- 1 -

"By George, Irene, don’t tell me you’ve finally rented out that room!" A masculine voice shouted this message from afar, the voice’s target most likely being the living room, where a woman was seated, perusing the newspaper. The shouter was a Mr. Fred Wahrer, and the shoutee was his wife Mrs. Fred Wahrer – Irene Wahrer.

Fred was inquiring about the lack of a "ROOM FOR RENT" sign nailed to the post in front of their home. There had been one there before, and its absence heralded either the good news that roomers had come to live in their house, or the bad news that a gang of sign-thieves was skulking somewhere in the otherwise tranquil city of Pleasant Creek, Iowa.

"Mm?" Irene looked up from her newspaper as she sighted Fred’s entrance (he was hard for her to miss, being quite a large and cumbersome person, especially when wrapped in the many layers of clothing required when leaving the house in this weather). "Oh, yes, dear! To a very nice couple of fellows…foreigners, actually."

"Oh," said Fred, with neither distaste nor pleasure in his voice. "Where are they from?"

"I never asked," Irene replied. "Haven’t had a chance to meet them yet; they just got here about twenty minutes ago. They’re upstairs now, unpacking their valises."

Fred removed first his long woollen scarf, then his warm woollen hat. The latter removal revealed a frizzled bush of thick hair that was solid black at one time, but had now begun to give way to that unstoppable force – time. It was greying, but at least it wasn’t falling out – Fred preferred the arrival of distinguished streaks in his hair to its gradual disappearance. His face was quite ordinary - he wasn’t someone you’d really notice in a crowd – and marred by a few lines which, when combined with the state of his hair, advertised his age to be in the late-forties to early-fifties area. Walking towards the hall to hang up his hat and scarf, he simultaneously unbuttoned his coat and asked his wife another question: "Did the guys tell you their names?"

"Yes. One is a Mr.…oh, what was it…Desormaux. I don’t think I ever got the other one’s name, actually…oh, get that look off your face. I’m sure you’ll get along grand."

Fred shooed away the nationalistic voice of worry that had been in the back of his mind and scolded it mentally – of course these were probably lovely people. "Yeah." He smiled and sank into a large armchair. "Are you done with that newspaper?"

- 2 -

"Warped floors. Water-damaged wallpaper. And that loathsome colour. Eugh," a man growled, more or less to himself. His deep voice had an appealing Austrian twang. He appeared to be disapproving of the large second-story guest bedroom’s décor. Standing at about five and a half feet tall, he possessed a very close, military haircut, a pair of dusky eyes, and a slight scowl. He was middle-aged in appearance, and had quite a distinguished visage, which he had accented with a monocle, through which he was peering out the window to the frozen grounds below. He chose to watch the sun setting over a nearby field rather than continue looking at the wallpaper, and did so while leaning on the windowsill and taking contemplative drags on a long cigarette holder.

"But, André, you said yourself that if we are going to be staying here for a long time we can’t afford to stay in the hotel," a voice, of a velveteen, fluty, and high-pitched quality (and also tinged with a lilting accent), piped in. This voice belonged to a man sitting on a bed nearby with a suitcase in his lap, his legs dangling over the edge, not quite touching the floor. He was quite small – a little over five feet in height, slightly podgy, and wearing an expression that could best be described as bemused complacency. He had orbish, protruding oculi with heavy lids. They were enormous, and a gentle brown in colour. They stood out as the most noticeable feature on his round, childish face, which also featured a handsome, delicately sculpted, vaguely Semitic nose and a Clara-Bow-lipped mouth that was prone to breaking out in a sheepish smile. He looked much more youthful than his companion. Although it was hard to determine his exact age by sight alone, one would guess that he was in his late twenties to early thirties.

"Quite right, Ducky. But still, at three dollars a week…it’s sub-par, really, and that’s saying a lot. And, honestly, who uses puce wallpaper?"

"Ducky" shrugged slightly, and his brow furrowed anxiously. "That was a very nice woman, though, André, surely you liked her? I liked her!"

"Very charming." André sat on the bed on what was probably his side of the room, as the man he addressed as "Ducky" was occupying the other one. He was finished emptying his valise of its contents – all of his clothes were hung neatly and immaculately in the closet, and he waited impatiently for "Ducky" to finish doing the same.

He drummed his fingers on the bedside table upon which his arm was resting. Then he stopped, his eyes narrowing upon his hand as if noticing something of intrigue. After eyeing his hand for a moment (with an annoyed expression contorting his features), he whipped out a small case from inside his suit jacket, and produced therefrom a file, with which he elegantly evened out the nail of his right index finger, which had been broken slightly at one corner. He again secreted the case in his jacket, and resumed what he was doing before: projecting an air of suavity and grandeur.

The other man had, meanwhile, hung up his last suit in the closet, and was sliding his empty suitcase under his bed. Then he sat down, and the springs emitted a sound like that of a mouse’s death rattle. André grimaced.

"You’d have to pick the noisy one, Polo. You know, you move quite freely in your sleep."

"Really?"

"Yes. Chasing rabbits or something, I guess. I don’t really care to contemplate what goes on in that skull of yours while you’re asleep."

"Well, I can’t really remember having any dreams about rabbits, but I don’t know, sometimes I have a very hard time remembering – oh, that reminds me, André! I saw a rabbit this afternoon."

"Did you really," André said lackadaisically.

"Yes, but as soon as he saw me he ran away," concluded Polo mournfully.

"Yes, everyone seems to react strongly to that moon face of yours."

Polo ignored the dig (obviously accustomed to it). "Isn’t it beautiful here? It is quite different from where I grew up, except they are both such quiet little towns. It’s so peaceful."

André nodded. "A good place to lie low for a while after all that business in San Francisco."

"You’d better not mention that too much; what if they can hear us up here?"

"They can’t," said André simply. "You were singing quite loudly, and terribly off-key, I might add, while I was downstairs talking to her, but I couldn’t hear it until I got close to the door. Besides, Ms. Wahrer does not seem like the type of person to intrude on a private conversation."

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. Polo rose to answer it, and upon opening the door he was greeted with the smiling Irene.

"Hello," said Polo cheerily.

"Hello again – did I ever get your name? I know I got Mr. Desormaux’s," she said, casting a smile over Polo’s shoulder at André, who smiled back with a short, courtly bow.

"My name is Polo," said Polo.

"Well, that’s an interesting name…oh, yes, the real reason I came up here was to ask if you would like to take supper here tonight, because I’m just starting it. Fred and I would love to have you."

"Of course we would, if it doesn’t inconvenience you, of course," said André.

"Oh, heavens, no! You’re welcome anytime."

"Thank you for your hospitality, Madame," André said delicately.

"Yes, thank you very much!" piped in Polo.

"Think nothing of it!" Irene said with a small wave of her hand. "I’ll come knock for you again when it’s ready, or you can come down and chat with us, once you’re done with your luggage."

She bid them goodbye, and closed the door.

"What a nice woman!" said Polo happily.

"Yes. Well, Polo? Shall we descend the stairs and make ourselves visible?"

Together they proceeded downstairs to the warm, homey atmosphere of the Wahrer living room.

- 3 -

It was nearly eight o’ clock, and Michael Clark had been waiting for almost five minutes in the San Francisco police department while an inexperienced young worker had gone to get some information he’d requested. An impatient groan escaped his lips as an antisocial snarl crossed his youthful face. What is so difficult about it, he thought to himself. Shouldn’t he have these files right at hand? When the grandson of one of the most famous men in the city is robbed, shouldn’t these idiots know quite a bit about it?

His grandfather had been the owner of an extremely successful business before he’d passed away from a terminal illness last year. Michael had inherited the largest part of the fortune, but, unfortunately, a fraction of that sum wasn’t present in his bank at the moment. Michael intended to remedy this situation "asap," as he liked to say, not "A.S.A.P," but "ay-sapp," pronouncing it as a single word (this habit tended to try the nerves of some of his more sensitive acquaintances).

His face brightened a little as he saw the young worker (who had quite a lot of acne, Michael thought, adding brightly to himself that it was quite a bit more than he’d had at that age) return with a few sheets of paper.

"Well?" Michael said. "Did you find anything out?"

"No more progress has been made on this case, sir, except that they have determined that the criminals were heading eastward when they left town."

"Yes, I already knew that much," said Michael impatiently. "Has anyone seen them?"

"Although some of our men have been tracing their alleged route, we haven’t been able to make any --"

"It was a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ question, you know."

"No, then." He glanced up from his papers rather irritably. "Look, sir, they tell me that you have been in here several times in the past few days. We will call you if we find anything out."

"Fine. Fine." Michael ran a hand through his wavy, thick, blonde mop of hair – this was one of his nervous tics, another one that people tended to notice and take issue with (as he did it up to twice per minute when he was particularly wound up about something). "Although it’s been nearly two weeks since that money was stolen – you’d think you’d have found more out by then."

"We do have other cases to work on, sir," said the young man. Michael noticed particularly now how the kid’s voice cracked and shifted from a lower register to a higher one intermittently, and he hoped that he didn’t sound that annoying when he was that age (which was only about four years earlier).

"Fine," said Michael sardonically, "you work on those. Best of luck." He turned and strode out the door.

Back on the street, and gravitating lazily in the direction of a streetcar stop, he sighed pitifully. It looked as though they wouldn’t soon find the trio of con artists that had fooled him out of ten thousand dollars -- ten thousand dollars! He just couldn’t believe it. Sure, relatively, it wasn’t a terribly huge amount, but it was the principle of the thing.

"Oh well," he said to himself, and that was never an easy thing for Michael Clark to say. A little vacation and relaxation would aid him – he was going to travel to Iowa by train and spend Christmas with his Aunt & Uncle Wahrer, his cousins, and any other family members that showed up at the annual Christmas party. Yes, he thought. The trip will do me good…it’s always so peaceful at Aunt Irene’s!

- 4 -

Polo was sitting at the Wahrers’ dinner table, meanwhile, and engaged in fascinating conversation with Irene & Fred. He was currently thinking to himself how great of a relief the particularly cosy and unpretentious atmosphere was, due to his previous experiences at all of the elegant soirees and festivities and socialite engagements and things at which he and André always found the best marks. Oh, he had fun at these places, of course; he always enjoyed himself immensely, made a few (temporary, unfortunately) friends, and consumed a trifle too much champagne. This house, however, seemed so friendly and undemanding towards him. He noticed that André tolerated his current habitat but did not seem to be thoroughly ecstatic about it; André was always fond of the finer – well, more expensive, anyway -- things in life.

André had invented histories for himself and Polo. As long as they were around the Wahrers, they had been the proprietors of a small but successful deli in New York City, but Polo had inherited a considerable reserve fund from his uncle (inheritances were always such a handy way of explaining your spare change!). They were hoping to find a good place to stay in a quieter area of the country (what with the hustle and bustle of the teeming megalopolis and all of the usual reasons people try to find a good place to stay in a quieter area of the country). André had admitted that it wasn’t the most creative and interesting story in the world, but he couldn’t think of much on such short notice, especially when they weren’t allowed to be royalty, for obvious reasons – royalty would not be forced to billet themselves in an ageing couple’s home in the American Midwest.

