There are a lot of Swiss Army knives at the reception. Not a cutlass in sight, but then I’m not looking too hard. Several plastic foils from children’s Zorro costumes. Several that you get with a Happy Meal, cute talking cutlery from some Disney animated feature. Here and there, the little plastic swords they stick into the maraschino cherries in your drinks or sundaes.
But the guy talking to my wife is a cane sword, without a doubt. The slickest man I know. Whenever we encounter him at a reception, I have the feeling that I get an education just watching him. At these society events he is in constant motion, mingling as if he’d drown if he stopped for a moment, eyes constantly on the lookout for food, seals maybe, or snorklers, up at the surface.
[Mig, pick a metaphor and stick to it, for Godssake. Knives or sharks?]
He must know thousands of people, and yet he remembers my name despite my insignificance. He remembers my wife’s academic title, which is often of more importance in Austria than a name.
His handshake is perfect – firm but not you know.
He chats with the ministers there. He draws the 4mbassador over to our table – everyone is standing around these little, high, round tables that tempt you to lean on them with your elbows but then rock dangerously when you do, threatening to toss canapes and drinks in every direction.
I nip out to the buffet for some food, step on a plastic toothpick, do the splits and quickly recover.
The 4mbassador stays with us for a lot longer than I have seen him chatting with other people. Cane sword gets him involved in a talk with my wife about her business. A dull Austrian woman appears and starts telling the 4mbassador about something totally dull and unrelated to anything he might potentially be interested in and dull: cane sword intervenes, ensnares the woman in conversation while simultaneously physically blocking her access to the 4mbassador without her noticing, which frees the 4mbassador to mingle with other guests. It is poetry in motion. Like watching me eat, or Shakira dance.
Then, as luck would have it, another blogger shows up.
As you know, bloggers have a large, thin frill around their heads, which we display in order to frighten enemies. To appear even more impressive, we also open our mouths wide and often rear up on our hind legs.
When frightened, bloggers will run away, using their back-legs only.
So I do all that. The frill thing, and the rearing up. And Novala does. The diplomats milling about take it in stride.
I am happy to see Novala, whom I like. Based on something I see in the program, I half expect her to show up, and looked around for her in the beginning, but am quickly distracted because
- I have forgotten to eat lunch so my stomach is empty
- the wine is very good
- our table is on a Ley line between the caterer and where the VIPs are and a waitress passes with a fresh tray about every five minutes
Then, all of a sudden, cane sword has a minister cornered against a marble pillar across the hall and here’s Novala waving her hand in my face.
Alpha, Novala. Novala, Alpha.
Novala is looking exceedingly pretty tonight, for which I shall be punished later.
Later the three of us go to a hotel bar for drinks. The waiter (good name for him) disinfects our table, because, as he tells us, happy hour guests were there before us, the pigs. While he is at it he also disinfects Novala.
I have an Oban because it was €3.40 cheaper than the Macallan. Alpha has something without alcohol because she is obviously driving if I am having single malt. Novala makes the waiter give Alpha a sparkly thing for her drink, one of those sparkly mylar palmtree things.
When it comes time to pay I regret not having Anthony Zerbe attached to my hip, because the waiter vanishes and stays that way and as we know, Anthony Zerbe has no problem attracting waiters’ attention. I am beginning to get sleepy and submarine, the way I get at night after a few drinks, poking around the rocks and kelp and an occasional boot or license plate as conversation goes on around me.
[Definitely sharks.]
Then we say good night to Novala and go back to our car and drive home. Alpha drives, and I give her advice until she tells me to shut up. I’m welcome to visit with Novala any time, Alpha says, as long as it’s like this (me being the one in the mask).
One more thing: I forgot to mention that Haruki Murakami’s “Kafka on the Shore” is finally out and I bought a copy yesterday. Life is now complete.
Oban is good.
My blog-partner, sissoula, very into Murakami and a New Yorker fanatical reader, recently posted that John Updike wrote a review of Murakami’s “Kafka on the Shore”. You used the word ‘Beach’ – did you translate this off German or did Einstein on the Beach got in the way somehow?
Your Alpha is right to be jealous. I can see the female bloggers losing it over your fat gold watch.
I used the word “beach” in an earlier post, because I’d translated it from the German. I use “shore” in this post, because I now have the book and know what the official English title is. Also Einstein rattling around in there somewhere, sure. And Annette Funicello’s “Shore Blanket Bingo.”
” something totally dull and unrelated to anything he might potentially be interested in and dull”—that made me laugh; I think there’s a fancy latin rhetorical term for it. I’m a one trick pony with my occupatio. Irrespective of your mixed metaphor, this was very well done.
not sure. i think the fancy latin term for the other rhetorical device i use in that same sentence (“while simultaneously…”) is “redundancy.”
i hate novala. if she’s going to be all cultural and stuff she should at least have the decency to be hideous.
oh, and also:
http://ejmas.com/jnc/jncart_barton-wright_0200.htm
you could totally hold your own with just a walking stick.
thanks for that link. that’s wonderful.
She scares me.
I liked this piece very much. It’s sharp.
(see what I did there?)
I’ll get my coat.
If men were knives, you would be a mezzaluna, mig.
My mom used to say that to me all the time too, Adam.
I have to point out here that my wife was *not* jealous of Novala. She was suspicious of the discrepancy between Novala’s appearance and the way I had previously described her, when telling my wife I was meeting a blogger in town for a drink after work.
what did you say, “don’t worry, alpha, she’s really not at all attractive”? that doesn’t go down well on the other side.
ahem. says the woman who was told, “you should meet alpha. she wouldn’t be jealous of you.”
which would have stung, except i get that rather a lot. i try to pretend it’s to do with my ability to restrict my flirting to people upon whom it would have an affect, rather than to do with the carbuncular monstrosity that i call “my face”.
i so never said that.
carbuncular monstrosity indeed.
how should i know what i said to alpha. i probably said, “how should i know what she looks like, i only know her from her blog; maybe she’s three and a half feet tall with hair like Bill Bailey,” and then never corrected the image later on.
well, no blogging straight man should dare to meet me, because not only am I excruciatingly beautiful, but I eat men raw for brunch.
Why do I have the feeling I would be that kitchen knife that was previously used in a jar of peanut butter and is now laying on the counter for a day or two until someone finally puts it in the dishwasher?