A story about translators who take charge and change the course of a major international meeting.
THE TRANSLATORS
By Vincent J. Schodolski
Copyright 2006
“In five-four-three…”
“Standby Helsinki, Anna Creighton in D.C. will be coming to you in about thirty.”
“Two, one. Theme and … now.”
“Good afternoon I’m Anna Creighton in Washington and this is the News At Noon from INN, your International News Network.”
“Standby James. Anna will throw to you in fifteen.”
“Our top story at this hour is the high stakes negotiations underway in Helsinki, Finland where the presidents of two small, but strategic east European nations are attempting to negotiate a peaceful settlement to a decades-old dispute over territory claimed by both countries. We go now to INN’s James Wallace in Helsinki. James?”
“Good afternoon Anna. We’re awaiting word from this morning’s meeting between the foreign ministers of Minokovia and the Inchio Republic. That meeting was to have paved the way for the first face-to-face talks between Minokovia President Vladimir Punchkin and Ivo Chamik, the president of the Inchio Republic. While we yet to have an official statement from the ministers, officials from both countries tell INN that the meeting was constructive, something that usually means things did not go very well. Anna?”
“James, help us understand what this dispute is all about and what might happen if these talks fail.”
“Anna, the heart of the problem centers on the divided region of Minok-Inch, a territory of some 500 square miles that lies between Minokovia and the Incho Republic. It is inhabited by ethnic Slavs who make up the majority of Minokovia’s population and ethnic Inchos, an ancient east European people who are the heart of the Inchio Republic population. Both countries lay claim to the territory which was divided after a 1995 uprising by Inchos and a four month war that left hundreds dead and thousands of people misplaced. A de facto partition of the territory brought a ceasefire, but resulted in a vast trek of Minoks to the western part of the region and a migration of Inchos to the east. Anna?”
“James, if the two sides are essentially divided and the people separated, what is the problem and why are the leaders meeting now?”
“Well, Anna, as is so often the case, these partitions don’t provide a real solution. There are still ethnic Minoks in the east and Inchos in the west and there are reports of ethnic cleansing. And then there is the problem of intermarriage since there are many, many Minok-Incho unions and children of mixed origin. And we must remember that both sides lay claim to the entire territory. Anna?”
“So James, what is at stake if these talks fail?”
“That’s hard to say Anna, but both sides now have armed militias and help from outside sources in finding funds to pay fighters and purchase arms, so another civil war of sorts is not out of the question unless these two presidents can come up with an agreement.”
“But really James these are two relatively small countries. What effect could it have in a larger political sense?”
“Well Anna, Minokovia is a new member of NATO and of the European Union. The Inchio Republic has close ties with Moscow and Russian leaders have let it be known that any attempt by NATO to intervene on behalf of Minokovia would be viewed as a hostile act.”
“One last question, James. Who are these two men?”
“A very important question Anna. Punchkin came up through the ranks of the Minokovia Communist Party, but parlayed his contacts and experience into a leading role in post-Communist Minokovia and Chamik, also a former Communist Party member, did much the same. Both men are in their seventies and are being challenged by younger reformists who are much more Western and market oriented. In short, the two men are feeling the winds of change blowing hard in their faces. Anna?”
“Thanks James. We’ll be back to you for an update. And now onto weather and sport news.”
/////
Andrea Polinkova pushed the button on the remote that shut off the television in her hotel room. “God, we look like such freaks!” She stood up and marched toward the bathroom. “I need a shower.”
Polinkova was Minokovia’s top linguist having graduated from Moscow’s elite Senior Interpreters’ Academy and having studied language in France, Italy, England and the United States. She could translate simultaneously in eight languages, including Minok to Inchio, her specialty. She had accomplished all this by the age of 28 and had done so at a time of enormous upheaval in Central and Eastern Europe. She was a very modern woman and anxious to see her country Minokovia and their neighbors move into a stable, progressive and market dominated future.
She toweled her hair and contemplated what to wear, knowing that she would be on worldwide television for the next few days as she stood next to President Punchkin, translating his every word into Inchio, English, French, Russian, or whatever was required. “God I hate this job,” she said to herself in the mirror.