Polo was content as he sat and ate heartily – Mrs. Wahrer was a good cook, he thought – but there were several nagging thoughts gnawing at the back of his head. These irritating thoughts included the possible consequences of their recent theft of several thousand dollars from a San Franciscan upper class type. They had been exposed as frauds slightly before they’d planned, and hadn’t had sufficient time to leave without being chased by the police (which had just so much unpleasantness involved – he wasn’t partial to those suspenseful and dangerous trips, as much as he liked to travel). Although André had reassured him that they were essentially safe here, he just couldn’t help doubting that a little bit.

Another of these thoughts was about the dirty looks that he’d gotten in a filling station nearby. Around here the international duo of Polo & André was, apparently, an oddity. San Francisco, large coastal town that it was, had had no shortage of people from all over the world, but here, in provincial Iowa, they were regarded with either curiosity or hostility.

He’d have to silence these thoughts for now, though, because luckily Mrs. Wahrer had broken the ice by attempting to rekindle the flame of conversation, which had since died down.

"Well, have you enjoyed your stay in the States so far?" she inquired politely.

"Oh, I have!" said Polo animatedly. "It’s very nice here. But is it always this cold?"

"Only at this time of year," said Mr. Wahrer. "Oh, we like to say here in Iowa – if you don’t like the weather, stick around for five minutes, it’ll change. Ha ha ha!"

Mr. Wahrer’s laughter was slightly louder than necessary, considering how funny the joke was, but Polo and André guffawed politely just the same.

"It’s a nice town," André said. "In fact, we might just think about finding a place to live here, if we can."

"Oh? Well, I hear that the Derrimans on Maple Street may have to move, if Mr. Derriman is transferred. They have a small, but nice house – large enough for just you two gentlemen, I’m sure."

"Oh, thank you, I’ll keep that in mind," André said. "We would love to stay here. It’s a charming place."

André, Polo knew, was lying – this was something, luckily, at which he was very adept, having practised for his entire career. A village such as this could never satisfy his needs; he needed travel, excitement, night-clubs, and people. People with money. In this area, however, so modestly populated and quaint, they would never be able to keep their "business" – con artistry – alive.

"I’m glad you like it," said Irene. "It’s probably not nearly as exciting as New York – I’d sure love to go there someday, but we haven’t got the money for that now."

"Well, we have quite a lot of extra money, maybe we could lend --" Polo stopped in mid-sentence due to a sharp kick in the leg he had received under the table from André. "Well…maybe not…I suppose it will take a lot of it to move into a house."

"Oh, we wouldn’t think of it anyway, but thank you for the consideration," said Mr. Wahrer.

"Wait a moment," Irene said. "Listen. Do you hear that?"

The table fell silent, and sure enough, the chugging of an approaching automobile was audible. It increased in volume, until it sounded as though it had pulled into the Wahrers’ driveway. It honked twice.

"Now, who in thunder could that be?" said Mr. Wahrer. "No, sit down, Irene; I’ll go and get the door." He left the table, and in a moment they heard him shout: "Why, Carol! Oh, please, you come in too, and warm yourself…"

Returning to the kitchen, he carried a suitcase in each hand and was followed by a heavily wrapped person, feminine in general construction. "Irene, look who’s here!"

"Carol!" Irene rose from her seat and hugged the bundle that probably contained a Carol. Carol then removed her stocking cap and scarf so that she could speak.

"I’m finally here!" she said exuberantly. "Business back in the big city took a little longer than planned."

"How’d you get here?"

"My friend Bill drove me in his new auto – well, used; new to him."

"He the one who taught you driving?"

"Oh, yes!" Carol said happily. "And like I told you on the phone, I got my license now!"

Irene shook her head, laughing. "First off to the big city, now at the wheel – what next? You’re going to kill me, child!"

"Should have invited this Bill in," Fred said, winking. "We’d like to meet the beau."

"Oh, no, it isn’t like that at all," exclaimed Carol, her expression suggesting that she was standing too near an overripe garbage box. "He’s just a friend. Maybe he’d like to be more than that, but…"

"Oh, one of those. Poor guy," said Fred, having been in a similar position himself during his early adulthood. "Oh, Carol – meet our new roomers," he added, gesturing sweepingly towards the table.

André had now risen from his seat, and Polo, too, after André had elbowed him in the head. "These gentlemen," said Irene, "are our roomers, Mr. Desormaux and…Mr. Polo. And this, gentlemen, is my daughter Carol."

"Good evening, Madame," greeted André.

"How do you do," said Polo.

"Carol’s just graduated college this year," Irene added proudly, "with honours. For dramatics. She’s going to be an actress."

"Acting, eh?" André said, with a small, intrigued elevation of an eyebrow.

"Well, I hope," said Carol a little wistfully. "I’ve got a minor in zoology, though. In case the acting thing doesn’t work, I could go to veterinary school or something."

"It’s such a wonderful surprise to see you, Carol! Sit down, dear," Irene said. "Have some supper!"

"Oh, thank you, Mom, but Bill and I took supper in the city before we left," she said, taking off her wraps and hanging them up in the hall. "I’ll pull up a chair and join the conversation, though." And she did just that. "Is it all right if I sit next to you, Mr. Polo?"

"Of course, Madame; please go right ahead," said Polo happily. The family, now complete, re-seated itself and continued its meal. Polo was eventually aware of the fact that he hadn’t taken his eyes off of Carol since she walked in the door. He was frequently struck with the feeling that he had just met his one true love, and he was having that feeling now. He admired her round, youthful face and its largish, grey-blue eyes, her long, dark hair, her lovely smile. She was small and looked pleasant to hug, and her expression was pensive but calm. He self-consciously directed his attention elsewhere, realising that he was missing the conversation.

"Well, what brings our two houseguests to the Midwest?" Carol was saying. She smiled brightly at Polo, who simpered sheepishly back.

"Oh, we came here seeking shelter from the city for a while. We are New Yorkers, and that sort of place takes a toll on your nerves after a while," explained André.

"Yes, we were able to take this little trip because of my great uncle Alois’ passing…he left me a considerable amount of money," Polo said.

"Sorry to hear about your uncle," said Carol sympathetically.

"Well, he was very sick, so it was expected to come sooner or later. He was very old, too – almost one hundred years he lived!"

"Is that right?"

"Yes, he used to say on every birthday that he’s lived this long because of plenty of whisky and green vegetables and lots of garlic. He may have lived a while but his breath wasn’t very nice. Nobody wanted him talking to their face because of his healthy whisky-and-garlic plan," Polo orated thoughtfully. André was staring quizzically at him from across the table, but hadn’t kicked him yet, for which Polo was thankful, as he didn’t like it when he didn’t get to finish his stories.

The three Wahrers were chuckling at this story. "You’re not joking, are you, Polo?" Mr. Wahrer said.

"Why, no," Polo said seriously. "If you had ever had to talk to him you’d know this was no laughing matter!"

They conversed and laughed until long after the table was cleared. It seemed as though Mr. Wahrer had finally begun to warm up to them – Polo had noticed a certain air of suspicious hostility about him when they’d arrived, but that was nowhere to be found after they’d had supper together. How well people can bond, thought Polo, over pot roast. After he’d thought that thought, he realised it wasn’t a very much of a philosophy or a poignant maxim, but he was too full of pot roast to think of anything better.

- 5 -

Later that evening, at approximately ten thirty o’ clock, Polo and André had gone to bed, but the family of three was still up. Irene was playing herself at solitaire on the davenport, and because this activity took up both halves of the couch, Carol was stretched on the floor before the fireplace (whose flame was waning), reading a book by Wodehouse, while Fred snored peacefully in his armchair, having passed into unconsciousness while in the middle of reading an interesting headline in the newspaper. All had been silent for a while, until Irene’s solitaire game came to an unsatisfying conclusion. As she was picking up the cards, turning over some of them to see where that missing Jack had been hiding, she became aware of the time.

"Goodness, perhaps we ought to go to bed soon," she said, shuffling her deck of cards absentmindedly as she talked.

"Father already has, looks like," said Carol. "Yeah, I’m kind of sleepy. You haven’t rented out my room, have you?"

"Nope, only the spare room."

"Then I guess I ought to take my luggage upstairs." She marked her spot in her book with a torn scrap of paper and stumbled upright. "I’ll try to be quiet. Mustn’t wake our guests."

"Don’t sleep too late tomorrow. Some of our Christmas guests may be arriving!"

"Oh, that’ll be fun," said Carol, not terribly enthusiastically. "Um…is cousin Michael coming this year?"

"Yes, I believe so."

A noise akin to a growl or groan came from the depths of Carol’s throat. The closest approximation to the correct spelling of this sound is ‘Nnnnnrrggggg.’

"I know you don’t get along with him, Carol. Try to be nice to him. Well, I know you always are nice to him, and thank you for that," Irene said. "I know he’s a little hard to take sometimes."

"He’s a pompous, overbearing, loafer!"

"Oh, now," scolded Irene, but she did not attempt to make Carol revoke her statement.

"Oh well. It’s all right. He’s okay. I’m going to bed now. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Carol; sleep well."

As Carol passed through the kitchen towards the staircase, she picked up the remaining suitcase that sat upon the kitchen floor. This triggered something in Irene’s memory, and she said, "By the way, Carol – that luggage you took upstairs after dinner, the one draped in the blanket – what was in there?"

"That’s the pet carrier. You know, for Smoky."

"Oh, you still have that rodent?" Irene said.

"He is not a rodent!" she said, shrilly defensive. "He’s a member of the family mustelidae; mustela putorius, to be exact. He’s a predator. He eats rodents."

"He’s a vicious wild animal and he stinks to high heaven."

"I’ve told you time and time again that he’s completely domesticated. He never bites. And," she said, apologetically, "he can’t help the way he smells. Besides, he’s not that bad anymore, since I found a vet who could do that descenting operation. Such a nice man, and he gave me an excellent price --"

"I’m just surprised you haven’t been caught yet – your landlord doesn’t allow pets, does he?"

"Well, it’s not like they have patrolmen knocking on the doors all the time to check for pets. And my roommate likes him so much it’s easy enough to keep him hidden, between the two of us."

"Well, I suppose I’ll let you keep him in the house. We can’t very well let him freeze outdoors, can we?" (Carol looked momentarily sickened at the thought.) "You just keep him in your room, and clean up after him, for pity’s sake."

"He is litter trained, you know."

"If you say so."

"Goodnight, Mom!"

"Goodnight, dear. Oh, you wouldn’t like any help with your suitcase, would you?"

"No, I can get it." Carol laboriously made her way up the stairs, at the top of which was the same old rug that her grandmother had woven for them out of scraps one Christmas – money was usually hard to come by, and handmade gifts were popular and much appreciated. She stepped on this rug, nearly slipping, its coarse underside creating little friction with the smooth wood of the floor. After a few acrobatics to keep from dropping her things, she proceeded down the hall. Her room was one door down from the spare room, and she was grateful that the guests didn’t seem like the boisterous type. Well, that little fellow Polo was a bit talkative, she thought, but the other guy looks like he can keep him in check.

Carol had concluded that they were very charming gentlemen, and that, unfortunately, her father wasn’t quite comfortable with them. Goes to the movies too much, she thought. The foreign man was nearly always a villain in that world of celluloid.

Pondering over the celluloid world and its foreign villains with all their accents and goatees, she began to unpack her suitcases. Well, this is a bit of an overstatement: what she really did was open both of them and begin to root through them, searching for a comb. When the fruits of her labour were reached, she did what any rational mind would predict she would do next: she sat upon her bed (which was just the way she left it when she went to Iowa City; her parents were such dears) and began to comb her hair.

