Saturday, September 5, 2009
Le Mond Est Trés Petit
Alek entered wearing his black chauffeur suit and cap and an uncharacteristically diffident manner. He approached the table. “Good morning, marm, sir.”
“Ah, Alek,” said Octavian. “So sorree to wayks yu up, but the wethr turned beestlee jus as I wuz on mai wae bak.”
“No trouble, sir.”
“Well, Zora, I be seein you agen somtim.”
“Yu sink so, Octavvyon?”
“May wee. The wurld is reelee small, yu noe.”
“So eet eez. Au revoir, zen.”
“O revwarr.” Octavian leaped down and ambled out, his black plume of a tail held high. In the lobby, Alek opened a large black umbrella and they went out to the car. Alek opened the back door for him and he jumped in, but by the time Alek had got into the driver seat, Octavian had jumped over the barrier and settled himself in the passenger seat.
“Eight, a gentleman doesn’t sit up front with the help.”
“I wanna watch the winsheeld wyprz. I has had a verree tens an tryin nigt, an they’r relaksin, wift their wipt-wopt, wipt-wopt. I liks it.”
“Oh, Eight, what are we going to do with you?”
“Huh. That whut M sed. But yu gyz don’t hav to do aneethin.”
“I’m not so sure. And how did you end up at Felicity Fourpaws’ table? The whole of the city is empty of waking souls except for the head of the Fourpaws dog-toy dynasty, and you—“ He sputtered to a stop.
Octavian explained. The rain came down. The windshield wipers made a pleasing, meditative sound against the glass.
Alek sighed. “I don’t know, Eight. M will think you’ve gone over the wall.”
“Huh. It wasn’t over aneethin. It wuz mor sorta strayt down the wall an into the Dumbstr. That’s wher I pikt up theez interesting smellz.”
“And what did the feline lady think of your…smells?”
“Oh, she’s a kittee. She unnerstan about stuff lik that. A Tom-about-town gets into stuff somtim.”
“Hmm. She looked more the fastidious type to me.”
“Well, mebbe jus about her monnee. She sed she wuz heer fer washin it, saym as me—-well, saym as mai covr-storee me, aneewae.”
“Wait! She told you that?” Alek braked rather abruptly in front of the hotel.
“Shur. We wer getting to noe eetch othr.”
“I still don’t know, Eight. I don’t trust her as far as I could throw her, and she looked rather well-fed and ambitious.”
“Don’t worree so mutch, Alek,” said Octavian, yawning broadly. “Mai hart belong to M. Compleetlee.”