She almost missed the phone ringing because she had started the hair dryer attached to the bathroom wall. She dropped the dryer on the counter as lurched for the phone.
“Hello?” She defaulted to English when she traveled these days.
“Andrea? It’s Malik.”
“Oh, Malik, thank God you are here.”
“The delegation just landed. I called as soon as I got to the hotel. Where are you staying?”
“We’re at the Intercontinental. You?”
“At someplace called the Torni. It’s nice, but I assume the Intercon is a palace.”
“The truth?”
“Of course.”
“Yes.” She took a breath. “Look Malik, we have to meet. Did you see that piece on INN a few minutes ago?”
“No I just got to my room.”
“Well, you’ve seen it all before. The divided territory, the refugees, the armed militias, the foreign money.”
“God we look like such freaks.” Malik sighed.
“We have to meet. Are you free now?”
“In about an hour. I have to kiss the great man’s ass.”
“I’ve already kissed my man’s nether parts. Let’s meet in front of the train station and go to someplace out of the way.”
“In an hour.”
“Great.”
/////
There was a crowd bustling outside the station when Andrea arrived. She looked around, but could see no sign of Malik, who like her was the top linguist in his country. She wandered over to a newsstand and bought the day’s edition of the International Herald Tribune. Right there on the front page above the fold was the headline: “East European Leaders in Helsinki Summit—NATO-Russia Challenge at Stake”.
“Good lord,” she said under her breath. “If only they knew how stupid these two pea heads are.”
She was reading the article when she heard steps behind her back and turned to greet Malik.
“Hi.” She gave him a hug. “We meet again to do our Babble thing.”
“This feels like that American movie where the guy, what’s his name, the one where he keeps waking up and living the same thing over and over again.”
“Bill Murray in ‘Groundhog’s Day’,” Andrea said.
“That’s right. Why do we have to keep meeting like this?”
They both laughed.
“Helsinki is nice, but I wish they would meet in Tahiti or someplace like that.” She giggled. “Is it coffee, or beer?”
“Considering what the next few days hold, definitely beer.”
Two hours and several beers later the two had cursed and ridiculed their respective leaders to the point of exhaustion.
“Oh, Malik, stop. Look at us. All we do is complain and complain.”
“Between us,” Malik slurred, “we can complain in nearly twenty languages.”
“And look what good it does us.”
“None.” Malik drained the last of his beer.
They were silent for a long time, both thinking about ordering another beer, but saying nothing. Then Andrea slapped her forehead with her right palm.
“Wait,” Andrea said with a sudden alertness that startled Malik.
“What?”
“I’ve got an idea.”
“What?”
Andrea’s face filled with excitement. “I think I may have thought of a way out of Groundhog’s Day.”
/////
James Wallace stepped away from the cameraman and his producer, moving toward a quiet spot in the Intercontinental Hotel ballroom. He stepped over the wires and cables tapped to the carpet and wound his way around the tables set up for the press corps covering the summit meeting. He grabbed a sandwich from the buffet table at the back of the enormous room and chewed as he dialed his head office in London on his cell phone.
“Maggie? This is James.”
“Calling to pop the question, James?”
He sighed, careful to move the phone away from his mouth. Margaret Carpenter Grimes was to him what Moneypenny had been to James Bond, but he was incapable of handling the situation with the Double-O-Seven’s aplomb.
“Not just yet Maggie. Can’t support you in the style you deserve on my paltry U.K. salary, but if you put me through to your boss and I get a foreign posting, the cost of living adjustment may start the wedding bells ringing, dearest.”
“My heart’s all aflutter. I’m putting you through straight away, darling.”
There were a series of clicks and a few moments of some Elton John song before Ian Fuller, INN’s foreign editor came on the line.
“Hello James and before you ask, again,” there was a pause for emphasis, “old Martin Bowles has not slumped over into a plate of pasta in Rome just yet and so the bureau chief’s job is still occupied for the time being.”
