Gustave Flaubert

Mads, my Norwegian companion, and I were getting tired of the city, so we decided to take a trip to Paris, just the two of us, a guys's getaway, if you will. We were grabbing a bite to eat at an outdoor eatery named Chez Ted Lange (not the guy who was Isaac the Bartender, apparently) after a long day of sightseeing. A man approached our table holding a paperback copy of Madame Bovary.

"ello, Americains, my name ise Gustave Flaubert. I em a famus writer ere en France."

I took the book from him, and pointed a thumb in his direction while looking at Mads. Mads shot me a smirk. I paged through the book, and found any indication of the book's publication date removed. I opened to the middle and read a bit. It was Eleanor Marx's, Karl's daughter's, translation. I gave it back to him.

"So, Gustave, you look pretty good for being over a buck-eighty," I said.

"A boock eighty?"

"I hundred and fucking eighty years old. Cent quatre-vingts ans!"

"Zut Alors!"

"Oui, je sais. Nous parlons Francais, gros chien."

"Fet dog?"

"Sorry, I was trying to say Big Dog. Come, have a seat with us."

"You know, you are ze first Americains I eve met ere thet eve read Madame Bovary."

"Really? That's interesting. Tell me how this works, you pretend to be Flaubert and dupe unsuspecting Americans to give you things?"

"Pretty mooch."

"I like it. If any Americans are dumb enough to fall for that, I think Mads and I can buy you lunch. Man, Mads, doesn't that bring you back?"

"To which time? We've done so many scams I've lost count."

"Remember the time we got that all expenses paid trip to Turks and Caicos when I convinced that rich family I was Stevie Nicks's son?" I sighed. "Man, when we were on that beach, and you played the guitar while I sang 'Landslide' at that bonfire. Pure gold."

"Wow, you geys are my eros."

"Hey, Gustave, cut with the bad French accent, you ain't foolin' anyone."

"Oh, sorry."

"That's okay."