tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91582816687592407042024-02-19T02:01:27.230-08:00Vivian Delacourt: A Dame on the EdgeVivian D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16407507714913845873noreply@blogger.comBlogger21125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9158281668759240704.post-73397401503005129102012-05-07T21:16:00.004-07:002012-05-07T21:16:49.245-07:00The Queen Has Fallen<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ_Z0LoaVGj4sAWTdKLAXPnqYmtLCQDWK7_HeZG-_2RFmPkHkmknTrcayAKMdLc0fLw_mZGswSVDgk7_DSmRqxqkZLfbPCJmyIm5R148Fvlyh99EJ5ngbbNgQ9C5KCUFTUIhnsmdGGDJAE/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ_Z0LoaVGj4sAWTdKLAXPnqYmtLCQDWK7_HeZG-_2RFmPkHkmknTrcayAKMdLc0fLw_mZGswSVDgk7_DSmRqxqkZLfbPCJmyIm5R148Fvlyh99EJ5ngbbNgQ9C5KCUFTUIhnsmdGGDJAE/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Queen is Tired. Long Sleep the Queen.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
When you look at that title, I wonder what you see? Do you envision a rotund, orange-haired traitor stumbling on her heels, thanks to a .38 bullet that has pierced the understory of her bouffant? Do you imagine her girth collapsing against the louse of a man who has the audacity to walk two paces in front of her, his cheating form acting merely as a tool to break her fall?<br />
<br />
Alas, my kittens. The queen, is moi.<br />
<br />
I couldn't do it. Oh do not misinterpret. It was not a question of skill or canniness. I had them in my sights, both of them. They were nothing if not obvious. I've shot festival courtyard mimes that were better hidden then these two. Oh, I have. In the Marienplatz in Munich, just in the late afternoon shadow of the great glockenspiel. But that's another story, my dears. I know you want to hear it, but you will just have to wait!<br />
<br />
No, the truth is, this grande old dame (and a reminder, I may refer to myself as "old", you oughtn't dare, as the late Mimieux would mime for you) discovered a softness in her heart that she'd longsince forgotten. Miles was the first to remind me of it, when I grew concerned about the ache that had begun to swell in my chest. I thought it might have been that the foi gras and toast had been spiked with arsenic, but since Miles had eaten far more than his fair share (and was happily enjoying the afterglow of a Latin-delivered rubdown) I knew it was something else.<br />
<br />
"It's happening, my queen," he said.<br />
<br />
"What is that?" I queried.<br />
<br />
"You're rediscovering your heart. They have betrayed you, the both of them. But the love you once felt toward them is still hot to the touch. Like an earthenware caquelon at the end of a long, champagne-fueld soiree." I shot him a horrified look and he shrugged nonchalantly, adding "I've never had fondue myself, but I've heard..."<br />
<br />
And so I let them go, the two of them. On their merry ways. But not before firing off a single round and taking out the street light directly over them, sending a shower of glass onto them, like flakes of jagged snow.<br />
<br />
I'm thinking that I am due for a trip to Morocco. Don't you?Vivian D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16407507714913845873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9158281668759240704.post-33702336298820862402010-10-26T22:27:00.000-07:002010-10-26T22:54:49.854-07:00Oatmeal and Noxema, Then Soak<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLSPnQKgoE9nzWA78EK0-BanpA6QkHEux3jZFH2Zcm2k_ZMWdTm2zv6q-JtC0Ymq06FTES6Gv_WDL81KatNBYGmaeokmCuUd9U2Mov9-HGWwKhqkUJHhgqxuRk6q18sjnAUvqT0L88jVCS/s1600/3650263_f120.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 120px; height: 181px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLSPnQKgoE9nzWA78EK0-BanpA6QkHEux3jZFH2Zcm2k_ZMWdTm2zv6q-JtC0Ymq06FTES6Gv_WDL81KatNBYGmaeokmCuUd9U2Mov9-HGWwKhqkUJHhgqxuRk6q18sjnAUvqT0L88jVCS/s200/3650263_f120.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532600234884921602" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">In all my borne days I never dreamed--</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">never, </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">my crumpets--that Miles and I would actually plan and carry out a mission together, in tandem, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">côte à côte. Oh, we've been in the same place at the same time during a great many soirees. Goodness, I took out the Ghanan Prime Minister's mistress with a sniper's rifle, through the nook window of a quaint Barcelonan apartment as Miles lay beside me in bed, filing his nails and humming the overture from <i>Kiss Me Kate</i>. So I'm not adverse to killing in the presence of my dear friend. Hardly, my dears. Call me an exhibitionist (others have), but I find I get a naughty tickle behind my knees when an admirer is nearby to whisper, "Good shot, Vivian darling!" </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">And so the night that I thought would never end did, in fact, end at long last. Walter absconded with that carp in crinoline Zinnia (soon to be known as, "The-carp-who-went-to-rest-with-the-rest-of-the-fishes") and Miles whisked me away to the nearest five star, one of the few left in town that will still slip me in through the back door and pretend I am nothing more than a Czech immigrant dishwasher. Throw a drab smock over my head, snap at me in broken English and leave me alone in the presidential suite for the next twelve hours. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It looks to be a complicated venture, complicated in the worst way. It's bad enough that the target has to be someone who might well be missed (by the public, my bunnies, not by me--for I <i>never </i>miss a target!). But there are two to hit, and voluptuous as she may be, and certainly beginning her descent down the backside of that mountain we call life, Zinnia is not to be underestimated. It's not been too long since I've seen her scale a four-story walkup using only a pocket fisherman and saddle shoes (that, I might add, were two sizes too small). The girl still has a little left in her. The good news is, I know just which pockets she has that little bit stored in. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It's nearly dawn, and I'm exhausted dear ones. Miles is soaking in a bath of oatmeal and olive oil water, his face slathered in Noxema. The pillow is calling me, and I shall answer--for a little while, anyway. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">bonne nuit</span></span></div>Vivian D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16407507714913845873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9158281668759240704.post-88231263770435072282010-10-05T21:32:00.000-07:002010-10-05T22:22:32.436-07:00Saved by Tiffany (again)!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6ajQlj-P3DUMACDMhNOvXHcpgimrRTOQEPOPSFYoH4z13No3BbM7X6f20kWQuqcG2ou_CrrzuqMktto84J6ZpdxpSqpgDZNn9j1oiC96jfbYvmgTeJ8oFlhMxOIdqXxERjbCIrhnP1Qwt/s1600/DSC02866.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6ajQlj-P3DUMACDMhNOvXHcpgimrRTOQEPOPSFYoH4z13No3BbM7X6f20kWQuqcG2ou_CrrzuqMktto84J6ZpdxpSqpgDZNn9j1oiC96jfbYvmgTeJ8oFlhMxOIdqXxERjbCIrhnP1Qwt/s200/DSC02866.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524795263930933346" /></a><br />Oh dear lord, where do I even begin? For that matter, my dears, where does it end? I suppose in all cases, at the beginning or, in this case, where I last left off. <div><br /></div><div>I'd just finished my third piece of thin slice with cherry tomatoes and almond slivers when I saw them. There they were, Walter and my once-upon-a-time-saved-her-lunar-white-tush-more-times-than-I-can-count best friend. Yes, sweet bunnies, it was none other than that red-haired interloper <b><i>Zinnia</i></b>. Need I remind you that it was not long ago that I, unselfishly and at the risk of losing my own life and freedom, facilitated her own wretched husband's well-deserved exit from this world? I mean, <i>really. </i>What act of loyalty is more genuine--more <b>raw </b>than that of killing a woman's husband, when said's husband wife is too emotionally distraught to do it herself? In fact, as I stood there dabbing red sauce from my own saucy lips, there came a moment when I thought I might like to ring my own best girlfriend to return the favor, and send good old Walter on an eternal pearl-diving expedition deep to the bottom of the Hudson River. But then I realized, said "best friend" had her Orientally manicured tendrils already sunk into him!</div><div><br /></div><div>My mind began a rapid fire, random thoughts shooting in and out like some tangled string of sparking Christmas lights. I felt my knees growing weak, and there was a burning in my eyes, burning, unlike anything I'd ever felt before. This was all so new to me, my sweet kittens, you must believe this without hesitation. In all my years of...