Wallace tried to recover, but tripped over his best intentions. “Ian, that’s not why I’m calling.”
“Really? Sorry, lad. What else could you possibly have on your mind?”
Wallace coughed to buy time.
“Caught cold up there in the chilly north, eh?”
Wallace carried on coughing for a bit and then rasped, “Perhaps. These late night live shots do get a wee bit breezy.”
“Poor boy, guess you’re cut out for southern climes.”
There was a pause.
“Listen Ian, I was thinking,” Wallace paused briefly. “What if the crew and I go on to Minok-Inch when this is over? I mean there’s no bloody way this stupid conference is going to resolve anything and since this has been on the front page of the New York Times and the IHT, there is a natural follow. Don’t you agree?”
Fuller considered. “You’re sure this meeting won’t come to anything?”
“Damn sure, I am Ian. These two farts are not going to give an Inchio, sorry for the bad pun.”
“Very amusing, James,” Fuller said with a forced laugh. “Can you get visas for everyone?”
“I’ve made some good contacts with the press people on both sides and I’m positive I can get us in.” He prevaricated next. “And I’m close to several of the rebel leaders, so that will serve us well on the ground.”
Fuller considered. “Fine, get the visas and we’ll decide after the Helsinki thing is over.”
“Great Ian, I’ll get you good stuff.”
“Undoubtedly,” Fuller said. “But if Bowles conks out suddenly there will be a company paid autopsy before we name a replacement.”
There was a long pause.
“I was just kidding, James.” Fuller paused. “But I’m told Oleander in a cup of tea is nearly undetectable.”
/////
Andrea and Malik huddled in a corner of the suite that would serve as the venue for the presidents’ talks. It was vast and full of flowers that made the place take on the air of a funeral home, or a 19th century brothel. Aids lingered everywhere, all looking amazingly nonchalant.
“They all know this is a joke,” Andrea whispered in Malik’s ear, nodding toward the aids.
He nodded and then gave a grin. “Of course.”
She smiled back. “Well, it is a joke, isn’t it?”
“Right.”
There was a flurry of activity at the doors of the suite that came as people from the adjoining suites made their way into the meeting room. Cameras whirled as the two presidents strutted toward one and other. Both men were slightly stooped with age and continenced well-practiced scowls. They shook hands with such hesitation that the whole thing looked like it was being played in slow motion.
“We’re on Malik, dear,” Andrea said taking his elbow. “You understand the plan, right?”
“Absolutely.”
Andrea quickly took her place beside Punchkin and Malik slid in next to Chamik. The two presidents continued their slow motion handshake for the benefit of the cameras. One, or two reporters shouted questions, but they were ignored. After a few minutes Punchkin’s press secretary raised a hand and shooed the press from the room.
“There will be a statement after the morning talks are concluded,” he said.
With that the assembled reporters, cameramen and photographers gathered their gear and slowly shuffled out of the room. When the last one exited, two beefy security men in black suits and wearing sun glasses closed and locked the main door to the suite. Other security men took up positions in front of other doors and at all of the windows. The two presidents were escorted to a corner of the suite where armchairs had been placed side-by-side, a low table between the chairs held a pitcher of water and four glasses. Straight backed wooden chairs beside those of the presidents were ready for Andrea and Malik. Within a few minutes everyone was in place and a semicircle of security men formed, sealing off the corner where the talks were to take place.
As agreed to previously, Punchkin was the first to speak.
“Mr. President, we have met many times before to discuss this problem and each time we have failed to make any progress,” he said slowly as Andrea jotted notes. “I fear we face the same situation since our position remains unchanged and unchangeable.”
Punchkin nodded at Andrea and she began.
“Mr. President that is a beautiful tie you are wearing. It compliments your complexion. I only wish I had such good taste.”
When she finished speaking, Chamik looked at Punchkin with astonishment. He leaned over to Malik and whispered. “What did he say?”
Malik cleared his throat and spoke in Inchio as Andrea had just done. “Mr. President that is a beautiful tie you are wearing. It compliments your complexion. I only wish I had such taste.”
