“I absolutely refuse,” said Lady, “and by the way, has
anyone told you that you’re acting a bit off, lately? Maybe something about
waiting all those hours under the tropical sun to vote? Anyway, the idea is out
of the question….”
“You owe it to your customers,” I told her. “because if it
is a fraud, as I very much suspect, then you could be held liable. One sharp
attorney, and poof—there goes your business! Or what if Santana finds out? Now
he’s running a business with a very possibly tainted product, and who’s
responsible? You! Take heed, Lady!”
“Marc, this is ridiculous….”
“Well, if not tainted, then at least checkered. And
definitely with a suspicious provenance. So since you’re there, it should be no
trouble whatsoever to run over to Les Bouillens. Lovely day trip—be sure to pack champagne, foie gras,
and ptarmigan.”
“Ptarmigan?”
“I don’t know what it is, either, but it goes on picnics.
Oh, and you’ll have to take along a string quartet, since you’ll need plenty of
Haydn during the meal….”
“And how are they to get into the car?”
“Send them down beforehand, with the butler, and the little
men to set up the tents. Oh, and don’t forget the Sarouk rugs!”
“Sarouk?”
“Well, in a pinch, any heirloom oriental will, though
really, they should be Sarouk. Things have to be done, as you know, comme il faut. You have your reputation to uphold, remember!”
“You know, the thing about you is that you start off
refusing to do one insane thing, and then end up arguing about ptarmigan,
string quartets, and Sarouk rugs. So no, I am not going to Les
Bouillens, wherever that may be, and there’s nothing wrong…”
“Hah!” I told her, “people doubt that the Twin Towers were
attacked, or that we walked on the moon, but everybody is perfectly willing to
believe…”
“You might need to seek professional advice,” said Lady,
“actually, why don’t you call your shrink? Several of the newer antipsychotics
have been shown really promising for low-grade paranoia….”
“The stuff is sold in 140 countries,” I told her, “and also
in Puerto Rico, where it costs $1.49 over at Walgreen’s. That’s 75 cents
cheaper than the café, by the way….”
“But the ambiance….”
she said, and in italics, since she gave the word its French pronunciation.
“Do you really expect me to believe,” I told her, “that all
that Perrier comes from one little spring in the south of France? Les
Bouillens? Sold in 140 countries around the world? As I recall, there are only
200 or so countries, so that means roughly three quarters of the world is being
hydrated by one tiny little spring in the south of France!”
“Mon cher Marc,”
she said, taking advantage of the fact that my name is spelled with a ‘c,’
“people do drink other things than Perrier.”
“Of course,” I told her, “wine—and do you think even the
lowliest of vin du table is being
sold for $1.49 at Walgreens? Hah—answer me that!”
“Marc….”
“Though you might want to take along a brass quintet, as
well,” I told her, “since when you inspect the factory, you’ll need to have a
fanfare when you enter the building. Gabrielli, I think—anyway, something baroque
and majestic.”
“Of course,” said Lady, at last surrendering to reason, “and
perhaps we should take along the entire choir of the Sistine Chapel, to sing us
the Monteverdi Vespers of 1640—all 90 minutes or so—as a sort of spiritual
offering before eating? Grace, or a prayer, as it were….”
“Regensburg,” I told her, “though you should ditch the
ex-pope’s brother….”
“Get out of here,” she said, and that’s when I told her: I’m
where I should be! She’s the one in France! Right on hand to expose the biggest
fraud since tampered-with-Tylenol!
“Or maybe your back is hurting,” she said. “Anyway, you’re
definitely not yourself….”
“I looked it up, and I very definitely think there’s a
conspiracy,” I told her. “It all starts on the up and up. Here:”
The spring in Southern France from which
Perrier is drawn was originally known as Les Bouillens. It had been used
as a spa since Roman times. Local doctor
Louis Perrier bought the spring in 1898 and operated a commercial spa there; he
also bottled
the water for sale. He later sold the spring to St. John Harmsworth, a wealthy British visitor.
Harmsworth was the younger brother of the newspaper magnates Lord Northcliffe
and Lord Rothermere.
“Well,
that seems perfectly legit,” said Lady. “Though you do have to be
careful about younger brothers…”
“Notice
that ‘originally,’” I told her. “And then consider this….”
In 1992, Perrier was bought by rival Nestlé, one of
the world's leading food and drink companies.[8] Nestlé had to contend
with competition from the Agnelli
family for ownership of the business.
“You
see? The worst rogues in the business, though I could go for a Nestlé Crunch
right now. But remember the trouble the company got into, recently? You know,
in California? Or was it in Michigan? Anyway, it was somewhere or another,
where there was either no water or the water was tainted. And there Nestlé was,
sucking up what water there was!”
“Marc?
Where is this going?”
“It’s
all the damn French,” I told her.
“But
isn’t Nestlé Swiss?”
“Nestlé
is a corporation,” I told her, “which means it’s a world unto itself. Anyway,
the damn French sold the company to Nestlé, and then boom! The water was everywhere!
People were giving it to their dogs!”
“I
hardly think….”
“Well,
the poodles at any rate….”
“Ridiculous,”
said Lady, “I’ve had quite enough. Do you know, it’s quite impertinent of you
to follow me, here, all the way in France. I put up with enough from you, back in
San Juan.”
“Do
your homework,” I told her. “A mass fraud of Leviathan proportions is being
foisted on the world. Les Bouillens, indeed! Don’t force me to consult my legal
team….”
But
she’s gone!
“Where
did she go,” I ask Naïa, who has been expertly ignoring this entire
conversation….
“Out
to get the ptarmigan,” said Naïa, and returned to her video game.