It was quiet, so she eventually turned on her phonograph to play a little music. The noise caused someone else in the room to wake and stir. This other occupant was about the length of a cat but half the height, and was covered in soft, grey and black fur arranged in a striking pattern about his body. He had a twitching pink nose, whiskers attached, and a dark mask, like a bandit’s, on his pointed, curious face. This creature was a ferret, and its full name was Smoky Joe (Smoky for short). He emerged from an open picnic basket in one corner of the room, blinking sleepily and suspiciously eyeing his surroundings, as though it were the morning after a wild party with his rowdy weasel friends and he was having trouble recognising his whereabouts. He recalled the room, as he had spent several hours previously exploring it, but had, fortunately, found no mayhem to initiate. After reacquainting himself with the room, he scrambled up onto his owner’s bed to greet her. She picked him up lovingly and gave him a little scratch behind the ears. She informed him that he was an adorable little sweetie and she wuvved him vewy much, but he did not reply – merely inspected her person to see if she’d brought anything delicious for him. Finding her empty-handed, he shot her an indignant look, then wriggled off to hide beneath the bedclothes.

- 6 -

"You know, their daughter is just as sweet as they are," Polo said, reclining on his bed.

"Yes, charming." André said this with a noticeable finality, as, being in the midst of a deep thought, he did not wish to chat. Polo, however, did.

"She’s pretty, too," he said fondly.

"Quite." He said this quickly, hardly giving Polo enough room to finish his sentence.

"And she went to college. Not too many ladies go to college, do they, André? She must be very clever."

"Oh, a perfect match, eh?" sneered André sarcastically. Having been unwillingly awakened from his reverie, he said. "Say, what IS this? You’re not in love again, are you?"

"No!"

"Don’t give me that, dear Ducky; every time you meet a woman you start walking around talking about her myriad favourable qualities and getting that giddy, vacant look in your eyes. More than usual, I mean."

"Don’t you like her?"

"Yes, of course – but we’ve known her barely an hour, Ducky."

"So? I can tell that she is perfectly marvellous! I want to be her friend."

"Yes, her ‘friend.’ More than that, I imagine; I know you. And I’m certain she’ll go mad with desire over that lovely face of yours, Polo."

Polo looked hurt. "I see you’re not in a good mood tonight, André – but must you be so mean to me? I didn’t do anything."

"Sorry, Ducky. I was just thinking about that odious Michael character. For some reason he’s still bothering me."

"How can he? He is miles away from here. And he doesn’t know this phone number or anything."

"No, no, no. The thought of his discovery of our location bothers me. Somehow, I feel that our friend Michael is not yet completely out of our lives. You know, we Virgos tend to have good foresight."

"I thought you said we were safe here," said Polo.

"Even I make mistakes," said André. At this statement, Polo’s worried look intensified. "Oh, don’t let it bother you, Polo. We’ve got to get some sleep. Have you brushed your teeth?"

"Yes."

"Don’t lie, now – we’ve really got to get you to the dentist one of these days, you know."

"I brushed them, André, honest! But I’ve got to go and change into my pyjamas."

"All right. Having already done so, I’ll just turn in. Please, turn off the light switch as you go out." André paused for a moment, and in the silence, they could hear noises coming from next door – music; the low, steady beat of swing. "Hmm. Our neighbour must have her radio on. Polo, on your way back, why don’t you stop by and tell her to turn it down? I’ll never sleep through that racket."

"Oh…must I do that?"

"I wish you would."

"I don’t want to intrude…"

"I don’t want to be awake until one o’ clock in the morning."

"Well, all right. I’ll be back." Polo opened the closet, and gathered up his pyjamas, carefully gathering up his toothbrush in the bundle of clothing in order to smuggle it out. He left the room, and reached the bathroom, which was at the end of the hall. After he had changed into his snug flannel pyjamas (they were maroon and patterned with little bears – André detested them, but Polo thought that the bears were a small price to pay for the garment’s cosiness), buttoning them up to his chin, he gave his teeth a thorough brushing for the second time that day. André’s comment about the dentist had shaken him – the last time that he’d been there had been so unpleasant…

After he’d finished, he gathered his clothes, which lay in a crumpled pile at his feet. He carried them under his arm and proceeded towards his second-to-final destination. Being slightly timid, he’d worked out exactly what he would say to avoid embarrassing stutters and pauses. He knocked twice on the door, and eventually, it opened.

"Hello, Miss Carol, and I’m sorry to bother you at this time of night but André says that – oh, gee, I’m sorry." Polo was, for a split second, confused as to why Carol had grown so large and bristly – but then he figured out that he must have absentmindedly knocked on the wrong door, and was now staring up – way up; what a large man – at a sleepy Fred Wahrer.

"What on earth do you want, Mr. Polo?"

"I’m awfully sorry. I meant to knock on Carol’s door, but I guess that this is the wrong one…"

"No, it’s right across the hall."

"Did I wake you up?"

"Yes, actually…"

"I’m so sorry!"

"It’s all right. But why, may I ask, would you be knocking on Carol’s door at midnight?"

"Oh – her radio is on and rather loudly and André can’t sleep."

"Oh, yeah, she’s kind of a night owl – probably still up reading in there. Well, she’ll be glad to turn it down for you, I’m sure. I hope you have a good night’s sleep."

"Sorry to have interrupted yours, Mr. Wahrer."

"Oh, think nothing of it. Good night." Fred had to smile as he shut the door, mocking his previous suspicions – Polo looked like a little owlet, a guilty little owlet in pyjamas with bears on them. He couldn’t possibly suspect him of any wrongdoing.

Polo knocked on what he hoped was the correct door this time – and sure enough, Carol answered, wearing a black robe and combing her hair, with Blanche Calloway warbling away on the phonograph behind her.

"Oh, Mr. Polo!"

"Hi, Carol! I’m sorry to bother you at this time of night but André…um…" Polo caught sight of something moving out of the corner of his eye. Eventually, his eyes rested upon Smoky, who was performing an elaborate war dance on the bedspread, hopping this way and that to confuse an invisible opponent. "Um, Miss, there’s an animal on your bed!"

"Oh, it’s all right; that’s just my ferret."

"A ferret! Oh, you know, I used to have a pet mouse when I was in pris – er, in Prussia!"

"Really?"

"Yes, I taught him to do tricks, and steal sweets, and things…"

Carol laughed. "Steal sweets?"

"Yes, from the street vendors."

"Thievery! That’s a pretty serious crime, Mr. Polo!" said Carol jokingly. She didn’t notice Polo’s expression of conscious guilt, because she had crossed the room to pick up the bouncing ferret and calm him down. "He does that all the time; he’s not vicious or anything, he just acts like it. Would you like to meet him? His name’s Smoky. He won’t bite you."

"What a cute little creature. Where did you get him?" She handed him to Polo, who carefully cradled the animal with both arms. Smoky stretched his elongated body upwards in order to closer examine Polo’s face. Smoky’s cold, wet nose contacted Polo’s, and he let out a small giggle. "You said he won’t bite, right?"

"Oh, no, never! Where I got him…well -- he belonged to a good friend of mine who was moving and couldn’t bring poor Smoky along. I’m really not sure where she got him – I think I might have seen a few in a pet shop once, but you really don’t see them around very often."

Smoky had begun to lick Polo’s nose, out of either affection or inquisitiveness about Polo’s flavour. "I knew someone back in Rumania who had one once. He used it to hunt rabbits."

"Yes, they’re used for that, but Smoky is so spoiled; I don’t think he’d bother himself with chasing one."

"Well, I think he’s just charming," said Polo, handing the ferret back to its owner. "Very adorable little creature…oh, yes! The reason I came – your music is a little loud, and André would really like to get to sleep, so if you would be so kind as to turn it down a little…?"

"Oh, of course! I’m sorry. You have no idea how often I get told that at the dormitory – and still I haven’t learned!"

"It’s all right, Madame; think nothing about it! Well, I don’t think it is proper for me to be in a lady’s room at midnight--" (this elicited a little laugh from Carol) "--so I had better leave. Have a very good night’s sleep!"

"You too. Goodnight."

"Goodnight Carol…goodnight, Smoky!"

- 7 -

Morning came for Polo & André after a long, mostly peaceful evening of sleep (it was interrupted only once, when Polo began giggling about something in his sleep, and awakened André, who prodded him rather harshly in the side until he woke up. "You’d better dream about something less funny," André had said. "You know how I am when I don’t get my sleep." Polo knew, and promptly left his giddy fantasy for something less interesting.) They woke up to the smell of breakfast cooking downstairs, and, once they were up and dressed, were warmly informed that they were welcome to join. The Wahrers were a much more amiable staff than Polo had ever encountered in any hotel. Where on earth was the catch?

It was Christmas Eve, and guests were to be arriving soon. It was a small house, though, and they wouldn’t be sleeping here – some would treat themselves to a stay in the hotel in town, and others would sleep in the houses of other close family members that also lived here in Pleasant Creek. Their Christmas celebration, however, was to be here.

"I hope we won’t be getting in the way," said Polo.

"Nonsense!" said Irene. "They’d all love to meet you; you’re a charming pair of gentlemen. Besides, you’re the ones who are paying to stay here. You just don’t worry about a thing."

And so they didn’t. After breakfast, André went up to his room for a short smoking/thinking break, and Polo and Carol helped clear the dishes, after which Carol stated that she finally had no papers to write, nor tests for which to study, nor rehearsals to attend, and she wasn’t sure what she’d do with herself now.

"Well," said Polo as they walked up the stairs together, "if you get bored, you could come and visit me and André!"

"Oh, yes! I’d love to show you two around town, Polo!" Carol said.

"Yes, actually, if we’re going to be staying here for a while we ought to know where everything is."

"Great." Carol paused at her room door. "I guess I haven’t anything I have to do. I’m ready to leave whenever you are."

"Oh, hold on a moment! I’ll go and fetch André." Polo then toddled into his room, and located André reading a newspaper, smoking, and sitting on his bed. He hadn’t noticed Polo’s entrance, and was understandably startled when Polo strode up behind him and enunciated a loud greeting. He jumped slightly (this infuriated him; he hated external stimuli that disturbed his poise), and his mouth opened, causing him to drop his cigarette holder onto his pant leg. He quickly gathered it up, and rotated his head to glare askance at Polo.

"What is it?" he said.

Polo beamed delightedly. "Carol said she could show us around town today. I figure it would be smart to get the lay of the land as long as we’re going to be hiding out here."

"Oh?" said André. "Hm, quite right, Ducky. A good idea."

A compliment from André?! This day just kept getting better! "Would you like to come along, then? We are leaving pretty soon, I guess."

"But of course. First, however, allow me to finish the cigarette which you interrupted."

He did so. They grabbed their coats, scarves, and hats. Then, they knocked lightly on Carol’s door, and she emerged.

Downstairs, Carol informed Irene & Fred of their destinations. Although Fred looked as though he was trying to conceal his disapproval of his daughter’s striking out into the town with these two strange gentlemen, Irene merely requested that they not be gone for too long, because soon there’d be relatives to greet.

Their first destination was the central square, which wasn’t more than a few blocks from the Wahrer house. Here, there was a beautiful park – Donnell Park, they were informed – surrounded by a square of sidewalk around which most of the town’s major businesses were located.