Chamik now looked at Malik with the same astonished look. “Are you sure that’s what he said?”
“I am quite sure sir.”
Malik and Andrea exchanged glances, but their faces remained stoic.
Chamik scratched his head and sat silently for a moment. Punchkin regarded his counterpart, confused that there had been no routine response to his routine opening remark, the same one he had used dozens of times before.
After a long pause, Chamik spoke. “I don’t understand what you are talking about. This is the same tie I always wear at these meetings. Since your position never changes and my position never changes, why should I change my tie?”
The president nodded at Malik who spoke in Minok. “Thank you for a refreshing start and I can assure you our side will embrace this as a new beginning and make every effort to breach our differences and find a solution.”
When Malik finished speaking, Punchkin shook his head and turned to Andrea. “What the hell is he talking about? I said the same thing I always say.”
Andrea leaned close to Punchkin’s ear. “Mr. President, this may be something important. I know his response was odd, but I think you should play along with him and see where it leads.”
Punchkin nodded and put a hand to his mouth as he considered what to say next. “What are you up to you addle brained ass?”
Andrea nodded and spoke in Inchio. “What a brave position you have taken, sir. It shows great courage.”
Chamik tried to maintain his poker face. “Malik, what is this old fart doing?”
Malik leaned close to the president. “I’m not sure sir, but he may be trying to open the way for something new. I suggest we just go along and see where it takes us.”
Chamik frowned, paused a long moment and then spoke. “I suggest you make a proposal in this new spirit you seem to have adopted.”
Malik jotted a note and then spoke. “No, Mr. President, you are the man of courage, a real statesman for our times. What proposal do you suggest? We are waiting for a way to compromise.”
Punchkin now looked worried. He sat down a few minutes ago expecting to go through the same ritual as in the past, but now found Chamik rattling on with a load of nonsense. He raised a hand. “I need a moment.”
Andrea translated and the two men stood and walked to opposite ends of the room where their staff members were waiting.
“I think the man has Alzheimer’s,” Punchkin said to his foreign minister Andre Popodopov.
“What do you mean sir?”
“He’s speaking rubbish.”
Popodopov looked confused. Punchkin gestured to Andrea who offered a summary of Malik’s translation.
“I suggested to the president that Chamik may be trying to offer a diplomatic opening,” she said.
Popodopov pondered this and then spoke. “Mr. President, I agree with Andrea’s suggestion. You recall the accounts of the back channel signals sent between Moscow and Washington during the Cuban missile crisis.”
Punchkin shrugged. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Has everybody got Alzheimer’s?”
Andrea and Popodopov exchanged nervous glances.
“I mean, sir, that as was the case in 1962, Chamik may be trying to offer a face saving way of allowing a compromise. I think you should play along with him and respond when you think things may be moving in a direction you can accept.”
Punchkin shrugged. “Ok, but I still think the old bugger has lost his mind.”
On the other side of the room, the Inchio delegation was equally confused.
“What could be the significance of the tie comment?” Incho Foreign Minister Mulan Mushkan spoke gravely. “And your complexion?” He shook his head. “Could Punchkin have become a metrosexual?”
Chamik face looked like he had just swallowed something vile. “A what?”
“There is this new phenomenon in the U.S. and Europe where men are becoming much more concerned with their appearance and …”
Chamik cut him off. “Why is everybody saying weird things today? My tie, my complexion and now a, a what?”
“Metrosexual,” sir.
Chamik shuddered. “Why couldn’t we just fight with each other like we always do and then go back to our rooms and get drunk?”
Malik interrupted. “Mr. President, I suggest again that we see what the other side is up to with this new line. It could be a new opening gambit.”
“A what?”
“A gambit, sir.”
“What the hell is a gambit? Sounds like something I should shoot in the woods and eat for dinner.”
Malik and Mushkan looked at each other nervously.
“I think Malik is right, Mr. President.” He paused. “If Punchkin has the authority to take a new position, he may want to make it seem as if both sides came to the same view before the meeting began.”
