Off topic: The Little Translator, a sad and sorry tale, a call from a customer, and a letter from Paris Thread poster: Mervyn Henderson (X)
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Mervyn Henderson (X) 
Spain
Local time: 07:01
Spanish to English
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The Little Translator addresses the Queen of England: http://www.proz.com/forum/lighter_side_of_trans_interp/107185-the_little_translator_addresses_the_queen_of_england.html
The Little Translator relates the Barcelona Connection:
http://www.proz.com/forum/lighter_side_of_trans_interp/110255-the_little_translator_relates_the_barcelona_connection.html
The Little Translator makes a right royal faux pas:
http://www.proz.com/forum/lighter_side_of_trans_interp/116080-the_little_translator_makes_a_right_royal_faux_pas.html
The Little Translator throws his hat in the ring with Obama and McCain:
http://www.proz.com/forum/lighter_side_of_trans_interp/119758-the_little_translator_throws_his_hat_in_the_ring_with_obama_and_mccain.html
The Little Translator solves the world economic crisis:
http://www.proz.com/forum/lighter_side_of_trans_interp/121724-the_little_translator_solves_the_world_economic_crisis.html
The Little Translator slides into the crease at the end of 2008:
http://www.proz.com/forum/lighter_side_of_trans_interp/123911-the_little_translator_slides_into_the_crease_at_the_end_of_2008.html
The Little Translator amid terrible rates and late payment too:
http://www.proz.com/forum/lighter_side_of_trans_interp/126646-the_little_translator_amid_terrible_rates_and_late_payment_too.html
The Little Translator, MI5, and Jimmy the Weasel:
http://www.proz.com/forum/lighter_side_of_trans_interp/129145-the_little_translator_mi5_and_jimmy_the_weasel.html
The Little Translator, unorthodox policing, Foxy Roxy and a twist in the tale:
https://www.proz.com/forum/off_topic/318326-the_little_translator_unorthodox_policing_foxy_roxy_and_a_twist_in_the_tale.html
(CONT’D):
…
“Your dad was a handsome rogue”, I told her, “who hooked up with your mum one night during the fiestas. Your mum was just as attractive, and he stayed with her for a while, but there were a lot of other fish in the sea, and he was much much too handsome and much much too roguish to stick around with her for too long after you were born, though.”
“You little shit!” she spat. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
She raised a lily-white hand to slap me, but Garmendia had noticed something was going on, and she saw him strolling over. Her hand fell, and she stood there, breathing heavily, arms hanging heavy at her sides.
“He just got bored with it”, I went on. “He got bored with your mum. And he got bored with little Angela too, didn’t he? All that feeding stuff. And the incessant crying and poohing and peeing and wetting the cot and getting up at 4 in the morning. And then one day he just up and left and never came back, didn’t he?”
Her bottom lip quivered a little.
“And so you grew up with your mum. She had a tough time of it all right, having to bring you up on her own. Especially when you reached an age when you saw that all the other little boys and girls had a mummy, and a daddy too, but you didn’t, and all your friends at school and their parents were tattling about you, and so you began to ask about daddy, and when you got to a more difficult age you started to fantasise that he was a sailor and that he was sailing around the world, and that one day he would come back for you, and in all the little-girl tantrums with your mummy you screamed that you hated her, that you wanted your daddy, that he’d only left because of her, and you wanted to go and live with him, and all the rest of it. But soon you realised he was never coming back. You realised that, because soon your mum had to eke out affection and support wherever she could, and eventually a man began to visit your house. After a while he disappeared, and another man began to visit, and then another, and another. You hated them all. You even hated the ones that left you alone.”
She was shivering now. And it wasn’t cold in the bar, either.
“But some of them didn’t leave you alone, did they? No. One of them even latched on to the mother just to get to the daughter. They were clever about it, so very clever. Sweeties and prezzies at first to soften you up a bit, cute little dresses for Angela, a brand new bike, or a birthday cake. Then they would take you out for a drive, take you camping in a tent in the garden, that kind of thing. You were only a little girl, so you never saw it coming. No, how could you? All those vile, awful things they did to Angela. Lying petrified in the back seat of a car, swallowing the tears streaming down your cheeks, gagging at the smell of beer-breath and cigarettes as that huge filthy sweaty monster held his huge filthy sweaty hand over your trembling mouth to stop you screaming, and pawed you and slapped you and hurt you, did unspeakable things to you, and stole away the little girl in you.”
