Day 6

07.16 After a sleepless night

Subject: Pickles O’Day’s marketing plan

Dearest Darling Forsythia,


I have many, many comments to make concerning our director of marketing. Her obsession with all things walking has opened up certain possibilities for our company (and you thought I was going to complain about her, didn’t you). One example: the next time she goes to the Himalayas to trek up and down the bumps and byways, shouldn’t she be encouraged to take along supplies and sample cases for distribution en route? Perhaps the excursion would present a perfect opportunity for her to test market our Yakkabuttabagel® and its related condiments and commercial tie-ins? Ask her to submit a marketing strategy by next week, if you will. Time is wasting and will wait for no bagel.

I have been giving much thought to our South East Asian partnerships and franchises. Sun dried fish bagels (SandSunandStinkabagels®) have tested successfully, so that one hurdle has been cleared. Wasn’t it wise of us to take out the worldwide patent on drying fish in the sun? I’m sure the villager will look kindly on us once they become accustomed to limited their diet to our product. It will be so much less time consuming, won’t it? Think of all the extra time they’ll have on their hands to work in our factories? An amazing thing, progress.

On the other hand, your Pacific Rim experts have hardly covered themselves with glory, have they? Squidabagels®? SeaHorseyBagels®? Were they being sarcastic, or am I misunderstanding their local marketing ploys? Would you want to be in the same room as a SeaUrchinBagelBalls®, and mightn’t that particular creation open us up to gossip concerning alleged links with child prostitution? God’s only knows I have enough problems as it is, what with me having ordered and paid for a Bugatti Veyron the day before being sucked into this fucking instrument of torture. Honestly, it’s so dark and miserable in here. And there are all these hisses and whispers and murmurs. It’s like living with the devil’s breath in your ear. Not that you care. You’ve got your new baby and what’s his name to worry about. Why should you fret about me and the fact that a computer is dissolving my nether regions and sucking my innards out through my nose? What am I, a fucking Eqyptian mummy? Ce n’est rien.

I have been frantically busy in the test kitchen our boys so helpfully installed in my cistern of foulness. We are making great strides on concepts to do with a Welch walking tour tie-in, and I think we may have got round the issue of sogginess. That being said, I wonder if it wouldn’t be easier to move that charming ‘countrilette’ to a more temperate region. Or perhaps we could shuffle the map slightly, and move it to Estonia. The trouble with governments and the people running them is that they never really think things through. Solutions such as moving a country from an inconvenient location to one more which is to everybody’s taste never occur to them. Much too busy with fact-finding missions, I presume, or with instituting regime changes in countries to which they wouldn’t send their mothers-in-law. In any case, they are always far too wrapped up in being re-elected to actually do anything of lasting importance. But I am ranting. My bowels are in an uproar, please forgive me.

Might I remind you not to overlook the ice cream parlours? It is well past time that we should be perfecting nudie-bagel-compatible-flavours. And while I’m on the subject (more or less), may I say that your slogan, When you are bare, think bagel!™ has definite possibilities. Not good, not bad. While it’s not exactly a Mozart concerto, well, who cares? How many bagels did Wolfy sell during his lifetime, anyway? Wasn’t he overshadowed by Salieri? Keep up the good work!
***

11.32 Suffering from a pinched nerve or some such
Subject: Some Assistance Required

Dearest Darling Forsythia,


I am having distinct circulatory problems in my middle region and lower extremities. Since I am without recourse to experts in such problems, I have been taking my own advice and undergoing extreme klezmer therapy. Much to my chagrin, I find this treatment is not advisable to those in a prone position, not that most of the leading practitioners of the discipline – or, at least, those with whom I have communicated – are aware of the fact. If you yourself were prone at the time I recommended it to you, I can only apologise. Ice cream therapy is more effective and certainly less strenuous, even when taking into account the dribble factor.

If you have time over the weekend, please stop by and lay my computer on end. You have no idea how I long to stand up. A couple of hours should suffice, during which time we can talk over old times and share a tarte d’ail et tomate or something equally energizing. Sans goat cheese, of course. I am living in very close quarters and must exercise caution where my breath and mouth-taste are concerned, not to mention the other considerations. You being married and all, may or may not understand the situation. I’m never sure what your relationship with what’s his name entails.

Do you recall listening to “Moon Over Miami” before Mumsy destroyed the record in a fit of pique because you had soiled your school uniform? It occurred to me the song might serve as the perfect inspiration for one of our advertising campaigns. You know: bagel moons, bagels being mooned, moons of all sorts rising over Miami, pink-haired ladies playing mah-jong in the moonlight, diamonds glinting in the moonlight, a plump enchantress emerging from the waves in the moonlight, clad only in a diamond bagel, or even a diva-ish mermaid transported from the pounding surf by Bagelman. Bagelman completely nude except for one darling, conveniently placed smoked salmon pillow. How divine would that be, my darling Forsythia? As soon as you regain your breath and composure, please ring our beloved director of marketing, or text her if she’s enjoying a private moment. There is not a moment to lose. Present her with the ideas. Tell her to earn her salary. We want a dozen different versions of the campaign in our inboxes by the morning! – I love you, my dear, even though you have so often let yourself down.
***