<i>cleaning house</i>, let's say...every single time I've ever pulled the trigger, or cinched the pebble-filled stocking or roundhouse kicked a target from the building ledge, I have never felt this level of emotion. Nerves, yes--we all have them and should claim them proudly. In fact, the one who says that killing makes no dent in his armor has no soul. But this...I could only say that it was something I was not prepared to feel. </div><div><br /></div><div>Perhaps, if I may be so bold as to surmise, it was--and is--love. For all the headaches, and the seeping nausea and the lousy jokes at my expense, I suppose I actually loved the old lunt. And that, my dears, is why it hurt so badly. For the two people in my life whom I loved the most, the two people whom I felt would be there for me until the last bullet left my pistol, had done to me what my chauffeur Miles was likely having done to him in some brownstone alley in Greenwich. </div><div><br /></div><div>Which brings me to Tiffany. </div><div><br /></div><div>Like I said, the flames were quite nearly literally shooting from my eyes, and I had had the luck (misfortune?) of spotting the curvature of the pizza pie slicer in my gauzy periphery. With lightning speed (for that is how I most frequently move) I snatched it into my quivering hands. I had reached far back behind me, probably as far back as the East Village dears, and just as I was to hurl the gleaming, yet tomatoey, weapon at the smarmy couple, I was lain usunder by something piercing and expensive against my breast. Perhaps it was the shock of the assault or the realization of 14 carat gold, but the cool dampness of the sidewalk was soon resonating on my rump. </div><div><br /></div><div>And who should scoop me from the ground, and cradle me in his arms, and remind me that to kill these two gerbils in the broad clarity of Little Italy would spell my demise and ruin, was my dear chauffeur (and only remaining friend) Miles. </div><div><br /></div><div>"It's been a rough night," he smiled, collecting the gleaming Tiffany cufflinks from the ground.</div><div> </div><div>"Was there no one you would have rather spent the evening with than me?" I asked, sincerely. My voice by now was more of a bird's chirp than a woman's. </div><div> </div><div>"No one," he promised. "Now let's get you cleaned up. And then we can figure out how to send them to Shanghai." </div><div><br /></div><div>"Shanghai?" I asked. "Why China?" </div><div><br /></div><div>"Oh," he smiled, pointing at the ground. "They might not make it there, but we can certainly send them part way." </div>Vivian D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16407507714913845873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9158281668759240704.post-84488912437156579782010-04-09T11:48:00.000-07:002010-04-09T12:26:32.725-07:00I'll have the salad, please.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwtxTCjIeFp2r7gGnodLzyUzc6SHaCUpsf7Zkx5oUwx4hNUsWSiOcBEMULGLnuO3xs0DuMYvhcF6VdWSQLjvYfOZcEbU-GQfNMpcDL5ieiIKoK9Qfbj1amA1FqyOmD1pp4fWpp82vscWst/s1600/waldorf-1540260-l.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 131px; height: 131px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwtxTCjIeFp2r7gGnodLzyUzc6SHaCUpsf7Zkx5oUwx4hNUsWSiOcBEMULGLnuO3xs0DuMYvhcF6VdWSQLjvYfOZcEbU-GQfNMpcDL5ieiIKoK9Qfbj1amA1FqyOmD1pp4fWpp82vscWst/s320/waldorf-1540260-l.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5458221058022944802" border="0" /></a><br />It's been a week since the fundraiser at the Waldorf Astoria--did I ever tell you how much I loathe those things? It's such a puzzle to me, these obscene parties. Spend twenty or thirty thousand dollars on champagne and caviar and bimbos with cigarette trays to stroke the egos of bloated and self-important politicians and executives and by the time the night is over, you have those same lunkheads ten percent poorer and twenty percent fatter. I say, take a week out of your life, make some phone calls and personal visits, take out an ad in the Times to thank them--and if you're so inclined, add the money you saved from putting a party and viola--you have one hell of a good fundraiser. But then, where would the cigarette girls go?<br /><br />A good deal has arisen over the horizon that is my husband, Walter. After the Waldorf function I was quite famished. The lobster bisque smelled of last month's cheese and the bread was as leaden as the hostess's sense of humor, so I skipped both and stuck with the salad. Needless to say, I'd have given my right eye for a slice of pizza. So off I went into the Manhattan night to take my chances in Little Italy. For this venture, I put away my party dress and slipped on my denim trousers and best checked farmer's blouse. I was interestingly ravishing, I must say, a cross between Annie Oakley and some old broad who would be more comfortable under the carriage of a Buick than a man, if you know what I mean.<br /><br />Anyway, I had my driver, Miles, drop me at the corner of Mulberry and Main, while I let him drive on to prowl Greenwich. No sooner did I turn into Vivaldi's for a slice of pepperoni did I catch a whiff of cheap tramp musk. I spun around and there they were--my Walter and that thing, attached to his arm like a sucking leech.<br /><br />Now, my bunnies, I have nothing against men taking a lover--I believe I've made that amply clear. It's in the DNA--men need artificial sweetner like women need an occasional coiff. It reminds us that we are still pertinent and can still draw the eye. But there are rules, and rules must be obeyed. Be discreet. Never take a lover that would reflect poorly on your wife--either making her look foolish or frumpy, or stupid for having settled for a man whose standard are clearly in the gutter. And this..."woman" that Walter was dragging around like a fishing lure--she was clearly in the latter. And, I might add---she was my friend.<br /><br />Was.Vivian D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16407507714913845873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9158281668759240704.post-54580161885545654482008-07-15T09:08:00.001-07:002008-07-15T09:19:07.000-07:00Oh, Dear MeGoodness gracious, my bunnies. I'm so sorry that I have taken such a long hiatus, but I do have a reason. I can't go into much detail as I fear that I'm being watched, but suffice to say that I am on the "lam", for lack of a better word.<br /><br />I was leaving from my perch on the rooftop of the Woodward Building in Soho, where I was watching through my spy specs, my husband and that thing he calls a woman exiting a late night bistro. As I came from the back door, I was suddenly struck in the base of skull and collected right then and there.<br /><br />"Collected" you ask? Yes, dears. In my line of work, we never say "kidnapped", since we're not kids and there is no napping involved. It sounds so amateurish that way. And "absconded" is what one does with a neglected cookie on the countertop. "Collected" is what a mother does with her wild brood, or what a tiny girl or a doddering first lady does with Easter Eggs. Gather those things which need gathering. And that's what happened to me. It was nothing personal, though it was quite unpleasant.<br /><br />I was sequestered in a warehouse just off the meat packing district. I know this, even though I was blinded folded because I could smell the raw beef and sausage casings through the gauze. The held me there for weeks, it seemed and I'd have escaped sooner but it seemed that the lunt who was guarding me never tired of gazing at my gams and melons, so I couldn't get a moment to use the dental underwire. What's this, you ask? Suffice to say that pimply adolescents have retainers, spies have dental underwiring, slipped on each morning for situations just like this. And since I could tie a cherry stem into a sailor's knot with my tongue, it's not a major task for me to slip off the wire, fashion it into a corkscrew and free myself from any ridiculous knot these Boy Scout rejects could have tied.<br /><br />So now, there is a trail of dead collectors in my wake, I have a husband and a whore with whom I have unfinished business and I'm late for a fundraising party at the Waldorf Astoria. And my dress is an absolute mess.Vivian D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16407507714913845873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9158281668759240704.post-73276063271428131112008-05-15T13:36:00.000-07:002008-05-15T14:00:07.420-07:00A Mare at Night is Not Really a Nightmare<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp2voE5S_FQhzE94rSDPtXDAsPscU1u0PeF2SdPcejymCCzF7Ivi9lCAdVdUOFrlCYiFxAW4Ex3fVYbmPcSFHk5SrkUSlM1YPo7kLI6b0pqUz1TXzWILSnLItDdXqgWwJaheNWFoTIXNl8/s1600-h/tvdinner.bmp"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp2voE5S_FQhzE94rSDPtXDAsPscU1u0PeF2SdPcejymCCzF7Ivi9lCAdVdUOFrlCYiFxAW4Ex3fVYbmPcSFHk5SrkUSlM1YPo7kLI6b0pqUz1TXzWILSnLItDdXqgWwJaheNWFoTIXNl8/s200/tvdinner.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5200710741279947458" border="0" /></a><br />I had a puzzling dream the other night. I was in my kitchen, making a tuna casserole and I was out of toasted breadcrumbs. The house I was living in wasn't my house at all, but one of the homes of my old Black Cat prowls, a tract house in the San Fernando Valley. Anyway, I went onto the porch to see if perhaps there would be bread there (it was a dream, bunnies, so it isn't supposed to make sense). Anyway, out on to the porches of every single cottage down the street came a single woman, housedress alight with various floral prints, hair looking sculpted as if from clay. And simultaneously, they each called out for breadcrumbs, that their husbands would be home any minute and their tuna casseroles weren't ready. And then, Seabuscuit came galloping down the empty roadway, whinneying at the top of his lungs. And so I dashed inside, and began hammering lumber across the door, fearful that they would began pounding upon my door, thinking I had a loaf of bread stashed somewhere inside. And as I pouded the ten-penny nails through the hard cedar planks, the nails twisted themselves back out again, like worms crawling out from the dirt. And then I woke up, lightly dewy in perspiration.