She drew a hand across her welling eyes, smudging the mascara all over her cheek.
“Hey!” said Dreadlocks, striding over to me. “You’re well out of order. That’s enough! Leave her alone.”
But she placed a restraining hand on his arm, sniffed and gulped, and smiled a very, very small smile at him.
“It’s OK, really. He’s right, he knows”, she said in a barely audible whisper.
Dreadlocks looked daggers at me all the same, fished out a tissue and gave it to her, and placed an arm around her shoulder. She gave a start at his touch and drew back a little, and then settled into his arm. She was calm now.
“And on and on and on, down through the years, feeling dirty and frightened. There was nobody to tell. You told your mother in the end, but she just called you a little liar. She knew, of course she knew, but she pretended not to know, she had bills to pay, the men helped her with all that, and she didn’t want to rock the boat. Angela ran away the day she finished school, and she’s never been back since. She changed her town, she changed her hair, she changed her name, she changed her everything. She has a good job now, she has her little flat, she has her own life, but sometimes she craves revenge. On men. Any man. Any man to represent all those men who let her down and betrayed her and hurt her. And that’s why she comes to places like this sometimes.”
She nodded slowly.
“You come here”, I continued, “and you pick up a man. Any man you choose. Literally any man you like. Women can do that sort of thing. Any woman can do it, because men are weak, and men wilt when any woman smiles at them, any woman at all. Whoever and whatever they are, you home in on their vanity when a desirable girl like you comes close and tells them how wonderful they are, and how their wife or girlfriend doesn’t understand them. After all, in your previous life you learned a lot about men, all the sick shit we do and say and feel, and all the sick shit we like to have done and said and felt. You never get picked up yourself by the chancers trying their luck, because you do the picking-up, not them. And you carry a Taser in your bag just in case.”
Angela stared at me, still nodding, resting her head on Dreadlocks’ shoulder. Dreadlocks was glaring at me.
“And when you get them back to the hotel, it’s Foxy Roxy Time. Time for revenge. You kid them on to a sexy handcuffs session, they’re so enthralled they’ll do anything you say, and so you cuff them amid a lot of giggling. And then they’re yours. They’re Foxy Roxy’s. No touching, no kissing, no togetherness, no nothing, you slap them about, bite it, bite them, nip it, nip them, straddle them wordlessly with your eyes closed, impale them coldly, drive yourself down on them, use them, chafe them, hurt them, pleasure yourself to the end, scream at the ceiling as you finish, and jump off them before they can do the same. Then you put the handcuffs key just within their reach and leave. They never tell anyone. They keep quiet about it because, well, being humiliated by a woman like that is the kind of thing a man keeps quiet about. They never see you again, not if you can help it, and if they do, you ignore them. Afterwards you go back to your lonely flat, sit down at your dressing table, put on that compelling song of yours, and laugh and laugh as you think of that prat back at the hotel, laugh and laugh and laugh into the mirror until it clouds over and you see little Angela weeping again. Her lips move, but you can’t hear what she’s saying. As you listen to the haunting strains you can almost glimpse that distant ship and the smoke on the horizon, and again you see that kid in a torn white dress, crying helplessly, a waif crying because all she ever wanted, all she ever yearned for, was really nothing much at all – just some love, just a little bit of love.”
I turned to Dreadlocks, and said in a low voice:
”I know I’m not your favourite person right now, but let me talk to Angela for a minute.”
He stared at me, teeth bared, but Angela patted his arm and came closer.
“Angela”, I said, “Dreadlocks might not be everyone’s dream boy, but he’s your dream boy, and you’ve got to take this chance. Look at the way he stepped in to defend you just now.”
“Yes”, she sobbed. “I knew I liked him the first time I laid my eyes on him months ago, but I just can’t come right out and say it, because … because …”
“… you’re terrified of being hurt.” I finished.
“Yes. It’s always the way. I can’t stand it, but that’s the way it is. Either I go with someone and do like you said, or nothing, but I just can’t do anything in between.”
I beckoned to Dreadlocks.
“Roxy – Dreadlocks. Dreadlocks – Roxy. Roxy and Locksy. Locksy and Roxy.”
