|瓦哈拉的塗鴉簿 Les sons et les parfums tournent dans l'air du soir (Apr 13, 12)|
We came to a tribe nearby to collect information about their ritual dance for an epic science fiction we were writing.
“Go see them,” said my client, “And they might show you some good ideas.”
It was a nice day in spring. Dogwoods were blooming, spreading pollens irritated my eyes. A perfect day to visit a tribe, I thought, to praise the achievements they have not yet vested, and to learn the lessons they have not yet discovered.
No one had ever explained why anybody would commission a science fiction that cost a fortune.
“It’s important to predict our future so we could prepare,” they said, and they paid well, although not necessarily respected me as a prophet.
“Who is reading and what he does with my story?” once I asked, out of unprofessional curiosity.
“Ask not what your readers do with your work,” said my client, “But what you can do for your readers.”
And I had nothing to object.
They said Chick-fil-A was good so I had a not-so-deluxe chicken sandwich as a harmless pastime.
“Anything to drink, Sir?” asked the Chick-fil-A guy.
“You have anything your chieftain drink?” I asked, indifferently.
The guy turned and opened a refrigerator, poured some liquid with suspicious pale green color like what my daughter used to blow bubbles.
“Lemonade, as good as lemonade can be,” said the Chick-fil-A guy.
“Indeed,” I replied.
“We ate elk when I was a kid,” said the woman while eating her Chick-n-Strips salad.
“Your hometown supermarket had elk meat to sell?” I asked without giving too much thought.
The woman stared at me as if I were the extra salad dressing she didn’t ask for.
“My dad hunted for our own meat,” said the woman.
“Did your mom nest?” said I as we finishing our Chicks.
"I hate Seinfeld," said the woman.
"Ever felt we are minimalists?" I said. "We never propose revolutionary concept so not to provoke controversy," I continued, "And we repeat them in slightly different ways all over our writing so it looks grandeur, " I could not stop for some reason, "Like Bruckner, he wrote the same symphony nine times."
"Shut up, the ritual dance is about to start," said the woman.
The big show went on with not much surprise. I pulled out my Precision M4300, taking notes, and asking sporadic questions that I knew answers already.
“How does your tribe circle the wagons?” someone asked.
I knew it was coming and I could not run away from this one. “You fight your enemy,” an inner voice said, “and you don’t be a coward,” the voice continued, “It’s just a man does what men should do.” I knew I would regret for what I was about to say should I be condemned to hell someday, and I would have to repay for the rosy picture I fabricated. I cleared my throat as I stood up, and began to defend a position I despised.
We got what we got and we did not complain about it. Nice people, nevertheless.
“The British is coming,” said one guy we met.
“What British?” I asked but not really cared about the answer.
“The Prime Minister. His plane is here.”
“Who gives a damn about the British Prime Minister?” I thought but not dared to say. Some people give, obviously.
Those wouldn’t be the last lies I told in my life, I hoped, and I was looking forward to more opportunities to enhance my science fiction. A good lie was like the dry Vermouth in a perfect Martini. You knew it was there, but couldn’t find any trace to prove, I though as I stuck on the rush hour traffic of the Beltway.