The Salamander Page #7

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- Are you the boss?

- Excuse me?

Are you director of the estate?

No, I'm head clerk.

Now, how much is this lot worth?

I don't know. Do your job, estimate,

evaluate.

You sure have a strange job.

What do you mean?

You're not the boss but

you have to act like you are.

I'm his legal representative.

What will become of you

when property is nationalized?

That day still seems far away.

I'm not sure it will ever come in our

country.

And even if it did,

there are ways to get around it.

It just takes imagination.

I know a guy who succeeded

by inventing a new way

of squeezing mayonnaise.

Before, they were ordinary bottles

and the mayonaisse squirted out.

He had a brilliant idea

of chamfering the edge of the hole

so the mayonaisse comes out

all twisted and ribbed.

It looks great on sliced hard-boiled

eggs.

He made a fortune, and now he's the

boss.

The value of the furnishings

amounted to scarcely 750 francs.

And that was a generous estimate.

The inspector took note, and left.

What a mess!

I made a decision.

I'm going to Paris.

I've had enough of this awful town.

And the papers, too.

Here or there...

Paris is also unbearable.

That's their problem.

At least I'm not at home there.

Does the Paris paper pay you?

A little.

I'll get by. I'll find a place to

sleep.

And I'll run up debts.

Devaluation is faster in France,

and lawsuits are slower here.

I'll sell my car.

Catherine will take the apartment.

If you need a room in town...

Let me give you my phone number.

What's the matter? You must be crazy.

It looks nice.

You have nice legs.

What are you doing? Are you mad?

Sir! Your salesgirl is mad!

She's getting fresh with me!

What happened?

I don't know what came over me.

I'm sorry. Excuse me.

I'm sorry, madam. I'll handle it.

I've never seen the likes of it!

Do you need money for Christmas?

When's Christmas?

In five days.

Unfathomable sadness!

- How many days off do we have?

- Three.

What a waste! Jesus and Maria!

He's sad. He's going to sing.

It's too early. I never sing before

ten.

Written anything lately?

The story of a girl who

tried to kill her uncle.

A serious thing? An erotic tale?

Not at all.

What are you doing?

Rosemonde!

Yes, sir?

Come here!

You must leave here at once!

Get out!

You're completely mad.

You're a little slut!

Go on, get!

Unbelievable!

Goodbye, madam. Sir.

Thank you very, very much.

It was the 20th of December.

The so-called holidays approached

menacingly.

The crowds assaulted the shops,

in accordance with mercantile law.

A tendency towards marked

schizophrenia was evident,

a sickness which threatened to engulf

the entire social strata.

It still hadn't snowed,

which, for this time of year,

was actually not the least bit

unusual.

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