The Peaceful Affair: Chapter 4
Nimble, noble, and nubile, she was more than a woman — much more: she was a Woman. Her looks alone had killed many a man — and several a woman — by provoking anything from a heart attack to an unintended slip off a 500-foot cliff. Countless petty — and not so petty — would-be Casanovas and Casanovettes had thought they were up for the task. How wrong they’d been.
She entered the building and rippled toward the information desk, more incandescent than the blazing morning sun outside. “I’m looking for the office of the secretary-general,” she said in a husky voice, which bespoke untold depths. Luckily, the guard had a strong young heart — which he lost forthwith, naturally.
“It’s … It’s …” the guard tried to answer.
Totally unfazed, long familiar with this sort of reaction, the Woman stepped behind the information counter, and helped herself to the computer positioned on the desk. A few keystrokes later, having obtained the required information, she flashed a smile at the stricken guard, brushed his cheek, and said, “Thanks, hon.” She then walked towards the elevators, totally ignoring what sounded like a body thudding behind her.
The Woman stepped out of the elevator on the last floor, turned left, and entered a spacious office containing two large desks, a luxurious settee, and some uncomfortable-looking Pierre-Eve Sitnot designer chairs. Needless to say, the man behind Desk Number One was in quite a useless state. The woman behind Desk Number Two seemed capable of speech. The Woman approached her.
“I’m here to see the secretary-general.”
“And you are?”
“Miss Lipps.”
“Ah, yes, Mr. Myx’s assistant.”
“I prefer ‘operative’.”
“Very well, operative. Please take a seat. The secretary-general will be with you in a moment.”
Lipps opted for the settee, thinking how nice it was to encounter now and again someone you could talk to with no apparent nefarious consequences. By and by, a soft chime was heard, and the woman behind Desk Number Two said, “The secretary-general will see you now.” Lipps got up and walked in the indicated direction.
“Miss Lipps! What a pleasure.” The small middle-aged woman behind the large desk rose to meet the operative, as she entered the surprisingly Spartan office. Extending her hand, a wide smile festooning her strong visage, the secretary-general of the United Nations asked warmly, “And just how is Noro these days?”
Lipps shook the proffered hand, saying, “Oh, springily lethargic, as usual.”
“Excellent, excellent. At least someone’s having fun.”
“Problems at the UN?”
“I’ll say. The Spanish delegation has just put forward a motion to allow men delegates.”
Lipps burst into laughter. “Utterly preposterous. I mean, granted, men are good chess players. Heck, that’s why they do war. But negotiating war — now that’s a woman’s job if there ever was one. How can a man be a UN delegate?”
“My point exactly. You see what poppycock I have to deal with. Anyway, enough of my problems — can I offer you a drink?” A well-replenished bar stood in the corner.
“A Coke would be fine.”
“Regular? Diet?”
“Hon,” began Lipps decisively, “I never touch anything that aims to diminish pleasure. And since they haven’t yet come up with Super, a Regular will be fine.”
The older woman filled one glass with Coke and the other with mineral water. “So,” she said, once the two were seated with drinks in hand, “how can I help you and Noro?”
“Well, as you may well imagine, the details of the case we’re investigating at the moment are confidential.”
“Of course, of course.”
“Nonetheless, Noro was hoping you’d be able to help us out in some small way.”
“I’ll do the best I can. I owe Noro more than one life.”
Lipps paused for a moment, perhaps to gather momentum. “Apart from the ridiculous Spanish motion, have you noticed anything out of the ordinary lately?”
“My dear,” smiled the secretary-general, “things are always out of the ordinary around here.”
“Maybe. But I’m referring to something totally out of whack.”
The secretary-general touched her right hand to her forehead, and after a moment of pondering averred, “The Swiss.”
“What about them?” asked Lipps. “I mean, they’re practically the only country in the world that’s not a member of the UN.”
“One of two non-member states, to be precise, the second being the Holy See. Anyway, you wanted something utterly disharmonious. Well, the only thing I can come up with is this: the Swiss want in.”
“They want to join the UN?” asked Lipps, perking up in interest.
“In private conversations I’ve had over the past week or so with members of their Permanent Observer Mission at UN Headquarters, they’ve indicated that they’re seriously considering applying for membership. Remarkable, really, after so many years of sheer neutrality. By the way,” added the secretary-general, “this information is highly confidential.”