14.12 What I wouldn’t give for some antipasto
Subject: Thank you very much

Dearest Darling Forsythia,


I specifically asked you lay the fucking computer on end, not upside down. Couldn’t you see my protruding foot? I wanted to stand up, not on my head. And then you went away. Left me alone, without so much as one single bite of tarte d’ail et tomate, without even a word of greeting. What is wrong with you? Have you been inhaling nappies again? I have now been standing on my head for twelve hours, and believe me, it has not worked wonders for my state of mind nor for my physical well-being. It’s as though every ounce of fluid in my body has burbled into my brain. I am drowning in snot. Garce! Monstre! Veine Varice! Come back here immediately! Oh, and while we’re at it, where the fuck are my squatters? Did you say something to them? You did, didn’t you? You frightened them off! What did you say to them? Please, please please… I beg of you, I’ll do anything you want, but please don’t leave me like this. I’ll die, and it won’t be pleasant to look at. I’m not dressed in Dior l’homme. I’m in fucking American prêt-à-porter for God’s sake.
***


16.03 After eating amusing brown stuff
Subject: Thank you very much (again)

Dearest Darling Forsythia


Would you mind telling me what is going on in your life? You didn’t really have to lend a hand, you know. I would have understood. I am fully aware you are a busy, driven, type ‘A’ personality, managing to slot the demands of a family into a brilliantly successful professional life -(mind you, old Victoire – the plongeuse at Le Veau Gras Routier on the motorway, is even more gifted in that respect, having worked three shifts per day while giving birth to fifteen or nineteen kids in seven years – all without a day off) – but that does not give you the right to fob me off with what I can only call inconsiderate slovenliness. I have now been standing on my head for twenty hours, and for all I know, I am already three-quarters dead. Plus I’ve got urine-soaked hair, which is nothing if not extremely offensive to me, especially since the only grooming product I have came from a discount stall in the Wednesday market and for all I know, may be made of pulverised mouse testicles. I feel brain damage setting in. Permanent brain damage. This would be forgivable if only I weren’t so utterly bereft and alone in the world. My squatters fucked themselves silly on every available surface, and then left me stranded without so much as a ‘ta-ta for now’. On top of this, I am, once again, out of food. Forsythia, just because I continually ask for something does not mean I’m spoiled or that I don’t need it. Do you think I am suddenly able to trot over to the shops by myself? And, what was the meaning of placing the computer on the floor? Did you think I might prefer an empty, clutter-free desk? Is the entire insect population of Père Lachaise, with whom I’m currently sharing my accommodation, suddenly becoming anal-retentive?.

I shall communicate no more either until you set matters to right or I’m dead.
***

22.34 Much better, thank you
Subject: Please forgive me!

Dearest Darling Forsythia,


All is forgiven, as you knew it would be. And please forgive my tantrum, but I had a tremendous headache and was not seeing straight. Perhaps in the future we should leave well enough alone and not tempt fates by shifting things about. Agreed?

I do thank you for the bacon and onion petit morceaux de pied de porc salé et l’onion en croute and rampant vin ordinaire from What’sHisName’s vineyard in Le Baux. Am I to understand that one of his mother’s pigs was ultimately responsible for the feast, and that it was she (his mother, not the pig) who did the slaughtering, butchering and smoking? All I can say is “magnifique!” Between the piggy pie and the rotgut, my stomach has been set to rights for a month. Thank you also for the promise of fresh sardines the next time you fly to Marseilles. I look forward to that particular treat with a longing barely expressible. You did yourself proud, considering your emotional and physical state. You ought to take care of yourself, you know. God knows, nobody else will.

This morning I received the uniform designs for the waiters. Am I correct in assuming that what we have here is the uniforme de l’hiver? For summer, what I really had in mind was silk – we must never, ever, be afraid to wearing silk, no matter how robust the occasion. As for le chat rotunde, as much as I admire the design – so admirable, so trop d’eau, so exquisite – shouldn’t it have something in its mouth? It looks so bored doing nothing. Might I suggest a bagel with a mouse emerging from one side? A mouse with an eye patch? A very louche mouse with a very art deco eye patch? If I could, I would gladly test a prototype by walking around notorious public places for a week or so to determine positive and negative responses and to reflect on my social life. Do you think I should hire a personal consierge? I’m never invited anywhere anymore, and it’s irksome. The last really really decent party was actually not a party at all, but the funeral dinner for old M. Jabout down the street, and even then I had to sneak in through the back gate. What is going on?

Back to basics (as politicians like to say when they fell guilty about accepting a second pay rise in as many months and are worried the hoi polloi might be having too much fun), what have we, uniform-wise, for the waitresses? A black leather anatomically-adjusted one-piece garment with (1) small bagel booble-lids with colour-enhanced mousy faces in ingenious locations, or (2) smoked salmon rosettes with a fountain of toast points leaping from the navel? Both designs are utterly sublime, and I would be more than willing to test them, as well. Provided, of course, you set me free and ask me on bended knee.

