Page 132

Dr. Lecter had brought his flat silver from the warmer at the last minute and when Starling explored her place setting, she felt in the handle of her knife an almost feverish heat.

Dr. Lecter poured wine and gave her only a tiny amuse-gueule to eat for starters, a single Belon oyster and a morsel of sausage, as he had to sit over half a glass of wine and admire her in the context of his table.

The height of his candlesticks was exactly right. The flames lit the deeps of her décolleté and he did not have to be vigilant about her sleeves.

“What are we having?”

He raised his finger to his lips. “You never ask, it spoils the surprise.”

They talked about the trimming of crow quills and their effect on the voice of a harpsichord, and only for a moment did she recall a crow robbing her mother’s service cart on a motel balcony long ago. From a distance she judged the memory irrelevant to this pleasant time and she deliberately set it aside.

“Hungry?”

“Yes!”

“Then we’ll have our first course.”

Dr. Lecter moved a single tray from the sideboard to a space beside his place at the table and rolled a service cart to tableside. Here were his pans, his burners, and his condiments in little crystal bowls.

He fired up his burners and began with a goodly knob of Charante butter i

n his copper fait-tout, swirling the melting butter and browning the butterfat to make beurrenoisette. When it was the brown of a hazelnut, he set the butter aside on a trivet.

He smiled at Starling, his teeth very white.

“Clarice, do you recall what we said about pleasant and unpleasant remarks, and things being very funny in context?”

“That butter smells wonderful. Yes, I remember.”

“And do you remember who you saw in the mirror, how splendid she was?”

“Dr. Lecter, if you don’t mind my saying so this is getting a little Dick and Jane. I remember perfectly.”

“Good. Mr. Krendler is joining us for our first course.”

Dr. Lecter moved the large flower arrangement from the table to the sideboard.

Deputy Assistant Inspector General Paul Krendler, in the flesh, sat at the table in a stout oak armchair. Krendler opened his eyes wide and looked about. He wore his runner’s headband and a very nice funeral tuxedo, with integral shirt and tie. The garment being split up the back, Dr. Lecter had been able to sort of tuck it around him, covering the yards of duct tape that held him to the chair.

Starling’s eyelids might have lowered a fraction and her lips slightly pursed as they sometimes did on the firing range.

Now Dr. Lecter took a pair of silver tongs from the sideboard and peeled off the tape covering Krendler’s mouth.

“Good evening, again, Mr. Krendler.”

“Good evening.” Krendler did not seem to be quite himself. His place was set with a small tureen.

“Would you like to say good evening to Ms. Starling?”

“Hello, Starling.” He seemed to brighten. “I always wanted to watch you eat.”

Starling took him in from a distance, as though she were the wise old pier glass watching. “Hello, Mr. Krendler.” She raised her face to Dr. Lecter, busy with his pans. “How did you ever catch him?”

“Mr. Krendler is on his way to an important conference about his future in politics,” Dr. Lecter said. “Margot Verger invited him as a favor to me. Sort of a quid pro quo. Mr. Krendler jogged up to the pad in Rock Creek Park to meet the Verger helicopter. But he caught a ride with me instead. Would you like to say grace before our meal, Mr. Krendler. Mr. Krendler?”

“Grace? Yes.” Krendler closed his eyes. “Father, we thank Thee for the blessings we are about to receive and we dedicate them to Thy service. Starling is a big girl to be fucking her daddy even if she is southern. Please forgive her for that and bring her to my service. In Jesus’ name, amen.”

Starling noted that Dr. Lecter kept his eyes piously closed throughout the prayer.