“You know you can trust Noro and me absolutely.”
The woman drinking mineral water replied in a serious voice, “I know. Otherwise, I would not have breathed a word of this.”
“Well,” said Lipps as she rose from her chair, “I think we’re all done here. Noro and I are very grateful for this information.”
“You’re most welcome,” said the secretary-general, as the two parted company. “Do give my best to Noro. Such a sweet, sweet man.”
“Sometimes, sometimes,” mumbled Lipps as she left, her thoughts having taken a different route. So the Swiss want to join the world and wage war. Interesting. In fact, very interesting.
“I hate it when he does this,” remarked the tall dwarf from behind the wheel. She and the small giant were seated in a small blue Ford they had rented in the city an hour earlier. They were headed toward Loony Prunes, the famous mental institution in upstate New York.
“You must admit, though, it does sound intriguing,” replied the small giant thoughtfully, peering out the window at the morning scenery of chirping birds and burping turds. “I mean, this guy we’re supposed to interview, Edgar, apparently has some kind of unique illness.”
“Yes,” said the tall dwarf, “Raven Syndrome. He only utters phrases out of Edgar Allan Poe’s The Raven. The guy’s real name isn’t even Edgar, though Noro didn’t see fit to reveal it to us.”
“Maybe he doesn’t know.”
“Yeah, right, maybe.”
They drove on in silence for another forty-five minutes, until arriving at a minute one-road village, at the edge of which stood a large modern-looking building. There was an ineffable quality about it that bespoke mental institution, especially the large sign at the gate reading: Loony Prunes — Mental Institution. The guard let them in with a smile once he’d found their names on the visitor list. They parked the car and marched into the lobby.
“We’re here to see Dr. Freud,” said the small giant to the pretty receptionist.
“Do you have an appointment?” asked the young man.
“Yes,” replied the tall dwarf impatiently.
“One moment, please.”
The pretty receptionist picked up the phone. “Excuse me, Dr. Jung, I have two visitors for Dr. Freud. They say they have an appointment. I see. Dr. Adler, then? Or perhaps, Dr. Piaget? Very well. Thank you Dr. Jung.” The young man put down the receiver. “Dr. Freud is unavailable at the moment,” he told the two visitors, “but Dr. Skinner will see you. Go up the stairs to the first floor, and then turn left. It’ll be the third door on your right.”
“Thank you,” said the small giant, and the two proceeded to follow the instructions given, until they reached a nondescript doorplate reading: Frederic Skinner, MD, PhD. The small giant’s gentle tap was answered immediately by a low bass voice. “Come in, it’s open.”
His stature of six feet and six inches notwithstanding, Dr. Frederic Skinner was a very short man. “Ah, I take it you’re Noro’s assistants.”
“Yes,” said the tall dwarf, “we are.”
“Please, do take a seat. Noro and his team are always welcome here,” continued the low bass voice. “Twice he’s helped us evade a scandal.”
The small giant was about to inquire about the scandals but there was no need as the psychiatrist immediately chose to talk about it.
“You see, we’ve got a slew of former presidents here who have this uncanny ability of persuading people to start campaigns. Usually, we’re able to keep things under control, but twice we had patients escape along with a sizable chunk of our staff. Noro was able to help us retrieve them before any real damage was done. The first gentleman was found in Hollywood, where he was auditioning for the key role in an autobiographical film of Harrison Ford. The second had just won the governorship of Arkansas. Like I said, we were lucky to have Noro find them before anything bad happened. But enough of these free associations. I understand you wish to see Edgar?”
“Yes,” answered the tall dwarf. “Noro sent us to ask him a few questions. We understand he has Raven Syndrome?”
“I see you’ve been informed,” said Skinner. “A unique malady, indeed. The only phrases he’s ever uttered since arriving here are ones excerpted from The Raven, that most wonderful poem by Edgar Allan Poe. Refuses to answer to anything other than Edgar, too. As far as we know, it’s the only recorded case of this syndrome in the literature. In fact, one of our staff members, Dr. James, was the first to diagnose and name it.”
“Is Edgar violent?” asked the small giant.
“Not in the least.”
“Do you have any idea what brought on this illness of his?”
“No. I regret to say the etiology still eludes us.”
