Chapter 18: Under the Table

"Saturday at nine," Léon said, reading from his phone. "A car will collect all five of us from the Quai. Eleven guests, and the host."

"Then I have two days," I said, with my head still on Armand's chest.

"You have two days to change your mind."

"I won't."

Léon lowered the phone.

"No," he said. "I didn't think so."

On Thursday I served the game bare under my apron.

The bar next door was full.

I could hear glasses, a football match, and a man laughing at a joke.

In the back room the four of them sat at the card table with the lamp low and a bottle open between them.

I put down the tray and waited.

"Cards," said Auguste. "No one touches her until the first hand is dealt."

Armand dealt.

Nobody looked at me. That was the rule I had written myself, on page nine.

"Under," said Léon, without lifting his eyes from his hand.

I got down on my knees and crawled under the felt.

It was warm there, and dark, and it smelled of wool and tobacco and four men's trousers.

Four pairs of shoes. Eight knees.

Somebody's shoe pushed against my thigh and drew a slow line up between my legs.

I gasped and clapped my hand to my mouth.

Above me, Auguste said calmly, "Raise."

The shoe was his. He pressed it against me, rubbing, and my hips rolled forward onto it without my asking.

"Please," I whispered into the dark.

"Louder, if you want it."

"Please, sir. Please, Auguste."

"Call," said Armand, above.

A hand came down between the legs of the table and found my hair.

It pulled me sideways, to the left, to Léon.

His knees opened.

I undid his belt with shaking fingers.

He did not look down and he did not stop playing.

He only put his free hand on my head and held it.

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