The Seventh Sinner - Elizabeth Peters [12]
“Nein, Prinz,” Jacqueline said firmly.
The dog rolled over, with its miniature paws dangling. A ribbon, of a rosy shade slightly darker than its curls, was tied around its topknot.
“Poor little thing,” Jean said, bending over to scratch the exposed stomach. “Why do poodles always strike me as pathetic?”
“He’s really a nice little guy,” Jacqueline said; the poodle responded by wriggling and licking Jean’s bare toes. “People tend to treat them like toys instead of dogs, that’s why they’re pathetic. Nothing pathetic about Nefertiti over there; she rules the roost, and she knows it.”
The cat blinked again. Its expression was one of concentrated contempt.
When Jean had finished her shower she found Jacqueline in the kitchen. The poodle was lying at her feet making suggestive whining noises. Nefertiti sat on the table. The cat’s eyes were on a level with Jacqueline’s as she sat beside the table, and the expressions on the two faces, feline and human, were so much alike that Jean couldn’t repress a burst of laughter.
“Quiet,” Jacqueline said, without turning her head. “I’m trying to outstare her.”
Then Jean saw the bottle. It was the same small green bottle she had seen once before. There was a medicine dropper beside it.
“It really is for the cat,” she exclaimed.
“I said it was, didn’t I? It’s a tonic. Lise swears by it. Personally I think this animal needs tranquilizers instead of vitamins, but…Look, would you mind holding her back legs?”
The struggle would have been funny if it hadn’t been so painful. Jean had two bleeding scratches on her forearms before it was over, and Jacqueline was liberally spattered with green liquid. It smelled like mint and was very sticky. The cat retired, spitting and drooling greenly, and Jacqueline directed a few well-chosen words at its furry rear. She fed the dog and sprinkled a handful of food in the fish tank in the salone. Then, with a martyred sigh, she began to scramble eggs.
They ate scrambled eggs with chopped prosciutto, salad, and fresh rolls with a soft cream cheese that came in little cardboard pots. The shower had increased Jean’s appetite. Only when her plate was scraped clean did she take a deep breath and apologize for gluttony.
“Want coffee?” Jacqueline asked.
Jean looked at her watch.
“Hadn’t we better go?”
“There’s no hurry.” Jacqueline got up and filled two coffee cups, which she brought to the table. “You really haven’t been with it the last few days, have you?”
“Why? Has something happened?”
“Yes and no. Maybe it’s just my imagination getting out of hand.” Jacqueline sighed. “I’ve always been very square about things such as grades, and doing well in school. But lately I’m beginning to wonder whether your contemporaries who complain about academic pressure haven’t got a point. Does the renewal of your fellowships really mean that much to you? I mean ‘you’ plural.”
“I wouldn’t say so,” Jean said slowly. “In fact, I think I’m the only one who’s uptight about it. Michael really doesn’t care; he’s so far out, nothing bothers him. He’d live in a cave if it had a northern light. Have you seen his room?”
“No.”
“Well, it’s the most incredible mess…. Hepicked it because it has a skylight. Ice forms on things in the winter, and in summer it’s like walking into a Turkish bath. He has to keep the skylight open to get some air; the roof is a playground for little kids, and a place where the teen-agers go to make out, and a breeding ground for a tribe of wild Roman cats. If the kids aren’t howling obscenities through the skylight, the cats are making messes through it, or some ardent Casanova is falling through it. Literally. One dazed kid crashed right through one night, and landed on top of Michael’s latest painting,