Jeffrey became inquisitive, "Elsa, what's with all the locked doors?"She answered, "Security Mr. Smith, security."He prodded Elsa, "Really? For dead bodies, but -"She cut him off and spoke with conviction, "Of courze! Zese people whozebodiez are in our cuztody muzt be protected. We take no chancez.Remember Mr. Smith, servize!"Jeffrey backed off, "I understand. Forgive me for such a foolishquestion."Elsa places a hand on his right check and speaks in a motherly fashion,"Iz okay my dear, iz okay."As they walked, Jeffrey realized that the long corridor was made out ofsolid rock. The walls and floor were smooth, but the ceiling had thatbumpy, split-rock texture. Increasingly it felt like he was walking intoa cave. At the end of the corridor Elsa led him down another flight ofstairs. These spiraled downward for about fifty steps. Jeffrey nowfigured they had gone down four flights stairs. He thought to himself,"How far deep did they need to go?"The walled steps opened up into what. The first night out on a train was never an easy night for her, but she was tired and would give it a try. She finished undressing for bed, putting on the blue shortie nightgown that she’d brought along. ‘Damn!’ Everything was reminding her of something. Bernard had loved her in a similar outfit a decade ago. Each step of putting it on reminded her of some smooth comment that he’d made. As she raised it up over her head, the powder blue showed off her blonde hair. She pulled it down over her breasts, ‘champagne glass breasts’ he had called them, over the ‘silky, smooth curve of your tummy’ and down over the ‘secret triangle’ she had already covered with the matching blue panties. Bernard was a reporter from France who had come to her office in the City on a project long before she had met Jim. She hadn’t been so careful then, and her natural curiosity and his practiced Gallic charm had made their liaison seem so logical. He must have been more than just a news reporter, perhaps his.
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