"Right across the street is the grocery…there’s a neat little café right next to it, the Lamppost, and over there is Allen’s Confectionery," she said, gesturing towards the buildings’ respective locations. "The kids usually hang out there, but it’s a place everyone likes. You know, you can go and get a soda, or a lemonade, and just sit and chat. It’s a nice place."

"Are there any night-clubs or, er, bars in the city?" asked André. "Not to say that I intend to overindulge in alcohol, of course; I just find that the atmosphere inspires me."

"Inspires you, Mr. Desormaux? Really?" Carol asked curiously.

"Yes. I also dabble in writing, and the number of interesting…you may say, colourful characters in places such as these just induce the flow of creativity, if you will."

"How nice!" said Carol. Polo winced. He really didn’t like seeing André lead all of these people on – but that, he supposed, was how he and André made their living. "Hmm, night-clubs." Carol paused. "There’s the Snorting Longhorn out on 5^th street, but the people there are…um…you…I don’t know if that’s your kind of place…oh, but if you want local colour, it’s there. There’s also the Redtail Inn, about a block away from here. It’s a bit nicer. Those are the only two bars in this town, unless they built another one while I was gone."

"Thank you, Madame. I may take a little trip to one of these establishments later this evening."

"André’s an excellent writer," Polo said slyly. "He seems to get better with every drink he has, too! Until about the fourth glass. Then it seems to peak, and the quality starts going downhill…"

"Watch it, Polo – you don’t really have room to talk in that department…oh, excuse me, Madame. This is not exactly a gentlemanly conversation."

"Oh, you mustn’t worry about that. To people around here anyone with an accent sounds gentlemanly no matter what they’re talking about," said Carol, and she, André, and Polo shared laughter.

They elected to take a leisurely stroll through the park, conversing. The winding pathway through the park was paved with brick and flanked by young maple trees with many years ahead of them. In summer, the park was in full bloom, but today it looked rather tired and sad, as if preparing for winter storms to come. This didn’t seem to deter a couple of squirrels who raced up and down the trunk of one of the larger trees.

The city was decorated for the holidays, too. There were garlands of greenery spiralled around the trunks of the trees, and lights strung in the bushes. In the centre of the park, near the pond, there was a huge pine tree sporting all manner of lights, tinsel, gleaming ornaments, and ribbons. Several carollers stood here accompanied by a single trumpet, singing whether or not anyone was there to hear them. Down the streets wandered clusters of people with shopping bags, laughing and talking, their faces shielded from the sharp breezes by woollen scarves.

Polo was watching it all beamingly – how he loved it here! Everyone was friendly, and everything – the plants, animals, buildings, and streetcars all, somehow, seemed terribly amiable. Although it was a small town, and there were clouds overhead, and it was cold enough that they could see their breath, Polo thought that this place was paradise. Of course, being a relentless optimist, he did think that about the majority of the places he and André visited.

After this, they rode a streetcar out to Fifth Street to see where the Snorting Longhorn was. It was a small, dingy place with a patched screen door. There was a neon sign hanging above this door, portraying a large bull rearing up on its hind legs, spewing a cloud of dust out of its nostrils, and sitting back down – an endless cycle of aggressive bovine behaviour.

"Hmm, I wonder what time it is…I should be back at home by around noon," said Carol. "I’m going to go in here and ask Frank – he’s the bartender – ask Frank what time it is. You can come in if you want – you know, to take in the local colour, André."

They entered the dimly-lit tavern, and a couple of men wearing plaid flannel were sitting at the bar beneath a large wreath that said in red letters in its centre, simply, "NOEL," nursing drinks and chatting about the weather. A dark-haired (but greying) man wiping glasses behind the bar greeted Carol warmly.

"Back for the holidays, are you?" said Frank.

"Yes, Frank," said Carol. "I’m just showing my new friends here around the town – they’re roomers at our house, you see."

"Oh, how nice! Well, hello, gentlemen."

"This is Polo," said Carol, "and this is André."

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," said André with a curt bow, while Polo mewed a quiet "Hello." Their accents caused the ears of the two men at the bar to perk. They exchanged glances, then watched André and Polo like hawks.

"Where are you two from?" asked Frank curiously.

"We’ve been living in New York City for quite a long time," said André, "but I was born in France, and Polo in Rumania." Polo found it amazing how easily André convinced people that he was French – his birthplace was actually the same as Polo’s: Austria. "Desormaux" wasn’t a very Austrian surname, however, so he changed his birthplace frequently to fit in with his pseudonym.

The men at the bar whispered to one another. Polo deduced that their words were probably not positive. He shifted his weight uncomfortably, keeping the innocent smile on his face as Carol asked for the time.

It was about a quarter past eleven, so they decided to walk back to the house, the relative novelty of the streetcar having worn off. After a while, they found themselves back at the confectionery. They looked at the clock hanging on the wall here, and, discovering they had a little extra time, decided to stop in for refreshments. Carol ordered a cola for herself. André didn’t want much of anything here (his sweet tooth was inactive at the moment – what he really wanted was a drink) but bought a cherry phosphate and a chocolate bar for Polo, whose sweet tooth was almost always quite alert.

"So, Carol, this little town is just charming," said Polo, while fiddling with the wrapper on his chocolate.

"Oh, quite," agreed André. "I believe I am going to like it here, very much. Thank you for the tour, also, miss."

"My pleasure." She took a thoughtful sip of her drink. "Did you notice those men in the bar, though?"

"I did," said Polo. "What were they talking about?"

"I imagine they were expressing their dislike for foreigners, Polo," said André.

"I’d hate to think that," Carol said. "But you’re probably right. I don’t know them, though. They looked like some of the people that come in occasionally from the country – that type knows nothing about foreigners except what they’ve seen in films."

"Oh, we’re no strangers to that kind of treatment – the looks they were giving us at that filling station!" Polo said.

"Most of them aren’t like that though!" said Carol. "After all – how could anyone dislike you two?"

"I can think of answers to that," André said coyly. "But I had better keep them to myself."

Polo had been happily devouring his chocolate while examining everything in the building that caught his interest. Time passed, and he heard Carol mention that maybe they ought to get back home, and so he followed after her and André. After he was back on the street, he felt his pockets and was dismayed to discover that, during the course of conversation, a salt shaker, a fork, several pieces of candy, and an ashtray had found their way into them. However, he thought it pertinent to keep this revelation to himself for now.

When once again they returned to the narrow gravel drive of the Wahrer house, there was a car parked in it that had not been there before. Carol deduced that a large collection of her relatives had been deposited here. "You can stay down and mingle if you’d like," she said. "I imagine you’ll be in the house for most of the holiday festivities, so you may as well get to know them – I’m sure they’ll just love you."

"Marvellous," said André.

"They’re a rowdy crowd, though," warned Carol.

"Oh, then it’ll be just like home," Polo said, grinning.

They entered the house through the kitchen door and proceeded into the kitchen through the narrow hallway lined with coat hooks, most of which were occupied now. As Carol entered, there was a loud and raucous greeting from an assembled party sipping coffee around the kitchen table. The majority of them were in chairs pulled in from various corners of the house, while a few others, having vehemently declared that Fred and Irene mustn’t go to the trouble of finding them a chair, were condemned to stand, leaning idly against counters.

"Hello," said Carol meekly, smiling. Her deportment suggested that, although she had been through this every single Christmas and Thanksgiving and birthday and what-have-you through all twenty-something of her years, she was still unsure of exactly what to say when faced with the barrage of comments and compliments hurled by the familiar crowd. A rowdy bunch they were, indeed, and freshly caffeinated! This status freed Carol from having to feel obligated to start a conversation, as they would have everything in that field perpetually covered.

"Welcome home!" "Merry Christmas!" "Oh, you just look so cosmopolitan!" "My, you’re more of a grown-up every time I see you!" Greetings to Carol, all variations of the usual ones, sounded from all corners of the room, until Polo and André stepped in.

"Oh, mum, these are our new roomers I mentioned," said Fred to a sweet-looking little old lady who beamed from behind oversized spectacles.

"Yes – this is Mr. André Desormaux and Mr. Polo. Gentlemen, this is the extended family."

"Hello!"

"Hi!"

"Merry Christmas!"

"How do you do."

"Good afternoon!"

"Oh, you sound continental!"

"You’re absolutely correct," said Polo, promptly and merrily proceeding to the table, finding a spot where he could lean and mingle. André stayed near the entrance to the hallway, away from the main congregation of people, but bowed and allowed a smile to the fascinated Wahrers. They were each served a cup of coffee. Polo reached for the sugar bowl and monopolised it for quite a long time, putting ridiculously liberal amounts of sugar into his coffee. That, thought Carol, explained his constant lugubriousness and perkiness. Polo gave the deli-owners-in-New-York story that André had given earlier, explaining as well their respective countries of origin. There were very few interruptions to his story, apart from occasional curious questions. Carol found this fascinating, as you had to be a very good storyteller to finish a sentence while the clan was about. It was, in part, the wonderment with which they greeted an outsider to America, but it was also his voice – although he talked a lot and it seemed to get on André’s nerves when he did, Carol found it a shame when he stopped talking. His voice had such a light and dulcet timbre, and his accent such a pleasant euphonious lilt! Some others at the table had to think the same thing, Carol thought.

In fact, Carol had developed, she was ashamed to say, an interest in the diminutive and garrulous roomer – a romantic one. She’d always been like that. One or two little things about a person would cause her to develop a nagging, anticlimactic little crush on him – like a mosquito bite, it would remain there for a while, but never really amount to anything.

Eventually, the rest of them jumped back into the conversation, and it returned to its formal cacophonous babble. Polo, Carol, and her young cousin Robert talked about their pets; Fred, Aunt Jane, and Uncle Clancy discussed tools; André found conversational partners in Carol’s intellectual cousins Marian and Joseph, and they were having a heated debate about literature; Irene and the remaining ladies discussed…ladies’ business, of which there was quite a lot. This was the sound of togetherness.

Something occurred to Carol. "Michael’s not here yet," she said. "When can we expect him to show up?"

"Oh, he called last night," Irene said. "Said he’d be visiting some friends on the way, so he wouldn’t be here until Christmas Day, right in time for the party."

"Oh, ah." Good, thought Carol. The less time spent with Michael, the better.

After a couple of hours, Carol had had enough social time (she didn’t require much to be content). Noticing that Polo and André had struck up a conversation fully in German with Grandma Gretchen and Grandpa Rainier, Irene’s immigrant parents, Carol smiled, noting that they weren’t having much trouble fitting in. She announced her departure and went upstairs.

As she looked at the small, quietly ticking clock on her bedside table, she noted that it was nearly a quarter past three o’ clock, and frantically reached for the radio switch – she had almost missed Vic & Sade. The speakers clicked into life: "…has been over just a little while as we enter the small house half-way up in the next block now," began the announcer soothingly. On her bed, she sat up, legs crossed. The humorous little vignette laid itself out. It seemed that Rush’s cohort Smelly Clark had planned to have his age changed officially from 16 to 21, and, lying back against her pillow, she wondered if she’d have chosen to do the same at that age. She was happy then, but she couldn’t deny that she was happy now, as well, though substantially busier. She also thought about meeting Smelly Clark, and wondered if he’d be anything like the Clark she knew all too well, Michael. The episode soon ended. What came after Vic & Sade was a radio show she disliked, so she opened one of her suitcases and removed a Glenn Miller album, turned off the radio, and turned on the phonograph.