<br /><br />I'm feeling oh so worried, kittens. This morning I was going through Walter's jacket pockets (you would think I would know better after discovering the aged nectarine and the exploded tube of Ben-Gay). What should I find but a matchbook from the St. Sebastiane Hotel off 49th street. Walter hasn't been to that hotel, that I know of, ever. For those of you not familiar with the St. Sebastiane, it rents rooms for $3.00 per hour, $2.50 if you bring your own linens. And what's with the matchbook? Please, Walter. Taking a matchbook from a hotel in which you are doing something scandalous is so cliched, it's rather "1932 Film Noir" if you ask me. And ridiculously stupid. But here's the puzzling thing: I'm not the least bit jealous. Perhaps since I've never really been able to give of myself to him, there's nothing he has of me that he can hurt. So many women, they give their heart and soul to their men and then when those men act like men do, the poor women blather on about how "he stole a piece of me." No, honey. He didn't <span style="font-style: italic;">steal </span>from you. You <span style="font-style: italic;">gave it to him</span>. He just didn't take care of it and left it laying around so that it could get damaged by the elements. That's what men do. Unless it's kept safe behind their zippers, they don't give a damn about it. And even that thing they throw out for any Susan that wants to look at it.<br /><br />So what to do with the tramp he's meeting? I could easily find her, of course. I could find her and snap her neck before she even smelled the Chanel Number 5 wafting from my collar. And I might. Oh, I'm not jealous, dears. I'm telling the truth in that. I just hate to be made to look the fool. I'm a lot of things, but "stupid" is not one of them.Vivian D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16407507714913845873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9158281668759240704.post-37795015550447019852008-04-17T12:23:00.000-07:002008-04-17T13:33:23.565-07:00Bubble, Bubble, Toilet Trouble<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_hyphenhyphenJayp9LAHpAQ156aOEESSUtMBThtbfXN_mD-uP7edR_dRhtC_ma32WQbey_2J0V4zuAVEGU7FQK_pxv7mlVZ9C2kjnD5ozenRUcxMqsDdnAKpQCTasY39ncXJnbj_Mn3jmckobWvqtb/s1600-h/tp.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190311660397728258" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_hyphenhyphenJayp9LAHpAQ156aOEESSUtMBThtbfXN_mD-uP7edR_dRhtC_ma32WQbey_2J0V4zuAVEGU7FQK_pxv7mlVZ9C2kjnD5ozenRUcxMqsDdnAKpQCTasY39ncXJnbj_Mn3jmckobWvqtb/s200/tp.bmp" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Oh dear me, but Bora Bora was Love-a, Love-a! I'd forgotten what it was like to simply rest, not having to roll a plan of attack around in the back of my mind, watching from the corner of my eye at every Tom, Dick and Mary that saunters by, anticipating the telltale glint of polished metal that may come flying at my temple either in bullet or knife form. The pool was wonderfully warm, the cocktails were chilly and copious and the massuese was...well...suffice to say that the masseuse was <em>thorough</em>.<br /><br />But as with Russian caviar on toast, the gentle tingle running up my gams and the guilty pleasure of a vanilla Tastee-Freeze, all good things must come to an end. A gal can't spend her whole life sipping Mai Tais and drinking in the local cabana boys' white, toothy smiles, can she? Not when evil continues to fester in this wonderful world of ours.<br /><br />On the way home, we had a stopover in Shanghai, which I thought was an odd diversion coming from Bora Bora to Los Angeles. I nearly put in a curt phone call to my travel secretary, but upon landing, I received a fortune cookie that had the telltale odor of Pine Sol. I cracked it open to find a brief, but crystal clear message informing me that I was to take suddenly ill, running posthaste to the nearest powderroom to my gate. Once again, Walter gave me a wide berth as I sqeaked out an explanation, hands to my nether regions, dashing on my $150 Giles Sinclair pumps across the tarmac to the glass double doors.<br /><br />In the powderroom, there was one stall in which the door was securely locked. Pulling a bobby pin from my hair, I opened it in no time at all, then began spinning the Scott towel dispenser as directed. It was necessary to spin at a specific speed, as the instructions written on the paper were not in code, but in the obscure Tzichitan script that I had (thankfully) mastered when stranded so many years ago on the island of Tzichiti (south of Psusupsusu in the Pacific ring around LaRosie). And when I saw what I was to do, I was not surprised, but I was supremely peeved. Why, oh why dear Goddess does it have to be me? And not even have the common decency to provide gloves that reach up to a dame's elbows?<br /><br />I kneeled, as one would do should she feel the overwhelming urge to purge, or if she has dropped her Tiffany platinum and diamond earring into the toilette. The route that waste travels when flushed away is not the pathway I'd have predicted. There is a snakey manner to it, a design that one's forearm does not navigate easily. But if determined, a lithe gal can retrieve the plastic bag filled with explosives and if she is at the top of her game, she can draw it from the bowl without puncturing the bag and hence, ruining the contents.<br /><br />It had been years since I'd dabbled in explosives and much has progressed since the days of the French Resistance. Plastics. Electrical centrifuges. Mercury-based ignition points. Good grief. And the lunt that wrote the directions should either have his eyes checked or gouged from his head with spoons. I'm sorry my bunnies, but I was so livid I could hardly spit. It was a miracle I didn't blow myself from Shanghai to Peking. Suffice to say, it worked. I managed to construct the explosive Tiki Doll as instructed, slip it into the handbag of the wife of Secretary of Defense Xiaoping (sorry, dear Fang, but you knew when you married the snake that it might come to this).<br /><br />Liftoff was uninteresting, save for the sudden yellow glow and the quiver of turbulance that appeared from below. I understand that Judy Garland is appearing in New York this coming week. I so love her. I'll never forget that wild night we spent in the Bronx, when we took the wrong subway after a night of appletinis and brie-stuffed crouquets. But then, that's another story.</div>Vivian D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16407507714913845873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9158281668759240704.post-15499174140124161512008-03-28T12:25:00.000-07:002008-03-28T12:49:46.858-07:00Snowfall<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCleIN6Jivt4isjSe5kUUxLmuGHLWiwJt0idH5zOZEiJ7ZsXquOhdHvUs55MX0oteMlRKfKfdeK9oVSmBe-EB3aXkKj6-1tJRNQbeOI2jrnUDgGCRLoVeyIvOjnbNmWm_ZRT0T7EUGpIR1/s1600-h/snowflakes.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5182882106752787042" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCleIN6Jivt4isjSe5kUUxLmuGHLWiwJt0idH5zOZEiJ7ZsXquOhdHvUs55MX0oteMlRKfKfdeK9oVSmBe-EB3aXkKj6-1tJRNQbeOI2jrnUDgGCRLoVeyIvOjnbNmWm_ZRT0T7EUGpIR1/s200/snowflakes.bmp" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Walter and I were stranded at the airport for nearly six hours, snowed in and forced to make small talk while waiting for clearance to leave for our vacation to Bora Bora. My luggage had already been stowed, elsewise I'd have simply taken my rabbit muff and snuggled against the pillow that is my husband and had a bit of a catnap. But no. I had to make do with an extra pair of hose that I'd slipped into my coat pocket, which I stuffed with copious amounts of Kleenex to soften the resting of my head on Walter's shoulder. We talked of the sun and surf that would be awaiting us soon, and I dreamed of a certain summer's day of my youth, an afternoon of chasing the waves at the Atlantic shores of Martha's Vinyard with my childhood friend Stephen. How I miss dear Stephen. I wonder sometimes if he thinks of me, imagines even in his wildest dreams that lovely, pert Vivian LaFontane has moved from tossing pebbles to hurling knives. I picture him in his tiny cabin in Fairbanks, Alaska, typing furitively at his typewriter, churning out those gripping, sultry poems for which he has made such a name for himself. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>The snow was so pleasant, soft and wispy and even though I had to endure Walter telling me for the seventh time about the time he and his brother built a snowman the size of farm tractor, I didn't mind. I was warm in the crook of his arm, the stash of Wisconsin cheeses that I discovered in my handbag were delightfully delicious and I knew that Bora Bora wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. </div>Vivian D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16407507714913845873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9158281668759240704.post-8812767004811765732008-03-24T10:49:00.000-07:002008-03-24T10:55:38.810-07:00I Need a Vacation in the Worst Way!