The arctic bananas did a savage war dance on top of M. Jondrette's head. He was regretting for, or so it seemed to him, the last time that he had ever gone on this wretched expedition. He thought he would surely die, or something of the sort. He recalled the day of his departure.
His beloved goldfish had warned him of the dangers of traveling abroad. "Trixie," the goldfish had said, "you are making a grave error. You are sure to run into trouble with your poor luck. There are many strange, pugnacious tribes in the world, and I daresay you will meet disaster at their hands. You know my old uncle always used to say to me, 'Galloping geoducks, lad! There's--'"
Jondrette had slowly been building up steam, and he exploded at this juncture. "Goldie, I don't care about your bloody uncle! You're a fish! And DON'T CALL ME TRIXIE, dammit! How many times do I have to tell you that's NOT MY NAME!? I'll not stand your insolence a minute longer! So there!" Whereupon he fell silent.
Goldie broke the silence with what was undoubtedly a false sob; Jondrette had never known of any goldfish with tear ducts. "All right," sobbed the goldfish. "Leave. Get yourself killed. See if I care. When I think of all I've done for you. . . and this is how you repay me. Ah, constancy and loyalty are lost virtues in these times. Farewell, Trixie. Forgive me if I am less than cordial; I am not used to being insulted in this manner. Oh, how it pains me!" Goldie broke down, sobbing and weeping. It had always been rather a melodramatic fish.
Jondrette felt a pang of guilt. After all, he was all Goldie had in the world, and to go off and leave it in such a manner would be cruel. But to be swayed from his purpose by a goldfish! Well, it was just not to be borne. Goldie would have to get along without him. His mind made up, he turned to face Goldie. "Goldie," he began, "Goldie, I apologise profoundly for insulting you, but Goldie, you know it irritates me when you address me as Trixie. And Goldie, I'm going. I must. Mme de Mouston will be by soon. She will take care of you; you know she dotes on you. You'll be fine until I come back, for come back I will. Don't worry, Goldie, I'll be fine." He looked down at his watch. "Mordioux! I'll be late! Good-bye, Goldie. I'll miss you!" He turned away, grabbed his luggage, and took a flying leap out the window.
Goldie winced. "Good-bye, Trixie," it whispered. "I'll see you in the hospital." And it then commenced to swim about its bowl, awaiting the ambulance's strident wail and Jondrette's inevitable screams of pain. Imagine its surprise when it heard neither; merely an indistinct thump and a few squishes, followed by a stream of vehement curses. Goldie shrugged its nonexistent shoulders and concluded that stranger things had happened before.
Unbeknownst to Goldie, but knownst to M. Jondrette, a vegetable truck stopped at the apartment complex every morning at ten thirty. Jondrette's plan had been to catch the vegetable truck, which generally made a quick stop at the airport to pick up exotic vegetables from far-off places, although how a vegetable could be exotic was beyond Jondrette's comprehension. In any event, such a mode of transportation would be a great deal cheaper and faster than, say, the metro. So far, all had gone according to plan. However, he had not reckoned on the truck driver's irascibility.
Immediately upon hearing Jondrette land in his vegetables, the driver (generally called M. l'Escroqueur because of the exorbitant prices of his inferior vegetables) jumped out of his truck, cursing. He was none the happier for having expected something of the sort to happen; it always did, and it irritated him immensely. He confronted the slight young man who had just scrambled up and was now in the process of wiping vegetable bits off himself, completely unaware of the seething vegetable vendor standing before him on the pavement.
L'Escroqueur immediately began to berate the young man. "You just ruined an entire truckload of vegetables! An entire truckload! And I hope you can afford to pay for it, because I'm not gonna take a loss incurred by some idiot who decides to fall from the sky and land in my vegetable truck! Who do you think you are?" He cursed again, very loudly.
Jondrette gulped. "I'm--I'm Michel Jondrette," he stammered. "And I'm very sorry, Monsieur, but, well, you see, I'm afraid I c-can't afford to pay you back for the vegetables you. . . lost. But," he continued hastily, seeing a homicidal gleam in the vendor's eye, "what I can do, well, you see, I'm traveling abroad and I could bring you back some, er, exotic vegetables and. . ." He trailed off and gulped again, trembling under l'Escroqueur's gaze.
"You little--I ought to kill you! At least I'd get some satisfaction out of this. Exotic vegetables? Exotic vegetables?" He laughed scornfully. "It's gonna take you a lot more than exotic vegetables to get out of this. In fact--in fact, I think I'm gonna make an example of you. No one's gonna try and hitch a ride in my truck after this." He advanced, grinning maniacally.