Chamik shook his head. “God damned Gorbachev! I wish he had choked on a herring bone! It used to be so much easier.”
“Sir I think it is worth a try,” Mushkan said.
Chamik threw up his hands. “Why not? I’ll just sit there like an idiot and nod my head. Every now and then I’ll grunt.” He shook his head. “Let’s get on with this. I want to be on my second bottle of vodka before six.”
After a few minutes more the two presidents were settled back in their armchairs, Andrea and Malik by their sides. This time, as negotiated, Chamik spoke first.
“Mr. President, our earlier conversation reminded me of an old Inchio folk story.”
Malik translated word for word, unsure of what Chamik was going to say.
Punchkin nodded and leaned back in his chair.
“There once was a sly old fox that lived in the woods outside the village of Pomboni in the central part of the Inchio Republic.”
Malik made notes, but waited to see where this was going before translating.
“This fox moved only at night and regularly carried off family pets for his dinner. But one day the fox walked into the middle of the village at noon. He stood up on its hind legs and started speaking. ‘People of Pomboni I come to you with an offer. Give me all your pets to eat and I will stop carrying them off at night’ the fox said.”
Malik scribbled and waited.
“Why aren’t you translating?” Chamik looked annoyed.
“Sir,” Malik stalled, “I have to wait until the end of the story to know if I need to use the subjunctive.”
“First gambits, now subjunctives. What’s next a pongolinko?”
“A what sir?”
“Never mind.”
Chamik resumed his story. “So the people of Pomboni held a meeting to discuss the fox’s offer. Afterwards they called the fox to the middle of town again and elected him mayor. ‘Fox,’ they said, ‘your proposal confused us and we decided you must be smarter than all of us, so you must be our leader.’ And from then on the fox started wearing a red sash across his chest and was so busy issuing orders and making proclamations that he had no time to hunt. He hired a cook and became a vegetarian.”
Chamik stopped and nodded toward Malik. “Translate.”
Malik hesitated. “But sir, as I said I have to wait until the story is finished.”
Chamik looked at Malik, confused. “It is finished.”
Malik paused. “That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“But, Mr. President the story makes no sense.”
“That’s the whole point, idiot. Translate.”
Unsure of what Chamik had in mind, Malik translated the story as the president had told it. When he finished, Punchkin started laughing hysterically. His eyes flooded with tears as he laughed. The laugh was infectious and soon Chamik and Andrea were laughing as well. Amidst all this, Malik could not resist and he joined in.
Across the room Popodopov and Mushkan regarded each other and then nodded approval. Popodopov moved across to his counterpart. “I take this as a good omen,” he said. “Laughter does not follow disaster,” Mushkan said. Popodopov could only nod.
When the laughter died down, Punchkin spoke. “That makes no sense whatsoever.”
Andrea, unsure as was Malik, translated verbatim.
Chamik leaned back in his chair and spoke softly to Malik. “Maybe he has not lost his mind after all?”
“So, Mr. President,” Chamik said, “Shall I buy you a tie like mine?”
Malik translated; “I accept your proposal. We will agree that Minok-Inch should be made an international zone of peace and placed under the joint administration of the United Nations and the Holy See.”
Punchkin’s eyes widened such that he looked like he was choking. He leaned into Andrea again. “I never said any such thing.”
She nodded. “That is true sir, but it’s not such a bad idea. Maybe you want to stake a claim to it.”
“But it is preposterous!”
“Perhaps, sir, but that is exactly what they said about hot air balloons.”
Punchkin looked confused. “They did?”
“Indeed, sir,” Andrea said. “They said it was preposterous to think men could fly with a balloon.”
“My God,” the Minok president said shaking his head.
Punchkin pondered. “I would modify my proposal to include your proposal that we authorize casino gambling in the territory and make a bid for the 2020 summer Olympics.”
Andrea translated what Punchkin had said, but added; “And that we declare ourselves joint monarchs of Minok-Inch for life and specify that our sons and subsequent male heirs succeed us. And that we hire an Academy Award winning costume designer from Hollywood to make our wardrobes.”
