The Dirty Parts of the Bible by Sam Torode Read Free Book Online

sale;
    Appetizing young love for sale;
    Love that’s fresh and still unspoiled,
    Love that’s only slightly soiled;
    Love for sale.
     
    I leaned against the window and let her voice wash over me. Through the glass and smoke, I glimpsed the singer, a black woman in a silver dress. She seemed to gather up all the sadness in the world, boil it down to its essence, and pour it out in her song.
     
    Let the poets pipe of love
    In their childish way;
    I know every type of love
    Better far than they.
     
    Something tugged at my shoulder. I started to turn around and, behind me, a man had his arm halfway inside my pack. I yelled, pushed him away, and ran as fast as I could.
    I ran till there were no more lights, no clubs, no crowds. When I stopped and looked back, I was the only soul on the sidewalk. That damn pimple-faced boy must have sent me down the one street in town that didn’t have a hotel. My feet were sore and blistered. I sat down on a patch of grass and cursed everything and everyone who’d got me in this fix.
    All the houses were dark except one—a Victorian mansion across the street. It was at least three stories high, a jumble of gables and dormers and wraparound porches, with a round turret off to one side. The lamps in the windows cast a red glow over the place, more eerie than inviting.
    Red glow? Couldn’t be . I got up to take a closer look. The hedges out front hadn’t been trimmed in ages, and vines were crawling all over the verandah and up the walls. But yes, the siding was pink—with purple trim! I took back all my curses and thanked the pimple-faced boy a thousand times over.
    Beside the door was a sign half-covered by ivy:
     
    LE PALAIS
    Cuisine Française
     
    Cuisine—didn’t that mean food? It was a damn restaurant, not a hotel. I started back to cursing.
    It looked open, though, and I could hear voices inside. Maybe someone here could point me in the right direction. I rang the doorbell but no one answered, so I tried the door. It fell open, setting off a series of chimes. Inside the parlor, some gents were playing cards and snacking on what must have been some French hors d’oeuvres . Two ladies descended stairs, wearing silk gowns with necklines that plunged clear to their belly buttons. But it wasn’t their belly buttons I noticed as they brushed past me.
    From behind, a stern voice broke my reverie. “ Excuse me .”
    I turned to find a wide woman behind a narrow desk. “Pardon me, ma’am, I’m, uh—”
    “ Mademoiselle ,” she said. “Mademoiselle Colette.” Her face was ghastly white, with bright red lips and two slashes for eyebrows. A great mound of thick, blonde curls perched on top of her head.
    “I’m sorry, Miss Colette. If you please, I—I seem to be lost.”
    “How may I be of assistance, monsieur?”
    “I’ve come a long way, and I was looking to bed down for the night. So I asked where a nice place was, and—”
    She raised a hand to silence me. “I’m sure you’ll find our accommodations quite satisfactory, monsieur.”
    I breathed easy and dropped my pack on the floor. Of course, I realized—all swanky hotels have restaurants on the first floor. At that moment, I could have kissed the mademoiselle. Hell, I could have kissed the pimple-faced boy. “You can’t imagine how much this means to me.”
    Her mouth twisted into a smile. “Is this your first time?”
    “First time anywhere. I’m from Remus, in Michigan, and back home we don’t even have—”
    “There’s no need to explain,” she said. “You look like a sweet one. I’ll give you a discount—only seven dollars for the whole night.” As I counted out my bills, she scanned her ledger. “What’s your favorite month of the year—April, May, or June?”
    “October, actually,” I said. “I like the way the leaves—”
    She snapped her ledger shut and handed me a key. “I think you’ll like June.”
     



CHAPTER 8
     
    B Y the time I reached the top of the stairs, I didn’t give