episode 8 part A.
PPD, the Guest and Mata woke up to an entirely new scenery. It was almost like the opulence of the Swedish court and the intrigue enshrouding the French couple had been a dream.
"Don't be dramatic," said Mata Hari sharply to the Guest, when she began insinuating that it had all been a dream.
"But it has been my dream to meet Beethoven, so quite logically, that must have been a dream!" said the Guest.
"You have bin votching too much ov dat nonsense korean drama on the in flight entertainment seestem, you silly girl! Don tink I hav not notised."
PPD smirked. He had refused to share his ear pods with the Guest from the very beginning, knowing she would take complete charge of them, while glued to the idiot box. He needed it to listen to his playlist, however subpar it might be perceived. So the Guest was stuck watching "idiotic shows" as deemed by Mata, on mute, while reading subtitles, hence her cinematic experience was always a little less than perfect.
The Guest peeped out of the window. It was a blistering cold day and the entire countryside in front of them was covered in snow, like a cake with white frosting. She sighed. What beauty!
"Come now," said Mata briskly jumping out of the pod.
"The woman makes you seem calm," said PPD. "God alone knows what she's on."
The trio stretched their legs and began an arduous journey walking through knee deep snow. PPD held the Guest's elbow firmly, because he knew she was very unsure about snow patrolling.
"What comes up to your knees comes up to my waist," she explained.
"Stop with your excuses short vun," barked Mata.
"She's beginning to annoy me!" whispered the Guest to PPD. PPD looked at the picturesque white sky searching for answers. At what point of time in his life, and HOW on earth did he get embroiled with these two psycho women? And where in the world were they taking him? Cottony clouds smiled down on him, and the sun peeped out like a spot light on the sets of a Hollywood movie. This was promising!
They stumbled upon a tiny cottage on the side of the road, and Mata went forward to boldly knock on the door. Her persistent rattle was answered by a toothless crone with a pinafore wrapped around her waist, and a white hanky binding her hair.
"Tak?" questioned the lady.
"Me Mata, ve three friends," said Mata animatedly, holding up her white handkerchief in a symbol of peace.
PPD rolled his eyes, and pushed her aside. He bowed low, and turned on the charm, full volume. The Secret of the Kind Eyes were functioning at their maximum potential.
"OB, Aai, Mata," he said, pointing to each of them, then crossed his hands over his chest and went "brrrrr!"
The sight of The Kind Eyes attached to the shivering Man was enough to melt the coldest heart in Europe and the crone ushered them in.
"I, Baba Yaga," said the crone thumping her chest. "Holy moly guacamole, we are in Poland!" whispered the Guest anxiously to PPD. "And this is the bhoonga baba of Poland! You know, the kind who would kidnap you as a child if you wasted food on your plate, etc!!"
PPD looked pityingly at the Guest. "Clearly you had a traumatic childhood," he consoled. "I used to finish all my food of my own accord," he stated in a sickeningly angelic way. "But we used to call Bhoonga Baba for my baby brother." The Guest rolled her eyes. She couldn't handle this level of goody-two-shoe-dom.
They entered the most quaint parlour, where four young men sat by the fire. They seem startled to see the bedraggled trio, and offered them seats close to the hearth.
"He is....he is...." said the Guest, looking like she was going to faint.
"Ze name is Chopin," said an elegant young man. "Frederique Chopin."
"Hahahaha Freddie," guffawed the other young man. "Already practicing da French version of your name?"
"If we are to move zere soon, we must start zpeaking like zem," said FC.
"I've got all da paper work done," said the most verbose of the young men.
PPD helped the Guest lie down by the fire. She looked like she was about to pass out. "Don't make da spectacular of yourself!" admononished Mata.
"She means don't make a spectacle of yourself," translated PPD.
"Just shutup," said the Guest. She was done with these two being bossy and supercilious. "He's just about the only man I have ever truly loved. I think I can't breathe." She lay down on the couch, placing her head on Frederick's lap, much to his horror. Things were heating up in the room. PPD tried to keep things under control. He gently pulled at the Guests ankles so that Frederick was free from her adoring shackles.
"Ve are all musicians in Warsaw," explained one of the boys. "Sadly tings have become impossible for us here. We cannot live like this. In hiding. In fear. It must come to an end."
"The Tsar vill soon invade again, and our army iz reduced for nothing," explained the blonde haired lad.
PPD, ever the political afficionado, leaned in with interest. "So what's your plan? You will become a political refugee in France?"
"Paris is de only place dat will take us, arteests," said Frederick, hopefully. "Ve can live freely there!"
"We will come with you!" shouted the zealous Guest, drunk on love.
"She means, she wishes you well on your journey," clarified PPD hastily, unwilling to escape the law of one country for another, with a bunch of crazy unemployed musicians. They looked unstable and unkempt, like none of them really had any concrete plan in mind. He was done with this illegal human trafficking that was becoming second nature to them. From being a boy who had never even wasted the food on his plate, he had become a serial escape artist, a veritable Houdini! All because of that stupid Guest. It was bad enough to teleport through time, now they were escaping within the same era! It was too crazy for words!
"Aai," he whispered firmly into her ear. "We are going home. You and I. No Mata. No Chopin. No other stragglers. Enough is enough. I object. I put my foot down. I am taking char......"
Before he could finish his words, Mata and the Guest had begun dancing together, closely entwined to a piece that FC was playing on the piano. The Guest looked completely besotted, and Mata was jiggling her body obscenely, shaking every individual signet ring cell on her buttock in an electrifying, sensuous motion. PPD could see all the men's eyes darken and their pants get a bit tighter. He rolled his eyes. So many years in urology, and the effect was always the same. Spinal anesthesia and Mata Hari. Two things guaranteed to cause venodilatation. He sat down next to Baba Yaga, hoping the sight of her would relieve the boys of their embarrassed excitement. She was really One Ugly Mug. The Guest and Mata Hari pranced around the room, Mata's grace and sexiness highlighted by the Guest's sheer lack of it. She loped around like a floundering tadpole fresh out of the egg, while FC's fingers flew on the old ivories. PPD felt the moment freeze in time. Little did he know how things would change for him, just the very next day.
------to be continued.