(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/7/75/Matigroves125square.jpg)<br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 18pt;">Mati Groves</span></span><br/><strong>Location</strong>: Restaurant Rampoldi<br/><strong>With</strong>: Paulette<br/><br/>Mati was surprised the maitre d' remembered him.  This was the sort of thing he'd always relied on an amanuensis for – a wife, back in the old days, then a partner, then a slave – a woman who would murmur in his ear, 'We were here in the year dot, you signed a cd for his daughter florence' and Mati would smile as if he hadn't heard the voice in his ear, as if his memories were all his own, and say to the maitre d' or whoever it was,  'How is your daughter?  F- Florence isn't it?'<br/><br/>No memory spontaneously came to mind of the maitre d'.  He didn't even recognize the man.  Perhaps age had withered him, he was surprisingly small, his moustache somehow unsuited to his broad face.<br/><br/>Would Paulette ever fulfil such a function for him?  Amanuensis, aide-memoire,  assistant?<br/><br/>Well, perhaps not, but she made an excellent, and excellent-looking dinner-companion.<br/><br/>She seemed surprised when he insisted that she decide for herself what she ordered for dinner.  Perhaps it was difficult, once enslavement set in, for someone to remember how they used to make choices.  So he ordered champagne while she deliberated, and looked around.  Even here the abjectness of some slaves was in evidence in their nakedness, or how, say, one on an adjacent table was licking her Mistress's shoes while another, under the table, was ministering to the associated Master.<br/><br/>Not really Mati's taste.  In Florida, where he'd been for nearly a decade, this wouldn't happen in the more salubrious joints like this.<br/><br/>He looked again at Paulette; smiled, as she felt his gaze and looked across at him..  He could easily reach across and hurt her, surprise her with something surreptitious and painful, and she would try not to react, perhaps.  But tonight he wanted her to open up a little.  'If you're having difficulty deciding, mon esclave, just share some moules and salade with me if you like.  Later I think we may be expected to sing a little something.  But tonight I would like to hear about you.  About what brought you to this point, and whether you have any aspirations for how we might make music together.  The floor is yours.'<br/><br/>He reached across the spotless tablecloth and squeezed her delicate hand.  How delightful: a beauty with music in her soul, and her fingertips.