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzYLMfE4-BHNyRVfRBMcFmK-0QblvzNF_phDoquXOG-VemsY-vw8S6L6R2pe5Wwy14dY3lX9ekBAw5P_hxJpFGDyrDdW_b6Yjuf9lgdL6PWixxwSF-Pjw1X3k4Oa3kcx3YmA3Jk-r3i3RJ/s1600-h/vivianwindow.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181368246745064018" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzYLMfE4-BHNyRVfRBMcFmK-0QblvzNF_phDoquXOG-VemsY-vw8S6L6R2pe5Wwy14dY3lX9ekBAw5P_hxJpFGDyrDdW_b6Yjuf9lgdL6PWixxwSF-Pjw1X3k4Oa3kcx3YmA3Jk-r3i3RJ/s200/vivianwindow.bmp" border="0" /></a><br /><div>I'm just so tired these days. I don't know if it's the weather or the constant demands upon my skills and time. I'm certainly not a young flower anymore, that much is true. There are days that I operate in the mindset of youth, where I walk down the street envisioning myself as one would have seen me ten, fifteen years ago. Free of worry lines, skin taught and curves holding up like girders on the Chrysler tower. And then I walk past the picture window of any number of shops, glancing over to take in the sumptuous display of jewelry or shoes that the store owner has taken upon himself to advertise. And then I am reminded that I am not the young sparrow I once was, but a mature woman, one who—no matter the speed with which I can traverse the back alleys—cannot outrun the evils of time.<br /></div><br /><div>Walter and I will be leaving for Bora Bora at the end of the month and I only wish I could show the slightest sliver of excitement. But I can't. I must be as pleasurable to be around as a death row stool pigeon licking up the remnants of his last meal. I don't know. Maybe it's time for something different. There is a search party leaving for Tibet in six weeks, in search of a vanished agent by name of Red Robin. It's not a life that needs to be saved, it's a tiny square of microfilm, securely embedded in a part of the body that will, if not salvaged posthaste, will soon appear in the light of day should decomposition be occurring right now. </div>Vivian D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16407507714913845873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9158281668759240704.post-75860964586969482342008-03-03T12:44:00.000-08:002008-03-03T13:06:52.478-08:00What's in borsht? Beet's me!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXL0GgiBBTuKSAbul8xurzP5-AZVMtCK5L6gIeTyVGbSpq-Jfj_HHfJYOhvGI1DHHNRp3zLDQHCdrXdtMh8ia4j2IrnbNglWc1kjJD6Dlj9OmtYDQv0PEzDpkssl-mdH5yTcz54vVb0Fhp/s1600-h/boat.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5173624864194002354" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXL0GgiBBTuKSAbul8xurzP5-AZVMtCK5L6gIeTyVGbSpq-Jfj_HHfJYOhvGI1DHHNRp3zLDQHCdrXdtMh8ia4j2IrnbNglWc1kjJD6Dlj9OmtYDQv0PEzDpkssl-mdH5yTcz54vVb0Fhp/s200/boat.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div>I had the opportunity to travel to Leningrad this month, but I declined. I don't typically get the privilege of doing so, therefore I make sure I have sufficient grounds when asking for a postponement of duties. The truth is, Walter is simply not up to the travel. We've been to the land of nesting dolls and vodka before and we've been real sports in the Rusky region. But Walter is mired in the doldrums. I swear, my cherry blossoms, I thought it was we, the fairer sex, that were the harbigers of the moody blues. But give me a maiden in her menses any day over a man in the muck. First Miles, then Walter. I think Walter is coming off the end of his midlife crisis and since he wasn't able to buy a sportscar or take up with dainty Scandinavian tennis coach, I fear that he's realizing his moment to indulge within the excuse of a cliche is passing him by. I'm considering sending a masseuse up to his room, if only to give him some guilt to distract him from his own self-imposed misery. Do I sound cold, unfeeling and...oh dear, I hate to use the caustic and overused term...<em>bitchy</em>? Perhaps. But when you've spent evenings dodging shards of Waterford crytal, snipers hiding in the stormdrains along your footpath (shooting up, no less--try being surprised by an updraft of hot lead, bunnies) and stitching your own six inch knife wound, courtesy of a stupid and clumsy (and, subsequently expired) rookie agent of the Persian guard, then <em>you </em>try and drum up sympathy for a man who sits like a loaf of rising bread dough in the library, lamenting over the loss of a few more strands of hair. Oh well, such is the lot in the Delacourt palace. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Speaking of Miles, he is for the better, thank the gods of gaydom. Upon the completion of the Dim Sum mission, we'd pulled into a shipping warehouse at the docks, to await our contact and transport down the coast. Who should slide open the doors with such brutish grace but Agent 76, aka, "The Silver Wolf." A man's man, if I ever saw one and it didn't take long for me to figure out which of us he'd be helping into his boat first. "A stunning accent of ocelot, Madame Delacourt," he noted. "I have a smoking jacket made from the same cat." <em>Purrr.... </em>And Miles sprung into action. I captained the boat all the way to Norfolk, while the men...took a catnap in the cabin. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I do so love the sailing life, don't you? </div>Vivian D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16407507714913845873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9158281668759240704.post-40020382144930852122008-02-13T12:32:00.000-08:002008-02-13T13:52:08.056-08:00Shall I Dim Sum More?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8-BIkjZmMKgY7fCqNIaHecpbgNZSeF5OCc80k0sHuTT5TGI3mkp21OsTs90hVJHIhlhECvin8KJM8hueSsn75N48-rqh_WI8vfE5fM5Dh3lip6q46f_EZmY_ZMDTehisDLL2VFpc-Js0W/s1600-h/chauffeur.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5166577877783067730" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 140px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 96px" height="96" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8-BIkjZmMKgY7fCqNIaHecpbgNZSeF5OCc80k0sHuTT5TGI3mkp21OsTs90hVJHIhlhECvin8KJM8hueSsn75N48-rqh_WI8vfE5fM5Dh3lip6q46f_EZmY_ZMDTehisDLL2VFpc-Js0W/s200/chauffeur.JPG" width="182" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Poor Miles. My heart bleeds for the dear boy. I remember the first time we met like it was yesterday. We were in Katmandu, Walter and I and I'd double-vaulted over a concrete fence topped with broken Coca-Cola bottles. My hands were a bloody mess (and I say that with literatal meaning, not with a British bent). I'd dashed into a small tea shop and there, leaning against the counter smoking a cigarello was the most dashing, handsome man I'd seen in ages (Sorry, Walter, but the description cannot be avoided). Hair the color of Kansan straw, just baled after lunch on a June day, eyes like a Caribbean coral reef. "Either you've just come from an emergency interchestal heart massage, or you could use a slathering of merchurochrome on those mittens." I knew then that he was none other than Miles, aka "The Blue Dolphin". He commenced to wrapping my hands in moistened Franciscan gauze (made from Italian llama, no less) and whisked me to a waiting car, where we raced from the city, him shooting an Argentinian Ballesta Molina over his left shoulder, using only the side mirror for reference, while I hurled Molotov cocktails (made from the local distilled rum, a waste of perfectly good sprits I might say, but then I digress...).<br /><br />I wouldn't gather his personal proclivities until later that night when I, and I'm embarrassed to admit this now, couldn't for the life of me figure out why the man hadn't made a pass at this smoldering dame. It was when he smiled and said simply, "I love your furs, but I'd prefer to feel the outside than venture inside." Ah, but of course. And it was, at the moment, a match made in heaven. We've been there through thick and thin, Miles and I, and now when I see those crystal blue eyes well with tears over the loss of his dearly beloved, my heart melts along with his.<br /><br />The Dim Sum was divine; I only wish I could have partaken. The representative from Chile was immediately recognized in his sage green Farah suit and his moustache that was more "moose" than "Stache" if you know what I mean (and I know you do, my fair pussies). The cosmetics bag was just as lethal as I'd expected. How, you say? Well, sit back into your Davenports, my dears and read on:<br /><br />The first layer from the tube number one must coat the lips entirely. Allow to air dry for no less than five minutes. Apply the cherry red #3 from case #2 (Do NOT mix these up. Case #3 applied in step 2 will melt your lips off like a crayon mashed into a dashboard cigarette lighter). Do not apply this more than one hour before the mission is to be carried out. Lure the target into the kitchen, ask him to breathe in the sumptous aroma of the potstickers. The canister, it steams well, does it not? Opens those pores nice and wide? Make a joke about the phallic shape of the potstickers, then laugh and kiss him with a peck on the cheek. Feign embarrassment over your lewd actions and blame the heat in the hellish kitchen. Wipe the lipsick from his face using a handkerchief, swirling in a clockwise fashion, ensuring that it grinds in to the skin nicely. Excuse yourself to the powder room, remove the protective underlayer of lip cover (using a tissue, dear, not your supple fingertips) and flush said lip prophylactic down the comode. Appear concerned as the gangly Chilean in the Farah suit clutches at his heart and falls to the floor in sudden death. "Oh dear!" you say. "I just spoke with him a moment ago and he appeared well. He said the most ribald of things to me, I shant repeat it even if you tie me to the radiator and pelt me with dried macaroni, but dear me the man didn't deserve to die, oh no he most certainly did not!" </div><div><br />I'm simmering chicken soup and chamomile tea for Miles. He is smiling now, bless his lovely soul.