“Can we see him now?” intervened the tall dwarf, showing manifest signs of displeasure.
“By all means. Let me show you to his room.” The doctor led the way out into the corridor. “Oh,” he added as he passed by the tall dwarf, “if you’re ever looking for a bit of … rest, do consider our fine establishment.”
The room was identical to thousands of others in countless mental institutions across the country: whitewashed walls, a steel-framed double bed, a leather sofa, a forty-inch television screen, and a Jacuzzi in the corner.
The Jacuzzi is rather small, was the first thought that popped into the small giant’s head, as she entered the room.
“Ladies,” said Dr. Skinner with a smile, “please meet Edgar.”
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“‘Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door —
Only this, and nothing more.”
The words were delivered in a baritone voice from a man with no body. The three could only advance an educated guess to the effect that the body in question was immersed in the effervescent water directly beneath the head. A head that hosted a strong face, a bold face, a courageous face, a face one could easily imagine striding upon a scooter, the wind blowing its blond hair, the fragrance of the pizza behind carried by the gentle afternoon breeze.
“Don’t mind him,” said the doctor. “Just go on and ask away.”
The small giant removed a small note from her coat pocket, examined it, and asked, “When did it happen?”
Edgar took a sip from the bubbly drink in the tall glass, which lay beside the Jacuzzi. A dreamy look appeared on his face as he said,
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
“A clear answer indeed,” snorted the tall dwarf.
Paying her no attention, the small giant glanced at her list and asked, “Please tell us: Who did this to you?”
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore —
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
“I’m out of there,” said the tall dwarf in disgust, stepping out into the corridor.
“One last question, Edgar,” persisted the small giant. “Where can we find the culprit?”
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door.
“Thank you, Edgar,” said the small giant amiably, as she and the doctor turned to leave. Behind them the baritone voice echoed softly,
Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend.
Exiting the elevator at the top floor of the Tower of Hanoi, Lipps was greeted by the one man on the face of the planet who — due most likely to some improbable genetic quirk — was totally immune to her essence. This man also happened to be her employer.
“Come in, Apoka,” said Noro pleasantly as he met Lipps at the door. “I trust you’ve had a productive morning?”
“Sure have, Noro hon,” she replied, whisking into the apartment like a flow of lava. The small giant and the tall dwarf were seated in the spacious living room, having arrived a half-hour earlier and conveyed their findings to Myx. Lipps settled down while Myx handed her a small glass of Grand Marnier — her preferred liquor.
“How are you doing, sweetie pies?” she turned to the two operatives.
“Everything’s great, now … Now you’re here,” stammered the small giant, while the tall dwarf just sulked in her corner.
“Hunky dory,” smiled Lipps, and winked at the tall dwarf, who averted her gaze in contempt.
“Enough of your games, Apoka,” scolded Noro, immersing himself in the Armchair. “Tell me what you learned from the secretary-general.”
Lipps took the rebuke in her stride, turned on her professional mien, and proceeded to relate what she’d uncovered at the UN.
Myx sucked on his pipe, and mumbled, “Interesting, interesting.”
“What’s so interesting?” barked the tall dwarf. “I don’t see anything interesting in all of this. Who cares if the Swiss want to join the UN? And how has our visit to wacko Edgar going to help us find the War Treaties? We’ve wasted the entire morning!”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” replied Myx enigmatically, and added, “We both know how my seemingly tame-duck chases tend to end, don’t we?” The tall dwarf was now thoroughly nettled. She picked up her glass of milk and gulped it down with vengeful slurping noises.
“Boy, girls, please,” Lipps activated her husky voice, which seemed to work wonders on the small giant.
The tall dwarf put down her empty glass with a thud, and wiped her lips. “Okay, okay, what now?”
“Now, my dear,” said Myx with a twinkle in his eyes, “you two are leaving for the airport.”
“Are we headed for Washington again?” asked the small giant, as she and the tall dwarf exchanged a quick glance.
“No, Switzerland.”
“And I?” asked Lipps, finishing her Grand Marnier and placing the glass on the coffee table.
“You, on the other hand, are flying to Washington,” replied Myx, “to exercise your talent of ruffling feathers.”
A snap photo taken at that precise instant would have revealed a man sucking contently at an unlit pipe, while sitting in the company of three women: one sulking, one dazed, and one licking her lips.
