April Foolishness: Carnegie Hall
“Апэряря алььтэрюм ку векж, ючю ыт брутэ адолэжкэнс рэформйданч. Ад емпэтюсъ омнэжквюы дежпютатионй хаж, ку вим юрбанйтаж дяшзынтиыт. REPEAT. Прё эа аутым альяквюам. Еллум молыжтйаы жкряпшэрит мэя ыт. REPEAT.”
“The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog,” Simon says, ignoring the Russian phrases altogether. “Is this really necessary?” He tosses a glance at his office mate, who is sitting across from him with his legs propped up on his desk. Their desks face one another, and are close enough to touch, due to the cramped office space. At least we have an office, Simon continuously reminds himself.
“Your training is always necessary. Just shut up and listen to the tapes,” Germain replies, reading the New York Times’ obituaries.
“Looking for an apartment?” Simon inquires.
“A body. Upper West Side. Mob hit.”
“Juicy. Anyone I’d know?”
“Doubtful. Just concentrate on your accent, will you?” He gives Simon the evil eye, one eyebrow arching up over the top of the paper. Sinister, yet comical.
“As if anyone’s going to be correcting it,” Simon sighs and slouches down in his chair. “It’s not as if I’ve been invited to speak at la Ministère de la Culture et de la Communication, after all.”
“Don’t you mean L’Alliance Française?” Germain corrects him.
“Oh, do shut up,” Simon huffs.
Germain thinks he knows everything, given the fact that he speaks 16 languages, including French, Italian, Spanish, German, Arabic, Mandarin, Cantonese, American Sign Language, Esperanto and Klingon. Simon doesn’t think the latter ought to count at all, but apparently 40 million Trekkies disagree with him. Esperanto is another matter altogether, but Simon has learned to pick and choose his battles.
“Gents, the boss wants to see you upstairs,” a secretary says, poking his head into the office. Simon and Germain nod their agreement. The boy nods back, then disappears. His cologne lingers.
“Ted’s bow-tie is spot-on today,” Germain observes, as they walk down the hall towards the elevator.
“What do you mean by that?” Simon asks.
“Understated blue, paying tribute to Bastille Day, along with his red loafers and white shirt,” Germain notes.
“He wears a white shirt every day. How do you know it’s for Bastille Day?” Simon retorts.
“The tiny pin between the second and third button was a French flag.” Germain grins. His teeth are brilliantly white, like a polar bear in a snowstorm.
“Fuck, you’re good,” Simon grudgingly admits. “How do you do it?”
“How do you get to Carnegie Hall?”
Simon grumbles under his breath, and refuses to reply.
The elevator dings, and slides open, depositing them both onto the 49th floor.
“Showtime,” Germain says, adjusting his tie.
Simon just gulps, and wonders what happens next.
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