Detail, the real Versailles from the gardens.  The French Pavillion at the St. Louis World's Fair, which opened in 1904, was a replica of the Grand Trianon.

What fresh hell is this, I thought, (trying to imagine how Dorothy Parker might feel) as Agnes AKA Pam swept past me and entered my humble pied a terre, our eyes meeting ever so briefly (and yet managing to speak volumes) in a sideways glare.  The girl's petite blonde demeanor belies her power, make no mistake.  One tough cookie, regardless of age and size (which I calculate at 15 going on 30 and five foot one, maybe 85 pounds -- 90 tops.)

In any event, for those of you just joining us some background may be in order, and since Didier was struck unnaturally dumb upon her entrance (but not for long), allow me to take this opportunity of intense foreboding and portentous silence (the lull before the storm) to digress and fill you in.  Briefly, however, because the attentive reader will already recall the ongoing saga of these characters, whereas the enterprising young literary agent, preferably with connections to a large and prosperous (respectable is optional) publishing house need only place the simplest and most discreet inquiry in the comments section below to receive further details along with a complementary "Pitch" and synopsis which will be happily sent under separate cover.

In the meantime, suffice to say that Pam and Didier and I go way back.  This elfin creature who had just arrived in an admittedly fetching outfit of little white tennis shorts and a revealingly snug (Boy's Small or Girl's size zero I would imagine) pink Lacoste top, skin glowing and radiant, fair straw-colored hair pulled up in a simple twist behind, flashing blue eyes the color of Windex at us -- oh how well I recognized this deceptively innocent guise, for I once taught a room full of it! 

Yes, this Pam (actually Agnes but for reasons I can't yet explain she prefers to go by Pam) is the daughter of a former student of mine from my past life as a teacher in a certain private school for young and privileged girls in a major metropolitan area on the 'other' coast, as we in L.A. prefer to describe it.  Now, to say as I have done in the past, that I once again live and work near the Official Residence of the Mayor of the City in which I reside is probably being too definitive, on a geographical as well as socio-economic level, and might lead the diligent reader to presume a specific location -- but let me warn you, prithee don't!  Do not assume!  Unless of course you are very clever or that ambitious and (now, as I think about it) very good-looking agent with an eye to a Tell-All Memoir angle, in which case go for it, but as I have come to understand, rarely is anything as it seems, and although Coincidence may be, as earnest "Sober" friends so enjoy pointing out, "God Acting Anonymously," my own experience tells me to be careful and question everything.

Yes of course, the old rhetorical "What are you afraid of," comes to mind too, that old chestnut a dear rabbinical scholar with whom I once spent some time (another story) was so fond of, but I feel context is critical in matters like this.  [Plus, hello, that guy who pissed off Oprah with the million little white lies...]

And so, in this very present context, and to resume our story:

What was headed ominously toward that proverbial fan was about to hit, and one could only hold one's breath.  For maybe a nanosecond Time hung suspended, not so much in the sense of an ancient bug in amber or even flecks of lazy dust motes in sunlight, but more like the way that shiny bullet seemed to rush to a stop as it headed toward Keanu Reeves -- arrested in midair like a fat smooth bumble bee in a frozen channel of blurred trajectory -- right before it missed its mark.

Pam, however, did not miss her mark. Her deceptively quick and decisive steps across the room toward the stunned Didier were accompanied by a staccatto of words which, coming from this young pixie, would have made a sailor blush (and having known a few sailors in my time I speak not from cliche but experience) and followed, once her fists made contact, with a pummeling that propelled Didier backwards and up against the (more or less purely decorative) wrought-iron Juliet balcony which was, because the French windows were wide open to a previously and heretofore pleasant breeze, the only thing preventing the young man from being catapulted into deadly free fall.

They say seven floors are required to ensure a fatal landing.  Technically we were short one, but adjusting for average ceiling heights, ground slope, pavement below -- I had little doubt Didier would wind up either a) making his "transition" as my Religious Science friends prefer to call it, or else b) sustaining such hideously and permanently disfiguring external damage (nevermind the internal) that, given how great an asset his extraordinary good looks and flawless physique with its low body-fat count are to him, would, even if he survived, surely be nearly worse than dying, at least from an aesthetic if not legal perspective.

Frozen in place then for fear any move on my part might somehow enable the momentum of the situation and thereby place myself inadvertently in the role of accomplice to murder or manslaughter, depending on how good the lawyers were, I could only cry out, "For the love of a merciful God, don't!" in my most sincere (if slightly arch) tone of appeal to reason as the tiny vixen beat upon the young man's exquisitely defined chest and he held on, precariously, arms extended, to whatever mullions, molding, hardware or framing his fingers could reach, clawing to find purchase, his protests and denial unheeded but incomprehensible anyway for being delivered in panicked slurred French, albeit with a truly convincing display of genuine terror.

"If I don't kill him," Pam said, relatively calmly it seemed to me, given the circumstances and the energy she was exerting, "someone else will."

Dear Reader, it was too much.  Fortunately, a phone just happened to be in easy reach.  I managed to draw her attention as my hand moved like an elderly or possibly and more atttractively an extremely cautious spider, ever so slowly, to grasp and pick up the receiver, saying as I did so the only words I could think of that could possibly bring an end to this excruciating and unsettling nightmare...

To be continued.