Forever Young

Chapter Two. Pascal

Chapter Two 

Pascal 

"Come in, Howie. I won't be long finishing my breakfast. Just go on through to the backroom. I'll be there in a minute." 

Walt didn't mind the intrusion. He needed all the business he could get. Just after the election, he had contracted what appeared to be a common cold, but it proved to be very persistent. Breathing became increasingly difficult, and from time to time, he experienced intense chest pains. Walt was distrustful of doctors, but Hilda insisted he go for an examination. The diagnosis was emphysema.  

This was a common complaint amongst the older miners and many felt it might be a consequence of inhaling mine dust year after year. Others thought it may be due to heavy smoking, but Walt had never indulged. Whatever the cause, Walt was unable to continue his work at the ore face. He had neither the skills required, nor the desire to take up a desk job, so he was quite happy to take the retirement package offered by the company. It was not quite enough to make ends meet, so he had become reliant on his backroom business.  

"Sorry to be so early, Walt, but I have to meet with an important client at ten, and my hair makes me look like a wild man." 

Howie was the only remaining lawyer in town still willing to work in the Darsian tongue, and he really did need a haircut. Weeks, maybe even months, of neglect had caused his monk's fringe to become shoulder length, lank and greasy. 

"You really need to wash your hair once in a while, Howie", said Walt as he removed the man's large horn-rimmed glasses." 

"Why bother? Once you've cut it, there isn't much left to worry about, and my weekly workout in the chlorinated pool will get rid of any bugs." 

"If you say so," chuckled Walt as he proceeded to clip the offensive locks. 

"The customer's always right eh, Walt? Unless he's Darsian." 

Walt knew this was coming. Howie had gained local notoriety (and in certain quarters, admiration) for his outspoken attacks on M.R.P policies. 

"So who is this important client, Howie?" 

"Actually it's a group of clients who are being prosecuted by the language board." 

"What for?" 

"Can't you guess?" 

"Signs again?" 

"Yep. Gino down at the grocery store has been fined because of that sign in the window welcoming his customers in all the languages used in Timus. Anna, at the restaurant at the corner of Main and 4th, has to replace all her garbage cans." 

"Why?" 

"Because they have the word 'waste' written on them not 'dibris'.'" 

"I don't believe it." 

"You'd better. Have you heard about Dixon down at the old bookstore?" 

"No. What's up there?" 

"They're going to close him down if he doesn't start selling Myrian books." 

"But it's a Darsian bookstore." 

"Not for much longer. I have it on good authority that they are planning a complete ban on the sale of foreign books. Pretty soon I bet it will be illegal to even own such a book." 

Walt, quite concerned that Howie might burst a blood vessel if this conversation continued, changed the subject in his usual manner. 

"Was Pascal talking when you were last here, Howie?" 

"I don't think so. I seem to remember that you were trying to train him, but not with much success." 

"I've had to bribe him. I think he learned to talk a while ago, but he will only talk for fruit cake." 

"Fruit cake?" 

"Yes, watch. I always keep a little bit handy because I like to show him off to my customers." 

"What does he say?" 

"I never know. He has quite a vocabulary." 

Walt downed his scissors, and walked over to the huge cage supported on a burnished copper base situated in the corner of the room on the left side of the recently installed wall mirror. Pascal resplendent in his blue and green plumage appeared to be sleeping on his wooden perch. A "tch, tch" from Walt and one eye slowly opened. Spotting the cake, the parrot leaped from the perch, grabbed on to the perimeter of the cage with his huge talons, snapped the food from Walt's hand, and returned to his resting place. 

"Why doesn't he talk?" 

"He's a polite parrot. He doesn't talk with his mouth full" 

"Fuck the M.R.P. Fuck the M.R.P."  

"What was that?" queried Howie. "Was that what I think it was?" 

"I'm afraid so. Some of my customers tend to use offensive language." 

"That's not offensive. It's brilliant," guffawed Howie. "It seems that the M.R.P. is not too popular with your customers." 

"That's the understatement of the year," replied Walt 

"How about yourself?" 

Walt stopped the final trim as he thought about a suitable response. "Oh, I don't know. I don't like getting too involved in this political stuff. I'm managing. There's only Hilda and me and I don't expect either of us will be around much longer. Nothing they do can bother us now. " 

"Don't be too sure my man." 

"There we're done. You look half-human now. Be off with you and don't get into too much trouble." 

"Thanks Walt. How much will that be?" asked Howie as he rose from the chair and checked his cut with the palm of his hand. 

"Two Myrats please." 

"I don't suppose you will accept the old currency." 

"Goodbye, Howie!"