Would you like to make this site your homepage? It's fast and easy...
Yes, Please make this my home page!
LITERATURE
LA FETE (French)
(French short story in three parts: Cochon grillé, Semaine Sainte, La fête.)
SEMAINE SAINTE (French)
(Partie centrale de "La Fête.)
PASSION WEEK (English)
(Central part of "LA FETE" in English.)
CHIEN LOUP (French)
H... (French)
L'ART une farce (French)
NOBLE SPORT (French)
EXECUTIVE BATH POLISHERS (English)
A DREAM (English)
LIMERICKS (English)
BACK TO LITERATURE,ESSAYS,POLITICS
BACK TO SITE PLAN
EXECUTIVE BATH POLISHERS.
I'm a traveling man. The hazard of my peregrinations brought
me some time ago to London, where I lived in Edgeware Road
and took the subway at Marble Arch to go to work. On week
ends I used to walk to the Serpentine, alongside the Corner,
where weird chaps of different descriptions stand on soap
boxes and, following in steps of Demostenes, refine their
rhetoric by haranguing with mouths full of mashed potatoes.
As I'm not particularly fond of mashed potatoes, you won't
often catch me there.
However, on that day my ear was caught by unusually clear
delivery of something sounding rather joyous and suggesting
exultant happiness, in sharp contrast with the gray, gloomy
atmosphere within and without myself. I could do with a change,
so I stopped and gave the orator a quick once over. Young
slender fellow in not too dirty overalls dancing on his box
and apparently having fun as if he were a whole bunch of Marx
Brothers. Behind him a poster attached to a pole proclaimed
in huge characters:
EXECUTIVE BATH POLISHERS.
Rather cryptic, if you see what I mean, so I approached the
Polisher to inquire about the key.
-Hello, gov'nor, -he exclaimed- you look pretty pissed off.
Come closer and we will arrange it in no time.-
-Fine,- I said- but I'm all muddled. Who is supposed to be
"Executive"? Are you "Executive Polishers"? Or the baths are
"Executive"? Or, maybe you polish only baths belonging to
"Executives". I must get it straight, before I can think
about arranging anything.-
-OK, gov'nor. You're still more pissed off than you look,
but I'll tell you all and you'll get the gist sooner than
you can say oh.-
-Suppose, you wake up in the morning feeling like something
the cat brought in. No wonder: you dreamt about the lousy
yesterday and you look to a still lousier today. You don't
feel like getting up. The weather is gloomy, you will take
the shitty underground and travel amid long-faced blighters,
where to? To your lousy work, to meet your bloody arrogant
boss, your treacherous hypocrites of colleagues, your ugly
secretary and to spend the whole day doing things you hate
more than anything. Still, you get up, because you must, you
go to your bathroom and that puts the lid on everything: your
drab, dreary bathtub looks like descent to hell.-
-And that's where we come in.- he cheered up. -You give us
the sign, we go to your flat, do our little bit and here you
are waking up on the morrow. First, all's lousy, as usual.
Till you go to the bathroom. And then... you hold your
breath! Your bright, polished tub shines like a dazzling sun
and its glow dissipates all gloomy shadows. You enter the
bath like a gate to heaven. You play with the ducks we left
on the shelf and start to sing like a lark splashing water
around you. You find the blue bird and it will follow you
everywhere singing that every cloud has a silver lining.
Why I gave him the order is more than I can say. Why should
I have bath or anything, executive or otherwise, polished at
my expense in a flat rented for a couple of months? Sheer
nonsense, you will say and you will be right. Still, why cry
over spilled milk? After all it was quite cheap and I had
some money to burn.
Next monday I asked the doorkeeper to let them in and by the
time I was back from work the job has been done. The tub was
concealed under some sort of cover with a piece of paper
saying that it should be left like that until the morning.
OK, I left it, took a quick shower and went to bed.
I woke up feeling very much like the morning after. Weather
was depressing, in perfect keeping with my mood. I trudged
painfully to the bathroom, pulled the cover and ... I held
my breath! The bright, polished tub shined like a dazzling
sun and its glow dissipated all gloomy shadows. I entered
the bath like a gate to heaven. There was a duck on the
shelf, blue like the blue bird. How long ago did I last play
with ducks in my bath? I can't say, but I still remembered
the procedure: you push the bird down to the bottom and let
it go. It rushes up like mad and jumps in the air to a
considerable hight splashing water all around and looking
happy like dammit. Now, if you ever played with ducks in
baths, you know that it's simply impossible without singing.
So I heard myself singing, surprised like hell. Not so much
by singing, because I'm a rather musical sort of cove, as by
the repertoire. My usual ranges from "Chain Gang" to
"Hangman's Rope", but I pushed , believe it or not, "I Feel
Like A Millionaire" and in top allegro too.
The spell kept on. I should have found the wind and the
drizzle ghastly and grim, but no matter how much I tried
they kept on being bracing, making my cheeks burn and my
lips smile. I bought a boutonniere and a bouquet of violets
from a flower girl. In the subway I ceded my place to an old
lady, whom a purist could label as a tramp, but who seemed
to me rather charming. Everybody around seemed nice and
friendly.
The boss gave me a tough job in a dry manner. Yet, on second
thought I found the idea a shrewd and exciting challenge and
pondered on the heavy burden he carries making the company
as prosperous as it is and all of us as well of as we are.
I gave my secretary the violets and she looked at me with
surprise. I never noticed that her eyes were so nicely brown,
warm and tender. They were no ugly eyes. They made her face
less ugly, no, indeed, not ugly at all, something like
pretty; indeed quite pretty and attractive.
-Harry called you- she said, -and asked to call him back-.
Harry, the worst hypocrite of them all. What the hell did he
want? She passed me the telephone. -Hello, old boy- said
Harry, -I heard they dumped on you this shit. I'm not
overcharged at the moment, so, if you want, I could give you
a hand-.
I'm a traveling man. The hazard of my peregrinations brought
me to other countries, to other flats, to other bathrooms.
The tubs were drab. I tried to have one or two polished by
best craftsmen, but all they achieved was elegant shining
effect like that of well cleaned shoes. Nothing to dissipate
my gloomy mood. Still, I can sometimes see the silver lining.
Maybe thanks to the duck. I took it from that bathroom and
made it to a steady companion. Even if it's not the blue
bird, it imitates it better than you could imagine.
