Nowhere Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Thomas Berger
here. When I was last awake, I was in a vehicle on a street in New York City.”
She nodded sympathetically. “You had had some drinks before your friends brought you aboard, I think. You vent to sleep and only now have you awakened up. Vot puzzles me, sir, is how you have retained your you-reen all the night long.”
“Pardon me...?”
She frowned. “Don’t you have to make peepee?”
I wasn’t prepared for her frankness, which I began to suspect was habitual. I shook my head. I had had nothing to drink since the cheap plonk of my wretched supper: it seemed clear enough that that swine Rasmussen had drugged me. I would be mighty indignant when this flight touched down. Meanwhile there was nothing to do but eat breakfast. Both the coffee and croissant were excellent.
The stewardess said her name was Olga. She seemed to be working alone.
I asked whether there were any other passengers.
“Now, no. Your friends left in Vienna.”
“Did one of them have a bad complexion?”
“To be sure,” said Olga. She vivaciously sat down in the aisle seat. Her skirt was so short that her columnar thighs were now altogether bare. “I did not like him, forgive me!”
“Neither do I,” I freely admitted.
She lifted the hinged seat-arm between us, leaned against me, and peered into my face. Her eyes were very blue. “Foreigners sometimes do not understand our vays. Ve do not have to screw under every circumstance. For example, rudeness is a reason not; opening the trousers first, or foul language, or violent seizings! All of these your friend did, forgive me.”
“Let me apologize for him,” said I. “He’s not, thank heavens, typical of my countrymen.” I felt some security in expressing this patriotic sentiment. “The average Yank, whom perhaps you haven’t been fortunate enough to meet, is a hardworking family man whose simple idea of pleasure is to burn meat on a charcoal grill. He is definitely not a cryptofascist religious-fanatic warmonger, though he is, at work, no Nipponese zealot. He may even be something of a slacker, speaking industrially, but—”
“ You can screw with me, to be sure,” said Olga. She grasped the hem of her perfunctory skirt and raised it, lifting her bottom. She seemed to be wearing no underthings.
I have seldom been found lacking in carnal appetite, but no element in this state of affairs was propitious.
“I’ll tell you,” I told her, somehow sensing that it would not be considered a rejection, “I’d prefer, right now, to drink another cup of coffee and eat a second croissant.”
I was right: she popped up, her skirt falling after a long and not at all unattractive moment, and smiling sweetly as ever, went to do my bidding. This time the croissant was accompanied by a fluffy pale mound, not a poisonously golden pat, of sweet butter and a little Limoges pot of an extraordinarily fragrant honey. Having delivered these, Olga sat down next to me again. She, too, exuded a lovely bouquet similar to that of the honey. I mentioned it to her, and she told me that both honey and scent traced their origins to a wild flower peculiar to the high meadows of her country. I must say that the associations the name Saint Sebastian had today were preferable to those of the evening before.
I could not forgive Rasmussen for the manner in which he had shanghaied me, but while finishing my breakfast I did remember the job for which I had been hired.
“Tell me, Olga,” I said, gesturing with half a croissant, “about your prince.”
“What is to be told?”
I nibbled and swallowed. “Is he loved by the people of Saint Sebastian?”
“Why nawt?” She laughed hahaha.
“Umm. But you know what I mean: is he really liked, admired, and so on, or does he simply hold power by brute force?”
“Ah,” she sighed. “I could never know about that. My job is to be stewardess, and not to deal in social theoretics, you see.”
It occurred to me to ask, “Do you even have the
She nodded sympathetically. “You had had some drinks before your friends brought you aboard, I think. You vent to sleep and only now have you awakened up. Vot puzzles me, sir, is how you have retained your you-reen all the night long.”
“Pardon me...?”
She frowned. “Don’t you have to make peepee?”
I wasn’t prepared for her frankness, which I began to suspect was habitual. I shook my head. I had had nothing to drink since the cheap plonk of my wretched supper: it seemed clear enough that that swine Rasmussen had drugged me. I would be mighty indignant when this flight touched down. Meanwhile there was nothing to do but eat breakfast. Both the coffee and croissant were excellent.
The stewardess said her name was Olga. She seemed to be working alone.
I asked whether there were any other passengers.
“Now, no. Your friends left in Vienna.”
“Did one of them have a bad complexion?”
“To be sure,” said Olga. She vivaciously sat down in the aisle seat. Her skirt was so short that her columnar thighs were now altogether bare. “I did not like him, forgive me!”
“Neither do I,” I freely admitted.
She lifted the hinged seat-arm between us, leaned against me, and peered into my face. Her eyes were very blue. “Foreigners sometimes do not understand our vays. Ve do not have to screw under every circumstance. For example, rudeness is a reason not; opening the trousers first, or foul language, or violent seizings! All of these your friend did, forgive me.”
“Let me apologize for him,” said I. “He’s not, thank heavens, typical of my countrymen.” I felt some security in expressing this patriotic sentiment. “The average Yank, whom perhaps you haven’t been fortunate enough to meet, is a hardworking family man whose simple idea of pleasure is to burn meat on a charcoal grill. He is definitely not a cryptofascist religious-fanatic warmonger, though he is, at work, no Nipponese zealot. He may even be something of a slacker, speaking industrially, but—”
“ You can screw with me, to be sure,” said Olga. She grasped the hem of her perfunctory skirt and raised it, lifting her bottom. She seemed to be wearing no underthings.
I have seldom been found lacking in carnal appetite, but no element in this state of affairs was propitious.
“I’ll tell you,” I told her, somehow sensing that it would not be considered a rejection, “I’d prefer, right now, to drink another cup of coffee and eat a second croissant.”
I was right: she popped up, her skirt falling after a long and not at all unattractive moment, and smiling sweetly as ever, went to do my bidding. This time the croissant was accompanied by a fluffy pale mound, not a poisonously golden pat, of sweet butter and a little Limoges pot of an extraordinarily fragrant honey. Having delivered these, Olga sat down next to me again. She, too, exuded a lovely bouquet similar to that of the honey. I mentioned it to her, and she told me that both honey and scent traced their origins to a wild flower peculiar to the high meadows of her country. I must say that the associations the name Saint Sebastian had today were preferable to those of the evening before.
I could not forgive Rasmussen for the manner in which he had shanghaied me, but while finishing my breakfast I did remember the job for which I had been hired.
“Tell me, Olga,” I said, gesturing with half a croissant, “about your prince.”
“What is to be told?”
I nibbled and swallowed. “Is he loved by the people of Saint Sebastian?”
“Why nawt?” She laughed hahaha.
“Umm. But you know what I mean: is he really liked, admired, and so on, or does he simply hold power by brute force?”
“Ah,” she sighed. “I could never know about that. My job is to be stewardess, and not to deal in social theoretics, you see.”
It occurred to me to ask, “Do you even have the