She Won't Smell Me

Are you really my uncle? asks Terence.

No, says Isidore. What a question.

My parrot said it, says Terence.

He lied, says Isidore.

Where is he? asks Terence.

In my apartment with Gaius, says Isidore. You should be thankful.

I'm not thankful, says Terence. Why?

Because he flew back to let us know where you were, says Isidore.

He lied, says Terence.

Not in this case, says Isidore, but he misled me, with regard to Nénette.

He's a terrible parrot, says Terence. I wish Nénette was a parrot. She taught me how to vomit.

One does not learn how to vomit, says Isidore. One simply does it.

Wrong, says Terence. I've never done it. But she showed me how to do it. Want to see?

NO! says Isidore. I do not. You smell bad enough anyway. Nénette may be troubled by your odour.

The rangotang? says Terence. SHE won't smell me.

She might, says Isidore. She does very well for a fifty year old.

Are we there yet? asks Terence.

Nearly, says Isidore.

They arrive at the orangutan enclosure.

Nénette sits beside a blue box with her collection of rags, hoping.

How do we know she is hoping?

She had a birthday last month, with a strawberry cake, and ever since has been hoping.

Isidore speaks to a keeper.

Is she all right?

Yes, of course, says the keeper. Look she's coming over.

Nénette moves slowly towards the boundary of her enclosure.

Hello old dear, says Terence. Can you smell me?

Nénette only understands French.

But she can smell the odour which wafts up from Terence's new claw.

She wrinkles her nose and moves to back to her original position.

Malheureusement, pas de gâteau aux fraises.

See, says Terence.

But really, that doesn't prove anything.