</div>Vivian D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16407507714913845873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9158281668759240704.post-73621633492937536642008-02-07T08:13:00.000-08:002008-02-07T09:35:28.453-08:00The Hat Box and White Fox<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJo2JxLs1ZE7ecMbZE-UsQFzun_6a2Zs6-O-b00QK1_bX2uX-7l2eXJGY8qjRlNJArX0xAB_mE2eE6tjQk9hxMvJxH4KLs3eCNP1fSDCChiK7K14AsCRSmHvDWq-E-Sl9NOFFEIq_rPEZ2/s1600-h/hatbox.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5164293188509652146" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" height="155" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJo2JxLs1ZE7ecMbZE-UsQFzun_6a2Zs6-O-b00QK1_bX2uX-7l2eXJGY8qjRlNJArX0xAB_mE2eE6tjQk9hxMvJxH4KLs3eCNP1fSDCChiK7K14AsCRSmHvDWq-E-Sl9NOFFEIq_rPEZ2/s200/hatbox.JPG" width="153" border="0" /></a><br /><div>My driver, Miles, has been in a sour mood lately. I've always had a fondness in my heart for the third sex, those boys who banter in the noon hour with the dames, but slip into the night with the lads. The feds will never admit it, certainly not that lout in lace Hoover, but the homosexuals really are some of the best operatives out there. They're incredibly detail-oriented, they can read behind the eyes of even the most poker-faced men, they can separate business from pleasure seamlessly and, let's face it, they know how to handle a gun. I've watched Miles talk to his Colt like it was a longtime lover, caressing it, oiling it, guarding it closely. While he's not discharged it more than a half dozen times in his life, he's not missed his target once. </div><br /><div><br />Miles is my driver, but I should be lying if I didn't admit to more than that. He's my net, my bridge, my oxpecker. What that, you ask? Why, the oxpecker is also known as the tick bird and it is the loyal companion to the rhinoceros. The rhino has a symbiotic relationship with tick birds, like Watson to Holmes or Mrs. Claus to the Mister. In Swahili the tick bird is named "askari wa kifaru," meaning "the rhino's guard" and this nifty bird eats ticks it finds on the rhino and noisily warns of danger. The birds also eat blood from sores on the rhino's skin and in this way, they obstruct healing. But they are still tolerated, as I tolerate Miles even though he sometimes shares his opinions far too often, thus aggrivating my own deep-seated wounds. For shame, but what's a girl to do? Anyway, Miles is downcast because a boy in his heart has been out of communication for some time, now. He last saw him when were in Paris and the man in question was to take a short jaunt to Puerto Rico and contact him via telgram shortly thereafter. He's not heard word one, and so Miles is as pissy as a little girl whose jump rope has burst into flames in the middle of "Bubble gum, bubble gum in a dish..." I should try and be more patient because the man has saved my skin on more than one occasion, but please. This is why love and death seldom mix (and when they do, the combination is positively <em>murderous, </em>my jelly beans).</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I arrived in New York shortly after my last entry and received the box and, as I'd predicted, there was no hat enclosed. Rather, I found a tiny cosmetics box and an invitation to Dim Sum at Chef Ching's Cafetorium two days following. When I opened the case, I became smart to the shade of lipstick I would be sporting. What next? Why, the white fox stole, of course! </div>Vivian D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16407507714913845873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9158281668759240704.post-22079778533503788282008-01-24T12:34:00.000-08:002008-01-25T07:59:18.381-08:00Cocoa, cinnamon and jalapenos, oh my!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5POS361MbPb-Gofq1H3MuQRhPFejqlab1VDm3jAJoZV3HvDReRZsPb8pe8rRf6RQeBkVN_7KzKz8kdMtMmNimgtFBe86IZ2-ApunDKchYnj6-oGYjT-oejn_KBRKrXVM4C9hmU1QVjrLs/s1600-h/mayanchoc.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5159444355116061858" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5POS361MbPb-Gofq1H3MuQRhPFejqlab1VDm3jAJoZV3HvDReRZsPb8pe8rRf6RQeBkVN_7KzKz8kdMtMmNimgtFBe86IZ2-ApunDKchYnj6-oGYjT-oejn_KBRKrXVM4C9hmU1QVjrLs/s200/mayanchoc.bmp" border="0" /></a><br /><div>I tasted my first Mayan chocolate the other day. It was in the form of sipping chocolate, thick and creamy, with a hint of fire as it tumbled down my swan-like throat. I've been to Guatemala thrice. I've met with Shamans, have partaken in hallucinagenic poultices, learned to drop birds from the tops of ceiba trees using nothing but a hollowed-out bamboo shoot and a sharpened coati tooth dipped in the mashed remains of a poison dart frog (this would come in handy on trip number three, in my encounter with General Jorge Francisco, rest his dictatorial soul). Still, not once was I ever offered a taste of Mayan chocolate, in spite of what I still believe was my uncannily close relationship with the Mayans of the region. I would grouse, "harrumph," but that would be childish and gauche. Istead, I'll hold my head up and say, simply, "Cest le vie!"<br /><br />It's been awhile since my last entry and I wish I could say it's because I've been oh, so busy, galavanting here and there around the globe, saving the world from evil men. But I can't. It's been positively, hideously boring, bunnies. Nothing but fruit cocktail, tea and butter cookies in between pedicures and Tupperware presentations. We're in canvassing mode right now. It seems that the troops are getting thin (in numbers, not in weight, unfortunately), thanks to age and mishaps. New blood is needed, so I've been hosting "cosmetic parties" while touring the country on what is being touted as the "geotastic tour." Ambassadors are making a monthlong swing through these glorious U-nited States, painting a bizzarely picturesque panorama of their acheivements as diplomats abroad. And the constant smiling I must do. Lord of lunchmeat, my face hasn't hurt this much since my mission in Sicily, when I was forced to drag 300-lb Don Vito Stromoli from the top of the butte to the seaside, using only my teeth and his smelly belt. Don't ask why, because it hurts just to think of it.<br /><br />I shall be returning to Manhattan in a week. There is a purple hatbox waiting for me in the lobby of the Plaza Hotel. To be honest, I hope it's not a hat.</div>Vivian D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16407507714913845873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9158281668759240704.post-62300857250800859722008-01-07T11:31:00.000-08:002008-01-07T11:33:00.941-08:00There's Nothing Like a Good Menthol Fizz to Clear the PoresI saw the fabulous Dame Louisa Galtrier performing the lead role in the underperformed Moss Hart high drama, “The Bamboo Prison.” It never really gained any traction stateside and after having experienced it, I can see why. While Lady Galtrier was sublime (as always), the timbre of the narrative really never took hold for me. It takes place in the Philippines, you see, and Dame Galtrier played a wayward missionary struggling to survive in the jungle after having crashed in a small prop plane. She spends half the play lamenting at the lack of food, yet the set designers saw fit to paint mural upon mural dotted with mangoes, papaya and sumptuous pineapple. I found it hard to sympathize. I mean, really. Make a fire, my bunny. Make a fire, boil down the juice of the local fruit, give it ample time to ferment and you have an endless parade of cocktails at your disposal. Sounds less like a prison and more of a much-needed vacation.<br /><br />Zinnia is on the mend, in case you're wondering the outcome of my last entry. I freed her from the task of turning down the lights on her husband by doing the job myself. Oh, no need to fawn at my generosity, dears. She'd have done the same, as would most any of the Black Cats. It's an unwritten pact among the litter. While we've all recited and signed the oath to place “duty before love”, it really only works on paper. Love, even when one enters into it as a charade, finds its way into one's pores, resting just under the epidermis, leaking ever so slowly into the capillaries. It's a toxic venom, and you ladies who have been stricken by it know the torch song I sing. It's natural that it's men who would give such a heartless mission to an agent. Why, a man would kiss his wife one minute, send her sailing over the railing of Niagara Falls the next. Don't think so? I've seen it, my blossoms. No less than seven times; one lady even grazed my cheek with the heel of her boot. I was genuinely shaken and stirred.