When Lalo had become fashionable and had, for the first time in his life, had
money, he and Gilla had bought the building in which they lived and repaired,
among other things, the staircase. But the stairs still squeaked, and Lalo,
hearing the lullaby Gilla was singing to their youngest child halt a moment,
knew that she had heard him coming home.
Breathing a little faster than he would have liked after the climb, he opened
the door.
“You’re home early!” The floor quivered beneath her steps as Gilla came through
the door of what had once been the adjoining apartment. Lalo saw beyond her the
curly head of their youngest, whom they still called the baby even though he was
now nearly two years old, and the outstretched arm of an older child.
“Is everything all right?” Lalo unfastened his cloak and hung it on the peg.
“It was only a nightmare-” softly she closed the door. “And what about you? I
was sure you would be at the Palace all night, imbibing the wine of paradise
with all the great ones and their gilded ladies.” The carved chair groaned
faintly as she sat down and lifted her massive arms to pat the elaborate curls
and coils of her hair.
“There weren’t any ladies-” tactfully he passed over the dancing girls, “just an
unlikely mixture of military and priests and government men, like a stew from
the Bazaar!”
She set her elbow on the table and rested her head on her hand. “If it was such
a bore why did you stay so long? Don’t tell me they wouldn’t let you go?” Her
eyes narrowed and he flushed a little beneath the acuity of her gaze.