The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [225]
“It’s an onion,” I said in a loud voice.
There was a stunned silence. Several of the art critics looked at me, then at Duchamp2924, then at the onion.
I was sort of hoping the critics would say something like “I’d like to thank you for bringing this to our attention. We nearly made complete dopes of ourselves,” but they didn’t. They just said: “Is this true?”
To which Duchamp2924 replied that this was true in fact, but untrue representationally, and as if to reinforce the fact he drew a bunch of shallots from within his jacket and added: “I have here another piece I’d like you to see. It’s called The Id Within II (Grouped) and is a collection of concentric three-dimensional shapes locked around a central core . . .”
Cordelia pulled me away as the critics craned forward with renewed interest.
“You seem very troublesome tonight, Thursday,” smiled Cordelia. “Come on, I want you to meet someone.”
She introduced me to a young man with a well-tailored suit and well-tailored hair.
“This is Harold Flex,” announced Cordelia. “Harry is Lola Vavoom’s agent and a big cheese in the film industry.”
Flex shook my hand gratefully and told me how fantastically humbled he was to be in my presence.
“Your story needs to be told, Miss Next,” enthused Flex, “and Lola is very enthusiastic.”
“Oh no,” I said hurriedly, realizing what was coming. “No, no. Not in a million years.”
“You should hear Harry out, Thursday,” pleaded Cordelia. “He’s the sort of agent who could cut a really good financial deal for you, do a fantastic PR job for SpecOps and make sure your wishes and opinions in the whole story were rigorously listened to.”
“A movie?” I asked incredulously. “Are you nuts? Didn’t you see The Adrian Lush Show? SpecOps and Goliath would pare the story to the bone!”
“We’d present it as fiction, Miss Next,” explained Flex. “We’ve even got a title: The Eyre Affair. What do you think?”
“I think you’re both out of your tiny minds. Excuse me.”
I left Cordelia and Mr. Flex plotting their next move in low voices and went to find Bowden, who was staring at a dustbin full of paper cups.
“How can they present this as art?” he asked. “It looks just like a rubbish bin!”
“It is a rubbish bin,” I replied. “That’s why it’s next to the refreshments table.”
“Oh!” he said, then asked me how the press conference went.
“Kaine is fishing for votes,” he told me when I had finished. “Got to be. A hundred million might buy you some serious air-time for advertising, but putting Cardenio in the public domain could sway the Shakespeare vote—that’s one group of voters you can’t buy.”
I hadn’t thought of this.
“Anything else?”
Bowden unfolded a piece of paper.
“Yes. I’m trying to figure out the running order for my stand-up comedy routine tomorrow night.”
“How long is your slot?”
“Ten minutes.”
“Let me see.”
He had been trying out his routine on me, although I protested that I probably wasn’t the best person to ask. Bowden himself didn’t find any of the jokes funny, although he understood the technical process involved.
“I’d start off with the penguins on the ice floe,” I suggested, looking at the list as Bowden made notes, “then move on to the pet centipede. Try the white horse in the pub next, and if that works well do the tortoise that gets mugged by the snails—but don’t forget the voice. Then move on to the dogs in the waiting room at the vet’s and finish with the one about meeting the gorilla.”
“What about the lion and the baboon?”
“Good point. Use that instead of the white horse if the centipede goes flat.”
Bowden made a note.
“Centipede . . . goes . . . flat. Got it. What about the man going bear hunting? I told that to Victor and he sprayed Earl Grey out of both nostrils at once.