Talking Heads

by Dave Bryant

Buildings and food

I eased my shiny black government-fleet sedan to a stop and shifted to park, but left the engine running. With consummate panache a twenty-something lacquey—resplendent in redingote over dress shirt, bow tie, slacks, and low boots, all black except the brilliant white of the shirt—stepped forward to the car’s front door opposite. My thumb hit the master lock release, and the young man’s white-gloved hand opened it, his other reaching, palm-up, to assist my passenger.

Sunset Shimmer hadn’t forgotten the spirit of her early instruction in manners and protocol at the School for Gifted Unicorns and Canterlot Palace, even if the particulars were different in this context. She met the offered hand with her own, though I could tell she put no weight on it as she rose from her seat. When the door beside me opened a moment later I turned back and glanced up; a much larger and more muscular fellow in the same livery as the younger attendant’s, albeit with fancier high-collared shirt and ascot, stepped back politely, giving me room to exit.

My brows rose in bemused recognition. The last time I’d seen Mister Brown—the only name I had for him—the Diplomatic Security Service special agent had conspired with me to set up controlled conditions for introducing myself to a certain group of teens on the back porch of a certain bookstore. Among other things he’d taken a temporary position there as stockboy and clerk, the better to play puppeteer and stage manager.

I quirked a brief smile before unfolding myself to my feet on the decorative pavers and placing my key and fob on his open palm. In lieu of passing the usual gratuity I gave him a small nod, which he returned with the barest movement during the brief pas de deux that ended with him sliding onto the driver seat and me walking around the car to join my companion and the patiently waiting attendant. As the car pulled away, bound for a discreetly secluded lot around back, I looked up idly at the archaic-seeming edifice that was our destination.

The porte-cochère surrounding us was magnificent, even if no horse-drawn coach ever had graced its shelter; porch-like roof, heavy pillars, and high arches provided welcome, if partial, protection against the evening’s light snowfall and stiff cold breeze. The façade from which it extended displayed the same gray ashlar stonework, along with neoclassical pillars and pediments, embattled parapets, and rigorous geometries. All hearkened to a bygone era when nobility and gentry ran their demesnes from great country homes scattered across a green and pleasant land. This building was no such thing, of course, being only a generation or so old and rather smaller than those mostly vanished mansions, but it had been designed quite consciously to play on the romance and formality of its chosen period, not to mention the grandeur—or perhaps grandiosity, depending on one’s viewpoint.

Sunset, I noticed, instead stared out toward the spectacular panorama of the valley below, framed by the entry of the porte, gem-like city lights obscured only a little by windblown flurries. It wasn’t hard to guess her thoughts. I was sure she would prefer to be down there with her cherished friends enjoying the winter break from school, or maybe even getting ready for a short visit home, on the other side of the magical portal through which she had come to this world. Her expression was set and her lips tight; only my diplomatic training prevented me from showing a similar countenance. Neither of us had spoken more than a few words, too apprehensive for conversation, since I had picked her up at curbside a good forty minutes ago. She was tense because she didn’t know what lay in store. I was tense because I did.

With a blink she refocused on me as I approached. I gestured with an extended hand toward the splendid doors double-glazed in a diagonal grid of lozenges, and we followed the attendant at last. A second set of identical doors later we stood in a sumptuous little vestibule facing a last pair of paneled leaves graced with elaborate bolections and other mouldings. Beside them the maîtresse d’hôtel, perfectly turned out in the same mode as Mister Brown, but with dinner jacket in place of overcoat, stood guard behind an oversize pseudo-lectern of fine satin-polished cherry. Immediately that worthy looked up from what no doubt was a large, sophisticated communication and control console in place of the bookrest, an essential tool in managing the front of the house.

“Mister Cookie Pusher and guest, to join an already seated party,” I murmured to her expectant mien. I ignored Sunset’s indrawn breath and returned the maîtresse d’s gracious smile of acknowledgement.

“Thank you, Sir. Before going in, would you care to leave your coats?” She waved a graceful hand toward the window to the side, behind which another functionary waited, summoned by the sound of quiet voices and possibly a flashing light keyed from the control panel. Not many places still maintained coat checks, but here it was of a piece with the antique and luxurious atmosphere.

“Sunset?” I favored my companion with a warmer smile. “Shall we?”

A quick bob of the head was all the reply she made or I needed, so we stepped over to divest ourselves. I slipped out of my dark winter-lined paletot and extended it over the small counter, one hand presenting the collar, the other arm supporting the waist, followed by my silk scarf and a folded bill of appropriate denomination, then faded back.

Sunset edged up before shrugging off her slate-blue greatcoat and surrendering it, then her colorful knitted scarf and mock-fur earmuffs. If her movements weren’t as polished, still they demonstrated how quick a study she was, since I was pretty sure she hadn’t practiced or even seen before the technique I’d had hammered into me during my Foreign Service classes in comportment. As she stepped away with a hint of relief at having concluded the business without embarrassing herself, I took the opportunity for a quick appraisal of the young mare-turned-woman no longer muffled and semi-anonymous in all-concealing winter outerwear.

Waves of red and yellow hair were bound up and pinned, yet allowed to cascade behind in a rooster-tail that swayed with her steps and suggested the equine tail she didn’t have here. The merest hint of make-up complemented her amber complexion and highlighted the vibrant aquamarine of her eyes. A cream-hued blouse was closed at the flounced collar with a bolo tie, the slide adapted to hold the magical artifact her whole circle insisted on calling a geode. Over it she wore an undecorated western bolero jacket of night-dark ruby, its narrow lapels faced in black. A familiar sun-and-moon emblem in red brass set off the narrow sash around her waist, topping slim, tapering slacks that matched the jacket and just cleared patent-leather elastic ankle boots.