She moved to within two inches of my face, wiping away her tears.
“My name”, she said firmly, “is Angela.”
Dreadlocks took her hand.
“That’s great”, he said, “because my name is David”.
Up came Garmendia, who had been listening to the exchanges, wiping his eyes too.
“I think I’m going to cry”, said the Sergeant.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Ser**ant”, I exclaimed.
“You’ve got to work on those Rule 1 asterisks”, said David Dreadlocks.
“You’re ri**t there”, I admitted.
Angela was curious, of course.
“How do you know all this about me, anyway?”
Garmendia took his sunglasses from a nearby table. He put them on carefully.
“The thing is, Miss …” … and he began to take them off again.
“Not now, Sergeant”, I cut in. “Maybe later. Just get on w**h it.”
“The thing is”, he said again, “as has been mentioned on at least one previous occasion in this skite, he’s writing it and so he knows the lot, Miss”.
David Dreadlocks remained a little sceptical, though:
“You have to admit all this business about a translator teaming up with a Basque policeman to investigate a murder is a little far-fetched, anyway”, he said. “A little unlikely. Plus those customers ringing you up all the time and you always turning down jobs.”
I was stung.
“This, far-fetched? The world of art and literature is full of stuff much more far-fetched than this. Unlikely, far-fetched, this story? Far-fetched is a man who’s shipwrecked and tied down as an invading marauder by people an inch high. Far-fetched is a personage called the Jean Genie, who sleeps in a capsule and keeps all your dead hair for making up underwear. Far-fetched is four men crooning about how they all live in a yellow submarine, occasionally leaving it to shimmer on down to some strawberry fields for a date with Lucy in the sky and her diamonds. Far-fetched is a handsome man who has his portrait painted, and while the painting grows old, he never grows old himself.”
“Oscar Wilde, you mean?” asked Angela, innocently. “Like Oscar Wilde?”
“Oh yes, indeed”, I said, as the wavies started to kick in, “like Oscar Wilde. Again. Like Oscar …”
…
Hôtel d’Alsace,
Rue des Beaux-Arts, Paris
29 November 1900
My darling Mosie,
It has taken me some time to pen this, which is likely to be my last missive. As you know, it has been over three years since I shook the filthy dust of Reading Gaol from my feet and began my voluntary exile in France. And some five years since I arrived at Newgate Prison, and thence to Pentonville and Wandsworth.
I recall that the constable, a rough-looking creature so impossibly ugly it actually hurt my eyes to contemplate him, jeered as he led me from the dock:
“Looks like you’se goin’ down for a few years, Wilde, you fackin’ Paddy queerboy.”
Dear me, I almost fainted with the aggressive vulgarity of it all, but I simply could not let that pass. I fixed him with one of my special stares - you know, that baleful one I reserve for sneering straights, which makes them so nervous and drives them into silence, and stood with arms akimbo, wrists on my waist and fingers pointing outwards, head cocked on one side. Drama, Mosie, drama. Drama or nought.
“Chief Superintendent”, I began sarcastically, “it so happens I have spent most of my adult life going down. I have turned it into an art form, in fact. You might say I have been there, done that, and got the two-tone pink weskit. I have partaken of every fruit in the orchard, my good man, including, like Adam and Eve, the Forbidden Fruit. Which, I might add, is the sweetest and most delicious fruit of all. Did you see that photographer as we left the dock, sir? It was me he was photographing, not you, obviously. Do you wish to know why, my friend? Because at the very least, Inspector, I have lived. I have lived life to the full. I have been wined and dined with such food and drink as you can only imagine at the best tables in London and the Home Counties, my plays and other works have been celebrated at theatres and publishing houses up and down the country, and I have had the great and the good hanging on my every word in the lounges of luxurious mansions of which you have never surveyed even the outside, let alone the interior, with the ladies giggling and blushing shyly behind their pretty fans, and the gentlemen scowling jealously at my easy wit and flamboyance and success with their dainty fillies, but grudgingly realising they must remain silent, powerless to match the master wordsmith in their midst.”
“I admit I have made mistakes”, I went on. “All men make mistakes and they learn, as do all women. The difference between men and women in this regard is that men learn so exceedingly well that they are invariably capable of repeating their mistakes in exactly the same way.”
I had the bounder under my spell, Mosie. His eyes bored into me.
