“Then we could go into the study and have a glass of cognac or perhaps some champagne?”
He’s never had champagne. Champagne. “That would be very, very nice, thank you.”
“Yes?” Honoré’s face beams with joy. “And I could read to you. From Walt Whitman. Have you ever read Song of Myself?”
McGauran doesn’t care what Honoré reads, plays, says. It’s all enticing.
“Whitman is an American poet. Some kind of gentle giant. He writes of nature, man, and lovers in a way I’ve never read before. He writes of…Greek love.”
Greek love? McGauran doesn’t know what that means, but the expression on Honoré’s face excites his imagination.
* * * *
In the main parlor, Honoré watches McGauran’s serious expression as he studies the book open across their laps. “This is the Congo River,” Honoré explains, lean
