Chapter Seven
In which we discover why Félix likes Anastasia.
Chapter Seven
Anastasia invaded the airplane before they were even ready to leave for Rome, and decorated it with all sorts of Spanish trinkets she'd picked up. She chose the music in the stereo system, too, which is traditionally the most hotly-contested element of any trip anywhere.
"Félix," Oscar said, listening to Portia ruthlessly mock Anastasia in English while Anastasia, who understood perhaps two words, those being "the" and "clothing", clapped and laughed, "Not that I think you had all that much choice, I know, but couldn't we have left her behind in Madrid? I mean telling her the wrong time to catch the plane wouldn't have been that hard..."
Félix smiled at him. "You don't like Anastasia? She's taken a fancy to you."
"Yes, sort of like a nice pair of shoes."
"Isn't it wonderful?"
Oscar stared at him. "What?"
"There's a charm in being objectified. I think, anyway," Félix said. "Certainly not all the time, but you can't deny that not everyone can be put on a pedestal."
"I don't think I get it," Oscar said.
"Isn't it nice to be so handsome that a woman doesn't care about your brains?"
Oscar mulled this over. "I know a couple of feminists who'd like to mace you right now, I think," he said finally. Félix laughed and patted his leg, reassuringly.
"Anastasia isn't too terrible. She was looking for an excuse not to stay in France, that's all."
"Why?"
"Oh, family, you know." Félix leaned close and mimed tapping a bottle of pills on his palm, then swallowing them. "Her father. So sad. It's kept very private, we don't speak about it. He's in a treatment clinic. Any excuse not to visit."
Oscar glanced at Anastasia, who was now demonstrating how to walk down the central corridor of the airplane, runway-style, in one of the embroidered skirts she'd bought. She reached them, executed a little twirl in front of him, and then walked sassily back towards Portia, who raised an eyebrow at Oscar.
"Oh," was all Oscar said.
Chapter Seven
Anastasia invaded the airplane before they were even ready to leave for Rome, and decorated it with all sorts of Spanish trinkets she'd picked up. She chose the music in the stereo system, too, which is traditionally the most hotly-contested element of any trip anywhere.
"Félix," Oscar said, listening to Portia ruthlessly mock Anastasia in English while Anastasia, who understood perhaps two words, those being "the" and "clothing", clapped and laughed, "Not that I think you had all that much choice, I know, but couldn't we have left her behind in Madrid? I mean telling her the wrong time to catch the plane wouldn't have been that hard..."
Félix smiled at him. "You don't like Anastasia? She's taken a fancy to you."
"Yes, sort of like a nice pair of shoes."
"Isn't it wonderful?"
Oscar stared at him. "What?"
"There's a charm in being objectified. I think, anyway," Félix said. "Certainly not all the time, but you can't deny that not everyone can be put on a pedestal."
"I don't think I get it," Oscar said.
"Isn't it nice to be so handsome that a woman doesn't care about your brains?"
Oscar mulled this over. "I know a couple of feminists who'd like to mace you right now, I think," he said finally. Félix laughed and patted his leg, reassuringly.
"Anastasia isn't too terrible. She was looking for an excuse not to stay in France, that's all."
"Why?"
"Oh, family, you know." Félix leaned close and mimed tapping a bottle of pills on his palm, then swallowing them. "Her father. So sad. It's kept very private, we don't speak about it. He's in a treatment clinic. Any excuse not to visit."
Oscar glanced at Anastasia, who was now demonstrating how to walk down the central corridor of the airplane, runway-style, in one of the embroidered skirts she'd bought. She reached them, executed a little twirl in front of him, and then walked sassily back towards Portia, who raised an eyebrow at Oscar.
"Oh," was all Oscar said.