<br /><br />It was a quick job. Quick and clean, just the way I like them. Representative Schilack was a fine man, but a weak one at that. When your hand works in money as much as his did, I suppose it's tempting to let things get sticky now and then. A C-note here and there. One thinks those things go unnoticed, but they don't. And when you try and find your way out of the storm by looking to the red lights of a communist regime, there's really no turning back. I can understand why they looked to Zinnia to do the job; she is the closest to the target, after all. But we girls must stick together. And so, when my friend excused herself to visit the hotel boutique, I slipped into the suite, knowing that Mr. Schilack had stepped into the shower. There's nothing better for the pores than a heavy dose of steam and when they get good and open, all kinds of things can find their ways into them. Even a half ounce of secretion from the rare Venezuelan tree frog, mixed in a solution of menthol fizz can find its way from beneath the washroom door, among the steam and into the bloodstream of an unfortunate, but supremely stupid man. “It was a heart attack,” the papers would say. But then, the papers always say it was a heart attack. They have neither scruples, nor imagination.Vivian D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16407507714913845873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9158281668759240704.post-80756284093137694892007-12-20T10:20:00.000-08:002007-12-20T11:13:33.846-08:00Racing to Dixon in a Stolen Chrysler<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8gQGYRM4PQgwVh395rOBty8YC8JMocUXv-ctT3NFuQGQ0DixAZuGxQbyKRd2CXblK4fci-l4t5cwh9NqsGBh-FeBOxtm6hGSqmuKMvG7eduKm4UC1tM3Zw6HsA7BXGdeIhv5zeRtJqPRJ/s1600-h/oldcar.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5146135290544498802" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" height="205" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8gQGYRM4PQgwVh395rOBty8YC8JMocUXv-ctT3NFuQGQ0DixAZuGxQbyKRd2CXblK4fci-l4t5cwh9NqsGBh-FeBOxtm6hGSqmuKMvG7eduKm4UC1tM3Zw6HsA7BXGdeIhv5zeRtJqPRJ/s320/oldcar.bmp" width="287" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhof5I8RSLE1LO5-w8cRC6mobpFJGDiDdkVdyt1A8GvuNPGabQedZEd4PAAjKB8-0SeL955VwWS4ZhWVdwqYdbGVeaCFrj2uEo-xZFZ-oRvzIugMoCGnNiR7YqQ_npnrXDecA31EX5DDVv-/s1600-h/oldcar.bmp"></a><br /><br /><div>I once traveled from Chicago to Dixon, Mississippi in less than seven hours. The hardest part of it all was getting free of the Windy City. I’d been attending a presentation by Margaret Sanger in the grand ballroom of the Marquette Building and yes, I can hear your gasp of incredulity all the way from my highback easychair, honey. It was a rousing speech, as you can imagine, though it really was a bit dated in that the old gal couldn’t let the damned albatross of suffrage loose from around her neck and we dames had been voting en masse for more than a decade and a half! Still, she looked stunning in an arctic fox wrap and had good things to say about the plight of the female in the political arena, so there you go.<br /><br />Rising from my seat in the midst of her speech was nothing short of scandalous and it’s not as if I’d have gone unnoticed, darlings. I am Vivian Delacourt, after all. Usually, though, I find that if I dab at my eyes with a handkerchief, appear distraught, folks will give me a wide berth and have the class to avoid inquiring about my condition upon whence they see me again.<br /><br />From there, I hotwired a Chrysler (not nearly as difficult as it sounds, my bunnies) and raced to Dixon as if my foot was made of bronze. Still, with the exception of a single stop at the powder room in some godawful roadside slop bin just across the Mississippi state line, I wasted no time in getting to my destination, which is a compliment not typically enjoyed by a town as primitive as Dixon. You see, my delicate petals, I am quite capable of getting to where I'm needed most, when and however I might choose to get there.<br /><br />And so when Zinnia alerted me to the unexpected kill we were to execute (pardon the pun, but even <em>my </em>sides are atingle at that one), my mind went immediately into the zone in which it functions best. A sudden dinner party and only seven things in the cooler, three of which are dairy. An eyeliner that has been mismarked as water resistant, and I'm trapped in a downpour just outside the Russian embassy. An admirer recognizes me as I’m slipping a set of bloody arm-length gloves into the mouth of a roaring pizza oven. When crisis hits, I’m at the top of my game. But even I wasn’t ready for this one. What does one do when her dear friend, her partner in espionage, approaches her in hysterics, thrusting at her bosom an assignment scratched on a compact mirror? And what acrobatics does that person's mind do, when she realizes that the target is none other than the highest-ranking official in the treasury department— AKA, your dear friend’s husband?</div></div>Vivian D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16407507714913845873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9158281668759240704.post-26799484893461802462007-12-18T08:30:00.000-08:002007-12-18T08:42:52.830-08:00Boilermakers and Butter CookiesMy head was like a split walnut this morning. Too many boilermakers and butter cookies with Zinnia last night. Oh, it's been years since the two of us have been able to flit from nightspot to cafe like any old pair of girlfriends might do, not a care in the world except that which involves an irritated beau at home or a badly needed dose of penicillin. But then I'm getting to Amsterdam and I've no time for that night now, dears.<br /><br />I had a moment of concern last night, sometime around 2:12 in the a.m., as Zinnia and I made our ways from the rear exit of the Fuzzy Chesterfield. A vagrant stood lurking just beyond the lamp, next to the refuse bin. It was Zinnia who noticed that the dirt on his face beaded peculiarly under the gently falling mist, an unlikelihood for a non-oil based smudge. “If that man's face has been filthied by anything other than a stagehand, then this is my real hair color,” Zinnia chirped, running her long fingernails through her tight flip. “Tell me you don't see that.” I rolled my eyes at her. “Of course I see it, darling,” I said. “It's simply that I care not in the slightest.” I explained to her that, while the man was certainly not who he appeared to be, he was nothing more than a plant, a lookout, a sullied set of eyes. “He might even be ours,” I said. It was his hands that were the tip off. His left, resting on the edge of the bin, the right, scratching the beard that was not a beard. He was nowhere near a gun or any other weapon, unless he was prepared to throw the trash heap at as. “He's a pawn, my little blossom.”<br /><br />There's a song that I once heard, and I first heard it emanating from the washroom of the west wing of Ambassador Chao's mansion, a modest palace situated in the east end of Prague. It was the tail end of the Harvest Moon Ball, a nondescript Cambodian celebration in which most of the usual dignitaries had arrived dressed in Earth tone colors and adorned with accessories fashioned from the local produce of the region. It was really quite silly, I must say and I only participated because it's my duty to so such things. No sense in creating an international incident over one's ego. Again, I digress and my cheeks warm at the admission of such a fault. Pooh, pooh.<br /><br />The song was a simple melody, one that I knew I'd heard as a child, but for the life of me could not place. While the lyrics were indecipherable, enunciated with a grossly thick Italian accent, the voice was heavenly, trilling like a tiny songbird who longs to be released from her gilded cage. Maybe it was the champagne clouding my brain, perhaps it was the melancholic nostalgia taking over, but I suddenly found myself swaying in time with the music, dancing as a sedated ballerina, eyes closed, tears streaming down my smooth face. Oh, how I'd longed to be in the arms of my mama, her thick limbs intertwining my spindly frame like an octopus's. Perhaps that's not the most appetizing of similes, but you must understand, dear one. When one is never at home, when the greatest thrill in one's life is that the next bed might be the one that allows you a full night's sleep, sometimes the only thing that allows that sleep to happen at all is the faint memory of your mother's dimpled smile and her gentle kiss.<br /><br />Zinnia has arrived with a bouquet of daffodils, which is strange because I didn't know they were even in season. She has been crying, her eyes are all apuff and crimson, like red-ringed croquet balls. “What has made you so distraught, my dear flower?” I ask her. But she'll say nothing. She simply looks around her, takes out her compact, flips it open and hands it to me. “Perhaps you should clean the mirror first,” she whispers.” Holding it to my mouth, I breathe a cloud of minty breath onto my reflection and the mirror fogs over, revealing the tinily written message that she has scribed for me. “Oh mercy,” I intone, quickly wiping it clean with the cuff of my sleeve. “I'm going to need my cherry lipstick.”Vivian D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16407507714913845873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9158281668759240704.post-24512563278163509752007-12-17T08:27:00.000-08:002007-12-17T08:30:02.144-08:00Zinnia, Chocolate Truffles and Clotted CreamI had the most divine tea this morning. I'm not much for tea, neither the drink, nor the social ritual. I find that it's less about the foodstuffs and more of the pomp and circumstance. Nobody really cares about the tiny chocolates and biscuits and clotted cream. Oh don't get me wrong, my bunnies. I've dined with clutches of hens who would no sooner be seen placing a single dollop of food into their beaks than they would be caught changing the oil in their husband's Packard. But get them around a circular lace and doily covered table, drape their conversations in a background of a lively orchestral movement and the fingers snatch up the delicacies like the darting tongues of toads perched around a fly-covered dung heap.