“So, Sergeant”, I challenged him, “that has been my life. Now tell me about your own life. Tell me about those jolly evenings of yours after work at the Fox and Hounds, swilling the vile otter’s urine that passes for ale there with your cronies. Your idea of merriment and wit is doubtless to break wind loudly as a comely wench sets down those foaming chipped glasses on the rickety table, treating her to a gratuitous whiff of your foul breath as you stare brazenly at the generous bosom jiggling temptingly beneath the white blouse and slur boozily, “If you’re sellin’ the puppies, Margie, I’ll give those pink-nosed beauties a good ‘ome, you see if I don’t, hur-hur-hur”. And later you wend your way back to the drab tumbledown hovel of a place you call home in the East End, heavy with the hum of the rotting corpses of dogs, cats, drunkards, beggars, streetwalkers and poor unwanted newly born infants rising up from the dark dank depths of the River Thames. Walking into the bedroom of that wretched abode your nostrils wrinkle, detecting the most nauseous flatulence, and there you find your lassie snoring her head off, in curlers, with her teeth in a dirty glass on the bedside table in a dreadful space so tiny there is no room to swing a mouse, never mind a cat. Yes, your unlovely lady. You know, in my heyday the audience included ladies who were inevitably overtaken by age, but they used their money and their power to purchase the best clothes and other accoutrements to conceal the passage of time as best they could. What unkind tongues might call “mutton dressed as lamb”, but for the female half of your luckless, loveless, lustless marriage it is simply a helpless, hapless, hopeless case of mutton dressed as mutton. You therefore decide to repair to a cold outside toilet for a short solo session to satisfy your pent-up baser urges, peering downwards into the grimy, heavily skidmarked underwear around your ankles, having had the foresight to plan ahead and keep an image in your mind’s eye of Margie’s quivering appendages to bring things nicely to fruition. Oh, and have you and her indoors been blessed with parenthood, Officer? A grunting herd of unruly, ill-mannered, inadequate inarticulate brats, mayhap, with the bleakest of futures before them, their only prospects being to join Mr Peel’s Finest and thus follow in their father’s footsteps or, better still, to enlist in the armed forces and have the splendid opportunity of travelling the world, meeting all kinds of people from different countries and cultures, and savagely bayoneting them to death in the sovereign name of Tricky Vicky, or Steady Eddie or whichever tiresome, arrogant handlebar-moustached oafish buffoon succeeds her on the throne of this green and pleasant land - which must surely be some time soon.”
“Yes, Constable”, I rapped, “That is the man you are - “A Man of No Importance”. I realise that the adroit reference in the five words I have just pronounced is lost on you now, and indeed shall be always, and I instantly regret having literally wasted my time by uttering them to you.”
I moved into position for the kill, shaking my head gently from side to side, head bowed. Then I raised it slowly, eyelids half-closed at first, and then suddenly opened them wide as I looked into his repellent features. Always theatrical, Mosie, theatrical or die:
“Yes, my good fellow, I am going to gaol tonight, but so are you. You shall go to a different kind of gaol, perhaps, but you are just as much a prisoner in your own private hellhole as I shall be. More so, in fact, because after all, I have been sentenced to only two years’ hard labour, and one day I shall have paid my debt to society and shall be released from the services of the State, whereas you have been sentenced to life, my friend, and I swear by all that is holy that you shall serve every single sad and sorry second.”
Do you know, sweet Mosie, I fancied I saw a little tear or two travelling down his cheek as he pushed me down the stairs and proceeded to kick the living daylights out of me. Violence, violence, it is the only language the lower orders understand ...
But, like that policeman, the only recipients of my words now make it all a waste of time. Farewell to the rousing applause. Adieu to all those packed West End drawing rooms. My theatre, hitherto full of cheery, happy faces, lit by dozens of fine chandeliers all around and alive with row upon row of ripples of laughter, is now only full of empty seats, dark as night, and silent as the grave, and I walk my deserted stage alone, driving my boots down especially hard as I do so in the desperate hope that the sharp echo of my footsteps on the boards shall drown out the cruel catcalls and merciless booing I hear in my head ...