Whatever abdominal muscles Carol used for laughter had received a light workout during Vic & Sade, but, she thought, there was room for more of this enjoyable exercise. She picked up the current Wodehouse volume in which she was engaged, Very Good, Jeeves!, and began to read. She read for quite a while, devouring story after story, before she was interrupted by a knock on the door. She put down her book – she’d have to find out later whether or not Bertie was able to get his Aunt Agatha’s Aberdeen terrier back from the visiting Americans – and arose to answer it.

She opened the door, and was greeted by a nervous-looking but smiling Polo. "Hello," he said.

"Hello again, Polo!"

"I was wondering, miss, if you’d care to keep me company for a little while? André wants to be alone, and the crowd downstairs seems to have gone away."

"Oh, sure! Come on in; all I’m doing is reading and listening to some records. You like Glenn Miller?"

"Oh, yes!"

She flipped the record. "Have a seat," she said, motioning towards a worn armchair near her bed. Polo sat here and Carol sat cross-legged on her bed. "How are you?"

"Oh, wonderfully! Conversation with your family is most stimulating."

"They have that effect on a person."

"Will they all be back here tomorrow?"

"Yes. Tomorrow night they’ll be back for our big Christmas party…we’ll open presents from all of them, eat, be merry, and all that." Concern suddenly crossed Carol’s features. "It’s too bad I didn’t know we’d have houseguests! I’d have loved to get you two a little something."

"Oh, no! That would be quite unnecessary!"

"You won’t feel left out tomorrow, then?"

"Of course not! But it is really nice of you to even think of it, Carol!" He smiled sweetly. Carol smiled back.

"So, uh…" Carol, who sometimes felt a bit uneasy with one-on-one conversations, sifted mentally through various conversational topics, and found a possibly suitable one. "So, what did you do for Christmas back in Rumania, then?"

"Well, my family was Jewish, so what we really celebrated was Chanukah," said Polo. "Oh, we looked forward to it every year. We would travel to my grandparents’ house, which wasn’t too far away from mine. I remember being very small and playing outdoors in the snow with my cousins and getting little gifts from all of my family, when they could afford it. The house would be packed with our relatives, and we’d all sing songs and tell stories…you know. Just like any family."

"How wonderful!" said Carol. "It doesn’t sound at all different from Christmases here."

"It really wasn’t, only we didn’t have a tree in our living room."

There was a short silence. Some singer crooned about starlight on the Miller record. Finally, Polo said, "Thank you for giving us that little tour today!"

"It was my pleasure, Polo," said Carol. The current record hissed to a halt and she flipped it over. "And I’m glad to have you here. You’re such a gentleman!"

"Really?" Polo folded his hands sheepishly.

"Of course! You’re a very charming man…you know, Polo, since you’ve gotten here, I’ve come to like you quite a bit," she said, with a certain amount of timidity.

"Really?" Polo said nervously.

"Yes, you’re very…sweet. You’re so charming. A person just can’t help but love you."

"Well, it’s quite an honour to receive such a compliment," Polo let escape from his vocal cords, "from someone so beautiful."

"Oh, you’re a flatterer," said Carol, her heart skipping a beat. She’d never really described herself in this manner, and it always delighted her when others did so. They were unusual, she thought, but there did seem to be a lot of them.

"Oh, never!"

"Well, it’s sweet of you to say so, Polo. And, well…if you don’t mind my saying so I think you’re very cute."

Polo’s ears burned. "Really!"

"Yes," she said truthfully.

Then, there was a very short silence. "Well," Carol said finally. "Now that we’re out in the open about this, what happens next?"

"This is a little awkward, isn’t it?" smirked Polo.

"I’m not good at conversation, though."

"No?"

"Especially when I get called beautiful."

Polo’s blush did not dissipate. "Oh, but you are," said Polo.

"Flattery, nothing but flattery!" giggled Carol.

"And you’re kind," said Polo, leaning closer. "And smart. I wish I was as clever as you. And what beautiful hair…"

"Well, thank you," she glowed. She stole a clichéd line from a romantic radio program: "But you mustn’t say such things, Mr. Polo!"

"Oh, but why not?" Polo pondered the possibility of his hand creeping over to hold hers, but decided against it, his shyness overtaking him again.

"Oh, I’m sure the townspeople would disapprove!" she joked. "And we’re pretty close to the country; everyone around here has guns."

"But we are up here; they can’t hear us!" he protested – then added, "Can they?" as he looked suspiciously over his shoulder.

Suddenly, they heard Irene call them to the dinner table from downstairs.

"Oh, let’s go," said Carol. "Hope you’re hungry – Dad made steaks."

They walked down the hallway, rather close together, and stopped beneath the archway before the staircase, noticing a sprig of – what could be more apropos at the moment – mistletoe that they were sure had not been there before. Polo seized the opportunity and quickly leaned over to give her a polite peck on the cheek. Then, they both giggled and pinkened (like Third Lieutenant Stanley and Lady Margaret), and Carol was sure that tonight had housed the cheesiest series of moments that she had ever experienced.

- 8 -

The images of Polo’s room slowly sharpened in his sleep-blurred vision as he blinked drowsily. Everything was bathed in grey light – he looked at his watch, which he kept on his bedside table, noting that it was about six o’ clock in the morning. Where am I again?, he thought. Then, he recalled the previous evening, the lovely and homey Christmas Eve feast with the Wahrer family, and the Rockwellian family chat around the fireplace as crooners sang seasonal songs on the radio, and, finally, his lovely little talk with Carol, and it occurred to him what day it was.

"André!" he hissed. "André! Are you awake, André?"

"Well, I am now," André’s voice moaned from beneath the blankets.

"It’s Christmas!"

"Don’t speak so loudly! My head feels like it has been kicked repeatedly by a snorting longhorn."

Ah, remembered Polo. So that’s where André slipped off to last night. "Sorry, André," he said in his oft-practised apologetic whisper. "But it’s Christmas!"

"In that case, then, I feel as though I’ve been kicked repeatedly by reindeer while on a world-wide tour handing out presents to a million little brats last night. But I’d appreciate it if you’d leave me alone, Christmas or not."

"Oh, but André, it’s Christmas!"

"I may be a bit disoriented, but I was able to comprehend that information when you relayed it to me the first two times."

"But I mean, André, that it’s Christmas morning; you can’t hide out on Christmas morning! Suppose they invite us to come downstairs and have breakfast and stay while they open their gifts and things – you can’t very well say, ‘No, I won’t; I have the most dreadful hangover.’ I don’t think that would be very polite. Unless, of course, they don’t want us around, as it is a family occasion, but we will just have to see whether or not they invite us, and in any case they’d get the idea you were a tippler if you --"

"Polo!" André interrupted sharply. "When you first get up in the morning you talk like someone who’s already had three cups of coffee. One in my condition can’t possibly follow your thoughts."

"I am sorry, André, but I’m just so excited!"

André groaned and sat up in bed. He immediately wished that he hadn’t, growled like a jaguar that had just been struck with a brick, and massaged his temples. "All right, Polo," he said after recovering. "If I live through the first few hours of this morning I will come and be amicable with the Wahrers."

"If you went and took a hot bath perhaps it would help," suggested Polo.

"I have the strangest feeling that if I move from this spot, something horrible will happen."

"Then I’ll ask if I can make some tea or coffee or something and bring it up to you."

It was moments like this that made André really love the little fellow. He allowed the Christmas spirit to sweep over him, noting to himself that he treated this affectionate – if light-headed -- companion much too harshly sometimes. He grinned gently. "Polo, you are a most invaluable friend."

"I will! You just can’t be miserable on Christmas morning!"

"Oh, but I can. I appreciate it anyway. You have my gratitude."

"I hear someone moving downstairs! I’ll go and get it now."

"All right. But may I please remind you to keep your deft fingers away from that Christmas tree?"

Polo looked at his diminutive, podgy, exceedingly nimble hands and smiled guiltily. "Good idea, André!" When he got up, he felt the pockets of his pyjamas (silk, this time -- red paisley) to make sure there was nothing there that needed to be returned to its rightful owner. Sure enough, he discovered a gleaming tin ornament shaped like an elegant snowflake that he guessed had found its way into his pockets last night when he’d gone downstairs to get a glass of water. He glanced at André, who shook his head and sighed. Stuffing the ornament back into his pocket, he put on his slippers and padded downstairs.

Carol was in the living room when Polo arrived there. She had a few brightly wrapped boxes beneath her arms, and was placing them under the Christmas tree. As her back was to Polo, he crept stealthily to the tree and re-hung the snowflake. "Merry Christmas!" he whispered.

Carol started violently and let out a small yelp, but immediately came to her senses and rose to her feet. "Oh, Polo, you surprised me!"

"I am sorry, Carol," he said. His innocent face tried to look guileful as he smiled at Carol. She looks very pretty, thought Polo. Her freshly combed hair was down. Polo searched for something to which to compare it later, to show his romantic, poetic side, but he could think of nothing but clichés about waterfalls. Annoyed with him, his mind quickly abandoned the search. She was wearing a night-gown and easy slippers, and hadn’t yet conducted that odd feminine ritual of makeup application. She looked less glamorous without it, but also less threatening – she often attempted to copy the styles of the femmes fatales in the movies. However, the effect was lessened considerably when combined with her compact body (she was about Polo’s size) and kittenish personality. At any rate, Polo concluded mentally, she didn’t need makeup to look nice.

"That’s okay. I know you didn’t mean to. But, gosh, you crept up like the panther!" she said. "I had no idea you were there!"

"Merry Christmas!" he said again, wishing to divert attention from his stealth.

"Merry Christmas to you too!" said Carol. "I’m downstairs first, as usual…is Mr. Desormaux awake yet?"

"Actually," said Polo, "he’s the reason I am down here. He’s feeling a little bit sick this morning and I was wondering if I could make some tea to bring up to him."

"Oh, that’s sweet of you!" Carol cooed. "Sure you can. I’ll show you where everything is."

They prepared a tea bag and put a pot of water on the stove, then sat at the kitchen table to wait for its whistle of protest. (Well, not whistle -- "It’s more like a dull squeal, actually," Carol had informed him.)

"So he’s sick, huh?" said Carol. "That’s too bad – on Christmas morning! I hope he gets to feeling better before too long."

"Me too!" said Polo. "He’s not very cheerful when he’s sick. Well, he’s not very cheerful at all, but even less than usual…"

Carol laughed. "He did seem a little fussy to me, but I like him."

"He is my best friend in the whole world!" declared Polo. "Sometimes I wish he wouldn’t be so mean, but he is a nice man on the inside. I’m pretty sure."

The teapot squeaked. Polo stood and poured some of the boiling water into a large mug that he had selected because of its pleasant seasonal print – a herd of reindeer in a snow-covered field. If André felt sorry for himself, he could always look at the mug and be glad that at least he wasn’t a poor deer looking for food in the snow, Polo thought. (Polo’s mind tended to wander slightly too quickly for anyone to keep up with it.) He stirred the potential tea around a little, and then sat down to wait once more.

"Would you and André join us for the family festivities this morning?" asked Carol. "I mean, as long as you don’t feel like you’re intruding or anything – but you’re not. As long as you’re here you’re part of the family…as corny as that sounds," she added, looking back with abashed contempt at what she’d just said.

"I will," said Polo happily. "I’m just not sure about André."

"Well, I hope the tea puts him to rights," said Carol.

"He probably doesn’t feel as bad as he thinks he does," Polo said.

