Thanks for the Trouble - Tommy Wallach Page 0,5

to the slaughter. Before long, one of these soldiers came to the village where lived the cooper and his three daughters.

Hurriedly, the cooper dressed Gilda and Cypria in the clothes of his late wife and used a coal pencil to draw fine wrinkles on their faces. Then he sent them to their tiny rooms, which were windowless and dank and would hopefully mask their true ages.

The silver-haired girl didn’t have her own room—she spent her nights on a straw-filled pallet in her father’s workshop—so there was nowhere for her to hide. Nor did her father make the slightest effort to disguise her.

“Put on a pot of tea for the king’s man,” he said. “And be quick about it.”

The girl did as she was told. A few minutes later, a young soldier burst into the house.

“Who lives here?” he asked.

“Just me and my elderly aunties,” the cooper said.

“Is that so?”

The soldier threw open the door to Gilda’s room. The girl sat in a rocking chair, darning a pair of socks, quivering with fear.

“Who are you?” the soldier barked.

“Just an old woman,” Gilda said. But the soldier could hear the brightness of youth in her voice.

“Off with your bonnet,” he said.

Gilda knew she’d be finished if the soldier saw her honeycomb of golden locks, so she leaped out of the chair, brandishing a knitting needle like a dagger. The soldier was ready, however, and he separated her head from her body with one clean swing.

He entered Cypria’s room next.

“Who’s there?” Cypria asked, pretending to have just awoken from a dotard’s midday nap.

“A representative of your king,” the soldier barked. “Who are you?”

“Just an old woman,” Cypria said. But the soldier could hear the brightness of youth in her voice.

“Off with your bonnet!”

Cypria was a clever girl, and before going into her room, she’d dusted her whole head with flour. Unfortunately, she’d forgotten about her eyebrows, which glimmered like a couple of bronze ingots. A cloud of flour billowed up into the air when her severed head struck the floor.

The soldier returned to the kitchen, where he noticed the silver-haired girl, who was just then pouring the hot water for tea.

“And who are you?” he asked.

The girl didn’t answer.

“She doesn’t have a name,” the cooper explained.

“Oh no? Take off your bonnet, woman.”

The silver-haired girl did as she was told, unleashing the coruscant cascade of her platinum tresses. The soldier leaned in closer, checking her eyebrows and eyelashes, which were both appropriately hoary. Finally he looked into her eyes, and the sorrow he found there was as depthless and ancient as the sea.

Satisfied, he drew his sword and put it through the cooper’s stomach. “You lied to me,” he said. “You only have one elderly auntie.”

“A cup of tea before you go?” the silver-haired girl asked. She wasn’t afraid that the soldier would hear the brightness of youth in her voice, because she had never really been young.

“No thank you, ma’am,” the soldier said, and left.

The silver-haired girl buried her sisters and her father in the garden. She lived out the rest of her long life alone, as the most beautiful girl in the kingdom.

SIMPLE QUESTIONS

I’D GOTTEN ONE THING RIGHT in my story. Up close, I could see the startling color of the silver-haired girl’s eyes: greenish-gray, oceanic. Her heart-shaped mouth was pursed in a frown so compact it was almost a pucker. She looked up when she’d finished reading and didn’t seem in the least surprised to see me sitting across from her.

“Platinum and silver aren’t the same color,” she said. “Platinum is whiter.”

I placed the wad of bills on the table between us, then gestured for my journal.

“Are you suggesting a trade?” she asked, and there was something playful in her tone, almost as if she didn’t care that I’d just robbed her. I nodded. She closed my journal and held it to her chest. “Thank you, but I’d rather have the story. I’ve always believed in supporting the arts.”

Just then the waiter came back to the table.

“Sir, you left without paying for your coffee.”

I smiled, because there was something ridiculous about getting in trouble for stealing five bucks’ worth of coffee when I’d nearly walked off with a good five grand.

“Is that funny to you?” the waiter said.

Another great thing about hotels is that it’s almost impossible to get in trouble inside one. Everyone assumes you’re a guest, which means you’re a tourist, which means you’re probably an idiot. If someone catches you hanging around somewhere you’re not supposed to be,