Patrick entered the quiet room, switched the light on over his work area, set the newspaper and small pile of letters onto the desk and hung his coat on the hook behind the door. He switched the shortwave equipment on, in order to let the tubes warm up, before turning his attention to the letters, none of which were interesting enough to warrant immediate attention. Still feeling chilled, he turned on the kettle and placed a tea bag into the stained cup, let it steep a few moments, then pulled out the bag, sipping at the hot liquid.

He turned his attention to the radio equipment, which was now humming and ready for use. He picked up the microphone and was about to chime in with his call sign when he realized he was hearing unusual voices on the channel. Less English and more European. Definitely more distant than he expected from his usual channels. He glanced over at the channel selector, noticing it had been placed on an unusual frequency. With a puzzled look, he thought back to what he was doing the last time he used the equipment. But his memory was of nothing unusual. He confirmed this in his log. The frequencies he normally used were better suited for communications into northern and arctic communities, where he still had a network of friends, mostly meteorologists and friends from previous sojourns. The channel it was on now was more appropriate to long-skip communication across the Atlantic. There was no mistaking the mixture of French, German and Spanish voices, in amongst a smattering of American and British English. He puzzled again. Occasionally Andrei would come in to use his equipment. Mostly to revalidate figures they might be publishing together in an article. But never without confirming with Patrick first. And not without noting the activity in the communications log. Patrick looked worriedly at the papers around him. Nothing seemed to be disturbed; nor had anything sensitive been left on the table. He glanced at the rest of the room. If anything could be read into the disarray, it was that nothing had been moved from its usual spot. He sipped thoughtfully at his tea. A normal radio knob could be easily reset by accident, as if caught by a sleeve. But this equipment was much more precise, meaning that explanation was less likely. He made a note in his communications log, to remind him of the details if it occurred again, but he could come up with no satisfactory explanation.

Not wanting to feel too alarmed over what might be a triviality, he switched back to one of the frequencies he normally used, waited for a lull in the chatter, piped in his call sign to indicate he was monitoring and listened for familiar voices. At another lull, he called out a few signs, but no voices chimed back. He let the chatter continue for a while, opened his letters, but nothing in the chatter hooked him in. After a while, he switched off the equipment and remembered that he had borrowed a record from the music collection at the University library: Music and Rhythms from Cuban Santeria. He wanted to track down some of the piano sounds he had heard the previous evening; this looked to be about as close to the real thing as he was going to find. He took the vinyl disk from the sleeve, warmed up the HiFi amplifier and placed the record onto the platter. The sound quality of the disk was not good, but the music was unmistakably exotic:  part jazz ensemble, augmented by an array of exotic percussion instruments. He settled to listen, sipping at the last of his tea.

But his reveries were not to remain undisturbed long. Without much warning, and without the usual knock, Alison came into the room, followed closely behind by Tracy. They were both in their housecoats and began to search the room methodically. “There’s got to be some good scotch somewhere,” Alison said, with a slight slur in her voice, peering in the upper shelf of the closet. “But nothing in his usual hiding spot.”

“Hey, you can’t just poke around here. Some of these papers are sensitive.” Patrick clutched at his briefcase, latching it closed again. “Besides, I’m all out. You’re wasting your time.”

“That’s what they all say,” Alison said, determined there was a bottle stashed somewhere, only waiting to be found.

“Maybe here,” Tracy said, moving to the nightstand beside the bed.

“Not there,” Patrick said with a plea.

“That’s where he keeps his nudie pictures,” Alison said matter-of-factly.

“Oh goody. Let’s see,” Tracy said, opening the drawer and bringing out a magazine triumphantly. “Paris Match. Ooh là là!”

“Show me,” Alison came over, blocking Patrick’s attempt to retrieve the magazine from Tracy. “A special feature on Gina Lollobrigida.” They flipped to the feature, which had lots of pictures. “My, but isn’t she marvellously buxom.”

“Do you think this is to keep up his French?”

“Oui, c’est ҫa.”

“Seriously ladies, I’d really must insist that you not rummage around the room like this,” unable to reach the magazine to extract it from Tracy’s hands. Having a laugh over some of the pictures in the spread, she handed it back to Patrick, taking pity on his visible embarrassment.

