George suspected that the bar with its brightly lit windows bathing the dark stream of the outer boulevard in a sheet of flames would be a good place to start.
He figured that any man who grew up among the idle rich of Geneva would find solace in a place like the Folies-Bergère regardless of his circumstances. Entering through the glass doors, he made his way past the crowd to the barmaid standing at the marble-top bar stocked with bottles of champagne, beer, a tray of oranges and two roses in a glass.
The barmaid was talking to a gentleman who wore a top hat. She leaned forward to whisper into his ear. He smiled. She turned to George and asked him what he would desire. She was a striking creature, her short blonde hair revealing a full face and melancholy eyes. Her body was slim, on the tall side, with heavy breasts accentuated by a black velvet jacket trimmed tightly at her waist. George was aware of her small, sinuous movements. He asked for a Pernod.
Richard Stanford, "When I’m not writing short stories and essays or producing documentary films in Montréal, I can be found mucking about in my gardens trying to create the perfect eggplant."
Ovi eBooks Publishing 2026
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