The Servant and the Soothsayer

In praise of Eugene Fairfield:

Hauntingly evocative of Octavia Butler's 'Parable of the Talents.'

―Jayme Lynn Blaschke, RevolutionSF

Evocative... vivid

―Eric M. Heideman, Tales of the Unanticipated.

The Servant and the Soothsayer

a story by Eugene Fairfield

Published by Uliante.com at Smashwords

©2010 Eugene Fairfield

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1

De la Mer

The call came shortly after Paulo had woken up, right at noon. Omar stuck his head in the bathroom and shouted, Paulo, phone!

Christ, who is it? Paulo mumbled, staring at himself in the mirror. But Omar was already gone. Omar worked a day shift, and had the annoying habit of rising early even on his day off. Worse, his idea of a morning well spent was catching up with all the daytime TV.

Paulo staggered out of the bathroom and down to the common room. Mrs. Giancolli was sitting next to Omar watching the television.

You not wearing your pants, Paulo, she admonished him.

I am not awake, Mrs. Giancolli. When you wake up, you put the TV on. When I wake up, I put my pants on.

You get dressed before you come downstairs, Paulo. How many times I tell you this?

You're missing your show. Paulo pointed at the TV, and when she glanced at it, he picked up the phone.

Paulo here.

Paulo, this is Castleton, the voice answered.

Don't even think of it.

Can't be helped. Eduardo's sick as a dog, and the customer is having a dinner party.

I've worked for Eduardo three times in the past two months, Paulo said. Why don't you just get someone to replace him?

That could happen. In the meantime, I need you by three. Be there, or get a new contract.

Look. Paulo started to argue, but the line went dead.

He jabbed the phone at Omar. Next time a phone call comes for me on my day off, find out who it is before you go looking for me.

I'm not your fucking secretary, Omar whined, looking for all the world like Paulo had asked him to sell his first born. I went looking for you, if you don't like it, next time I'll tell them you aren't in.

That would have been preferable.

Are you going to put your pants on? Mrs. Giancolli said.

Paulo went upstairs without answering her.

Paulo met Evangeline sweating in a back corner of the train running into town. The day was hot already, and was unlikely to get much better before Paulo was off at midnight. He was dreading the kitchen. Any sensible person would have a cold fruit salad today. But Paulo worked in domestic service. De la Mer was a kinder customer than most, but no businessman ever paid attention to the weather in the kitchen.

Where are you going, Paulo? Evangeline asked him. Wish I had today off.

Me, too, Paulo said.

Oh, no, Evangeline said. Eduardo 'sick' again?

No doubt suffering from heat exhaustion and needing a cool day at the pond.

How long has it been since you had a day off?

Oh, I got one last week. Every other week, whether I need it or not. Castleton says my debts are extreme and I should be happy to pay them off.

Evangeline shook her head. I bet you get sick of that line.

It hadn't been the first time he'd heard it. Paulo had been raised in a corporate home, so his debts―for care and feeding in his formative years, not to mention his limited education―were nearly twice those of his peers. Some said that debts like Paulo's were really an asset, since the corporation had a vested interest in promoting his welfare. All Paulo knew was that the great majority of his paycheck went to the corp that raised him, and would continue to do so until Paulo was an old man. This, and that people often told him he should be grateful for his situation.

So what's this big dinner party that's so important they can't be short-staffed? Paulo asked.

Didn't you hear about it? Evangeline was amazed.

If it happens on my day off I pay no attention.

The customer is entertaining almost half the State Council. He's even got a few people from the Conservative party coming. Some of them are staying the weekend. Maxwell thinks De la Mer is planning some major proposal and is trying to get help wherever he can get it. He says it's a make-or-break deal for the customer. Either he wins, and becomes the hero of the hour, or he loses, and is branded a traitor.

That's funny, Paulo said. I wasn't aware there was any great-breaking crisis.

That's what Maxwell thinks. But Francine says . . .

Evangeline went on, relating the kitchen gossip of the day. Paulo only half listened. He gave little credit to Francine's opinions of their customer, and less to Maxwell's.