Chamik nodded enthusiastically. “Splendid!”
The two men sprang to their feet and hugged, kissing each other on both cheeks.
By now both delegations were beside themselves with excitement. Popodopov raced over and embraced Mushkan, lesser members of the delegations hugged their counterparts. Even the security men were in each others arms. Someone called the concierge and within minutes “Happy Days Are Here Again” was playing over the loudspeaker system. Soon doors burst open and waiters marched into the room with bottles of Champagne and trays of caviar. And for the two presidents, iced bottles of vodka.
Andrea and Malik slipped away in the midst of the celebration.
“What do we do now?” Andrea looked nervous.
“What do you mean? This was your idea?” Malik looked scared.
“It all happened so quickly.” She sighed. “I guess I kind of got carried away with the casino gambling and the Olympics.”
“Tell me about it,” Malik sounded worried. “I was the one who came up with the zone of peace.” He shook his head. “And the Holy See? What was I thinking?”
The two stood in silence for a moment, their minds racing. Neither of them saw Popodopov and Mushkan approach.
“What a glorious day!” Popodopov nearly shouted and Andrea and Malik startled, jumped slightly.
“Never, never would I have predicted this outcome,” Mushkan said excitedly. “After years of these stupid meetings we finally see a new idea and we settle everything.”
Andrea and Malik exchanged nervous glances.
“So what did they agree to?” Popodopov had a silly grin on his face.
Andrea and Malik looked down at their feet and then up at the ceiling.
“Please, tell us. You have the only notes.” Mushkan had an urgent tone.
“Well,” Andrea began. “They agreed that Minok-Inch should be declared an international zone of peace under the joint administration of the United Nations and the Holy See.”
Popodopov and Mushkan looked at each other in astonishment.
“What?” Popodopov said incredulously.
“And that the two of them be declared monarchs for life of the new zone and that they be succeeded by their male heirs.”
“My God,” Mushkan said.
“Oh,” Andrea said somewhat sheepishly. “They want casino gambling and a bid on the 2020 Olympics.
Both foreign ministers brought their hands to their faces.
“Don’t forget that they want a Hollywood costume designer to make their royal wardrobe,” Malik added.
Popodopov was near tears. “Mushkan,” he moaned, “we should have poisoned the pair of them years ago.” He was shaking. “We had the chance and we blew it.”
“I know, I know,” Mushkan said.
“What are we going to do now?” Popodopov said throwing his hands in the air.
“I have no idea,” Mushkan said.
Just then the two presidents approached.
“Have you heard the good news,” Punchkin said, one hand on Chamik’s shoulder and the other gripping the neck of a half empty liter of vodka.
“Yes sir,” said Popodopov.
“I think Viagra must stimulate the brain as well,” Chamik slurred. “Tell me Punchkin, did you ever tell your wife you were taking Viagra?” Malik translated.
“Are you mad dear Chamik?” Punchkin took a long pull on his vodka. “Can you imagine? My wife? Surely you have seen her picture in the newspapers.” Andrea put the words into Incho.
“Or mine?” Chamik said. Malik’s turn and the two men erupted in laughter, nearly choking on the vodka.
“Popodopov,” Punchkin said, “you and Mushkan draw up a text for us to sign and something to hand out to the press.” Punchkin linked arms with Chamik. Andrea tell him; ‘Let’s go to the sauna my friend’.”
“For sure.” Chamik chimed. “Mushkan, send some girls to the sauna for us.”
Mushkan and Popodopov looked at each other nervously. “Yes sir,” Mushkan said.
The two presidents walked off unsteadily.
“What are the chances of both of them having heart attacks in the next two hours?” Popodopov was depressed.
“Not likely,” Mushkan sighed.
The two men went off to draw up a statement for the press.
/////
James Wallace heard his cell phone ring deep inside his backpack. He suddenly felt uncomfortable about the new ring tone he had downloaded. “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” he thought. “What was I thinking? “Fumbling through the clutter he finally located it.
“Wallace here,” he said.
