Chapter 9
THE CANDY-ASSED FRENCH FOREIGN MINISTER
Vice President Rod Meaney had never once used the word "supercilious", either in speech or in writing. It is doubtful whether he knew what it meant. But if he had known, and if he had been the kind of person who used such a word (which he most definitely was not), he would almost certainly have used it to describe the French Foreign Minister, who was exactly the kind of person who used the word "supercilious" regularly, both in speech and in writing, both in French and in English, and in several other languages besides, and would no doubt go on using it until the end of his allotted days on this small and, to his mind, inadequate planet.
The Vice President gazed without love into the ice-blue eyes of Blaise Ortolan who stood there smiling placidly as though it was perfectly normal that he should have entered a bathroom in the White House to discover the Vice President shimmying alone there. What could be more natural?
Meaney froze. He was humiliated and furious that this candy-assed Frenchman had caught him looking like an idiot and there was nothing he could think of to do or say to spin this thing in a favorable direction.
He could have told the truth – he could have told Ortolan that he had an artificial heart made of titanium and Kevlar™, which ran on a tiny fuel-cell powered by six grains of weapons-grade plutonium. He could have told him that this heart periodically shifted to the right and could only be jostled back into place by doing what appeared to be an awkward, spastic dance. They could even have had a good laugh over it. Ortolan could have then told Meaney what he really thought when he walked into the room (that the Vice President was in the throes of a self-induced orgasm or an epileptic seizure or possibly both at the same time), and Meaney could have told Ortolan how at a loss he was at the moment he realized there was another person in the room. They would have laughed. They would have shared a moment of real person-to-person connection. They might have realized that there was not quite so much distance between them as they’d imagined. The incident could have been the first serendipitous step towards a new understanding between nations.
But it did not occur to Meaney to tell the truth. Besides, he couldn't have told the truth even if he'd wanted to -- his heart was classified, and Ortolan didn't have clearance.
The Vice President there stood frozen. Ortolan stood there, smiling pleasantly. His magnificent silver mane gleamed heroically beneath the shimmering fluorescent lights of the presidential loo. Meaney's rosy pate gleamed a little less heroically. He realized that he hated Ortolan more than he’d ever hated anything in his life, and it killed him to let this bastard have the upper hand of the situation.
The candy-assed French Foreign Minister was in no rush to let this moment – one of the most delicious of his life – pass into oblivion. He waited to see what Meaney had to say. But the Vice President could think of nothing – the mot-juste was hardly his strong point even at the best of times, and besides, his heart was still itching and it was all he could do to stand up straight and relatively immobile. He twitched once or twice.
From the ball-room upstairs came the strains of "Begin the Beguine". Vice President Rod Meaney recognized the song, vaguely. His wife liked it. He had no idea what a beguine was, though. He really couldn’t have cared less.
Ortolan waited for the third verse to end, then spoke.
“Yes, it is a very catchy tune. I too am fond of it. But I find that, unlike you, I am not at my best when dancing without a partner."
Next chapter:
WHO'S THE MAN? in which the Vice President is consoled.
Vice President Rod Meaney had never once used the word "supercilious", either in speech or in writing. It is doubtful whether he knew what it meant. But if he had known, and if he had been the kind of person who used such a word (which he most definitely was not), he would almost certainly have used it to describe the French Foreign Minister, who was exactly the kind of person who used the word "supercilious" regularly, both in speech and in writing, both in French and in English, and in several other languages besides, and would no doubt go on using it until the end of his allotted days on this small and, to his mind, inadequate planet.
The Vice President gazed without love into the ice-blue eyes of Blaise Ortolan who stood there smiling placidly as though it was perfectly normal that he should have entered a bathroom in the White House to discover the Vice President shimmying alone there. What could be more natural?
Meaney froze. He was humiliated and furious that this candy-assed Frenchman had caught him looking like an idiot and there was nothing he could think of to do or say to spin this thing in a favorable direction.
He could have told the truth – he could have told Ortolan that he had an artificial heart made of titanium and Kevlar™, which ran on a tiny fuel-cell powered by six grains of weapons-grade plutonium. He could have told him that this heart periodically shifted to the right and could only be jostled back into place by doing what appeared to be an awkward, spastic dance. They could even have had a good laugh over it. Ortolan could have then told Meaney what he really thought when he walked into the room (that the Vice President was in the throes of a self-induced orgasm or an epileptic seizure or possibly both at the same time), and Meaney could have told Ortolan how at a loss he was at the moment he realized there was another person in the room. They would have laughed. They would have shared a moment of real person-to-person connection. They might have realized that there was not quite so much distance between them as they’d imagined. The incident could have been the first serendipitous step towards a new understanding between nations.
But it did not occur to Meaney to tell the truth. Besides, he couldn't have told the truth even if he'd wanted to -- his heart was classified, and Ortolan didn't have clearance.
The Vice President there stood frozen. Ortolan stood there, smiling pleasantly. His magnificent silver mane gleamed heroically beneath the shimmering fluorescent lights of the presidential loo. Meaney's rosy pate gleamed a little less heroically. He realized that he hated Ortolan more than he’d ever hated anything in his life, and it killed him to let this bastard have the upper hand of the situation.
The candy-assed French Foreign Minister was in no rush to let this moment – one of the most delicious of his life – pass into oblivion. He waited to see what Meaney had to say. But the Vice President could think of nothing – the mot-juste was hardly his strong point even at the best of times, and besides, his heart was still itching and it was all he could do to stand up straight and relatively immobile. He twitched once or twice.
From the ball-room upstairs came the strains of "Begin the Beguine". Vice President Rod Meaney recognized the song, vaguely. His wife liked it. He had no idea what a beguine was, though. He really couldn’t have cared less.
Ortolan waited for the third verse to end, then spoke.
“Yes, it is a very catchy tune. I too am fond of it. But I find that, unlike you, I am not at my best when dancing without a partner."
Next chapter:
WHO'S THE MAN? in which the Vice President is consoled.
© by N. Ominous 10.3.05
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