<br /><br />Again, dear reader, I beg your patience while I continue to stray from the subject. The tea. This morning. So divine, I repeat. While I sat sipping a burl-strong cup of tea...how strong was it, you wonder? Well, the first taste of it catapulted my mind back to my week spent wandering the slums of New Delhi in the midst of the “Golden Fingers” mission, back in May of 1942. I was one of four Black Cats, lively, coquettish, yet vicious dames planted clandestinely amid the squalor of the local market. We'd been each painted a sultry shade of chocolate, our hair dyed beyond black, and placed with operatives working lockstep with Roosevelt, via Churchhill. We'd been forbidden to sleep the entire week, each of us expected to keep our luminescent eyes peeled for one man, a rail-thin smuggler with only the telltale mark of one earlobe longer than the other, the tip of the shorter in the shape of the southwest coast of Ireland. I'd had my meticulous sketches in my robe pocket and the one thing meant to keep me awake. Tea. Not a steaming, tasty cup, mind you, but a pouch of raw leaves that was kept stuffed between my cheek and gums, marinating my mouth, the tar-like juice continuing down my gullet like an everlasting cocaine infusion. It was only when I'd spotted the target, when I'd chased him down through the market square with a quickness and ferocity I'd not once felt in my young life, and the three other Cats pounced from darkened storefronts, did I realize just how the power of this tea had augmented all senses. All senses, that is, except that of restraint. The poor man. By the time the the Golden Fingers had been extracted from a place no proper lady should ever have to venture (without the benefit of gloves, a tiny dose of morphine and/or the compensation of a fabulous mink stole), I'm dismayed to say that what was left of the man was not fit for display even in most morgues. It was shameful, I'm embarrassed to say and worst of all, not one of us Cats would be willing to take responsibility for the carnage. “Those aren't my claw marks,” mewled Kitten #124. “My incisors are set further apart than those puncture wounds,” claimed Kitten #57. Pathetic. And, it would take another week to wean us off of the addiction of Indian tea and even then, I never saw Kitten #278 again.<br /><br />So where was I? Oh, the English tea. Yes, it was most delightful and the tea itself was delicious. Hint of lavender and essence of currant. One would never think that the two would go together so pleasantly, but they really do. And my friend Zinnia (her mother was a gardener, bless her heart) has never looked better. I'd not seen her since our days of Nannette Cosmetics sales. Oh, those were good times. Traipsing door-to-door through suburban Los Angeles, capes flowing in the warm, eucalyptus-scented breeze, applying lipsticks and rouges, scouting for young, Black Kittens to join the brigade. “It takes a special dame to pull the trigger,” Zinnia had told me and this I already knew. “You can see it in the eyes, the calmness of the lips, in the steadiness of the hands.” If a gal could sit through a Black Cat makeover, if the feeling was right, she just might be asked to be a kitten. Just might.<br /><br />Oh, Zinnia. The red of your hair may be a facade, but the warmth in your heart is as genuine as the cream on my biscuit.Vivian D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16407507714913845873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9158281668759240704.post-35274244172081405332007-12-13T09:19:00.000-08:002008-03-03T13:20:23.955-08:00One Foggy Night in London<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyH6zTut4OpZk7QUpkQ4SV9tJ8PC_TUxLUC6m0RCrQgkqVO0DQrodydz85Rsa5wNyZLF3ynt6R_57NGZbXgC_NmB3I2intgKWu5XypSXFQHW9VkziCBUmnd7pxYF3R_RFAXgHnpoFq_IRb/s1600-h/foggy.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5145064623917082658" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyH6zTut4OpZk7QUpkQ4SV9tJ8PC_TUxLUC6m0RCrQgkqVO0DQrodydz85Rsa5wNyZLF3ynt6R_57NGZbXgC_NmB3I2intgKWu5XypSXFQHW9VkziCBUmnd7pxYF3R_RFAXgHnpoFq_IRb/s320/foggy.bmp" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Walter and I have sequestered ourselves in a delightful inn off Whitehall Place, just around the bend from the Horseguards and the banqueting house. It smells of lemons and lavender and the walls are covered with quaint oil paintings depicting such traditions as foxhunting, Sunday tea and, (I must assume this is a tradition since there are two framed visages of it) topless woman holding cornucopias filled with autumnal fruits.<br /><br />What they say about London fog is oh so true. The gray dampness hangs in the air with the thickness of smoldering cigars in a backroom poker game. As I walk along the darkness of the square with Walter, my dainty hand hugging the inside crook of his elbow, I thank angels on high that I’m not searching the shadows for a target, sniffing out a killer before he or she can take me out. Just the same, the slightest movement in a doorway, the squall of an alley cat roused from his hiding spot puts my arm hairs to attention. Were it not for my steely reserve and dedication to genius over gut, I’d have likely (protectively, of course) shoved Walter into the Thames by now.<br /><br />As Walter and I sat in a candlelit café, tucked in a cozy window seat of the tiny eatery, I saw something that elicited an unsettling knot in my stomach. It wasn’t blatant; it wasn’t as if Tallulah Bankhead had entered, singing an aria La Traviata dressed in lederhosen while holding a glockenspiel. But it was eerie nonetheless. A woman, substantially older than myself and grandly larger, a ridiculous hat upon her head with the plumage of some poor, unfortunate bird of prey spewing from her head like a plaza fountain passed. I noticed the accessories most pointedly: a diamond-encrusted hat pin pinned beneath the jowls of her massive face, and forest green gloves in startling contrast with the garish plaid of her wool-blend overcoat. As she sauntered past the picture window, she turned her unattractive face toward me and gave a quick glance. It was a haughty glance, one that suggested that she’d had a previous encounter with me and it had not only been unsatisfactory, but we’d left with her yearning to have the last word. And this was her chance to do so. I paused mid-sip; in my right hand, a glass of chardonnay tilted at precisely 45 degrees and in my left, the polished bone handle of a three-inch throwing knife, tucked beneath the seam of my blouse. Silly of me. With her size and obviously overdone ensemble, I’d have been able to reassemble a German MG 42 machine gun in the time it would have taken her to produce so much as a throwing star. All was well in the end. In actuality, she was likely nothing more than a melancholic admirer, a wallflower taking in a sprite of beauty and sophistication that had eluded her for her entire lifetime. While I may not empathize, I sympathize.</div>Vivian D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16407507714913845873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9158281668759240704.post-39764551648876849172007-12-12T09:07:00.000-08:002007-12-12T10:52:08.652-08:00Lips Like Sugar, the Sweetness of a KissMy driver, Miles, hastened to inform me upon my return to the car that I'd had a smear of blood along my jaw. As usual, one can't get the tiniest of details past dear Miles. He may not be one for the ladies, but he can spot an out-of-place hair, a brooch slightly askew, the faintest of powder residue at the base of the neck. I suppose if one's eyes aren't glued to a broad's gams or her quakers he can find it in him to notice the important things, those things which she's really spent time working to showcase, not cover up. Anyway, I collected my itchy gray suit and swapped it out for the pale rose number I'd left the party in. As we passed over the Seine, I executed a nice flip of the wrist and the cardboard hatbox which contained not a hat at all sailed gently out the window and into the cold, black waters below.<br /><br />I love arriving and leaving Paris at night. There's nothing like the sight of the Eiffel Tower lit up like a giant rocket. Is there nothing more French than that which is so ostentatious it puts all surrounding structures, grand and regal in their centuries-oldness, to absolute shame? If I were French, I feel I would do that every chance I got.