“Mr. Wallace this is Mauno at the concierge desk.”
When he checked in Wallace had given Mauno $300 to keep him “informed” about what the presidents and their staff members were doing in the hotel.
“Yes Mauno,” Wallace said. “Good to hear from you. What’s going on?”
Mauno’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “The two presidents are in the sauna and they are alone.” He paused. “They are also drunk.”
“Excellent Mauno,” Wallace was on edge. “Do they speak any English?”
“I don’t think so sir,” he said. “I am told they don’t speak each others language, so I have no idea how they communicate at all when they are by themselves.” Mauno paused. “But vodka makes the impossible, possible.”
Wallace giggled. “That’s fine. I can round up some sort of translator.” Wallace glanced around the room. “Well, thanks Mauno. I’ll make sure to stop by and see you before I leave.”
“Excellent, Mr. Wallace, but there is more.”
“What?”
“One of the hotel stenographers passed me a copy of the final statement she typed for the two foreign ministers.”
“Fantastic, Mauno. I’ll send someone to get it immediately.”
Twenty minute later, Wallace dressed only in a towel and Laura Minolinin, also clad in just a towel, entered the sauna where the two presidents were dripping with sweat and passing a vodka bottle back and forth between them.
When the two elderly men spotted Laura they smiled.
“Did Mushkan send you?” Chamik said.
“No, sir he did not,” Minolinin responded.
It had cost Wallace $1,000 to come up with a Finn who spoke English as well as Minok and Incho, but he knew that the scoop would make the expense account glide through his bosses’ hands.
“Too bad,” Chamik said. “You’re a babe and you speak Incho to boot.”
Minolinin glanced nervously at Wallace.
“Laura, tell him I am a reporter with INN and that I wonder if I could ask them a few questions.”
Minolinin translated into both languages.
“How the hell did you find us?” Punchkin was the first to speak.
When Wallace understood, he smiled and told the two men that he had bribed the hotel staff. This sent the two presidents off in gales of laughter, enhanced by the vodka coursing through their blood.
“I also have the final statement your ministers drew up for the press,” Wallace said.
When Laura was finished, Chamik spoke. “Tell us what it says.”
As Wallace read, Laura translated simultaneously.
“It says that Minok-Inch will be declared an international zone of peace, that it will be jointly administered by the United Nations and the Holy See,” he paused.
The two presidents looked at each other with astonishment. “Is that what we agreed to?” Popodopov asked?
When Laura translated Chamik shrugged. “I can’t really remember anymore.”
“Oh,” Wallace read the part about the two men being monarchs and the Hollywood costume designer.
“Well, that sounds good to me,” Chamik piped up. “Me too,” said Popodopov.
They toasted each other with vodka.
/////
The next morning the two presidents gathered in the hotel ballroom for the closing press conference. Hung over, neither man was paying any attention to what was happening and soon appeared to nod off.
“As you can see the two main players have arrived for this moment of high drama,” Wallace was live, speaking into his microphone just a few feet from where the presidents were taking seats in two oversized chairs.
“In just a moment the two presidents will respond to questions about the agreement they reached to settle the Minok-Inch problem once and for all. The details of their agreement have been reported to INN viewers worldwide as an exclusive.” Wallace could not avoid the slight smile that crossed his face as he summarized his earlier report about the zone of peace, the U.N-Holy See oversight and the presidents as joint monarchs. He even threw in the Hollywood angle for their U.S. audience.
“But first, the two foreign ministers will read the text of the agreement. So as they approach the microphones, let’s listen.
Both Popodopov and Mushkan huddled before approaching the microphones.
“Are you sure they won’t remember?” Popodopov whispered nervously.
“After the night they had?” Mushkan patted his counterpart’s shoulder. “Not a chance. Look at them, they’re falling asleep. And we leaked that stupid statement, so this will catch everyone off guard.”
The two men stood side by side as they took turns reading the new document alternately in Minok and Inchio. As they did Andrea and Malik translated from their native languages into English.
Popodopov went first and Andrea listened.
