The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [155]
A gong was struck and the guests began to make their way to the table. There was a careful placement. Anya was sandwiched between Dragoman and Heini; Stevie was sitting opposite Heini—too far away to talk to Anya over the round table—but able to watch her through the obstacles of candle holders, glassware and flowers. She wondered at the arrogance of Felix Dragoman, able to bring his captive down to dine amongst the hotel guests, so sure was he of his control over her.
Then Stevie understood. Anya had become more than a hostage to him. She had become a symbol of something that Dragoman enjoyed being reminded of: his power.
What could Anya do in this situation? Even if she ran to the florid Germans, say, and begged for help, the shadow would be upon her before she could even begin to tell her story, or explain who she was. Dragoman would no doubt appear at her side, apologising profusely for not having chaperoned Anya’s champagne intake.
‘My niece is easily excited—she is not used to wine. I’m afraid I have not been watching her closely enough.’ Stevie could almost hear him. And everyone would smile, and Anya would be whisked back upstairs.
Poor girl, thought Stevie in horror. We are never more trapped than when the illusion of freedom is there. Chains could not have bound Anya more cruelly.
Henning sat to Stevie’s right, deep in conversation with the grande dame. They were, Stevie could overhear, on the subject of Persian water gardens. Gardens were a good choice of topic with anyone over a certain age and translated well into any language, including, it seemed, disdainful French.
On Stevie’s left, one of the florid Germans began a series of comments on the strategic role of tanks on the modern battlefield. It was actually a subject Stevie was very interested in and she held firm views on the matter. Tonight, however, her cover story (starlet wastrel) meant she had to feign extreme disinterest. In any case, the presence of Anya was too distracting to allow for any proper conversation.
The girl’s eyes in the candlelight were hunted and hollow and Stevie saw her glance at Henning more than once, but he never looked in her direction. The confusion on her face at this broke Stevie’s heart, but she could do nothing. Sending any kind of message to her now would just be too dangerous.
Dinner was an interminable procession of dishes produced by a fancy hat with an indeterminate number of culinary stars. The chef had embraced the newest—and, in Stevie’s opinion, most unfortunate— gastronomical trend: transforming the texture of food until it is unrecognisable as what it once was.
First, and with much fanfare, came what looked like a tiny risotto but was discovered to be, after a single gold forkful, a foam of soya bean roots and oysters. The next course was a small red cube on a large white plate. This was apparently all that was left of an entire filet mignon, reduced and in some unutterably awful way transformed into—Stevie touched it for confirmation—jelly. It was a travesty, oysters and filet mignon zapped, their molecules rearranged to end up in small, slimy bites that taunted the palate with memories of their original selves.
Dragoman seemed to be delighting in every mouthful—as much as such a retentive and joyless man can delight—carefully dabbing the corners of his mouth after every bite in the most irritating way.
Heini was roaring with laughter at every new dish and drinking enormous amounts of the very fine wines served with each one. He ate every course in a single bite and thought this was tremendously funny. His gaggle of candy-coloured cheerleaders thought so, too.
He was very pleased when Dragoman, growing visibly annoyed by the laughter, was able to tell him just how much he was paying the chef to produce the meal. Heini did a quick calculation of dollars per dish and was thrilled: at those prices he must indeed be eating the finest food in the world.
Anya ate nothing