Read Online The Dead Man's Brother by Roger Zelazny - Free Book Online
Authors: Roger Zelazny
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by the Saint-Gobain’s Caserte glass factory to withstand the rocks and such thrown by demonstrators. Lost, unidentified for centuries, somehow protected, a frail, delicate thing of hope. Poor old Ara Pacis Augustae, they did not have bombs in the days of your youth. I wonder how much longer you will be around, old altar of peace?
About ten minutes later, my respects to the respectable paid, I stepped outside and waited for Anna Zanti’s current customer to move away. Then I walked down and said hello, bought a corsage.
"Thank you," she said. "It is very fresh. Your lady will be happy."
I smiled.
"I am certain," I said. "It looks to be a good day, eh?"
"Yes," she agreed. "On days like this I sell more flowers."
"That is good," I said. "Did you know Father Bretagne?"
She gave me a quick face-to-toes-to-face survey, then leaned forward and cupped her ear.
"Pardon," she said. "I do not hear so well."
"A priest. Father Bretagne," I said. "Do you know him?"
She shrugged.
"I know many priests."
"But this particular priest—Father Bretagne…I am trying to find him. You and he were friends, no?"
"Pardon," she said again, leaning forward. "You will have to speak louder."
As I repeated it, she studied my face, squinting. Then she winked and smiled.
"You buy the flowers for your mistress, yes?"
I nodded.
Then she decided, nodding several times herself, "…and you want to divorce your wife for her."
I smiled again. It seemed the right thing to do.
"For forty years I was married to that son of a dog, Antonio," she said then. "Forty years! And he left me after the first! I could not get a divorce then, the way the laws were. Then when they were changed, I wanted one. But the Church still does not approve of such things. So I talked about it with the best priest I knew. That Father Bretagne! He is a saint! So wise, so friendly…Not like the others. No! So one day when he stopped to buy flowers I asked him about it. He talked to me for a long time then. He told me how it was a law of the Church and not a law of God. He made everything so clear that I did not feel bad about going to the lawyer at all. If you talk to him, he will explain it to you as he did to me, I am sure."
"Did he buy your flowers often?" I asked.
"Every few weeks."
"For whom did he buy them?"
She flipped her palms, raised her shoulders and let them fall.
"I never asked him. He never said."
"I would like to talk to him, about my—problem," I said. "Where can I find him?"
"Vatican City," she told me. "He works there. Someone will know."
"Thank you."
She smiled and turned her attention to the flowers, pushing several farther into the shade.
Nothing, or very little, there. As I could see it. I telephoned to Monsignor at the Vatican’s Prefecture of Economic Affairs, told him I had nothing to report as yet and asked his assistance on getting into Father Bretagne’s quarters for a once-over. He told me how to get there and said that by the time I arrived the janitor would be advised to let me in and leave me alone. He added his doubt that I would find anything of value. I agreed, thanked him and hung up. I had the time, and it was best to be thorough. He was right, though. The small, neatly kept flat showed me nothing that I could use. Nothing at all. It did not seem that he had left it in a hurry.
*
There was a table full of canapés and conspicuous rows of shiny champagne buckets. The Sign of the Fish is a deep, narrow place, but there are four stories to it as well as a finished basement. The two upper floors contain offices and vaults. The floors were thickly carpeted in a dusky yellow, and I lusted after the cut-glass chandelier in the entrance hall. Someday…
I arrived at approximately 8:45, and no one asked to see my invitation. There were small chatty groups of middle to highly tailored individuals of three or four nationalities and sexes standing about, and a handful of the Bohemian sort who wandered between the food and
About ten minutes later, my respects to the respectable paid, I stepped outside and waited for Anna Zanti’s current customer to move away. Then I walked down and said hello, bought a corsage.
"Thank you," she said. "It is very fresh. Your lady will be happy."
I smiled.
"I am certain," I said. "It looks to be a good day, eh?"
"Yes," she agreed. "On days like this I sell more flowers."
"That is good," I said. "Did you know Father Bretagne?"
She gave me a quick face-to-toes-to-face survey, then leaned forward and cupped her ear.
"Pardon," she said. "I do not hear so well."
"A priest. Father Bretagne," I said. "Do you know him?"
She shrugged.
"I know many priests."
"But this particular priest—Father Bretagne…I am trying to find him. You and he were friends, no?"
"Pardon," she said again, leaning forward. "You will have to speak louder."
As I repeated it, she studied my face, squinting. Then she winked and smiled.
"You buy the flowers for your mistress, yes?"
I nodded.
Then she decided, nodding several times herself, "…and you want to divorce your wife for her."
I smiled again. It seemed the right thing to do.
"For forty years I was married to that son of a dog, Antonio," she said then. "Forty years! And he left me after the first! I could not get a divorce then, the way the laws were. Then when they were changed, I wanted one. But the Church still does not approve of such things. So I talked about it with the best priest I knew. That Father Bretagne! He is a saint! So wise, so friendly…Not like the others. No! So one day when he stopped to buy flowers I asked him about it. He talked to me for a long time then. He told me how it was a law of the Church and not a law of God. He made everything so clear that I did not feel bad about going to the lawyer at all. If you talk to him, he will explain it to you as he did to me, I am sure."
"Did he buy your flowers often?" I asked.
"Every few weeks."
"For whom did he buy them?"
She flipped her palms, raised her shoulders and let them fall.
"I never asked him. He never said."
"I would like to talk to him, about my—problem," I said. "Where can I find him?"
"Vatican City," she told me. "He works there. Someone will know."
"Thank you."
She smiled and turned her attention to the flowers, pushing several farther into the shade.
Nothing, or very little, there. As I could see it. I telephoned to Monsignor at the Vatican’s Prefecture of Economic Affairs, told him I had nothing to report as yet and asked his assistance on getting into Father Bretagne’s quarters for a once-over. He told me how to get there and said that by the time I arrived the janitor would be advised to let me in and leave me alone. He added his doubt that I would find anything of value. I agreed, thanked him and hung up. I had the time, and it was best to be thorough. He was right, though. The small, neatly kept flat showed me nothing that I could use. Nothing at all. It did not seem that he had left it in a hurry.
*
There was a table full of canapés and conspicuous rows of shiny champagne buckets. The Sign of the Fish is a deep, narrow place, but there are four stories to it as well as a finished basement. The two upper floors contain offices and vaults. The floors were thickly carpeted in a dusky yellow, and I lusted after the cut-glass chandelier in the entrance hall. Someday…
I arrived at approximately 8:45, and no one asked to see my invitation. There were small chatty groups of middle to highly tailored individuals of three or four nationalities and sexes standing about, and a handful of the Bohemian sort who wandered between the food and
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