Sunset’s friends, especially Rarity, had done her proud. Traditionally masculine and feminine sartorial elements mingled freely without clashing. Little touches here and there whispered of foreign, even otherworldly, origins, but only if one knew the signs. All in all the ensemble was audacious enough to express a youthful, adventurous spirit, yet sober enough to fit a semi-formal evening event.

I, of course, wore black tie.

The dining chamber across which we strolled, in tow of a junior hostess, was everything one might expect. Around and among the carved satin-white panels of the high ceiling, soffit fixtures and great chandeliers shed a soft, moderate light. Between crown moulding and chair rail stretched velveted wallpaper of champagne patterned with a subdued gold, interrupted only by a series of large windows along one side wall, heavy curtains drawn aside for the valley view. Lacquered wainscoting and baseboard covered the lower part of the walls. Deep wall-to-wall carpet matched the wallpaper—an unusual choice given the potential for spills, but it certainly contributed to the room’s opulence.

A score or so broad round tables draped in pristine ivory stood in staggered rows, spaced wide and surrounded by leather-upholstered chairs tufted with bright brass buttons. This early, few were occupied, though that likely would change as the evening progressed. Beyond them, against the wall opposite the main doors, lay a low dais on which a live string quartet performed, blanketing the room with a pleasant background of chamber music. I leaned over and whispered, “Maybe Miss Melody will be up there someday,” winning a momentary grin and nod from Sunset. Unobtrusively I gave her near shoulder an encouraging squeeze, and she took a deep, bracing breath.

Naturally we were escorted to the table farthest from both the doors and the windowed wall. The sole occupied place faced diagonally into the room, a second setting across from it. The third, between them, faced away from the quartet on their small stage. The hostess drew back the first of those unoccupied chairs and tilted her head toward it with a firmly spoken “Mademoiselle?”

Sunset hesitated, then settled onto the chair gingerly, upon which the hostess glided to the remaining chair and repeated her performance. “Sir?”

I too surrendered to the inevitable and sat, but said nothing. The hostess disappeared like the well-trained genie she was, leaving us alone with the already seated party, a stranger to Sunset—but not to me.

“Good evening, Ms. Shimmer,” said Permanent Undersecretary Pin Stripes. “And you too, Mister Cook. The time has come to talk of many things.”

Author's Note:

I strongly suspect Sunset’s adopted home city is based, loosely or closely, on Vancouver, BC, where the animation house formerly known as Studio B is located—just look at the landforms, habitats, and wildlife, especially in “Legend of Everfree”. I’d bet the architecture of the town Rainbow Dash zips through, delivering invitations, is a dead giveaway. (Addendum: it looks like Vancouver’s transit buses are, or were, painted in a livery of white with red stripe, similar to the buses shown in Friendship Games. Also, given how the movie industry has mushroomed in Vancouver, the presence of a movie studio actually makes sense.)
  Turns out the word “lackey” originally simply meant a uniformed manservant, though I used an alternative, older spelling; the connotation of obsequiousness evolved later.

Comments

[FanOfMostEverything]

...the slide adapted to hold the magical artifact her whole circle insisted on calling a geode

"Yes, the term 'geode' usually refers to the stone and not the crystals within, but in my defense, I was kind of busy struggling for sanity against Midnight. By the time I thought to object, the name had stuck."

“Good evening, Miss Shimmer,” said Permanent Undersecretary Pin Stripes. “And you too, Mister Cook. The time has come to talk of many things.”

If he doesn't have a walrus mustache, I'm going to be a bit disappointed.

In any case, eagerly looking forward to seeing how this evening goes. It's sure to be one to remember.

[Booster Spice]

Of candles and sealing wax, cabbages and kings.

Diplomatic missives, trade, and leaders. Or given heads of cabbages, and heads of governance, you could take it to imply diplomatic interactions on a more direct and personal manner?

English is a stenographic cryptologists savior and nightmare.

[Super Trampoline]

Did somepony say Talking Heads?!?

https://m.

[Dave Bryant]

9710751
Yes, I can see Sci-Twi’s objections falling on deaf ears, and her finally just shrugging with a sigh and going along with it.

. . . I think Ms. Stripes is intimidating enough even without a big bristly mustache. But it certainly would be striking.

[Dave Bryant]

9710779
Take it however you like. Pin Stripes is a veteran diplomat not at all above deliberately ambiguous or multifaceted phrasing.

[FanOfMostEverything]

9710790
Oh, right, the Undersecretary. My bad.

[Dave Bryant]

9710787
One of the finest music videos ever!

[Eroraf86]

9710751
How did I know you were going to beat me to that reference? And yeah, the whole "geodes" thing hurts my rock hound soul.

[A.P.O.N.I.]

My, but did Google get a workout with this chapter. Did you go looking for obscure fashion terms, or did you just take the chance to use ones that you'd picked up elsewhere?

[RolkFlameraven]

9710914
Forget Twi, how does Pinky sleep at night knowing Maud and is around?

As the younger sibling of a gemologist, I shudder.

[Dave Bryant]

9711015
Some of each! I did quite a bit of research in preparation for this story, but it built on existing knowledge. Cook, like me, has a genuine love of words; moreover, in his business, precise and accurate terminology can have a profound impact on the fates of nations. I am wallowing unabashedly in vocabulary.

[Rose Quill]

Hmmmm