He stirred the tea again. Minutes of conversation passed before the beverage was finished and he was able to add just a bit of sugar before he took it upstairs to his friend. "Come back soon," Carol had told him. "And I hope you bring an André with you."

The André was still in bed, but considerably more alert, having picked up one of his books (the life’s story of Napoleon, in fact) from his bedside table and begun to read. He looked up as he saw Polo enter with the tea. Polo set it down on the table, beaming anxiously at him. André thanked Polo and took a sip. Upon tasting it, he coughed and sputtered in surprise.

"I appreciate this, Polo, but – how much sugar did you put in this?!"

"It’s less than I usually use," said Polo.

"That’s not saying very much, is it?"

"I am not sure exactly how much I put in. It’s just sort of instinct now and I don’t think about it very much."

"You’d make an exceptional hummingbird, Ducky," he said, taking another sip of the saccharine libation. "Actually, while I was reading, my mind managed to sort itself out a little. I’m feeling slightly more prepared for social interaction and merry festivities now. I believe I may take your advice and have a quick bath."

"Afterwards will you come downstairs and join me and Carol, then?" he asked hopefully.

"I will," said André. "Now, waddle away, Ducky, and enjoy yourself while I try and steam the rest of my misery away." He picked up his mug. "I’ll take my sugar with two teas with me."

Polo scurried back downstairs, beaming. "André’s much better," he said to Carol. "He’s just having a bath and then he says he’ll come down!"

"That’s wonderful!" said Carol. "Now, if my parents would get down here…maybe we should take bets on who gets here first."

"I am trying to get rid of my gambling habit," said Polo seriously. Carol laughed.

"So," she said, after an interlude of silence. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yes, thank you," said Polo.

"Where’d André go last night, anyway?" wondered Carol. "You had to go to bed all alone."

"To be truthful," said Polo earnestly, "he paid a little visit to the Snorting Longhorn."

"Oh, my!" Carol said.

"I’m sure he didn’t come home too drunk!" Polo said, attempting reassurance.

"It’s not that, so much," said Carol, "as picturing the man in that sorry establishment. My goodness! The types that frequent that place!" She shuddered. "He wouldn’t get along with them at all."

"It did not seem like his sort of place to me, either, when we visited there," said Polo. "How exciting! We must ask him what it was like for him there!"

"I’m glad he came home unhurt. It’s not good to sound foreign around people like that. They’re patriots of the worst kind."

"He seemed all right," said Polo. "Except for the hangover."

"Well, good," said Carol, concerned.

"I don’t worry about André too much," said Polo. "He’s so smart. He figures out ways of dealing with unsavoury characters."

"I don’t doubt that he’d run rings around that bar’s regular patrons, intellectually," said Carol. "And he looks like he could fight if it came down to it, but those guys would have an advantage in size and numbers."

"That’s true," admitted Polo. "Also, if someone makes André mad he doesn’t really remember to hold his tongue. He has a short temper."

"He’s lucky to have made it out of there!" said Carol.

"Oh, but you underestimate my charm, my dear," André’s purr came from the stairwell. He descended the stairs, dressed in a nice suit with his hair neatly combed, presenting a humorous contrast to the pyjama’ed and bedheaded Polo.

"Mr. Desormaux!" said Carol. "I’m glad to see you looking well!"

"And good morning to you," André said, sitting at the kitchen table. "No, but honestly – all this concern upon my behalf; it’s kind, but you present the image of a small child or an imbecile when you speak about me like this."

"I’m sorry," said Carol, embarrassed. "I didn’t even know you were listening."

"What was it like there, André?" said Polo, fascinated and concerned with the thought of his friend in this rural pit of danger.

"Oh, I did face plenty of hostility, but I have ways of dealing with such unsavoury characters," André said, almost imperceptibly lifting one of his narrow eyebrows.

"Yes, that is what I just finished telling her," said Polo, his dangerously bored hands busying themselves with unscrewing and refastening the lid on a saltshaker as he spoke.

"So you were able to avoid any trouble?" Carol asked, still concerned at his risky behaviour.

"Besides being much more sober than anybody else there," said André, "most of these men would lose a battle of wits with Polo here." Polo shot him a hurt look. "A few eloquently worded threats and enough menacing expressions, and they kept their callused, dirty hands off of me."

"What was it like in there?" said Polo.

"I have had better drinks and more pleasant company," André said simply. "Merry Christmas, anyway. Oh, Miss Carol, I certainly hope that Polo hasn’t given you the idea that I am prone to this sort of indulgent behaviour, because I am not – it is only the stress of moving; I needed to go out for a little recreation."

"I still think the patrons of the Snorting Longhorn are much more dangerous than the alcohol," said Carol, "but I have no worries as long as you’re fine now. Merry Christmas to you too – I’m sorry I couldn’t get you two anything, but…"

"Oh, but you mustn’t be!" interjected Polo. "But…I did get André a small something…"

"What a delightful coincidence, Ducky; I’ve done the exact same thing for you."

"Really? Thank you!"

"Not at all…ah, look," André said, hearing footsteps. "The rest of the family has awakened."

And so the odd assortment of a family assembled itself beneath the glowing celebratory pine, and took turns presenting one another with small gifts – the Wahrers couldn’t afford such extravagant presents, and Polo and André knew better than to draw attention to themselves with the purchases of elegant and expensive items. It was a humble Christmas, and a very happy one. Carol received several books and a Cab Calloway record album, with which she was delighted. Having a steady job and being a shrewd hoarder, Carol was never too hard up for money, and was able to put a lot of money into her gifts. She gave her father a new pair of boots, and her mother a very fine assortment of soaps and cosmetics she’d purchased in "the big city" where she attended school. André gave Polo a box of candies and a handy Swiss army knife with a multitude of functions -- Polo amused himself for quite some time flipping out all of its different, shining appendages, and André looked as though he might have wanted to reconsider giving him something so sharp – and Polo gave André a bottle of fine scotch and a pristine pair of white gloves.

The day went, after this, much as the previous day had proceeded. Relatives arrived at the house, eventually, and the buzz of chatter resumed in the kitchen. Everyone was enjoying him- or herself until the telephone chimed, heralding the message that Michael Clark was at the train station, ready to be collected. André, Polo, and Carol, however, were upstairs now and unaware of the news. André was, as usual, in his room, alone, smoking a cigarette, reading a book, and relishing the solitude and quiet. Polo and Carol were in the latter’s quarters, sitting together on her loveseat, listening to the radio and contentedly bandying words reciprocatively, as Smoky Joe scampered occasionally by their feet on the floor, or past their heads, striding deftly across the back of the couch.

Every high school has a "matchmaker" – someone, always a female, who feels that she has the ability to pick out who would make the most adorable couple, and advise both parties on the matter. These people have the best of intentions, but their advice is nearly always uninvited and unwelcome. Carol had often rejected the romantic counsel of her well-meaning friend, which warranted much concern for the matchmaker. So, naturally, it would have pleased her to see that Polo was shyly holding Carol’s hand. If ever a "cute couple" existed, they were it.

He had asked earlier, demurely, permission to do so. They had been talking of the previous evening, the one dainty tableau of a moment when he had kissed her beneath the mistletoe. She had asked had he really meant anything by it, and was all that he said true, and all of the drivel that usually follows such soupily sentimental evenings.

Polo was determined that he was very much in love with this innocent Midwesterner, very much in love indeed. He was overjoyed that she seemed to like him quite a good deal as well. He wondered to himself if there would ever be a chance of convincing her to join his and André’s little "business." There was usually a woman working with them. The last one, an elegant Frenchwoman who was excellent at impersonating various members of their imaginary aristocracy, had also been, as they’d discovered, a fickle companion, and she had taken off towards the north with André’s car. Because they’d stolen it in an emergency situation anyway, they weren’t too upset with the theft, and had found the trains to be an exceptional alternate plan.

But this girl didn’t even know who they really were. She was much too trusting, and Polo couldn’t see her adopting the life of crime. He tried not to think about this too much, as it would break his heart to leave her.

Needless to say, Polo was quite happy with the seating arrangements, and was watching her admiringly as they talked, his voluminous eyes smiling and full of a sort of foolish essence that often floats around in the eyes of young people who are in love.

Now, the young people heard a knock at the door, and Polo removed his hand from hers, in case it were someone who might disapprove. And, in this case, he could have been correct in his instincts, because it was Fred Wahrer.

"Hello, Carol…Mr. Polo," he said. "I thought I’d better let you know that we’re going in the neighbour’s car to pick up your cousin Mike at the train station. Would you like to come along?"

"No, thanks," she said, "I’m sure I will see plenty of him later on."

"All right, then. I’ll see you in about half an hour."

"See you later, Pop," said Carol, and waited until he shut the door. After he did, she grinned at Polo. "Are you afraid he’s gonna lop off your ears if he sees you holding his daughter’s hand?"

Polo smiled. "No," he said. "But now that you mention it…"

"He won’t," said Carol. "You’re just too cute."

"And that will stop him?" he asked. "People bob puppies’ ears all the time." Polo chuckled at his own joke. He was trying to get over his habit of growing nervous whenever she said something like that about him. Even though women seemed to love him, it always baffled him when the compliments inevitably came. Personally, he did not think that he was much to look at. He was short and podgy, and André had once compared his face to a baby iguana’s. They had been having a bit of a row at that time, though, and his friend was often unintentionally harsh with his words. Still, he didn’t think he looked much like, say, Cary Grant or Ronald Colman, although a couple of girls had told him he looked like Buster Keaton.

They resumed their handholding. "Is Mike just as much of a delight as the rest of your family, then?" Polo inquired curiously.

Carol made no attempt to stifle a derisive laugh. "Well…" she softened. "Maybe I’m too hard on him, but I’ve never got along with him."

"Really? How come?"

"He’s arrogant, and tactless, and much less intelligent than he seems to think he is," said Carol. "He thinks he’s better because he’s got lots of money. Used to be he wasn’t any better off than the rest of us, but he was always a snob about class. When my Great Grandpa Clark died last year, I suppose he was playing favourites or something because he left everything to Michael. Now Mike lives like a king."

"That isn’t very nice," said Polo sympathetically. "I think I might have royalty in my family," he mused, "but they probably don’t know I exist."

"Well, you might be better off that way," Carol said. "But I always do try to be nice to Michael."

"Yes, that’s the best thing you can do," Polo nodded.

"Wish he’d return the favour once in a while, though."

"Oh, you shouldn’t worry about him, Carol," said Polo, smiling sympathetically at her. "He sounds below your notice."

Carol laughed. "Well, he’d better mind his manners around you and André. But if he doesn’t, I apologise in advance."

"Don’t worry, please," he comforted. "He can’t be all that bad."

Carol smiled again. "It’s good to have an optimist around. Like I said, sometimes I’m a little too hard on him."

"You know what?" Polo said animatedly. "We should go out to that soda fountain, er, the confectionery! Oh, I would love to take you, Carol, and you know, if you keep yourself all cooped up in the house you’ll just dwell on the cousin problem."

"Ooh, would you, Polo?" Carol cooed.

"Of course," he said. "We’ve been in the house all day. I bet a lot of people in Pleasant Creek are out celebrating the holiday. And I think I want some hot cocoa."

"Sounds like fun. Let’s go."

They collected their coats, and set out into the streets.

- 9 -

At the Pleasant Creek train station, Michael Clark fumbled with his cumbersome luggage. Uncle Fred assisted him, as usual, by poking fun at him for overpacking.