I left Reading with that huge essay I was telling you about, the tortuous gloomy reflections of a young Irishman wracked with pain, smitten with the love that dare not speak its name for a member of the upper échelons of Albion’s high society. My publisher insisted on changing the name, however:
“Don’t be a fool, Oscar”, he warned me, “we can’t possibly bring it out as “Me and My Nob”.
“You are quite right”, I said. “It should properly be, of course, “My Nob and I”.
“No, no”, he sighed, “what I mean is the censors will be down on us like a ton of bricks from the word go.”
And so he plumped for “De Profundis”. A bit lame, I thought.
But why write or speak at all if it is not appreciated? Let me give you an example. In the first few days here in Paris, I got talking to a little Dubliner playing the violin outside Gare St Lazare. He offered to play a tune just for me, don’t you know. A famous melody, which instantly brought me back to the rolling hills and lakes of County Fermanagh I frolicked around when Mamma sent me to Portora Royal in Enniskillen to make a man of me. And make a man of me it did. O Mosie, such memories, playing with the big boys’ conkers behind the bicycle shed ...
“Oi tink ye’ll be knowin’ da Londonderry Air, so ye will, sorr,” said my violinist when he’d finished.
O, thank the Lord I was born in a respectable part of Dublin and studied at places such as Portora and Trinity College. Imagine the chagrin of having to speak like that all the time. And the name, Mosie, his given name! Seamus O’Sheugh. Heavens, I feel grubby just writing it, let alone saying it.
“Oh yes, the Londonderry Air. Naturally I am acquainted with it, my dear Seamus”, I simpered, “I have been intimate with many a London derrière, believe you me, but one of my main reasons for travelling here is to take a closer look at the Paris variety. Woo, woo!”
But damme if the confounded nincompoop merely looked at me blankly with knitted brows. The lights were on, but nobody home. Not a hint of a reaction. Pearls before swine, or I never saw it.
Nevertheless, despite his horrendous name, atrocious diction and dullness of intellect, Seamus was quite the gentleman (and a closet case, I suspect), and helped me out in all sorts of little ways. He assisted in getting me rooms and showed me around Paris. He also took me to a darling club in one of those seedy streets around Pigalle, “Les Garçons”, where there was nary a woman to be seen, apart from the owner, a rather severe-looking lady with close-cropped hair.
“She bats for de udder soide, Mister Woilde”, Seamus whispered to me at the bar.
I decided to take this as a fresh opportunity, and so I tried again:
“Well”, I quipped, “if she bats for the other side, she may also have bowled many a maiden over. Woo, woo!”
The man just stood there looking at me quizzically. For God’s sake …
“A maiden over”, I repeated, helplessly. “You know. Maiden – maiden over. As in cricket. And, er … knocked her for six on a deliciously wet sticky wicket, perhaps … er, howzat?”
“How’s what, sorr?” was all he said, so I let it lie.
The sign outside “Les Garçons” was rather naughtily tongue-in-cheek, I thought – it said “Members Only”. Smiling devilishly, I had just opened my mouth to address Seamus on the subject in jest, but I closed it again because I was rapidly coming to the conclusion there was little point in such an enterprise with the likes of Mr O’Sheugh.
Considering the ghastly murders in Whitechapel a few years ago, the stage name of the star turn at “Les Garçons” was in rather bad taste, but I suppose Jacques Le Stripper was as good a name as any for an entrepreneuse to pull in the crowds. Our Jacques was from the colonies, big and black as a badger’s bottom. He came on and stripped, and then danced and strutted around for a while totally naked. There was even a contest one night. We paid a few coins for a ticket to guess the weight of a particular part of his body – no prizes for guessing which, my boy - and the prize was none other than a tête-à-tête with its proud owner the following evening. After a while a bald man came out with a special set of elongated scales, and Jacques laid his monster out on them. What luck - mine was the closest guess at a whopping 12 ounces! As for my winnings, I was anxious to avoid any scandals with M. le Juge, and in that regard I could not take any chances with my busybody landlady, who was always prowling around. I thus implored Jacques to be discreet when he arrived at my rooms, and the darling man complied wonderfully. He dutifully slipped in the tradesman’s entrance and came up my back passage. Woo, woo!
But that was some years ago, and now I am ill, dreadfully ill. Ill and practically penniless, and I feel the end is near. Ever since I moved to this mean little hotel, my wallpaper and I have been fighting a duel to the death, Mosie, and one of us has got to go.
