grumbled something I didn't catch, cheeky bastard.
I started to doze in the tub, nearly drowning myself. As I shuffled back into my room, Christine leapt from my coffin and zipped back into the bedroom.
"Get out of my box, you fiend."
He had been off his food and peevish since Masson was ill, but I didn't care. The bastard had taken to clawing my posh velvet lining. I leaned over to inspect the coffin for damage. Running my hand over the lining, I contacted a warm, wet spot.
"Oh, sweet suffering Christ," I howled. I flung open the bedroom door. The bastard was curled up with his baby, one fiendish eye cracked at me, tail tip flicking.
"I'll catch you alone one day," I promised him. "I know you understand me."
There was nothing for it, my coffin was ruined. That goddam box was practically new. The one before had lasted me, what, twenty years or something. I humped it downstairs and out into the back garden.
"What happened?" Reza inquired as I poured myself a cup.
"Nothing. We're having chat au vin for supper."
"Was that the doctor earlier? How is Masson?"
"He said it's always worse at night," I advised. "Chamomile tea, warm olive oil in the ear, no more sucking—"
"Oh my, he'll be delighted to hear that," Reza worried. In truth, it did not bode well for us when the little tyrant received that bit of good news. It was well past time, with another one on the way, but even so, Masson would not be amused. Not that I blamed him.
"Indeed. Doctor says it pulls on the ear. Time for the Big Boy Cup, full time."
"God help us all."
"Mm. We agreed not to mention the new baby until he notices Christine changing. Good thing, considering this, or he'd hate the kid before it's born."
I returned to my coffin maker friend and got another just like the last. He was a good chap, never asked any questions. He apologized that he could not have it for several days, which was fine. I didn't plan on having myself evicted from the bed anytime soon, but then again, who could say?
I popped into the opera on the way home, picked up my salary and stopped at the chocolate shop. Next stop, Christine's croissants and fig preserves. It was pleasant to indulge in these little forays for delicacies. I love spoiling my princess, and it is so infrequently that she allows me to do it.
Last stop before home was dropping a note for my bosom pal, Bishop Richard. We were getting married in two weeks; Christine was petrified of looking pregnant for her wedding. Under the circumstances it seemed a bit of a moot point, but this was another case of feminine mental gymnastics that my feeble masculine mind could not comprehend. When I'd tried to point out to Christine that we could always wait until after the baby came—thereby saving her the stress and having to rush—she had an hysterical episode that would have made Masson proud. If I've learned nothing else, I hope I have learned When To Drop It.
Reza was throwing us a Persian gala like Darius and Anci had. Masson was beside himself about more sparkly ladies, Christine was looking forward to being treated like a queen, and I couldn't wait for the food.
When I entered the house, Masson was seated on the bottom step with his hands clapped over his ears. Christine was having a bath beside him. The reason for his strange pose was readily apparent—screeching coming from the kitchen. I offered him a chocolate coin and rumpled his hair for reassurance before I headed for the front lines.
"—pink! It's ruined!" Christine screamed. She was shaking a whitish-pinkish petticoat into Anci's face.
"—not my fault it has—" Anci screamed back.
"—of course it is! Who else would—"
"—red ribbon trim!"
"—BE SO STUPID!"
I slipped my spindly carcass between the lionesses. Foolish? Chivalrous?
"Ladies, ladies, ladies," I purred, taking one under each arm.
"Erik, look, it's ruined!" Christine wept.
"It's not my fault," Anci whined. She'd come a long way from the dim little thing who ran for cover whenever anyone raised their voice.
I kissed Christine's forehead. Dicey place to be, this.
"I'll get you a new one, Darling," I soothed. Darius raced up from the cellar, breathless and wide-eyed. We made silent eye contact as he led Anci away. We averaged a couple of these to-dos a week.
"It's brand new, Erik!" Christine continued. I could not grasp the magnitude of this situation for some reason. It was just a petticoat…
"I said I'll get you another, Christine, but you mustn't call our Anci stupid, Angel."
Oops. I winced even as the words escaped my mouth. Lack of sleep was making me careless.
"Ooooh, you pig! You would take your little girlfriend's side!" she spat.
"You're right, of course," I assured her, dragging her from the kitchen.
"AND HER BOTTOM'S AS WIDE AS A CARRIAGE HOUSE DOOR!" Thus my lovely bride-to-be delivered her parting shot. She finished me off with a particularly vicious sotto voce. "I know that's why you like her!"
"Christine, really," I sighed.
Masson was pulling at her skirt. "Mama, make a deal," he whined. Diverted by her sick baby, she bundled him into her arms, pressed her lips to his forehead to check for fever, and climbed the stairs; petticoat, rival and evil lover forgotten. Christine completed the procession.
I slumped into the parlor and snatched L'Epoque from Reza's hands.
"We must have a bigger house. NOW, or I take my brigade and leave. I take my life in my hands getting between those two; daroga, you have no idea!"
My Persian friend sighed. "I know you're right, but I love this old house…"
"You're a sentimental fool, and I can't afford that luxury. We can't keep two wildcats in the same cage."
"Well, find us a house then, Casanova. The way I see it, this is your entire fault," Reza reminded me charitably.