Mom Says:
Ah, beautiful Paris on a cold, misty February evening! Taxi horns punctuate the melodramatic accordion music and warn pedestrians—civilians as well as spies—to leap out of the way as they cross the ancient streets.
Ah, l’Arc de Triomphe, crown of Napoleonic victories, pathway of conquering armies, and also a great, big white marble thing. Cars circle round it, French people smoke under it, and visitors in Paris—the four legged as well as the two legged—meet under it for rendez-vous’s. After all, unlike most things a stranger can get directions to, you really can’t miss it.
Ah, espionage in late winter, with spies huddled into their coats—the coat of black fur, for example, as well as the coat of khaki trench material—passing messages in exotic codes (and well wishes from the gang back home) under the guise of sharing a smoke to warm against the cold…
Musashi Sez:
Huh. All that is well an gud, but yu wudn’t beleev the funnee looks we gotsd, me an mai contakt, “H,” when we wuz passin the cigaret bak an forth between us. Fer one thin, H is a whol lot tallrer than me, so he hads to sqwat down. Fer another, I has nevr smokt befor (bein a helthee kittee, as a rool), so I was cogfin a bit. Verree embarassin fer a spy.
But the arch wuz awful pertee. An that cordion myoozik grows on yu aftr a whil.
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