The publisher was kind enough to send over a man to make some arrangements for me, but I am afraid to say that lately the only arrangements he is making are for my impending demise. The other day he was writing things down in a little book, and at one point enquired softly whether I would care to be placed in Père Lachaise cemetery when the time came.
Prostrate on my horrid bed and hardly able to move, I gave him a weak little smile and proffered my thanks, but shook my head and told him I would not be seen dead in the place. Can you believe he actually wrote that down in his notebook, Mosie?
Bless the man, he also wanted to know what kind of casket I should prefer:
“There is the classic wooden variety, sir”, he told me, “although there are also versions made of specially strengthened kraft paper and other materials.”
My breathing was very laboured by now, and I said very slowly:
“My dear fellow, my frenzied past is littered with amorous encounters, but I have now reached the stage where I care very little whether I get wood or whether I do not get wood.”
Another of those puzzled looks, dearest Mosie. The end was coming fast, and frankly I was beginning to wish it would arrive a little faster. But no, there was even more disappreciation torture in store for me:
"And, er, Mr Wilde, would you like any music at the, er, event, sir? Something sober and appropriate … some, er, Gregorian chants, perhaps?”
Lord knows, Mosie, I did my level witty best until the bitter end:
“Given the state of my finances, my good man”, I croaked, “chance’d be a fine thing.”
I then watched in utter disbelief as the fool nodded and repeated it slowly while writing it down, “All right, so that’s … Gregorian … chants … a … fine … thing. Got that, sir”.
My time is up, Mosie. It is time for me to meet my maker. Love to you and the pretty boys always, and the last quip is for you, dear lad, for I am dying beyond my means. Woo … woo … woooooooo ….
…
“How sad”, said Angela, as I emerged from the wavies. “Such a terrible way to go.”
“Don’t distress yourself, Angela”, I consoled her. “Earlier this very year, Oscar was given a posthumous pardon. Although the word “pardon” appeared in one of the UK dailies with an H instead of a P. In an article called “Death of A Males Man”. They apologised later. Said it was a typo.”
“Really?” said Garmendia.
“Of course not”, I told him, “The posthumous pardon is 100% true, sure enough, along with 50,000 other men over the years – 50,000! - but the bit about the P and the article title are just me frigging around on the great Oscar’s behalf. Just fake news. But … you see how easy it is to start a rumour in this day and age, don’t you? All I’d have to do is put that on Twitter, and in only a few hours it would be practically true. Think what Goebbels could have achieved with the likes of Twitter.”
Suddenly, my phone rang. I looked at the mobile. It was Daniel. Discount Danny, I call him. For obvious reasons. The reasons you already know.
“Well, folks”, I said, “it’s been a while, but here we have a customer calling.”
“Is that the Little Translator?” piped up an eager voice.
“It is he, yes”, I replied, coolly.
“Oh, good. Now, do you have any experience in tender translations?”
“Certainly – and some tough ones, too. But they’re always … well done”, I said, coldly.
“Oh, Little Translator, you’re such a card … well, you see, we have a large tender to be translated asap. Would you be interested?”
“What does large mean? How many words is it?” I asked, frostily.
“It’s around 50K, but there’s a substantial amount in the TM, you see, very substantial, in fact. About 30K.”
“The customer’s TM? Or your TM?” I enquired, icily.
Because I could see the way this was going. And so can you.
“A combination of both, really. You see, they have their own internal team, and a few of our other vendors have been working on it for some time now.”
“In other words, the TM has been mercilessly mauled and misinterpreted by multiple maladroit mitts over many months”, I concluded, freezingly.
“There’s no need to be so frosty about it all, you know.”
Well, I just had to put him straight on that one:
“No, frosty was some way back there, Danny. That last bit was said freezingly”, I said, warmly.
“Freezingly? What kind of a word is “freezingly”? You can’t even say “freezingly”, protested Danny.
“Yes, of course you can. In fact, now we’ve both said it. And you’ve already said it three times more than I have”, I insisted, heatedly.
“Oh, have it your own way. Anyway, the thing is that the 30K fuzzies will be discounted at between 60% and 90% from the new proprietary translation environment we’ve set up. It’s called the Automated Retrieval System, but all our vendors just call it the ARS.”
“I daresay they do, Danny”, I said, hotly.