"You didn’t need to bring all your camping gear, you know. There are hotels in town. No need to bring the kitchen sink, either; you can use ours."

"Oh, stop." Michael shot his uncle a virulent look. "I have not overpacked. I just want to be comfortable here. It’s so quaint, you know." Michael’s eyes scanned the horizons – the dead and vacant fields of what had once been corn and wheat, the forests of dormant trees lying beyond every field, and the buildings that had been there for God knows how long, their exteriors broadcasting the message that lots of nasty things like bats and destructive field mice were just a few of their occupants. It was a change from what he was accustomed to.

"Aw, I’m sure you’ll survive it, Mike," Uncle Fred said. "But what an article you’ll have for National Geographic when you get back to civilisation!"

Michael ignored the comment and slung his luggage into the backseat of the car – an old vehicle, but probably the only one on their block. He climbed into the moth-eaten front seat, tightening his new, cream-coloured scarf to hinder the biting winter winds that came with the area’s climate. "How is Auntie Irene?"

"She’s doing well," Fred said, starting up the car.

"How about my darling cousin?"

"Fine also. Passed through college with flying colours."

"Good for her." He examined an unravelling mitten he’d found on the dashboard, lacking much enthusiasm for his cousin’s academic pursuits. It galled him that she’d been admitted into the college of her choosing (a rather highly regarded one, too) fairly quickly, especially when one took into account that she was a woman. He’d gone to college, of course, but had previously had several applications to posh schools turned down – turned down! Of all the nerve…he didn’t know they were even allowed to do such a thing, not to him. He’d had unfulfilled academic requirements, something like that; it had to do with all the Cs and Ds he’d received in high school. Still, he was at least a man – a rich man. Who cares about a few Cs? Their priorities were skewed, he was sure of that. His teachers didn’t understand him anyway, and they played favourites. Those grades had been completely undeserved.

"We have roomers in the house, you know," Uncle Fred said.

"Really? Trying to make a bit of extra money, are you? Don’t blame you…who are they?"

"A charming pair of gentlemen. Foreigners from…I don’t know, Belgium and Transylvania or something; I don’t remember. I’m no good at placing accents either."

"Foreigners, eh? Oh, dear…well, as long as they’re not Germans."

"Your auntie Irene’s dear, sweet mother is a German," Fred said coolly.

"Oh, she’s different," said Michael.

"Different how?"

"She’s a good German. Not like the rest of them."

Fred sighed and shook his head. "You can’t go around talking like that, Mike. That’s not the American way; everyone’s welcome here, right?"

"Everyone’s welcome here unless they make trouble. Don’t tell me YOU weren’t suspicious of those two."

"I was," admitted Fred, "until I realised what I was doing. I saw what gentlemen they both were, and it dawned on me that my instincts might not be right all the time. They’re just two normal guys trying to make a living, like the rest of us."

"Well, all right. But one can’t be TOO trusting."

"I bet you’re still troubled by those foreign thieves who took your money," said Fred. "That’s understandable."

"Doubt I’ll ever get it back," he said sadly. "The police are useless. I’ll never see those guys again."

- 10 -

Arms linked, Polo and Carol walked down the street – it was just starting to spit snow – and entered the festive confectionery. The décor wasn’t too festive; in fact, it seemed that the owner had not adorned the plain white walls at all. It was the people; the numerous couples and families out celebrating this joyous holiday. The owner of Allen’s confectionery, Mr. Allen himself, greeted them with a rather sullen "Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year." Polo was fluent enough in English to recognise a slight foreign twang in Allen’s speech. He asked Carol about it and she affirmed that he was Russian.

"Mr. Allen must not be his real name, then!" said Polo

"No, well, you’ve seen some of the stubbornness that goes on around here; an "Ivanovic’s Confectionery" might not have gone over too well, or so Mr. Allen worried."

"Maybe not," Polo agreed. "I wonder what American names me and André could make up if we decide to open a deli here?"

"Oh, yeah," Carol remembered. "You know, it’d be simply marvellous if you could do that…"

"Maybe…Paul and Andrew’s Deli," Polo mused.

"For some reason, ‘Andrew’ just doesn’t seem to fit him."

"Hmm," considered Polo. "You’re right. It’s still better than ‘Andy,’ though."

"Well, yes," Carol conceded. "Hey, where’s he been all day, anyway?"

"Just reading in our room," Polo said. "He seems a little preoccupied lately. He’s usually, er, rather outspoken."

"I wonder what’s wrong."

They lapsed into silence for a moment, and at the end of the brief intermission, Polo said that he would go and get a couple of mugs of hot chocolate for them, which he did. He returned with them, and sat back down in the booth (pointedly very close to Carol).

"Thanks, Polo," she said. "That will help, it’s a little chilly in here," she added with a shiver.

"Oh, well, I can help you with that," he said, attempting suavity, and wrapping an arm around her to pull her gently closer to him. She snuggled up to him adoringly. They remained locked in this affectionate embrace for a while, both at the height of cuddly contentment, but all good things must certainly come to an end, and Polo suddenly felt a rush of unspeakable horror as a familiar face carried itself elegantly by the plate-glass window towards the confectionery door. It was a good-looking face, he supposed, by conventional standards, but it was permanently locked into a look that suggested his flesh was crawling from the inferiority that surrounded him. It was an arrogant face, a stony representation of uptight inflexibility, and an image that had extremely unpleasant connotations, no doubt about it.

Polo quickly excused himself to the little boys’ room. Once there, he quickly produced his shining new Swiss army knife, pried the tiny privacy window loose, opened it, and squeezed through in an amazing adrenaline-induced show of contortionism. He skittered across the frosty ground like a frightened ermine, found an excellent shortcut back to the Wahrer house, and proceeded upstairs to burst into his and André’s quarters, his heavy breathing, sweat-shiny brow, and panicked expression betraying what he was about to tell André. Before he even opened his mouth, André smirked and said "Ah, Polo. I see you’ve met our friend."

"If you mean the tall blonde-haired sneering fellow who just walked into the confectionery, then yes, I have!"

"Did he see you?"

"I don’t believe so. I went to the restroom, and then I went out the window."

"Excellent feat of stealth, Ducky. How you managed to fit that derriere through a small slot of a window I’ll never imagine."

"When did you see him?"

"I was downstairs having a few afternoon refreshments when I saw him through the window, exiting the car."

"What are we going to do?" said Polo worriedly.

"It might be best to get out of here," said André, thoughtfully examining a damaged cuticle on his right index finger with a nonplussed frown.

"Oh, no!" Polo collapsed despondently onto his bed (the springs wheezing sympathetically). His bucolic Midwestern paradise, yanked out from under him so quickly! What have I done to deserve this? he thought to himself, removing absentmindedly from his pocket a wallet that had materialised there sometime between his departure from the house and his return.

- 11 -

"Look what the cat drug in, Carol!" presented Irene.

"Hello, Mike," greeted Carol, calmly smiling.

"Ah, hello, my dear little cousin," replied Mike, calmly smiling.

"Long time no see," she said, calmly smiling.

"Indeed," nodded Mike, calmly smiling.

"Grab a chair, everyone!" said Fred, interrupting the icily warm conversation. "Anyone want anything to eat or drink, maybe? On me. No getting the filet mignon, though."

The conversation that ensued between the family inevitably led to Polo’s disappearance.

"Well, he went to the restroom, Mom," Carol said thoughtfully. "But, now that it occurs to me, he’s been gone for an awfully long time."

"The poor dear; I hope he’s not ill or something!"

Just then, they noticed another patron of Allen’s Confectionery enter the little room. It was obviously unoccupied. How odd, thought every Wahrer at the table. "Well!" exclaimed Carol. "He must have snuck off!"

"Well, I never!"

Worried, Carol excused herself from the family gathering to go home and have a look around for him. She half-jogged home, ascended the stairs, and went to the most logical place – Polo’s & André’s room. She rapped lightly on the door.

Inside, Polo hopped upright as though he had just discovered that his seat was the home of a colony of irate fire ants, while André rose calmly and strode purposefully towards the door, opening it.

"Ah, good afternoon, Carol!" he said.

"Polo in there?" came Carol’s concerned voice.

Relieved, Polo trotted to the door. "I’m right here, Carol!"

"Oh, good! We were a little worried!" André invited her in and shut the door.

"Now, miss, you probably have a few questions…" André began.

"Like why you snuck off on me, Polo?" she said, looking at him with a mix of bemusement and affection.

Polo hung his head guiltily. "I’m so sorry, Carol!"

"Ah, but there’s a good explanation," André said. "You may think this is silly, but in Polo’s culture, it’s considered a horrible taboo to leave a restaurant before the meal is finished."

Polo nodded gravely.

"Oh," said Carol. "Really?"

"And Polo suddenly remembered that I told him to be back here at one so we could go and get some lunch somewhere."

"And I hate to disappoint André," said Polo.

"I would have certainly cancelled the appointment, had I known he was prowling the town with a lovely young lady." Carol & Polo smiled self-consciously. "At any rate, he’s still quite conditioned to his native culture, and he just did not know what to do."

"So I went out the window!"

"Hmm," Carol said, not at all convinced.

"You’re sceptical, of course," André said. "You just have to understand that Polo tends to lose his head at the oddest of times."

"I really wasn’t thinking."

"Well, it’s pretty strange, but I don’t know why you’d be lying. I’m just glad to see you, anyway! It was so unsettling to find you missing all of a sudden!"

"Sorry if I caused any trouble," said Polo apologetically.

"Not at all! I wanted an excuse to leave anyway. Mike came in right after you left."

"Carol does not get along well with her cousin," Polo informed André.

"Ah." André strode across the room and took a seat. "Now, our other big news – do sit down – our other big news may disappoint you quite a lot, I’m afraid," he began apologetically.

"What?"

"This afternoon we received a telegram from Polo’s Aunt Magdalene in San Francisco. She’s in the country for a few weeks, and she insisted that Polo and I come and visit – and it isn’t wise to upset an aunt."

"Especially Magdalene," said Polo.

"You have to leave?!"

"I’m afraid so, Miss."

"It is so painful to be forced to leave you like this, Carol," said Polo, his brown eyes wide and genuinely sad as a kicked puppy’s. Carol put her hand in his.

"I’ll miss you so much. Both of you. This is so sudden! When are you leaving?"

"As soon as possible," Polo sighed.

"Tomorrow morning," confirmed André. "I will telephone the train station immediately for tickets."

"I hope I see you again after, I mean – will you come back?"

"Of course," Polo said sweetly, shooting André a look of determination.

"Can I just go with you to the train station? You can take our car."

"Certainly!"

"And André knows what hotel we’re staying in, the Hotel Belvedere – we’ve stayed there before; I can give you the address and everything! And I’ll telephone when we get there," Polo announced, then added thoughtfully, "I should probably pay for the long-distance bill too."

André gave Polo a silencing look. "We are certainly grateful for your family’s hospitality, Carol. This has been a pleasant stay."

"I wish you didn’t have to leave," she said disconsolately.

"Do not despair, Madame. We’ll keep in touch."

"Thank you," said Carol. She stood up after a moment, saying, "I think I’ll go to my room now – it’s almost time for Vic and Sade."

They adieu-d and parted. After the door was closed and André was fairly certain she was out of earshot, he glowered at Polo. "I do not distrust Carol, but you must be careful to whom you spill all this information!"

"I’m sorry, André, but she was so upset! And I must give her some way of contacting us!"