A wave of heat crashed over Paulo when he approached the kitchen door. It was a palpable force, it did not abate while he held his ground.

Paulo! Maxwell shouted, seeing him in the door. Quit gawking and jump to it. We're late with everything already.

An intense affair was underway. Luchang was alternately whisking sauce and chopping vegetables with even more than his usual intensity. Francine was cutting turnips into a soup and pausing every other cut to clutch her chest and breathe deeply. They were late.

While everybody else hovered over a fire, Maxwell, of course, was arranging salads in bowls of ice.

Oh, Paulo, Francine exclaimed, seeing Paulo in the doorway. She took the opportunity to pause again, and lean against the table behind her. I'm so relieved you're here. Can you chop a few more turnips for this soup? If we don't get it on it will never be ready, and the Councilor will have such a fit I don't think my heart could stand it.

Of course, Paulo answered with an indulgent smile. He forced himself against the tide of heat, until finally he was inside it, under it, smothered in the insufferable kitchen. He took a turnip from the pile on the table and began chopping quickly.

Thank heaven, Francine steeled herself for a few more slices. Maxwell was just telling us how he thinks there's some problem with De la Mer, that his reputation might be at stake or something. Do I have it right, Maxwell?

His reputation is always at stake, Maxwell said. People in high position are always defending or advancing their reputation. You think being of the business class is about having assets. It's not. It's about having a reputation. As he spoke, he carefully laid spirals of radish at one edge of each bowl.

You have a reputation, too, Maxwell, Paulo said.

I beg your pardon? he looked up severely.

Paulo laughed. Ouch! That cooled off the air in here. But why should you take offense? Couldn't I mean you have a reputation for precision? For exacting attention to detail? For artistic arrangement?

Because you have a reputation for being a wise ass. Sure, everybody has a reputation. But business can use their reputation for more than getting a contract. They rise and fall on their reputations.

And we don't?

Less talk, more work, Luchang said, hitting the chopping block with the rapid staccato of his knife. Paulo never ceased to be amazed that the old chef had never removed a finger.

Go pour wine, Maxwell ordered, cutting a twist from a lime for each salad. Francine can finish the turnips.

Right away. Wouldn't want to distract you.

Maxwell was about to reply but Paulo opened the door to the dining room. Maxwell would never speak while the door was open.

The dining room was filled to capacity. There were twelve guests, perhaps six Councilors together with their husbands or wives. Or perhaps there were more Councilors, come without spouses, Paulo couldn't tell exactly who was who. Master Jean sat next to De la Mer, as he had since his eighteenth birthday. Miss Luan and Master Sebastien were still banished to the foot of the table where they would not interfere with the adult conversation.

And I say again, one of the guests opined, you're an idealist. A man of noble heart, but no discernment. I honor your commitment to fine ideals. But the city is built of stone and steel, not ideas. We need substance.

Paulo began the circuit of the room.

Stone and steel are but a pile of rubble without an idea to shape it, Councilor, an elderly woman added.

Paulo! Councilor De la Mer exclaimed.

Yes sir? He continued his circuit of the room, not pausing while he filled wine glasses.

Claude, don't be absurd, Madam De la Mer fussed.

What? He's right here. An opinion has been voiced about another class, and here we have a member of that other class to tell us the truth of the matter. Surely, any intelligent man would do the same.

But we're at dinner, she protested.

Posh. Paulo, give me your honest opinion. Councilor DuChamps says that labor and service do not really care who is Governor, that to you it is merely the change of name in a high office, and one master is the same as another master. Do I characterize your opinion correctly, Councilor?

To the jot. Councilor DuChamps had been the one speaking when Paulo first entered the room, a precise, practiced man in his thirties. DuChamps would never have called attention to a servant at dinner, but the attention having been called, he would never notice the gaffe.

So what do you say, Paulo? De la Mer asked. Does labor and service care?

Paulo hated being used this way. It was a habit of the customer that never failed to discomfort him in some way. But his best chance of minimizing the fall-out was to play well the role that was handed him.

Sir. He had finished the circuit of wine, and stood straight to address the table. "One man can hardly speak for a class of people, but since you ask my opinion, I shall give you