Conversation · Joyce Messier

"Okay. It is Antecentennial." She looks at the building looming overhead.

"The people who live there now lead a different lifestyle if you know what I mean."

"I assure you, they drove quite a hard bargain for this space -- but you're right."

"I am a bourgeois woman and this is my fast, lightweight, interminably bourgeois boat."

There is no shame in her voice -- a touch of sadness, yes -- but no shame.

"Funny, I don't see any other eel's heels around."

"You mean eel's hips -- but point taken. I am a bourgeois woman and this is my fast, light, interminably bourgeois boat."

"There doesn't seem to be much space left with this giant pleasure craft docked in the way."

Yup. That's the stuff.

"Good thing everyone else has tiny skiffs."

"I assure you, they drove quite the hard bargain for this space -- but you're right."

"I am a bourgeois woman and this is my long, incredibly lightweight, interminably bourgeois boat."

Uhm...

"Uhm..."

She takes a sip.

"It's gonna happen."

"Okay." She takes a sip.

"Something is about to happen." (Point to your head.) "In here."

"Of course."

Nothing happens. For quite a while.

Wave your hand next to your head. (It will help!)

It doesn't.

Keep waving your hand, slowly.

"My..." she inspects the motion. "It's as if there is a tiny spinner on the side of his head, and he's reeling thoughts out."

"Except he isn't."

The lieutenant is satisfied with where this is going.

"This isn't gonna happen."

"No worries." She takes another sip. "We can just go back to discussing my fast, large, interminably middle class boat."

Keep doing it.

"Lieutenant, I truly don't understand what is happening here."

"I told you his methods are... unconventional."

"I swear to god I'm usually sharp. I don't know what happened. Why am I not killing it?!"

"You're marbles on glass, dear. Don't worry."

"Fuck this, I'm outta here." [Leave.]

"Oh no..." Her eyes turn large and round...

"What were we talking about anyway?"

"It was quite a while ago, but I think..." she looks around. "Yes. We were discussing my fast, large, ineluctably middle class boat."

Your hand tires from making the motion.

"I can see your hand is getting tired now -- there is no need to continue. No one is keeping score."

"A thought is going to come out of my head and into my mouth -- and I will say it."

"Of course."

"Nothing is going to come." (Give up.)

"They will come from my head -- the arguments."

"As they do."

"The thoughts happen inside his brain," the lieutenant explains.

"Any moment."

"Then what does that say?" She points to the plaque on the side of the pier. "Does it say docking reserved for residents of Rue de Saint-Ghislaine 33A?"

"33A -- this old proletarian haunt here." She waves at the ruin looming overhead. "As I said, plenty of people drive boats. Of all social strata."

"Yes. Exactly."

"Forget about it. I was out of line."

"Think nothing of it, officer." She runs her hand along the fibreglass cabin. "What's a little class conflict between friends?"

"Precisomundo. Class war time baby."

"Do you have a licence for this boat?"

"Officer, I assure you I'm a highly qualified pleasure craft operator."

The crowns of her teeth are porcelain, white as the boat's hull as she smiles.

Qualified pleasure craft operator... so charming. Where's the damn licence?

"That's good enough for me."

"Why wouldn't it be? This is Revachol. Wayfarer act and all. Anyone can drive a boat."

"Can I see your licence?"

"I just renewed its safety inspection last month, officer. It is completely seaworthy. In fact, it's taken part in not one, but two Insulindic regattas, and finished once."