the English For Yvette
"I like cheese, Fromage D'Amour D'I."
"I like cheese, Fromage D'Amour D'I."
"Which way to the Hospital?: qui chemin vers l'hôpital?"
"Which way to the Hospital?: qui chemin vers l'hôpital?"
"Help! Police! aide! Police!"
"Help! Police! aide! Police!"
"Paul, you're annoying the shit out of me!"
"la merde...A hvorsheb..." Paul put down his headphones and shut off his Walkman. "Kurt, don't do that to me."
His life partner grinned, hiding his nose in a Catherine Coulter novel he'd stowed in his duffel bag, "It's hopeless, man. There's no way you're going to learn speakable French on a Twelve-hour flight."
"I already know all I need to know!"
Kurt sighed, "I know your total recall, Huntsie. You can ALMOST remember a five-minute monologue. An entire language you put off learning for four months won't pop into your brain on demand. In fact, I bet you only remember the 'good parts'."
Paul shook his head, "Test me!"
Kurt put his novel down on his lunch tray, "Say, do you have change for a franc."
Paul gave him a blank look.
Kurt sighed, "Now say 'Damn, that guy has a really tight ass. Dammmmmnnnnn!"
Paul sprang to life, "Fichu, ce type a un âne vraiment serré. Fichuuuuuuuuuuu!" Kurt giggled as Paul flushed and coughed, "Well, excuse me! I do have more important things going on!"
"Oh, that's right," Kurt teased, picking up his paperback, "You're the Game-ah. I'm only a lowly world champion. Forgive me, master." He then resumed reading.
Paul's lips tilted up into an affectionate smile. No one else seemed to know it, but he loved Kurt truly, though he never seemed to find a way to tell him. His fingers slipped gently across Kurt's free hand, and his Olympic Hero allowed a small smile to tease his lips in response.
*****
Titan's private jet taxied into the Aéroport Charles de Gaulle at around four that afternoon, Paris time. Kurt felt energized, more than could be said for Paul, who became almost immediately jet-lagged. Kurt's response was to feel annoyed. They were originally scheduled to be in the City of Light for just two nights, but a break in scheduling brought out Vince's miserly instinct; a penny could be pinched by sending them early and in the middle of the night. Kurt was an easy sleeper, had gained all that he needed and was ready to see the sites. And he was armed with the ammunition of having requested what he wanted to do beforehand.
"We're seeing the Eifel Tower, eating real glace and walking the Left Bank."
Paul hadn't thought to protest because, at the time, he was being screwed rather vigorously by Kurt. Now, his muscles aching and his neck stiff, he only wanted to curl up at their hotel and sleep away the afternoon.
Kurt, of course, wouldn't have it.
"C'mon!" He demanded, throwing their luggage in the back of a taxi. Paul trudged along, all the while hoping for a collassal cup of coffee to magically pop out of the shuttle's back seat."
"Au stand de souvineer le plus proche, si' vou plait?" Kurt said expertly.
Paul snorted and leaned back, then almost fell out of the passenger side door as their chauffeur sped away.
It was a well-known fact that driving around France can be very, very dangerous, and Paul clung to his seat as the driver squealed past monuments, parks, and other equally aggressive Parisians behind their own wheels.
Kurt seemed totally unfazed, clicking joyfully away with his camera at the blurred monuments they passed., the very picture of a cheerful, sighing tourist. Paul hadn't ever seen him this way and he was beguiled.
The driver halted before a large, very tourist-trappy souvenir Stand. Kurt hopped out of the car and began rummaging among the plaster Eifel Towers, postcards, tee-shirts and water globes set out by the open-air vendor.
Paul rolled down his window, "What are you doing?"
Kurt didn't even glance over his shoulder, "Getting souvenirs, of course. My mom wants a tee-shirt."
Paul studied their surroundings for a moment, his eyes catching hold of something down the street, "I don't think this is the best place to buy it."
"Nonsense!" He picked up two hats in the shape of the Eiffel Tower, "Does your mom wear a large or small foam Rubber hat?"
A shriek from further up the street startled them both, and that shock was expanded when a group of twenty schoolgirls in Catholic uniforms.
"Eek! C'est Kurt Angle et Triple H!" One cried, ambushing Kurt with a wadded up piece of paper. Kurt smiled, signing everything given to him and trying to follow the rapid babbles of French they spoke in.
The crowd grew, grew beyond what they could control. Panic filled Kurt's eyes, and he began to make wild excuses in what little French he knew. Eventually he pushed his way through the crowd of girls and into the taxi, Paul pulling him in by the belt loop.