Jondrette blanched. "Perhaps you missed your true calling in life," he yelled desperately. "You ought to have been a butcher." And with that parting shot, he leapt out of the truck and fled, not daring to look back. L'Escroqueur didn't hesitate. Not being in the best of shape to chase the younger man down on foot, he instead hopped into his truck and, cursing at the engine for not starting up quickly enough, turned it around. But he took too much time in doing it, for by the time the truck was facing forward again, Jondrette was out of sight. L'Escroqueur cursed long and loud.
Jondrette ran until he could run no more, and then ran two more blocks. With his last ounce of strength, he vaulted behind a low hedge and collapsed, breathless, aching, exhausted on the ground. He passed out.
Claire Duplessis was having a wonderful day. She'd spent the morning playing at her friend Jeanne's house, because Claire's mama had been visiting with her great friend, Jeanne's mama. Of course she had had to go home when her mama did, but that was all right. There were too many exciting things to do to be too disappointed. Right now she was tossing a brightly-coloured ball up and down while chanting a little song she'd made up on the spot. "Sparrows fly but my ball flies higher. Sparrows sing but I sing louder. Sparrows--"
She stopped. There, in the garden, was a man covered in vegetables. He lay very still. Claire screamed and ran into the house. Her mama was making sandwiches in the kitchen. She looked up, startled.
"Mama, mama!" shrieked Claire. "There's a dead man in our garden! He's got vegetables all over him, and he's dead!"
Mme Duplessis gasped. Claire was not in the habit of telling fibs, most certainly not where dead people were concerned. She rose and followed Claire out to the garden. There was indeed a man lying prone next to the hedge. He was indeed covered in bits of vegetables, and he did not exactly look healthy. But dead. . . ? She checked his pulse. It was strong enough, all right, and his breathing seemed to be fairly normal.
"It's all right, my little cabbage," she told Claire. "He's only sleeping." She addressed the unconscious man, shaking him lightly. "Monsieur, wake up! This is a private garden, Monsieur, not a park bench or a hotel. Wake up, Monsieur!"
Jondrette groaned. Claire gasped. Mme Duplessis stood waiting for a further reaction.
Jondrette leapt to his feet and looked wildly around. His eye landed on a wheelbarrow piled high with carrots. He screamed and fled without stopping to explain or to excuse his presence. Claire and Mme Duplessis watched as he barrelled down the sidewalk and disappeared over the horizon.
"Who was that, mama?" asked Claire as the two of them walked up to the house.
"You know, Claire," replied her mama, "I don't think we'll ever know." And indeed, she was right, for the very next minute, they were gunned down by a man driving a vegetable truck.
L'Escroqueur stared impassively at the two corpses, smoking gun in hand. "Just tell me where Jondrette went, and no one gets hurt." No response. "I'm only going to say this once, you sorry little worms. When people ignore me, I get upset. And when I get upset, people get hurt." Neither of them gave any sign of volunteering any information. "All right then," said l'Escroqueur. "No more Mr. Nice Vegetable Vendor." He grinned unpleasantly.
A few blocks away, sirens wailed, and a squad car raced down the street. "Why," groaned Martin Blanc, "do I always get the sickos? Dufour's investigating a break-in at the National Bank, Reynaud's taking care of some reports of vandalism, and what do I get stuck with? A crazed truck driver mauling a couple of corpses! I mean, c'mon. What kind of sick, twisted--and do they give me back-up? No, of course not; that would make it too easy. I can't believe it! When I think of all I've done for the police department for the past twelve years. . . and this is the sort of reward I get? Forget this! I quit!" He turned off the siren, rolled down the window and bellowed, "DO YOU HEAR ME? I QUIT! THAT'S RIGHT, NO MORE ARRESTING SICKOS AND CREEPS! I AM--" He slammed on his brakes to avoid crashing into a braking tricyclist. "Nom de Dieu, that was close!" He screamed some choice obscenities (such as "poot," "drat," and "farfel") at the cyclist, who really did look too big to be riding a tricycle in the first place. The cyclist, glancing back at Martin's car, darted through the intersection. Clearly he was guilty of something. Sighing, Martin switched the siren back on and screamed through the intersection. His day was not going to be ending any time soon.
Half a block later, Martin noticed an overturned tricycle that had been hastily abandoned. The cyclist was nowhere in sight. "Holy antibodies!" exclaimed Martin. "Where did he go? Farfel. Just what I needed. He could be anywhere."
What will happen to M. Jondrette? Will the ghost of Mme Duplessis come back to haunt him? Will M. l'Escroqueur track him down? Will he ever get a new suit? How does Martin Blanc fit into all this? Why all the fuss about an oversized tricycle rider? And most importantly, why does Goldie insist on calling Jondrette "Trixie"? For the answer to these, and other pressing questions, tune in next week on. . . The Misadventures of M. Jondrette!
begun December '99 (I think this speaks volumes about my motivation)
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