THE TRIVIAL MISADVENTURES OF MADAME VEE Q.R.S.
by Trevor Zavac
Madame Vee Q.R.S. sits at a cafe in an undisclosed city (they speak French there—a language which Madame Vee Q.R.S. abhors). She wears sunglasses (certainly big enough for her head). Her hair is brown (officially—it is the color listed on her operator’s license. She will hear no dissent to this), and worn in the high pompadour style. Of course, she is the only woman who can pull off an ensemble composed of variegated purples and browns.
It is unknown whether she is a widow or a lesbian (there is simply no way to know for sure). While she is registered to vote in Delaware, she has never (not ever) set foot in the state (the perfect legality of which continues to perplex the authorities). She is either forty or sixty (the length and depth of her crows feet being the only indication of this). If she is forty, she has had an unpleasant life; if sixty, a pleasant one.
“Would Madame like a drink?” asks Gilbert, her waiter (French, possibly French Canadian. Maybe Gabonese).
Madame Vee Q.R.S. despises this word. It makes her feel small and confused. She prefers to be asked if she “would care for refreshment.” Better yet, to be saved from the inconvenience of overly complex decision making, “Would Madame like a coffee?” She acknowledges however that this question is much less desirable should she not like a coffee.
“Madame would,” replies Gilbert, her assistant (definitely French, if not French Canadian. Conceivably Gabonese).
“Anton! A coffee for Madame.”
Madame Vee Q.R.S. does not want a coffee today. The coffee arrives.
“Would Madame like something to eat?”
Nocturnal from birth, Madame Vee Q.R.S. eats only in the dark of night when her ceaseless crunching, caused by her insatiable appetite for ice cubes and black walnuts (she insists on eating walnuts whole, fresh, and direct from the hull) is the most upsetting to the people around her (mostly a downstairs neighbor with whom she does not see eye-to-eye on the issue of whether or not cigars are a fruit).
“Madame would.”
“Anton! A croissant for Madame.”
A poet walks in. She sends her away.
“Would Madame like a newspaper?”
Madame Vee Q.R.S. does not read the news. The very idea of the activity repulses her. She prefers to stay away from current events—something about still needing to catch up on season one.
“Madame would.”
“Anton! The newspaper for Madame.”
Canons sound in the distance. Mass begins.
“Would Madame like a violoncello?”
There is nothing in the world that Madame Vee Q.R.S. loathes more than that godforsaken oversized viola that everyone, particularly the Germans, pretends to love. Its warm and inviting tone puts her on edge; to her, it is less an instrument of music than it is an instrument of torture.
“Madame would.”
“Anton! A violoncello for Madame.”
At the sound of the instrument, a dog barks in a way that sounds as if he is screaming “CAKE!”
“Would Madame like an embossed copy of the 1949 Geneva Conventions?”
Madame Vee Q.R.S. is a well known opponent of allowing prisoners of war to practice religion.
“Madame would.”
“Anton! An embossed copy of the 1949 Geneva Conventions for Madame.”
Another poet walks in. Him she likes, but only for his large penis and manicured cosmopolitan charm. He is gay. Unaware of this, she invites him to a table nearby and orders an aperitif to be sent to him (she must be a widow after all).
“Anton! A coffee for the hung wordist.”
That is not an aperitif.
“Would Madame like the bill?”
“No,” says Madame Vee Q.R.S., rolling her eyes.
Gilberts are surprised.
Anton stands still.
Madame leaves.