Sobbing girls threw themselves against the Taxi, rocking it and shouting for Triple H and Kurt. By now, Kurt had lost all command of the language and was screaming aloud the only phrase he could recall: "Je porte le pantalon vert!". Repeatedly.
"Commande! Commande!" Paul blurted out, shouted to the blasé driver, who sensed that he would be getting more than overtime for this. They flew down the lane, eventually outpacing the girls. When things were relatively quiet, Kurt opened one eye (he had fallen face-first into Paul's lap).
"Are they gone?"
"Yup," Said Paul, barely concealing his mirth.
"You owe me a shirt," He noted, gesturing to his ripped one.
"Ohh? Would you rather have some GREEN pants?"
Kurt's eyes crossed, an expression of embarrassment and chagrin. "I shout that when I get upset. But you actually remembered a useful phrase..."
"Panic does that for me," Paul understated.
A while later, after ditching their luggage at the hotel and switching cabs, Kurt and Paul found a small, out-of-the-way bistro for dinner.
Kurt, to Paul's embarrassment, still carried the camera with him, and took pictures of the dark, smoky interior of the restaurant.
They had settled down to a cozy meal when Paul noticed a pretty brunette sitting at the bar and poked Kurt in mid-slurp.
"Looks like we have another fan." Paul said, "Want me to ignore her too?"
Kurt looked wounded, "I didn't want to ignore those girls. There were just too many of them, and they were groping and pinching me...I think one got my cufflinks!"
Paul lay his head on Kurt's shoulder, "She's the only one here and she's soaked to the bone. It must be raining."
Kurt sighed. "OK, invite her over; her staring's making me uncomfortable anyway."
Paul looked over at the young (very young, he thought) woman sitting at the bar. Her eyes lit up and she rapidly got up and approached them. She hovered at their table for a moment.
"Reposez-vous svp vers le bas," Kurt remembered suddenly, and the girl's limbs jiggled to life, drawing a chair up to sit between them.
Paul noticed, now that she was closer to them, how drawn she appeared; her makeup was dark and heavy, caked on. Her hair seemed stiff, dyed black. A hint of lace peeked out of the red trenchcoat she wore. An alarm went off in his head.
The girl reached into her breast pocket and withdrew a cigarette, placing it between her lips. She waited for them to do something while they stared at one another, rather dumbfounded by the situation. For all the world she appeared to be someone preparing for a nightly ritual.
"Ave vous une allumette?" She asked around the cigarette.
Kurt realized she was asking for a match and ripped one out of the hotel matchbooks. They sat in piles on the tables.
"Merci." She responded shortly, lighting the cigarette and taking a deep drag. She leaned back in her chair and exhaled the white smoke in several large, billowing rings. Then fell out of the chair.
Kurt lept to her defense, dusting off the embarrassed women and reseating her. The three then began an uncomfortable staring match.
"Kurt," Paul asked quietly, "Are you sure she wants our autograph?"
"Why else would she be staring at us?"
"Well let's get it signed! She's making me really uncomfortable."
"I..don't think I have a pen..."
"Ask her if she has one."
"But she's our fan..."
"Ask!"
"Umm.vous avez un stylo."
The girl's brows inverted, "Un stylo? Non, non, je ne veux pas un autographe. Combien coûtent vous voulant payer une séance d'entraînement personnelle avec moi?"
Kurt's jaw dropped.
"What?! What did she ask?"
The girl sighed and flicked the ash from her burning cigarette, "correct, je serai honnête; Yvette et moi de mon nom suis un talonneur et votre plus grand ventilateur Je vous ferais pour libre mais le loyer en retard. C'est de vingt-quatre francs pour oral et trente pour des rapports; soixante si vous voulez que je le prenne vers le haut de l'âne, je n'ai pas eu mon enema encore."
It was Paul's turn to gawk, having recognized one of those words. "Did she just propositioned us."
"It's worse!" Kurt cried out, "She's a hooker!"
"I'm not going to sleep with her!"
"Do you think I can?!"
"DO SOMETHING!" Each demanded of the other, and Kurt smiled at the poor woman and asked, "Pour oral?"
Paul glared, "You propositioned her!"
"I didn't!"
The girl gestured with her hands, wildly, "ouais, oral, UM.. la bouche française love..peter d'Arts..Blowjob..eh..hand soufflant... " Her cigarette burned down to the tips of her fingers and she cried out "Merde!" dropping it and crushing out the sparks with her heels. She blew on the tips of her fingers and then smiled, coyly, and in English uttered, "Please have this little bit of instant bliss."