“That’s not really nudie pictures though, is it?” Tracy said, Alison shaking her head in confirmation. “Wait, I’ll be right back,” and she headed out of the room and across the hall with a quick, light step. She returned with her purse and pulled out a small clutch of postcards. She sorted through, looked at one thoughtfully, showing it to it to Alison, who nodded in approval. “Here, this should be much better,” and handed Patrick one of the postcards.

He looked at the front, which had a black-and-white Victorian-era boudoir shot. On a closer look at the details, including the stamp on the back, it had come from Belle-epoch Paris. The model was unabashedly naked from the waist up. And as amply endowed as Gina Lollobrigida.

“Notice he looked at the stamp. What a propeller head.” Patrick had remembered there was talk about Professor Johnson, who lectured in Victorian Literature, as possessing a notable collection of such cards. In fact, a few specimens, more suitable for mixed company, were framed together in his office and referred to as Artwork. Meanwhile, Alison thumbed through the remainder of the cards, shook her head disapprovingly and shoved them back into Tracy’s purse, as if they were not suitable for Patrick’s eyes. He couldn’t help notice the resemblance to Aunt Rose Alison bore at moments, such as her disapproving frown. “Hey, what’s this music?”

The strains of the Cuban jazz had suddenly become more lively. The exotic rhythm caught her hips; she swayed, almost as if possessed. “Let’s dance,” she moved forward and took up a dance position with Tracy in the open area of the room. But their start was awkward. “Hey, what are you doing?”

“Sorry, I thought I was supposed to lead. You go,” and they started again, more successfully matching the rhythm with a quick back and forth movement. They didn’t have much time before the side came to an end.

“Where’d you get that?” Alison picked up the record sleeve, looking at it with interest.

“The University library has a grand collection of music. Some of it quite obscure. Field recordings and the like.”

“Oh là là, that sounded primitive. West African, non?  You picked this up after you saw Juan play the other night. Didn’t I tell you he was great? Put on the other side.”

Patrick obliged, a little more relaxed with them in the room now that they weren’t rummaging through the drawers, although they hadn’t given up hope a bottle was hidden somewhere. The two were tipsy enough to light cigarettes, not thinking the night was too cold to open a window.

“How come, wherever I see you two together, you have your hair in curlers?”

“He doesn’t know, does he?” Alison looked at Tracy with a nod, “Should we tell him?” Tracy tilted her head disinterestedly. “We probably should have told you sooner, but Tracy’s building doesn’t have a shower.”

“I have to stick my head in the sink. I can get a shower at the Athletic Centre. But I can’t really get a proper wash and set without going to a parlour. Or coming here.”

“You men really have no idea what we have to go through,” Alison said with a slight scold. “Men have it so easy.” She was sitting close to the sink in the room and gestured at the sparse array of grooming products. “A quick shave, comb your hair, et voilà, tout fini.”

“You know nothing about shaving,” Tracy came forward with a menacing look, picking up on Alison’s scolding tone. She stumbled momentarily. “Try plucking,” now with a slur. “We gotta do all the same things as you, except in high heels, hair curled, and in a tight girdle.”

“For half the pay,” Alison added.

Tracy lunged forward, put her hands on Patrick’s face clumsily and gave him a sloppy kiss. “You’re cute, you know. Now if you know what’s good for you, you’ll bring out that bottle of scotch we know you have hidden in this room.”

“Nothing, I’m afraid. I can see if Ron upstairs has anything. The Liquor Commission is closed. If you told me earlier, I could have picked something up.”

He came back from the third floor, to much jubilation, with a half-empty bottle of rum. The record having ended, and with the bottle in hand, the girls seemed ready to abandon Patrick and return to their beauty preparations.

“Wait, do I get any of the rum?”

“Sorry. Not enough.”

“I heard you’ve been posing as a model for Becky,” Tracy said, turning back to Patrick from the door. “If she gives you any of her sketches, don’t throw them out. Her work is more valuable than you might think. You should come and pose for our Life Drawing class. We get lots of women, but not enough men. Right Ali?

“Absolutely. He’d be great. Too shy, though.”

“That’s too bad.” Tracy closed the door behind her; once again the room was subsumed with stillness.