Post by MICHEL MONTPARNASSE on May 8, 2013 9:18:38 GMT -5
It was warm in the sun, and Montparnasse felt it through the dark cloth of his overcoat. A welcome development, given the rains that had marked the few days previous and the months of cold winds that had preceded that. Usually the various empty flats in which Montparnasse chose to make his home when possible kept him quite warm and dry, but rainy days that kept the relatively well-to-do of Paris in their homes kept people like Montparnasse hungry. Common folk were much less lucrative prey.
Warmth and good weather, then, indicated just the opposite for the young thief—and the previous night's results had been good. Montparnasse moved through the park with a confidence that belied how little he belonged there among the picnicking bourgeois, though he had plans in common with them. For the moment, what suspicious glances he cast toward them lacked the strategy of planned attacks. His meal had already been obtained.
He paused at an open bench, waiting by habit to ascertain that he was not being stared at in any way. In a way, this did require a bit of stealth—the meal was special, and it absolutely would not do to have some little gamin come to steal his treat. It was, in Montparnasse's approximation, a lunch the king himself would be happy to eat. Good bread, soft beneath its golden brown crust; cheese, soft and clean-looking, a sort that wouldn't keep indefinitely; a mouthful of meat, slices of mid-range sausage that lent themselves well to this sort of setting... and above all of that, exotic and unknown, an orange.
Satisfied that no one was paying him undue interest, Montparnasse lowered himself down to the seat of the bench and, drawing his food from the pocket of his overcoat, unwrapped the paper in which it had been wrapped. He sniffed the orange, disappointed that there was little detectable fragrance. Relaxing a bit, he resisted the urge to loosen the stays at his waist. They were fashionable, no doubt, and he liked his appearance with the garment in place—but he did not deceive himself about their comfort.
The fruit had been imported from devil knows where—the man who sold it to him had told Montparnasse very much in passing, but the name was meaningless to an illiterate ex-gamin who had never seen anything beyond Parisian streets. More important had been two things: one, that the strange looking fruit was the most expensive on offer, which made it immensely appealing; two, when the salesman had somehow seen the lack of recognition in Montparnasse's glance, he had told him that it was rare. Exotic. Sweet as a confection, and a thousand times more precious for such things could not grow in France.
He had also told him not to eat the skin of the fruit, that it was not meant to be bitten into like an apple. Beyond that, he had given him no indication of what to do with it. He looked around him again to make sure no one watched, then slipped the knife from his sleeve to cut the fruit open. He spat on the blade, wiping it off on the skirt of his coat to remove any residues that might still be there from its more accustomed purpose. Then, licking his lips, he slid the blade into the orange.
Almost immediately his hand was covered in sticky, almost colorless juice. Cursing under his breath, he shook his hand like a cat that had stepped unexpectedly into a puddle. By habitual fastidiousness, he avoided wiping it off on his lapels. Then, experimentally and with a quizzical expression, brought it toward his face. First he sniffed it, then, cautiously, licked the wet area of his hand with only the tip of his tongue. Pleased with what he tasted, he smiled and turned his attention toward the orange itself. A treat this would be in more than just pretensions.
Warmth and good weather, then, indicated just the opposite for the young thief—and the previous night's results had been good. Montparnasse moved through the park with a confidence that belied how little he belonged there among the picnicking bourgeois, though he had plans in common with them. For the moment, what suspicious glances he cast toward them lacked the strategy of planned attacks. His meal had already been obtained.
He paused at an open bench, waiting by habit to ascertain that he was not being stared at in any way. In a way, this did require a bit of stealth—the meal was special, and it absolutely would not do to have some little gamin come to steal his treat. It was, in Montparnasse's approximation, a lunch the king himself would be happy to eat. Good bread, soft beneath its golden brown crust; cheese, soft and clean-looking, a sort that wouldn't keep indefinitely; a mouthful of meat, slices of mid-range sausage that lent themselves well to this sort of setting... and above all of that, exotic and unknown, an orange.
Satisfied that no one was paying him undue interest, Montparnasse lowered himself down to the seat of the bench and, drawing his food from the pocket of his overcoat, unwrapped the paper in which it had been wrapped. He sniffed the orange, disappointed that there was little detectable fragrance. Relaxing a bit, he resisted the urge to loosen the stays at his waist. They were fashionable, no doubt, and he liked his appearance with the garment in place—but he did not deceive himself about their comfort.
The fruit had been imported from devil knows where—the man who sold it to him had told Montparnasse very much in passing, but the name was meaningless to an illiterate ex-gamin who had never seen anything beyond Parisian streets. More important had been two things: one, that the strange looking fruit was the most expensive on offer, which made it immensely appealing; two, when the salesman had somehow seen the lack of recognition in Montparnasse's glance, he had told him that it was rare. Exotic. Sweet as a confection, and a thousand times more precious for such things could not grow in France.
He had also told him not to eat the skin of the fruit, that it was not meant to be bitten into like an apple. Beyond that, he had given him no indication of what to do with it. He looked around him again to make sure no one watched, then slipped the knife from his sleeve to cut the fruit open. He spat on the blade, wiping it off on the skirt of his coat to remove any residues that might still be there from its more accustomed purpose. Then, licking his lips, he slid the blade into the orange.
Almost immediately his hand was covered in sticky, almost colorless juice. Cursing under his breath, he shook his hand like a cat that had stepped unexpectedly into a puddle. By habitual fastidiousness, he avoided wiping it off on his lapels. Then, experimentally and with a quizzical expression, brought it toward his face. First he sniffed it, then, cautiously, licked the wet area of his hand with only the tip of his tongue. Pleased with what he tasted, he smiled and turned his attention toward the orange itself. A treat this would be in more than just pretensions.