“Monsieur, I regret, but I cannot be of assistance; Ze Tour Eiffel cannot be closed on ze weem of a wealthy American.”
“Weem? …Whim?” the American shouted. “I told Marlene while we were back in Texas that she could go up the Eiffel tower. She’s been looking forward to it for weeks!”
The little Frenchman sighed. “Monsieur, your wife is welcome to buy a ticket along with ze rest of our esteemed visitors.”
The American looked around at the mile long queue and snorted. “I don’t think so. Look bud…. how much for the thing?”
“This,” replied the American, pointing up at the Eiffel Tower.
“You want to buy ze tower?”
“Yes, yes, dammit. Look here, 2 million dollars in this rucksack. Cash sale.”
The Frenchman scratched his black goatee, uncertain, but then smiled and took the bag. “But of course, monsieur. I will just go and tell ze operators about ze new owners. I will be back toute suite.”
“The name’s Vanderranch, Bob Vanderranch,” shouted the American after the disappearing Frenchman. “Make sure they spell that right!”
“What did he mean, ‘toad sweet?’” said Marlene, twenty minutes later.
“Hell I don’t know,” said the American. “It all sounds the same to me. But don’t worry; everybody speaks dollar, even in this dump.”