"About that necklace," he murmured in her ear.
"I borrowed it," she said.
"From a gorgeous brunette in Dorcas's house?" he asked.
"Yes…" She worked it out-if he knew that, then-for the first time she felt a pang of sympathy for the Queen. Over his shoulder she saw Corporal Nitley lurking near the wine punch, only to be collared by Sergeants Gorse and Dogwood. No tropical fruit surprise this year, then. Over his other shoulder, she saw Primula herding a sulky Krystal and her followers, loaded with dirty dishes, toward the kitchen.
"Thank you, my dear," the King said, "for getting me out of a very sticky situation. I will, of course, explain to the… er… young woman who had been… er… taking care of it. But is there anything I can do for you?" His hand wandered lower.
"No, thank you," Mirabel said, surprised to realize that what he could give, she didn't want. Not from him, anyway. "Only a donation to help our poor defenseless orphans."
A resounding crash came from the kitchen passage; Krystal stormed back into the ballroom. "It's not fair," she said. "Why should I have to do all the work? I killed two pirates."
"Shut up, Krystal," Mirabel said, in chorus with others.
The Catcher in the Rhine by Harry Turtledove
I don't know how I got here. Wait. That's not quite right. What I mean to say is, I know how I got to Europe and everything, for Chrissake. They sent me over here to find myself or something after that trouble I had. I'm sure you know about that. I'm certain you know about it. Practically everybody knows about it. Some of the biggest phonies in the world think they know more about it than I do. They really think so. It's like they read it in English class or something.
So like I say, I know how I got to Europe. I don't know about this finding myself business, though. I swear to God, if you can't find yourself, you've gotta be some kind of psycho. I mean, you're right there, for crying out loud. If you weren't right there, where the hell would you be?
And sending somebody to Europe to find himself has got to be the stupidest thing in the world. You have to be a lousy moron to come up with something like that, you really do. You can't find anything in Europe. Honest to God, it's the truth. You really can't. All the streets go every which way, and they change names every other block, or sometimes in the middle of the block.
Besides, the people don't speak English. Try to have an intellectual conversation with somebody who doesn't know what the hell you're talking about. Go ahead and try. It's a goddam waste of time, that's what it is.
Anyway, I went through France, and some of that was pretty neat, it really was, and all of it was historical as hell-not that I was ever any good at history. What I mean is, every single stinking bit of it happened a long time ago-some of it happened a goddam long time ago-so how am I supposed to get all excited when some phony moron of a teacher stands there and goes on and on about it? It's not easy, I tell you.
After I was done with old France, I went over to Germany because it's next door, you know-and I took this boat trip up the Rhine. I don't know what the hell " Rhine " means in German, but it looks like it oughta mean "sewer." The whole river smells like somebody laid a big old fart, too. It really does. I won't ever complain about the Hudson when I get home, and you can walk across the Hudson, practically.
When I get home. If I get home. The boat stopped at this place called Isenstein. It's a real dump, I tell you, but back of it there's a kind of a crag thing with a castle on top. I wasn't gonna get off the boat-I'd paid the fare all the way up to Düsseldorf, wherever that is-but the river just smelled so bad I couldn't stand it any more, so I left. Maybe they'd let me back on the next one. And if they didn't, who cares? I had piles of money and traveler's checks and stuff.
Well, let me tell you, the streets in old Isenstein didn't smell so good, either. That was partly because it was still right next to the Rhine, and it was partly because the people there had the most disgusting personal habits in the world. I saw this one guy standing in the street taking a leak against the side of a crumby old dirty brick building, and it wasn't even like he was drunk or anything. He was just doing it. And then he went on his way happy as you please. I wouldn't've believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, and that's the truth.
They had a church there, so I went inside and looked around. I always tried to look at those cultural things, because who knows when I was ever coming back again? Coming back to Europe, I mean-I wouldn't've come back to Isenstein if you paid me, you can bet your bottom dollar on that. But the church was pretty dirty and crumby, too. By the time I got done looking at it, I was feeling pretty goddam depressed. I really was. So I got the hell out of there.
I was feeling pretty goddam hungry, too. I was feeling hungry as a sonuvabitch, if you want to know the truth. I didn't exactly want to eat in Isenstein-it really was a filthy place. You have no idea how filthy it was. But I was there. Where else was I gonna eat, is what I want to know.
Getting something to eat when you don't speak the language is a royal pain in the ass. If you're not careful, they're liable to give you horse manure on a bun. I'm not kidding. I'm really not. When I was in France, I got a plateful of snails, for crying out loud. Real snails, like you step on in a garden somewhere and they go crunch under your shoe. With butter. If you think I ate 'em, you're crazy. I sent 'em back pretty toot sweet. That means goddam fast in French. But whatever they gave me instead didn't look much better, so I got the hell out of that place toot sweet myself.
Over across the street from the church in old Isenstein was this joint where you could get beer and food. Nobody in Germany cares if you're twenty-one. They don't give a damn, swear to God they don't. They'd give beer to a nine-year-old, they really would. If he asked for it, I mean.
So I got a beer, and the guy sitting next to me at the bar was eating a sandwich that didn't look too lousy-it had some kind of sausage and pickles in it-so I pointed to that and told the bartender, "Give me one of those, too." Maybe it was really chopped-up pigs' ears or something, but I didn't know it was, so it was all right if I didn't think about it too much. The guy behind the bar figured out what I meant and started making one for me.
I'd just taken a big old bite-it wasn't terrific but I could stand it, pigs' ears or not-when the fellow sitting next to me on the other side spoke up and said to me in English, "You are an American, yes?"
If you want to know the truth, it made me kind of angry. Here I was starving to death, and this guy wanted to strike up a conversation. I didn't want to talk. I wanted to eat, even if it didn't taste so good. So with my mouth full, rude as anything, I said "Yeah" and then I took another bite, even bigger than the first one.
He didn't get mad. I'd hoped he would, I really had, but no such luck. He was a very smooth, very polite guy. He was a little flitty-looking, as a matter of fact-not too, but a little. Enough to make you wonder, anyhow. He said, "We do not often Americans in Isenstein have." He talked that way on account of he was foreign, I guess. I took another bite out of this sandwich-it probably was pigs' ears, it sure tasted like what you'd think pigs' ears'd taste like-and he asked me, "What is your name?"