Both men were stunned into complete silence, until Kurt was compelled to blurt out, "Non, je suis désolé, mais je ne puis pas probablement faire ceci avec vous, veuillez agréer mon appology..."
The girl burst into tears.
Kurt's felt pinched as he knelt and tried to comfort the woman, "Golly, je n'ai pas voulu dire pour vous blesser, Mlle, mais nous ne pouvons pas simplement "
"Il est moi! Personne ne veut jamais dormir avec moi!"
" je suis sûr que n'est pas.. "
"j'ai un gros bout, pas je?"
"Je suis gai!"
" gai?! Quelle perte! Ce qui votre mère penserait?"
"I wouldn't talk about his mother, if I were you.." Paul said, otherwise unable to follow the rapidity of the French..something about a fat butt and no one wanting to sleep with someone....
"Ma mère aime me..No, non, je veux dire que ma mère me connaît et soutient!"
" vous deux êtes les clients les plus étranges que j'ai eus dans un long temps!" She wept.
"I am not strange!" Kurt burst out in English.
At that moment, a gentleman in what obviously was a French policeman's uniform turned around, pulled out his badge and announced, "Mercis d'indiquer de nouveau vos plans pour la soirée devant moi, Yvette; vous êtes tous en état d'arrestation pour la prostitution et la sollicitation en" With that, he cuffed a sobbing Yvette and took her away. His partner, who had been nearby the whole time, cuffed and arrested Paul and Kurt with a rapid babble of French, asking, "Vous avez n'importe quoi dire dans votre défense?"
Paul could only respond, with a lame smile, "Je porte le pantalon vert". Kurt, however, couldn't conjugate another verb, babbling wildly about blowjobs and francs before crying out loud, "What's the English for Yvette?!" They were pulled from the Bistro, all to the tune of Yvette yelling from another paddywagon,
"Attente! Je baiserai votre mère pour demi de prix!"
"I wouldn't pay you a half bit!" Kurt screamed back.
*****
"Well, this is another fine mess you've gotten us into, Olli," Paul noted coolly when they were at last arraigned and in their cell.
Kurt was in revolt, "This is an outrage! You'll be hearing from Vince McMahon! Attica! Attica!"
"Will you please quiet down?!" Paul asked, "Think of your reputation!"
Kurt's eyes bugged out, "Oh sweet Jesus," He sobbed, "My father's going to have to enter Witness Protection!"
"Relax," Paul said, "I called someone."
"Who, genius? Who do we know that can speak French fluently? Your little friend with the long tongue?!"
A lightly wine in a familiar voice alerted him to his answer. She strode confidently to their cell with a jailer, who unlocked the door and let them out. Perfectly silent until they were in a shuttle from the jail back to the Left Bank, she started to giggle.
"Thank you, Joanie," Kurt sighed.
"I didn't expect you to be here personally, especially when my phone call was to Vince's attorney," Paul said, genuinely puzzled.
Her smirk was self-satisfactory, "I overheard the whole call."
"How?!"
Joanie took a deep breath, "Vince rerouted the whole company mid-flight from Peoria to Paris this morning after discovering that Illinois is under a foot of snow. There was no need to waste a single second, he said, so he even played his phone messages out loud for us," She patted Kurt on the shoulder, "I think your sobbing that they hurt Mr. Jingles really pulled on Vince's heartstrings. Anyway, he gave me the money and told me to bail you both out."
The couple profusely thanked their savior, glad to be free. She accompanied them to an uninterrupted dinner. And, when Kurt coughed enough, quickly got the hint and joined the rest of the boys at another hotel.
Kurt and Paul used the excuse to stroll the Left Bank, at last alone. Staring into the water lights, Paul forgot language, pain, and even jet lag, enjoying his love for Kurt.
"Look! It's the Eifel Tower!" They both stood in the shadow of the magnificent creation, mesmerized.
An explosion made them both jump and both were immediately relieved to realize that they were fireworks.
"How pretty. But it's not a holiday, is it?"
Paul shook his head, "I think they're a promotional gimmick, I remember Vince saying something about it."
They both paused and watched the sky. Suddenly, a red burst of letters spelled out:
"Hunter:
Loves..."
"Oh, Huntsie!" Kurt cried, "I knew you love me!"
Paul grinned and wrapped his arm around his Olympic Hero, "I do!"
"And I love you!" He said, and then their lips locked, both finally experiencing the romantic love that Paris is so renowned for. "To have your love; It almost makes up for not getting the glace!"
They were so preoccupied that they never noticed the rest of the message exploding across the sky behind them,
"..Saving big bucks
At WWFShopzone.com".