"You could call her after we’re safely there and out of the reaches of that prowling cousin of hers."

"I was not thinking, André. My head is clouded so easily."

"It’s been clouded since the day I met you." Relenting, he rose and gave Polo an apologetic little pat on the shoulder. "Ah, Polo – I understand love. It makes one do silly things."

Polo nodded.

"Just try to hold your tongue until we’re out of this town."

He nodded again.

"You’d better start packing. We’ve got to get up with the roosters tomorrow."

- 12 -

In the Midwest, gossip spreads like scarlet fever, and fairly quickly everyone in Fred and Irene’s family and circle of close friends was aware of the continental couple’s immediate sojourn to San Francisco. Those who had met them were certainly unhappy to hear the news – such a fascinating diversion they had been! But all good things, unfortunately, must come to an end, as any student of the cliché knows.

A scant few spectators greeted Polo and André even now, in the frosty morning. They loaded their luggage into the Wahrers' neighbors' car, and André took the wheel (Carol had wanted to drive, but André refused the favour, saying that she really ought to be enjoying tea in bed on such a morning as this). Soon, they were nearly ready to depart the throng of well-wishers, but Polo realised that he had left his wonderful Swiss army knife lying on the kitchen table (he’d used it to open a can while assisting with breakfast). He told André he’d only be a minute, and assumed he needed the extra time anyway (he struggled to start the car; its elderly engine did not appreciate being made to do work in such cold temperatures). He quickly located the utensil, but stuck around nostalgically in the kitchen afterwards, giving his last goodbyes to the homey room. He heard someone stirring, coming downstairs, and thought it might be someone else to whom he could give a heartfelt "adieu."

Immediately cursing his lack of foresight, he began backing softly out the door as Michael Clark’s Oxford-clad foot manifested itself, entering through the door to the stairwell. (Polo knew it was his because back in San Francisco, André, who paid attention to this kind of thing, had pointed out his bad arches and exceedingly stiff walk. Under André’s expert tutelage, one could easily learn to recognise someone by their feet alone.) He reached the door just as Michael reached the kitchen, and briefly they stood looking at each other, Mike squinting in disbelief.

Now his eyes had made their decision; this was indeed the man he thought it was, and so he gave a shout and took pursuit. Polo hurried out the door and slammed it behind him, but despite his bad arches, the man was fast, and he soon caught up with Polo, grabbed him by his coat collar, and informed him that he was not going anywhere.

"So! It’s YOU!"

"Excuse me please?" Polo grinned at him with the usual wide-eyed innocence, like a Chihuahua who had just run into a Rottweiler who had caught wind of the vicious, nasty rumours the Chihuahua had been spreading about his mother.

"You little thief! Infesting my dear aunt’s home! How dare you!"

"Actually we were just planning on LEAVING it but then you said I couldn’t go anywh--"

"I knew I’d catch up with you someday! Oh, you’re going straight to the police right after I’ve given you a good working over! Where’s that other guy?! Where’s the woman?!"

"Oh, I’m afraid I really don’t know!" he squeaked. But inside his coat, his nimble hands were quickly working to unfasten each button.

"You don’t know HOW long I’ve waited for this! Little thieving RAT! I’m going to give you a damn good lesson--"

And just then, Polo slipped out of his now-unbuttoned coat, ducked under Michael’s arm, and hopped into the back seat of the car. "Step on it, André!"

The rusting black jalopy zoomed off down the frost-kissed, cracked street, spitting exhaust derisively at Michael’s face as he stared after it, throwing Polo’s coat to the ground in disgust.

André reached the train station much more quickly than he probably should have. The noise of the car’s roaring motor gone, Carol looked to either of them, eager to hear an explanation for what had just happened.

"Sorry, Madame," said André, hoisting his luggage with a grunt, "but we just can’t tell you right now. Our train leaves in several minutes. Come on, Ducky."

Polo struggled to yank a cumbersome case out of the automobile. "I’m sorry, Carol," he said. He sniffled, partly out of a sadly burdensome conscious and partly due to the frigid weather’s interaction with his purloined coat. "I’ll call you later and tell you everything! I promise!"

They hurried towards the station, André quickly checking his pocket watch. "Or we’ll write you a postcard. There’s no time to explain now."

"Please! I’m so confused!"

They attempted to evade her in the train station, but to no avail. She pursued them straight to the train. As André was stepping on, he said, "I’m sure Mike can fill you in when you see him again."

Polo followed, and looked painfully over his shoulder at the friend they were abandoning, aching to stay and tell her everything and hope she’d pardon his evil deeds. He reasoned that when the victim was Michael, the deeds really weren’t all so evil, but a crime is a crime.

As the train advanced, Carol, surrounded by the kin of Polo and André’s fellow passengers, felt desolate. As the joyous crowd bid goodbye to their journeying friends, waving their handkerchiefs like they were in a movie, there was nothing for her to do but turn and walk back to the car.

---

Carol pulled up in the driveway of her house and stepped out of the vehicle, at which point she was immediately detained by Michael, who had been crouching in wait while she was gone. He nearly grabbed her in an embrace of relief, but decided against showing such affection and stopped himself hastily. "Carol! You’re not kidnapped? They didn’t hijack the car?!"

"No!"

"Oh, thank heavens! But – wait --" he thought for a second, then exploded: "How could you let them escape?! They were right there!"

"I can’t --"

"Wait! Wait! It’s not so bad as all that! Where were they headed?"

"Why?"

"THAT was two thirds of the trio that stole my ten thousand, airhead!"

"Well, I figured THAT out, but --"

"Are you saying" – he was speaking so quickly that his face was reddening and small deposits of spittle were collecting at the corners of his rapidly moving mouth – "Are you saying you HESITATE to even TELL me this because, oh, they’re such NICE men? You’re just --" He shook his head, trying to imagine just what she was, raised his fist and let it hover for a moment aimed at her head, then lowered it.

"No! They’re going to San Francisco."

"Great! Okay! I must call the police! Wait! Oh, my head’s spinning! Go talk to your parents; they’re worried sick! Don’t be hanging around with any more criminals! Oh, if only they’d been staying one more day…" He paced back and forth (he was still clutching Polo’s coat tightly in one white-knuckled fist) and tried to collect himself. He was running his hand through his hair so often, one watching him would worry he was going to strip all of it off.

Carol reunited herself with her parents, who hugged her and chattered.

"Michael had us so worried! To think of you being taken away by a couple of criminals!"

"They did not ‘take me away’! I happened to be in their escape vehicle of my own free will!"

"Still, it gave us a scare – criminals in our home --"

"They aren’t axe murderers," Carol said. "They weren’t going to harm us!"

"But," said Mike, entering the house and hanging Polo’s coat neatly on one of the coat hooks, "they would have taken EVERYTHING you’ve got!" He sneered and eyed his surroundings, adding, "Though they wouldn’t have ended up with much."

"Mike!" Carol glared at him.

"Sorry." He scowled right back. "I’m calling the San Francisco police!"

"You’ll foot the bill for that call, of course," said Fred dryly. "We haven’t got two nickels to rub together, as you know."

---

Dinner at the Wahrer house that evening was silent but for the clinking of silver and ceramics and a few occasional "Please pass the pepper"s. Carol glumly tormented a pea with her fork, chasing it repeatedly around the plate but, like a cat, lacking the energy at the moment to actually eat any. Finally, she spoke. "It may be wrong to say this," she sighed, "but I miss Polo and M’sieu Desormaux already."

Mike, who was lodging with the Wahrers for a time (both the town’s hotels were full), looked up from his slab of tough, slightly aged beef and stared at her incredulously. "Do you even care about me? The well-being of your own family?"

"Polo seemed so sweet…"

"He was a little rat of a thief is what he was! He’s a criminal, and so is his friend."

"It’s such a shock," said Irene. "He didn’t seem like the criminal type at all."

"André, maybe," said Fred, "but not Polo."

"André was a gentleman…"

"Carol, you little rattlebrain – you know you can’t trust every ‘gentleman’ that crosses your path. The gentlemen are usually the bad ones, for my money…"

"Did you have to be so rough with him?"

"I was trying to keep him from leaving!"

"You could have hurt him!"

"That’s true, Mike," said Fred. "He’s a lot smaller than you. You’re a hulking corn-fed Iowa boy at heart, you know."

"I don’t care what becomes of dear little Polo if that’s what it takes to get my money back."

"I know they shouldn’t have done that; I know it was wrong – but I’ve gotten to know Polo so well in the last couple of days, and…"

Mike scoffed and sneered. "They’re CON ARTISTS, Carol! It’s their job to be loveable and unsuspicious."

She shook her head. "He seemed so sincere."

"He’s a liar and a cheat."

"It’s so hard to accept," she said, now dissecting one of the peas in stress.

"Well," said Irene, "I don’t know if he’s quite so terrible as Mike makes him out to be, but they weren’t what they seemed. Don’t feel bad, dear," she consoled.

"Polo and André charmed the socks off all three of us," Fred admitted.

"Well, they even had me going for a second back in San Francisco. But I’m more careful," said Mike. "I have a lot more to lose." He gnawed his leathery beef grudgingly. The Wahrers said nothing.

- 13 -

Polo lay on his stomach in his bed that night as the locomotive thundered westward, scrawling a letter to Carol. Thus far, it read:

Dearest Carol,

And here he was trapped. The first thing that came to mind was (predictably) "anything," but it was so clichéd. He wanted to impress her, but lacked a gift with words – unless, of course, he was acting, and even then he was under André’s strict tutelage. André – there was an idea. He rolled over in his bed to direct his attention towards that very compartment-mate.

"André!" he hissed. No answer. "André?" Tentatively this time. No, no good – he was fast asleep. And you don’t want to be the one who wakes André; that was common knowledge. He turned back to his note paper and sighed. Romance was such a challenge sometimes!

He chewed his pencil eraser. Maybe quantity was the answer – like sending someone a box of assorted utensils for their anniversary present, instead of just a single iron. He put graphite to paper once again.

"…more than the stars in the sky, the earth beneath my feet, the warbling of the songbirds --" He lauded himself for these, then completed with "…and even André." She did, after all, have a keen sense of humour.

He folded the letter, then reached over for his suit jacket, which lay crumpled at the foot of his bed. He would mail it at the next box he encountered. But when he jammed it in one of the pockets, he was mildly surprised to discover that it was occupied – by another letter.

He removed the foreign document and examined it. It was a sealed envelope, addressed and stamped, and the return address said merely "M. Clark."

This didn’t take a detective to figure out. This time he extended a silk-swathed arm across the (rather small) train compartment and jostled André. His eyes popped open and he propped himself up on an arm to glower at Polo. "For God’s sake, what is it? Need a nightlight?!"

"No, André, but have a look at what I’ve found!" He pulled the chain above his head and clicked on the light.

André squinted and growled, sitting up. "This better be important. I was having the most glorious dream. You weren’t in it."

"I found a letter in my pocket. It’s from Michael. I’m fairly sure I took it while he was manhandling me this morning."

"Hmm. Let me see that, Polo." André took it from the bemused bunkmate and examined it.

"Do you think we ought to send it back to him?" said Polo.

"I don’t think so."

"He might need it!"

"All the more reason for us to keep it."

"If you say so, André, but I don’t think he’s really such a bad person, just a little irritating. What’s it say?" (André had torn open the letter as Polo was speaking.)

The message was as follows: