Chapter Fifty-four

THE ANDERCHRONICLES

By Me, Ellee

[WARNING: The following story has been rated FNF*]
*Fiction NOT Fact

[SECOND WARNING: There is no second warning. Just take the first one to heart. Thank you. The Authoress.]

The handsome couple seated at the little round table were intimately enclosed within the soft glow of the chartreuse candle burning in the center of the table. This was their first date, and nobody—but nobody, was allowed within their lighted sphere, not the maitre d’, or the waiter, or the water garcon—not even Antoine, himself. They could come and go, doing what was required, but they could not cross over into the intimacy of this private corona, where the couple now had their heads together, whispering sweet things to each other—personal things—things like,

“Ellee, did we lock the front door?”

Ellee blinked rapidly as she scanned through recent events, her eyes almost spinning as she searched, until at last she found it.

“Yes, Andy, we locked the front door,” came the answer.

“Good,” followed the response.

The six violins which had been playing throughout the evening, somewhere off in the distance, were now getting closer . . . and closer . . . and much closer. Actually, they were so close now, they had surrounded the table and the tips of the bows had crossed over into the candle glow, whizzing past Ellee, stopping just short of striking Andy in the nose. That’s when Ellee, at the top of her voice shouted,

“What? Andy, what did you say? I didn’t get that . . .”

As she spoke, her eyes were tracking the bows as they dashed brusquely in and out of their halo, while the notes of Johann Strauss’ Radetsky March came crashing onto their little tete-a-tete, successfully drowning out the conversation taking place.

“I said,” Andy yelled, “I love you!”

“WHAT?” Ellee shouted, as she strained to capture Andy’s words.

“I LOVE YOU!”

“ I CAN’T HEAR YOU, ANDY—THE MUSIC IS TOO LOUD!”

“I—LOVE—YOU—ELLEE! ! !” His hands were cupped around his lips to amplify the sound.

Ellee shook her head and shrugged her shoulders in frustration when she couldn’t make out the words coming from Andy’s enunciating lips—THE MUSIC WAS SOOO LOUD!

"NEVER MIND,” Andy responded, mouthing the words.

“WHAT?” She squinted to read his lips.

Andy shook his head, “NOTHING.”

Ellee smiled. Andy smiled, and two white-gloved hands appeared from outside the circle of candle glow, setting two plates of spinach salad that had been sprinkled with a slightly-warmed vinegar and olive oil dressing, topped with bits of crisp bacon and white, fleshy mushrooms in front of them. They smiled at each other again, and then picked up their respective salad forks and began spearing the first course, while the six violins played on, and on, and on— and on. You see, restaurant violinists, not belonging to any union, aren’t required to take five-minute breaks every ten minutes.

As the adoring couple ate their tasty little green leaves, fungi and crispy pig bites, the violinists switched from Strauss’ March to Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture, the tempo picking up quite considerably, and the faster the music played, the faster they ate. By the time the Overture was fini, so was the first course, in record time, and Andy and Ellee put their forks down, dabbed at their lips with the corners of their white napkins, leaving unmistakable tell-tale signs of extra virgin olive oil, which of course would require some extra scrubbing by Lolo, the laundry boy, when he came in later that evening, and Andy and Ellee . . . well they sat back and waited for the second course.

But there was to be no second course, or a third, fourth or fifth—not even dessert. For at the very moment Andy and Ellee set their salad forks across their salad plates, someone at the local utility company accidently set their elbow on the off switch, effectively shutting down the entire electrical grid in that sector, leaving every dwelling, business and person in total darkness—everyone that is, except Andy and Ellee—they still had their little chartreuse candle that was burning brightly in the center of their little round table, still enclosing them within its soft incandescence . . .

“Are you ready? Andy broke in.

“What? . . . Oh . . . yes,” I answered, looking up from the page to see this handsome guy in his black tuxedo, surprised by his voice.

“What’s that you’re reading?”

“Oh, just a little story I found while I was waiting for you to get ready,” I answered, closing the book.

“Well, we’d better be off. It’s nearly 7:30. Antoine doesn’t take kindly to customers arriving late.”

I returned the book to it’s place on the shelf and we left. The ride in the taxi to Chez Antoine’s didn’t take long. Andy had promised our evening together would be one which I would not soon forget. I was so excited, I couldn’t wait to see what he had planned, but I also knew, that no matter what, I would NEVER forget it! How could I—this was an actual date with Andy!—our very first date!

As we walked into Chez Antoine’s restaurant, we must have been a stunning sight to behold—Andy, tall and handsome in his black tux, brilliant platinum hair cropped short, with that little tuft of hair in front, which wasn’t cropped so short, but which wanted to play on his forehead in a tantalizing sort of way that really drives chicks wild, and I in my black lace dress from the House of Che in Paris, the scallops at the bottom flirting with my knees as I glided through the room on Andy’s strong arm. I was wearing all those fabulous diamonds he had given me for Valentine, and they were casting their glistening light before us, announcing our arrival. All eyes followed us through the room to our table.

Once we were seated, I sensed something familiar as I glanced around, taking in everything. I had never been there before, and yet there was this . . . this feeling, kind of like deja vu. I couldn’t really define it, UNTIL . . . I noticed our table—it was small and round—with a chartreuse candle burning in the center.

“What’s going on, Ellee? Is something wrong?” Andy asked as he noticed my reaction to our surroundings.

“Yes . . .” I answered, “quite frankly, there is . . .”

“Ellee? What? What’s wrong?” he wanted to know, concern in his eyes.

“Andy . . .” I leaned in closer so no one else could hear, and lowered my voice, “there’s a candle burning in the center of our table.”

His eyes widened as they scanned our table, finally stopping on the candle. Then they flashed up to me.

“Yes . . . there is, Ellee . . . . . . . . . so?”

“It’s a chartreuse candle, Andy!” I was nodding my head in a see-what-I-mean sort of way.

He raised his palms in the air as he shrugged his shoulders and said,

“You’re absolutely right. It IS a chartreuse candle.”

I waited for the rest of his response, but it didn’t come.

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“It’s the SAME candle as the one in the story I was reading.”

“What do you mean?”

“Andy . . . the candle in the story was chartreuse! Just like this one. Now that’s no coincidence! And . . . the table in the story was round and small—again, just like this one. And that, too, is NO coincidence. So, what do you make of all THAT?” I sat back in my chair, folding my arms.

“Nothing, Ellee! Absolutely nothing! This is silly. I don’t see—”

“Bonsoir, mademoiselle, monsieur. Welcome to Chez Antoine . . .”

The waiter had thrust himself inside our circle of light, like he had a right to— WAIT! WHAT AM I SAYING? Now I sound just like that story— inside our circle of light ??? I knew this whole thing was silly, just like Andy had said . . . and yet . . .

It took us several minutes to place our order, deciding on Duckling a l’orange, and after the waiter left, Andy leaned into the candle glow —there I go again—and stared at me for several minutes, then said,

“Ellee, two voices . . . singing the same song . . .” His eyes were flashing electric blue.

“What?

“The same song,” he reiterated, stressing the word, same. I was puzzled by his comment.

“Andy, I don’t know what you mean. Are you talking about the chanteuse?” At that moment the imported French diva was warbling La Vie en rose. “Do you mean, Simone, the singer?”

“No, Ellee, I don’t mean Simone, the singer!”

He seemed a little upset that I didn’t understand what he was saying. “Well, who do you mean then?”

“You, and . . . and—“

“Andy, you know I don’t sing—you’ve heard me. I couldn’t carry a tune in a locked suitcase.”

“Noooooo, Ellee, not that—it’s me, I mean you, I mean—“

“Andy, I’ve never heard you sing. Do you sing?”

“No . . .yes . . . I mean . . . Ellee, will you just listen?”

He was so frustrated, but I didn’t have the chance to hear what he was about to explain, because at that exact moment, Antoine made a point of invading our little sphere of candle light, making sure we were well taken care of, and to see if there was anything we needed. Well, Antoine, maybe some privacy would be a nice thing, I wanted to say, but didn’t. The second he left our private little halo, the water garcon butted in, uninvited and was poised, ready to refill water glasses that were already full to the brim and sweating profusely. That’s when I said, but shouldn’t have,

“What is your name young man?”

“Georges, Mademoiselle.”

“Well, Georges, you see those two water glasses sitting on this table? The ones that are nearly overflowing at this very moment?”

“Oui, Mademoiselle, I see them.”

“Do you have any idea what is going to happen if you add even one more drop of liquid?

His eyes flew open as the look on his face registered surprise, and he began stammering around, trying to find an appropriate response to a question he hadn’t anticipated. I decided to put the poor little twit out of his misery by supplying the answer.

“There will be a complete—that’s TOTAL—surface tension break down, causing a spillway of water to be released, even though those lovely little atoms, which up to that moment, when you came along and insisted on pouring in more water, had been doing such a fine job keeping all the H2O from running over the edges of the goblets.” Then I looked him right in the eyes and added, “Do you really want to be responsible for that, Georges?”

My voice had become several decibels higher by the time I had ended my science lesson, and I noticed, when I heard their gasps, that others in the room had been auditing my class. And Andy . . . well he was shocked by the whole thing. He sort of cowered in his seat as his eyes made a tight sweep around the room. I realized then, I really should have kept quiet, but that water boy was interfering with our date! At that point he left, taking his water with him, stopping at the next table to overflow their goblets, but I didn’t feel responsible, for I knew I had done all I could—they would just have to deal with it on their own.

“Ellee, WHAT was that all about?” Andy yelled in a whisper, as he ducked into our private light.

“Andy, these people are trying to ruin our first date,” I whispered back, following his lead. “They, all of them—the head waiter, the water garcon, the chanteuse, even Antoine—they will be responsible for derailing our entire evening!”

“Ellee, for crying out loud! They are just doing their jobs!”

“Andy, that may well be, BUT . . . they will be the ruination our evening, our very first date!”

“Why are you saying THAT? Ellee, have you lost your mind?”

At that point our faces were nose to nose.

“No, Andy. You don’t understand.”

“You’re right, I don’t. What’s going on?”

“It’s all in that story, Andy.”

“What story?”

“The one I was reading just before we left.”

“Ellee, what does that story have to do with us, here, now?”

“It has everything to do with us. The guy in the story was named Andy—"

“Wait! Don’t tell me. And the girl’s name was Ellee, right?”

“Right.”

“That’s ridiculous! Ellee, you’re just making this up.”

“No I’m not, Andy. It’s true. And their whole evening was ruined by the circumstances going on around them at the restaurant, which just happened to be named Chez Antoine. And the Andy in the story was trying to tell Ellee something very important, but she couldn’t hear him because the violins were playing this loud, awful music, which was anything but romantic. And they never did get past the first course because the electricity was shut down, and — ”

“Ellee . . . it was only a story.”

My eyelashes, keeping pace with the emotion of my rapid speech, had been making repeated sweeps against Andy’s eyelashes, which weren’t as long as mine—or as thick, and yet had become entangled with mine as I spoke. Andy reached up to separate them, and in doing so, his fingers brushed across the fleshy part of my cheek—a cheek so soft, so warm, he said,

“Ellee, your cheek— it's . . . . so soft . . . so warm.”

His fingers made no attempt to leave, while his searching eyes probed mine several moments, until he tipped his head slightly, and closed the distance between our lips. Then, as he began to speak, I could feel his lips forming words on my lips,

“ . . . the same song, Ellee. That’s what I was trying to tell you. Don’t you hear it?”

