Al imagined a wan smile spreading over the Frenchman’s lips, but since his eyes were on the heavily armed elves, he had no real way to know.
The answer came in English: “Sword swallower, knife thrower, razor walker, blade juggler. I am Marc Manon the Magnificent Master of Metals Mucronate.” He paused, and then conceded with some chagrin, “The alliteration breaks down a bit in translation. So you may call me just Marc the Magnificent.”
“Yup, reckon I got that. So ya do tricks with pointy things.”
“Yes, I have honed my skills to a razor’s edge.” He waited for a laugh, but when none came he switched back to French. “And what is it that you do for your...group? I am guessing not negotiation.”
“Well, right now I’m preparing to shoot one of these buffoons in the face. Which, if you like, is a form of negotiation.”
“If so, then certainly not of the win-win variety.”
“Sure it is - you win, and I win.”
“Well put. And how is it, may I ask, that you speak French?”
“Used to spend as much time as I could spare in Paris, mostly Montparnasse. There were a lot of good places to hear poetry there.”
“To be sure there are! How long did you live in the City of Lights?”
“Never lived there, but hopped over whenever I could when I was living in London, and then around the Baltic. Of course, that was back in the late fifites, Marc the Magnificent, so I don’t know what the scene is like now.”
“More vibrant than ever before, my friend Al. They are calling it a new Golden Age for Montparnasse! What were your favorite haunts? La Closerie des Lilas? La Rotonde?”
“Yes, I spent a little time in those places. They were in the guides. But their beer was never any good.”
“Wait a moment, Al. The guides?”
“Yes, the tourist guides. They said I should be sure to sit and watch people walk by. Sounded ridiculous to me, but when in doubt, follow directions.”
There was a deflated sound to the Frenchman’s voice, and Al wondered if it was something he’d said. “So, what did you think? Of the people-watching in Paris?”
“Never did take to it. People are a lot more colorful in New Orleans or Lagos. And those cafes were supposed to be where poets spent time, but what good was that if you couldn’t hear them read it there?”
“Yes, yes of course.” The man’s voice had lit up once more. “Where, then, did you end up spending your time when you visited?”
“Oh, various basement venues, mostly off Boulevard St-Michel. Few had names, but if you kept your ears open, you could find the good reads. Damned good poetry. Loved it.”
“Yes, my friend, those are the very best places. Au Chat Noir is there.”
“Yeah, been there.”
“Let me see, late fifties, who might you have heard? Adam Alone was active at that time. Prose, yes, but quite good.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Marcel Avignon? Heloise Ntzake?”
“Nope.”
“Sean Wingrove? Felicity Greaves-Hitchens? Yang? Sunny Deathhouse?”
“Sorry. Can’t say, really.”
“Wait, you say you frequented the Montparnasse poetry scene in the late fifties, but never heard any of the period’s luminaries?”
“Well, I might have. I just never thought to ask what their names were. Just liked the poetry. And the berets.”
“The berets?”
“Yes, the berets. The black turtlenecks. Goatees. Best poems had bongo drums. Lots of smoke, brick walls and arches. Creaky wood floors. All very cool. Coffee in cute teeny tiny cups. Plus the girls. Lots of starry-eyed girls in very tight sweaters.”
Back to English. And all huffy now. Just when Al thought he was making his first circus friend. “Good day to you, monsieur. I wish you all the best with the bandits.”
“Ya leavin’ already. Hell, ol’ Al ain’t even got a chance to recite ya some o’ muh own lyrical versage.”
“You will pardon me, monsieur, but the dust seems to have become a bit too much for me.”
And with a swirl of his cape - well, he wasn’t wearing a cape, but if he had been it would have seemed like he’d swirled it - the man was gone.