<br /><br />Walter asked me where I'd run off to the night of the party. "One minute you were there and the next you were gone," he lamented, his shiny, bald head reflecting the lights over the promenade as we walked to our hotel. "It was women's trouble," I told him, once again. I swear, darlings, in my years of training with the Chat Noir--sorry, dears; you can take the girl from France, but...well, you know. The "Black Cats" trained me well. Why, I could kill a man twelve different ways, standing three inches from him and not so much as break a sweat. But put me on the spot; ask me the same question you've asked countless times over the past, and I can't come up with a creative answer to save my life. I suppose I stick with the tried and true because it's the one thing I know Walter will not pursue with the slightest bit of interest. "Woman's trouble." I do declare, the man must think I have the innards of a working clock tower down there, the trouble I seem to constantly have with it.<br /><br />Speaking of which...we're off to London. Finally, an actual vacation. A simple meeting with my dear Mr. Churchill. I cannot wait; we've not spoken since those weeks underground during the blitz. "Winnie the Church" I call him, but certainly not in public. I do have <em>some</em> class, after all.Vivian D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16407507714913845873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9158281668759240704.post-74264806997329808992007-12-07T09:08:00.000-08:002007-12-17T13:59:30.028-08:00One missed shot, one dead-on<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWGBDtBzgR9Odei3nTAwXUorp-1qjU2kJmScqc3DjZ0ZJgD0-NdnIwNLN6ObG2Z1p8dN-EaqSoEdOXx3YcGw3VsI3_t-XmEDbvNvHUkA6jWTknL1PjNHm_r6K5laSUsTggAypokUWcpnu6/s1600-h/mirror.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5145064860140283954" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWGBDtBzgR9Odei3nTAwXUorp-1qjU2kJmScqc3DjZ0ZJgD0-NdnIwNLN6ObG2Z1p8dN-EaqSoEdOXx3YcGw3VsI3_t-XmEDbvNvHUkA6jWTknL1PjNHm_r6K5laSUsTggAypokUWcpnu6/s320/mirror.bmp" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Good gravy, my mother used to say. It's not like I've never been to Paris in summer, so what on Earth was I thinking this time? Sometimes, I even surprise myself with my lack of foresight when it comes to combining delicious, high fashion with stealth, crucial for invisible stalking and quick escapes. For all my beauty, experience and divine intuition, I can be a dumb broad at times. I can say that; you oughtn't dare.<br /><br />Imagine how a sheep must feel, layered under such density of fragrant, itchy wool. Now imagine that same sheep galloping (is that what a sheep would do?) full force in 90 degree heat with equal humidity. Got it? Well, that's me, dears. 90 degrees and I'm as moist as the underside of a cow's tongue. I'm running like a madwoman in and out of the Rue Fromentin dressed in a delightfully smart, but completely impractical, charcoal gray wool two-piece. Even my elbows are sweating.<br /><br />I could see the colonel from 30 meters away, his smoldering Chesterfield tip shining like a beacon in the black night. The perfect target. It was as obvious as the cigarette plugging his mouth that he was as spent as a schoolboy's pocket change at the circus. It wasn't the dull red glow of the bare light bulb in the doorway that gave it away, though a dame less experienced than myself would have needed that clue to ascertain that he'd been doing a discharge of his own but minutes earlier. I looked up at the tiny balcony over his head, making sure his rented whore wasn't swooning her painted face out the window, longing for one last look at this respectable gent who had, just minutes earlier, been most unrespectable to her. The drapes were drawn, the light behind them barely imperceptible.<br /><br />It had been some time since I'd used such a tiny weapon, and an old one at that. French manufactured, a remnant of the war it was a Luger Parabellum Semi-Automatic Pistol, small enough to fit neatly in my hose and almost small enough to slip through my damp, now swollen fingers. A semi-automatic. It was a far cry from the standard revolver that had been my best girlfriend stateside, but when in France...<br /><br />I always hate it when I miss the first time. I can say that without hesitation, because it seldom happens. A girl has to be precise, intentional in all she does and killing is no exception. And I should have taken him out with one bullet, that I cannot deny. He was holding stock-still, the burning cigarette was nothing short of a waving flag showing me precisely where to aim. Straight ahead, six inches inward.<br /><br />It was the cat. Why is it I find that, more than anything, the cat is always to blame? The damned feline, crafty, self-involved, needy one second and dismissing the next. It was a mangy, overly affectionate thing that had worked its way between my tingling ankles and I must have thought it to be a common sewer rat. It was in the Pigalle, after all, so it's not an unreasonable assumption. And I'm not typically startled of rats. I've communed when them out of necessity. Once, I hurled two with remarkable precision at a common thug, corralled an entire colony of them into a primary school as a diversionary tactic. I've even eaten one, in a particular moment of desperation on which I hate to elaborate (suffice to say, it involved a lost weekend in Sicily, a mistakenly consumed bottle of absinthe, a hog tying and a frighteningly dark abandoned well). So it wasn't the cat, per se, that frightened me, it was the unscheduled intrusion on my person.<br /><br />One thing about a semi-automatic pistol that is good, is that a lady can fire it with little effort whatsoever. The bad thing is that a lady, startled by a damned cat, can fire it with little effort.<br /><br />The first shot was not nearly six inches to the right as I'd planned. It was more...about three inches. Just at the tip of the lips. It must have startled him incredibly because he didn't even call out. He just pulled back, drew his hands to his lips and sat down hard on the sidewalk. A light turned on more brightly in the whore's room above him. "Merde," I whispered. French, I know, but when in France....<br /><br />It would have to be done within seconds; I had no time for theatrics or a dramatic montage backed by swelling music. I kicked off my shoes (a welcome move, actually) and padded down the stone walkway. I wish I could sketch for you the look of shock on the Colonel's face. Was it because he saw that I was a dame, that the still smoking pistol in my hand was the one responsible for taking off is upper lip? Was it that he had realized that his last moments on Earth had been spent with the likes of the syphilis dish upstairs? Or was it that he recognized me? Saw the glamorous wife of Ambassador Delacourt, standing over him in hose and dress, directing the barrel of a Luger Parabellum Semi-Automatic between his eyes? In all my years, I don't think I'll ever be comfortable with that look of desperate confusion and nauseated realization. A quick, gentle jerk and his traitorous brain decorates the alcove of the Rouge Boudoir.<br /><br />Now, I have a party to get back to. I'm receiving the toast.</div>Vivian D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16407507714913845873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9158281668759240704.post-34005248804236371702007-12-05T09:12:00.000-08:002007-12-17T14:01:29.855-08:00A peek of sun through the draperies of rain<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOx-cFKTY_0avbFIoK37E5coaKU7hL4U2uuyo3c-myShSp5-yPrG2PIhc0WBCVmq04qsR6EOe6D1eJOR6WEtItqMxxFvFwd14FbS__sNzxN82jYqyFCS0FSnpQXCbF9Klz4pHWzNarj7Na/s1600-h/chatnoir.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5145065341176621138" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOx-cFKTY_0avbFIoK37E5coaKU7hL4U2uuyo3c-myShSp5-yPrG2PIhc0WBCVmq04qsR6EOe6D1eJOR6WEtItqMxxFvFwd14FbS__sNzxN82jYqyFCS0FSnpQXCbF9Klz4pHWzNarj7Na/s320/chatnoir.bmp" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNDD1zbTs-RFak9Rai4AKjZDuutHM1lxi03sqpjektQeZJkLy6G3PXqSyae_nlw3NFVjGiHAJmxLyasbA6LbcqlBXez53f9VtPWpo9lfm19l01D23VKuPVoLH8vrl7_U_2agKar3Ryif0k/s1600-h/smoking.bmp"></a><br /><br /><div>I'm slipping through the alleyways of the Pigalle section of Paris. The uneven surface of the walkways are positively hellish on my heels, but this is precisely why I spend hours developing my calves to the sizes of grapefruits. Why would a woman of my class, of my demeanor be lurking around doorways already occupied by the Prostituée kind? My coif is a mess and my legs feel as though they have been clubbed by a burly fly fisherman, as if my gams had been caught steelhead. Walter, my dear, uninformed husband, is preoccupied with the diplomats' ball currently full-on at the Hotel Du Grand Veneur. I was to have been at his side, smiling politely, daintily offering my gloved hand as the dutiful wife, hob-nobbing with generals, prime ministers and presidents of petroleum and gold bullion-rich countries alike. And I'd planned to do just that--hoped to, actually. But a tiny chirp, like that of a goldfinch tucked smartly away in my handbag, roused me from my highbrow delirium. A mission. I'd known it was coming; I'm not completely obtuse, dear reader. That's precisely why Mr. Eisenhower phoned my husband himself, imploring him to attend this facade of a party. It's why I'm here in Paris at all. Someone must die. Someone important, influential. Dangerous. And I'm the dame to do it.</div></div>Vivian D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16407507714913845873noreply@blogger.com0