“ . . . w-what song, Andy . . .?”

But he didn’t answer, because at the very exact moment his lips began to close over mine, a huge fire ball erupted at the table next to us when the waiter ignited the cognac he had just poured over the Cerises flambe. Now in a French restaurant, during a cognac lighting, one would expect cherries flambe to do just that— flame, but certainly not to the extent of this conflagration. It was obvious the waiter had most likely misread the directions, measuring five ounces of brandy, instead of the usual one. The resulting orange blaze flashed to the ceiling, immediately setting off the sprinkling system. Then we heard screams and someone yelled . . . FIRE! the very second the fire alarm began screeching. At that point the stampede began as customers, now dripping wet, and in a state of panic headed for the nearest exit, each and every one forgetting their manners as they shoved and pushed and yelled, “Get out of the way!”

Before Andy and I could get to our feet, a big guy, elbowing his way to the door, tripped over a lady, who had just slipped on the cherries, which by now were rolling around all over the floor, and as he fell across our table, knocking it over, he took the two of us with him. On our way down, we crashed into the pastry cart that was just passing by, loaded with dozens of lovely designer cream puffs—there were even some swans among them. The guy immediately got up and scrambled away, leaving Andy and I sprawled on the floor in a sea of whipped cream, which had been squished out of the cream puff shells at the moment our bodies made contact with them. My expensive, black lace creation from Paris was now white, and Andy’s black tux wasn’t black anymore.

Then, as if all that wasn't enough, yet following right along with the story I had read, the water from the overhead sprinklers shorted out the lights, and the room was plunged into darkness— except for our little chartreuse candle, which I had scooped up just before the table fell, and which I had successfully carried to the floor—still burning, and which I now carefully set to the side of Andy and me, as we lay, belly down, face to face, on that cold and wet cream puff floor.

Down there, enclosed within the warm glow of this little candle, we were apart from all the pandemonium playing out around us. As we lifted our heads, our eyes found each other only millimetres away. Andy smiled and continued right on with what he had been saying—as if nothing at all had just happened,

“Ellee,” he whispered against my lips, “ . . . that song . . . you know it . . . you’ve heard it . . . listen . . .”

His lips played with mine for a moment, and then gently took them with a soft warmth that sent shivers to every part of my electrical system, causing sparks to fly, and which couldn’t be shorted out, even by the gushing sprinklers overhead. I knew his electrical system was experiencing the same reaction. Then he said,

“You’re hearing it . . . aren’t you . . . right this very moment?” His eyes were glistening.

“Yes, Andy,” I breathed—on lips still wanting to play.

He pulled away just enough revealing scintillating, crystal blue eyes as he softly declared,

“Two voices . . . singing the same song . . . Ellee, that makes an US .”

There was an audible rush of air as I realized the implication of what he had just verbalized.

“Andy,” did I dare ask , “ . . . there really is an US ?”

I was now searching his eyes for an actual confirmation, but at the very moment he drew breath to confirm it, the water garcon came running across the room with his pitcher of water sloshing every which way, yelling,

“Hold on . . . don't panic . . . I’m coming to put out that fire!”

And as he rushed upon us, he threw the entire container of water on top of our little chartreuse candle, successfully dousing the intimate halo of light, leaving only the dim light from the auxiliary which had kicked in when the other lights went out. As my eyes registered disapproval for his courageous efforts, his look of success quickly faded away, leaving only fear—the fear of what I might have to say about his fireman heroics. He quickly turned, dropping his water pitcher, and fled into the darkness, before I had a chance to say a word.

I looked at Andy. He looked at me. Then, as his expression deepened into the Andersquint, he reached for me, sliding me through the whipped cream, until I ended up in his arms, where I stayed until the firemen came to rescue us, beginning CPR right away—by then we both needed it! Andy had promised me our first date would be one I would not soon forget. But I knew I would NEVER forget it—as long as I lived.

Bye for now,
Love,
Ellee