I whole-heartedly agree we should make use of our friends (such as they are) and connections whenever and wherever possible. “Cultivate cultivate cultivate” must be our newest buzzword. Buzzwords, if you really want to be grammatically correct.
***

22.18 After a delightful piece of toffee
Subject: Advice

Dearest Darling Forsythia,


Yes, for Pesach, even for those of us who don’t really know the ins and outs of it, one simply must have two kitchens in order to be socially acceptable. Dust, it goes without saying, should be considered de rigour, unless, of course, one lives in a pokey little flat where dust particles outnumber the chairs. Dust is understood, at least in the houses that count. That being said, it cannot be seen to be treif. In other words, the dust from your dead skin, which could be referred to as epidermal detritus, cannot co-mingle with chicken sprinkles or dairy dust. Kleenex tissue lint is parve, and therefore acceptable, providing it is truly from an arboreal source and not a cow’s udder. Complicated? Yes, but I know you are up to the challenge. Why else did you go to law school? Perhaps you will permit me to recommend two or three books on the subject. Just don’t consult Mumsy. For vanity’s sake, she will pretend to know, but – lest you’ve forgotten, wasn’t she the one who named her tiny twins – your beloved little sisters – Syphilis and Gonorrhoea? Do you remember how offended she was when the priest laughed and nearly drowned them both? “But how dare you?, she shrieked, “they are such pretty, old-fashioned names? And now look what you’ve done! You’ve dunked them both in the font and ruined their tiny gowns!”

By the way, I can safely say that my knowledge about matters judidical is pretty much infallible. Moises Pinchus, with whom I shared rooms at university, might have been a rabid follower of Saachism at the time, but his great-great uncle Bernard was a defrocked reform rabbi. Which means he knew about such things. Where is he now, you ask? As far away as possible. If you recall, he very seldom washed his socks, and carried about with him the aura of his mother’s décolletage, both of which made him quite unbearable.

Ah, but to return to Mumsy, your devoted maternal figure seems to be unclear on the concept of a logo based upon a (properly morphed and glistening) nude figure of her bountifulness leaping over the bagel moon, with hair streaming behind. I was speaking about the hair on her head. But will she listen? Nothing for it but to explain over and over, though it is possible my skills at communicating simple concepts are not up to the task. Perhaps our director of marketing should attempt to clarify things. I’d ask you to intervene, but you’d only get into a fight, after which Mumsy might turn to me for solace. Why doesn’t she ever turn to Sudsy?
***

23.33 Speechless (almost)
Subject: Sorry


Gawd, wot fooels we mortals be! Thanks for looking in on me when I failed to respond to your last email. The succour was most welcome, as was the vodka (don’t think I didn’t notice how cheap it was. Am I that worthless?). The aspirin, too, was most welcome – a well intentioned thought, and one I shall remember for far too long.

I don’t think I was terribly coherent, for which I apologise. My sinuses tell me I must have inhaled a particularly foetid armpit, but having no tongues, they cannot tell me whose or when the encounter happened. Life can be so abysmal at times, can’t it? I do remember a visit from my erstwhile and lamented squatters. They said they’ve recently set up housekeeping near Bois de Boulogne, and have already planted a vegetable patch. Earthy tubers, sturdy and resolute, just like Tom; ragweed and will o’the wisp for Butterfly (as she’s now called). Apparently my aged and historically significant home was too congested for their sensibilities. She simpered on about my dwelling being the apex of all the lost souls in the cemetery, or some such, and seemed to be genuinely upset. Ah, well, there’s no accounting for taste, especially where idiots are concerned. I do believe she was born in a commune in northern California, which might explain her difficulty in channelling coherent thought. Be that as it may, however, I do miss the two of them, and not only for the food (such as it was) and companionship they provided. In fact, I got so emotional over seeing them again that I asked that they refer my house to a suitable friend or two. After borrowing five hundred euros, they agreed to look into it.

They are thoughtful, you know, in their own way, and brought me some cakes and herbal tea, the former being tasteless and dry, along the lines of bitterish sawdust, and no doubt made of one hundred percent organic street sweepings. The “tea”, although somewhat tepid and sweetened by far too much honey from unfortunate bees – probably living in the nineteenth arrondisement – did hit the spot and was most comforting. The three of us had a pleasant visit, but I must have come down with something odd – perhaps a cold – because I immediately plunged into the most vehemently turbulent of trancelike states. I felt extremely peculiar for the longest time. In fact, I didn’t feel much of anything, and I hope I didn’t offend my new friends by not thanking them sufficiently for their visit or wishing them adieu. They really are the most delightful and thoughtful and sensitive people I’ve ever met. And sensitive as well. In spite of my delirium, they understood when I apparently said to take a five hundred euro note from the top drawer of my desk. Not only that, but they took an extra thousand just to give to the homeless waifs of rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honoré, a cause close to my heart and one I must have mentioned during my supreme agony.

You will be happy to know that, with the exception of a hairy mouth, I am now right as rain and, as they say, ready for action. I will spend a few minutes deciphering your latest epistle and will get back to you after a good night’s sleep.