Bender at the Bon Parisien (A Novel) by Pres Maxson Read Free Book Online Page A

swig and a wink at Janie. If
Trudel’s tone was wearing thin on him, it didn’t seem to register.
    “Well,
let’s see it,” I urged. “Do you do anyone I know?”
    “Of
course! Are you familiar with legendary French royal Marie Antoinette?”
    “Yes.
You can do an impersonation of her?” I asked.
    “Impression,”
he corrected me.
    “How
do you even know what her voice sounded like?” Trudel challenged.
    “I’ve
heard of her, but I’m not very familiar with her,” I added.
    “I
can see that you are going to need an American celebrity, aren’t you?” Pistache
continued, ignoring the opera singer.
    “Probably,”
I admitted.
    “These
two,” he grunted playfully as he thumbed in our direction. “Okay let’s have it,
then. Who do you want?”
    “Just
pick an impersonation you like to do,” Janie chimed in.
    “Impression,”
he corrected her.
    “Right,
sorry,” she said with a raised eyebrow.
    “How
about the greatest pop singer of all time, Frank Sinatra!?” Pistache sang.
    “Yes,
perfect,” I said.
    Jacques
lowered his chin and cleared this throat a few times. His eyes bulged.
Awkwardly moving his mouth as if adjusting for extra teeth, he finally settled
in on a bizarre look somewhere between mid-ranged angst and a complete muscular
crimping of the face. Janie looked my way and smiled.
    “Hey,
Dean-O!” Pistache began in English with a horrific accent. It was closer to a slurring
Bostonian than Ol’ Blue Eyes. “Roll me a seven and we all end up winn-ahs!”
    I
couldn’t keep from giggling a little, burying my face in a sip of drink to
avoid betrayal. It seemed as though he took his craft very seriously.
    “Hey,
Sammy!” he continued spitting words with wide eyes. “Kick it ah-ff! I’ll show
you a real fahx-trot if you get me an-ah-thah highball!”
    “Okay,
I think we get the picture,” I said unable to contain my laughter. Janie was
right with me.
    Fleuse
stared into his beer as he ignored him. Trudel seemed horrified by this
person’s definition of talent.
    Pistache
snapped out of it. “See? Exactly right, no?”
    “Sure,”
I said.
    “Is
that what you did on streets in Italy and Spain?” Trudel spat.
    “Well,
I also did a little tap dancing.”
    “Didn’t
we see a little of that already?” Trudel asked disdainfully.
    “Here’s
another little taste just for you, madame ,” he said still oblivious to
her tone. A slight shuffle of his feet again on the crossbar of his barstool preceded
a series of disorganized taps during which he lost his balance, reached for the
bar to catch himself, and knocked over his own beer. Everyone began laughing.
    “That
usually doesn’t happen,” Pistache sheepishly said while smiling at himself. He
immediately grabbed his beer in an attempt to salvage whatever was left. I also
went to the rescue with my bar rag.
    “I
usually don’t fall down,” he continued. He looked at Janie. “But, I’m sure you
would have had me if I’d fallen all the way, right?”
    “Sure,
man,” Janie said in English.
    “I
knew I could count on you, ma cherie ,” he said with a sly smile.
    “C’mon,”
I said. “Seriously, that’s enough man.”
    “You
call yourself a renowned performer?” Trudel challenged as she stood. “I would
like to know. What does that mean? Who heralds your talents?”
    “What
do you mean by that?” Pistache retorted, finally dropping the act for the first
time.
    “I
mean that I am Trudel von Hugelstein.”
    “So?”
    “You
haven’t heard of me?”
    After
a brief moment, Pistache brightened. “Wait, you’re Victor’s Trudie!”
    Fleuse
shifted in his seat.
    “Well
yes, I am that,” she said. “But that’s not what I mean. Surely, you have seen
me upon the stage or heard about my voice.”
    “I
think I’d heard that Victor was seeing a singer maybe, yes!”
    “Well,
I have performed quite a lot through the years. I thought maybe a fellow
performer like you would have been aware of the other acts in