“Yes, it’s cutting-edge stuff, really, and very easy to learn too.”
“So I’ll have to waste my valuable time learning it, will I, Danny?” I asked, boilingly.
“Boilingly? Now you definitely can’t say boilingly, Little Translator. There’s no way that word exists.”
“But”, I reminded him, “I didn’t say it, did I? You did. Twice.”
“Honestly, Little Translator”, said Danny in exasperation, “I really don’t know how you ever get any work at all, the way you complain about everything even before it’s been explained to you.”
I relented.
“OK, OK, so explain it ...”
“Well, you’ll receive an e-mail with a heads-up on the zip files I’ve already sent. Then you’ll get another e-mail with a special one-time password to use at the link and download the zips. And don’t worry about learning the ARS itself – it’s child’s play, and you’ll pick it up in no time at all. I’ll send you another e-mail with instructions on how to enter the ARS site with a special password to get access to the ARS manual. Well, actually, it’s more than a manual. We have online ARS videos with full-colour screenshots, and even an ARS webinar and an online ARS tutor to clear up any ARS points you might be hazy on. And free, well, practically free, too. Every month we simply discount a fraction of the price these state-of-the-art systems normally cost from your bill, because we have to cover minimum expenses, of course. Anyway, all you have to do is use your special new vendor number, which I’ll send to you in another e-mail, to go to a special link on our website, register your details, choose a user name and a password, enter the system, whereupon you have to choose a new user name and a new password for security reasons and confirm, and then you get an automatic e-mail with system confirmation, with a link to the TMs for downloading into a separate system, which requires a totally different special password, for security reasons, and that’s it, your ARS is loaded and ready to go. … Oh yes, the thing is, Little Translator, this is a very very good customer of ours, and we’d like you to make a special effort on the price for this one, to take it down by 10%. And the best thing of all, you know, is that they say there may be an awful lot more of this if they’re happy with it.”
Well, I had to smile at that. I first heard that one about twenty years ago, and I believed it too, and I heard it many times since.
But I only believed it the once.
“And no need to worry about working out the final price”, Danny went on, “because I forgot to mention, just to make things far easier for everyone concerned, we now have an online invoicing and payments platform – the Synchronised Handling And Fast Transmission system, so you don’t even have to worry about writing any bills, because the system does it for you and feeds in any discounts that may be applicable, as in this case. We call it …”
“SHAFT for short?” I ventured. “Goes quite well with the ARS system. You know, Danny, thanks and all that, but I think I’m going to have to wheel out my own GFY criterion on this one.”
“Er, GFY?”
“I’ll give you a clue, Danny. The Y stands for Yourself. Have a nice day shafting.”
Click. Since the customer usually hangs up on me, I thought I’d get in first this time around.
“Don’t tell me”, said Garmendia. “No go?”
“No go”, I nodded.
Then the Sergeant’s phone rang. We watched his growing surprise as he listened. He nodded and walked around a little, said “OK then, sir”, and snapped it shut.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Can’t tell you yet”, he said. “Just go ahead and put the usual three dots at the end, LT. I’ll tell you next time. We’re done with this episode. Cliffhanger, see.”
“Just a minute, Garmendia”, I said indignantly. “This may all be nonsense, but it’s a nonsense I’m in charge of, and I’ll decide when we …”
The policeman took his sunglasses from the bar, held them in front of him with arms fully outstretched, and proceeded to put them on ever so slowly. He looked at me sideways, and then looked up at the ceiling. Then he looked down at the floor.
“Oh all right, then”, I sighed. “I suppose ending with a Caruso Moment is as good an ending as any.”
… ▲ Collapse
| | | |
ARS? Skite? There has to be a joke in there somewhere.
| | | |
Great stuff, Mervyn. Sad, funny, insightful. Love the misplaced asterisks and the Oscar to Mosie letter in particular.
| | | | Nikolaki
France
Local time: 07:01
French to English
| A tear to my ear | Oct 24, 2017 |
Deeply moving prose, Henderson. You're not afraid to address the most sordid aspects of human existence, such as customers expecting a 10% discount.
Right, I'm nipping out to Père Lachaise to see if I can hear a whirring sound…
[Edited at 2017-10-24 12:17 GMT]
[Edited at 2017-10-24 12:18 GMT]
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