#poor michel

The frustration of translation was an old one. Cassander spoke excellent English – of course he did; his native tongue, drawling from his lips with the honeyed refinement of his class. He spoke quite good Arabic, after some time spent in Cairo. A little workmanlike Greek, a scholar’s Latin. Enough French to order himself a fine meal and a finer whore.

But not a word of Romanian.

He had not even planned to come here, of course. Only Michel Bibaut’s messages, reaching Cassander in northern Greece, had drawn him to this benighted place. There was something interesting here, Bibaut had said. Something requiring expertise beyond his own, he had said.

Well, that wasn’t hard. Michel Bibaut was a clever enough man in his own way; but Cassander was cleverer. They both knew it. And so Cassander had come, on a whim as much as anything. Unprepared, without a phrasebook to be had; relying upon Michel’s translations was tedious, but functioned well enough -- for now.

The look that the Belgian gave to the local woman before pausing to translate her words, though – that interested Cassander. As did the woman’s tone. As did the woman herself, if he was frank.

“Dear Christ,” he laughed. “Is she flirting?”

“Cassander,” Bibaut said, “she’s married.”

A snort. “As though that’s impediment.” His eyes lingered on the woman, hair like wheat, a peasant’s strong body, but something fierce and daring in her eyes. “Tell her this – that my purpose itself is mundane, but what I find here might be what is extraordinary.”