“This has been the most cordial of the 537 meetings we have held on the Minok-Inch situation,” Popodopov spoke and Andrea translated.
“Both sides found an atmosphere of cordiality that allowed us to make great progress,” Mushkan said. Malik translated.
Popodopov picked up and Andrea translated simultaneously.
“We have both agreed to resign our respective posts as presidents,” her eyes widened as she spoke. “We have reached an age when a new perspective on our lasting differences is vital to a solution.”
Malik coughed as Mushkan spoke, but recovered and translated as he went along. “Therefore, we have agreed that our respective foreign ministers be declared joint monarchs of Minok-Inch and that it be declared a zone of peace to be administered by themselves and subsequently by their male heirs.”
Andrea and Malik shot glances as more than a hundred reporters from around the world scribbled, punched computer keys and murmured into microphones.
“Also, we agreed that Mr. Steven Spielberg be made creative director of Minok-Inch,” Andrea picked up as Popodopov spoke, “and be given full creative license to write the future course of history for the region.”
Mushkan beamed as he concluded with Malik trembling as he translated. “The only limitation on Mr. Spielberg will be our decision on choosing the new queens who will rule by our sides from the soon-to-be-constructed adjoining palaces.”
Punchkin and Chamik looked bored and half asleep.
“The new Inchio queen will be Jennifer Lopez,” Malik translated incredulously. “And the Minok queen will be Jennifer Tilly.”
Malik halted his translation and leaned into Popodopov’s ear. “Jennifer Tilly?”
Popodopov’s face took on a leer. “Her voice is so sexy. It drives me wild.”
Malik finished and as soon as he stopped speaking the room erupted with shouted questions.
“Wallace, what happened to your exclusive,” a producer shouted into the correspondent’s earpiece. Wallace looked into the camera: “These remarkable new developments came during last minute closed-door negotiations, INN has learned from well placed sources.”
“You can kiss Rome goodbye old boy,” the producer cackled into Wallace’s earpiece.
“Mr. Presidents,” one reporter boomed. “How did you come to your decision to resign?”
Andrea, Malik, Popodopov and Mushkan looked at each other in panic. Punchkin and Chamik, roused from their daze by all the shouting looked confused, perhaps a bit frightened.
The two translators nodded at each other and then at the foreign ministers. Andrea translated for Punchkin.
“Mr. Presidents will you stand side by side and shake hands to show your agreement and perhaps wave for our cameras without saying anything?”
Malik told the same to Chamik.
The two old men rose from their chairs and shuffled a few paces. They forced on smiles, took each other’s hands and waved with their others.
Flashes lit up the room and the electronic whiz of cameras began. Television reporters and newspaper correspondents continued to shout questions, but Andrea and Malik slipped out of the room and the foreign ministers, after flanking the presidents for a minute, took their elbows and lead them from the ballroom.
Wallace’s phone rang. He cringed and looked at the screen. When he recognized Ian Fuller’s number, he flashed a glance around the room and pulled one of his female colleagues aside.
“Maura, you worked in the States for a couple of years right?” He spoke rapidly.
“Yes.” The woman looked confused.
“You can do an American accent, yes?”
“Sure baby,” she said slipping into a vaguely New York accent.
Wallace pressed the green button on his phone and spoke. “Ian. Great news. I’ve got Jennifer Lopez on line two. Let me conference her in.”
Maura’s brow furrowed.
“Ian? You still there?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent.” Wallace thrust the phone into Maura’s hands and mouthed a pathetic, “PLEASE”.
“Jennifer darling,” Wallace choked out, “say hello to Ian Fisher, INN’s foreign editor.”
Homer's Ill Iliad & Odd Sea Odyssey (420 pages) is an adult satire/parody rewrite of the classic stories of the 10 year Trojan War and of the 10 year adventure of Odysseus trying to return home to his native Ithaca.
Stories Worth Wiping Your A** With
Whether you're making a deposit at the stank bank, dropping a return at the squat shop, or conducting a brown business meeting, these perfectly timed tales provide the literary fragrance your privacy deserves. F
