The Senator, The Swede and The Mayor

The Senator had been bumming through Europe for the past weeks. He did that at least a couple of times a year.

He knew princes and poets and ruthless financers and fast –beautiful- women and enjoyed them equally.Above all he craved the company of politicians, successful or otherwise.

He favored politicians from back home, those in exile –imposed or self-imposed- most of them down on their luck, all wanting to meet with him.

He would invite them out to the same fancy restaurants his rich cat friends took him and watch them wolf down 4-course Michelin dinners.

He himself ate very little, talked even less and drank steadily without ever losing sight of the North Star always with one ear cocked towards any tidbit of political gossip.

One cold autumn day the Senator landed in Paris. He found out there was a meeting of mayors in the city and that the mayor of his home town was one of the few attendees. He was flattered –he looked upon anything that put his country center stage as a personal triumph- and proceeded to call the diplomatic mission to find out the whereabouts of the Mayor. He invited the Mayor to dinner at a very posh restaurant on the Isle St. Louis, next to the Rothchild’s place where he had often dined.

He let a ravishing Swedish ex- girlfriend organized everything making sure there was a healthy assortment of power, brains and beauty, a sure recipe for a successful evening. The group was way over the Mayor’s pay grade, but wanting to honor his countryman he sat him next to the Swede, a fun girl and one of Paris most feted women.

The Mayor was tongue-tied and not only because he had never seen such a female specimen up close but also because he did not speak either French or English -actually none other language except his own- and proceeded to down every glass that was put in front of him.

After dinner was over the Senator picked up the hefty tab -it was only logical since he had bought an unknown guy who made no contribution towards the conversation. The Swedish beauty, grateful at the generous gesture - she had recently been unceremoniously dumped by her filthy rich husband and was at present without a sou on the lookout for a new benefactor- invited them both over for a nightcap. The Senator judged the husband’s reaction a bit cavalier in spite the fact that he had found his fickle wife in bed with a poor, younger guy -a small peccadillo in the Senator’s book who cast a forgiving eye on the ways of the heart and the rest of the body.

Off they went, the Mayor not believing his luck which prompted more drinking on his part, this time hard liquor, in an effort to find the courage to make his move. The Senator observed everything with an amused air, wondering where this would all lead, letting the chips fall where they may. The Swede, with the primary innocence all Swedes keep regardless of life and experience, did not see the Mayor coming. And come he did. When she went to get more ice from the kitchen he followed her and tried to hump her against the wall –a move that probably had worked well for him in the past under lesser circumstances. The Swede used to much more sophisticated foreplay was totally taken aback. The Senator guessing they had overstayed their invitation suggested they called it a night. The Mayor wouldn’t hear any of it, “Forget it! I’m not leaving, man! The gringa’s ripe and ready! She’s begging for it.”

The Senator knew better than to argue and left while the Swede desperately mouthed “Please take your friend!” The Senator beat the retreat well aware the Swede had dealt with thornier situations and was perfectly capable of taking care of herself, which she did a few minutes later pushing the Mayor out of her flat and into the elevator.

The Mayor found himself at 3 am on the street, in the rain. Had no idea where he was. Had no money, spoke no French and to top it all no idea of the name of his hotel.

Finally an inordinately nice taxi driver took pity of the drunk who looked like a bum and who kept saying something that sounded like I am “le maire”. At first he could not understand “maire” of which city. When he finally did he drove to the Commissariat de Police where after some research the flics pointed the taxi on the right direction.

The Mayor caught a fierce cold and missed the rest of the convention.

He still roams the corridors of power as out of tune as ever.

P.S. Patient Reader, the blog is taking a month’s vacation. It will be back on Sunday March the 14. See you then. Stay healthy and safe.