Zero History

13. MUSKRAT
They ate muskrat,” Heidi said as they walked in gritty sunlight to Selfridges, for her
appointment with Hollis’s stylist, “but only on Fridays.”
“Who?”
“Belgians. Got the church to say it was okay, because muskrats live in the water. Like
fish.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s in the Larousse Gastronomique,” said Heidi. “Look it up. Or just look at your boy.
You can see he’s had some.”
Hollis’s iPhone rang as they were nearing Oxford Street. She looked at the screen. Blue
Ant.
“Hello?”
“Hubertus.”
“You eat muskrat, Fridays?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I’m defending you from a racial slur.”
“Where are you?”
“On my way to Selfridges with a friend. She’s getting her hair cut.” Getting Heidi the
last-minute appointment had required epic stylist-suckery, but Hollis was a firm believer
in the therapeutic power of the right haircut. And Heidi, for her part, now seemed neither
hungover nor jet-lagged.
“What are you doing while she does that?” asked Bigend.
Hollis debated telling Bigend she was getting a cut herself, but it didn’t seem worth it.
“What do you have in mind?”
“The friend we had tapas with,” he said. “I want you two to talk.”
The translator, the one who liked dogs. “Why?”
“That will emerge. Talk while your friend has her hair cut. I’ll have Aldous run him
over now. Where shall he meet you?”
“The food hall, I suppose,” said Hollis. “Patisserie.”
He hung up.
“Shit,” said Hollis.
“Muskrat,” said Heidi, pulling Hollis in beside her and taking on the remorseless
afternoon pedestrian-flow of Oxford Street like a broad-shouldered icebreaker, homing
on Selfridges. “You really are working for him.”
“I am that,” said Hollis.
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