The Sweetness Of The Pear Lula

When your boss's boss's boss, the President and Chief Executive Officer of the Central Calandrian Engineering Company, has entertained you at a formal dinner party in her own home, a thank-you note is most certainly in order.

I began by trying to convey a sense of how thoroughly I had enjoyed myself: the pleasant conversation, the appetizing meal, and, especially, the charming Calandrian folk dance that had been the centerpiece of the evening's entertainment. I felt particularly beholden, I wrote, that my hostess herself had so graciously stood in when my slated partner had pleaded an unfortunate incapacitation. Dancing with her had been by far the loveliest of the evening's many pleasures. (I did not feel it necessary to remind her that the dance had culminated with the two of us lying naked on her living room floor, locked in a passionate, conjugal embrace.)

I ended my note with the heartfelt wish that I might one day have the opportunity to repay her kind and generous hospitality. I knew that this was just a formality. As president and chief executive officer, Madame Lefarge's time was seldom her own. Besides, over the course of the year she made it a point to invite each of her employees to at least one of her dinner parties, brunches, teas, or soirees. Although it was not a huge workforce, it would nevertheless have been impossible for her to accept every offer of reciprocation.

I was somewhat surprised, then, when I received a note from her a few days later. She was glad that I had enjoyed the evening and pleased that I was open to the old customs and traditions. Dancing with me had brought her a great deal of pleasure as well. She would be delighted to accept my hospitality. In fact, if she could be so bold, her calendar had a fortuitous opening two Saturdays from now, if by some chance that date should happen to open up on mine.

---

Ilsa read the note twice, gave me a scrutinizing look, and then read it carefully for a third time.

"She wants you to invite her to dinner," she translated.

"That's what I thought. But she is the President and Chief Executive Officer. I'm just a third level engineer."

"That won't make any difference to her. Presidents pretty much do whatever they want. I take it you made something of an impression at the dinner party." She already knew every detail.

She gave me another scrutinizing look, tilting her head slightly to obtain a different perspective. "Well, you're presentable enough, I guess. You do have a few endearing qualities, not the least of which is a certain earnest insouciance. I don't find it altogether beyond belief that a discerning woman might want to spend a pleasant evening in your company."

"So what should I do? How many people should I invite? Should I hire a dining room? Is there a place that rents out silver and china?"

"Calm down, calm down. From the tone of her note, I'm pretty sure that what she has in mind is nothing more than a cozy little supper for two. She knows that you are a third level engineer. She was one once herself. She won't expect silver and china.

"You should know by now," Ilsa continued, "that the only indispensable ingredient for a successful social event, no matter how big or small, is the congeniality of the host. You can look to Madame Lefarge herself as your example. If she had held her dinner party in your tiny apartment, using your chipped plates and mismatched knives and forks, do you think it would have been any less delightful?"

I have learned to always trust Ilsa's insights in matters of this sort. So I sent off another brief note inviting Madame Lefarge to supper at my apartment on the suggested date. I soon received her reply. She was counting the days.

---

If congeniality is the most important ingredient for a successful event, it is because, when applied early enough in the process, it leavens and fortifies all the other ingredients to produce a result that is both palatable and satisfying. It was decided that I should serve my famous Afghan eggplant stew, which Ilsa agreed is really quite delicious. It was judged that a single tasteful arrangement of flowers would be just the thing to brighten my spartan decor. It was finally conceded that my plates were perhaps just a bit too chipped, and that borrowing Ilsa's would not impinge too severely on the earnestness of my insouciance. It was proposed, and roundly seconded, that for entertainment I should take Madame Lefarge to the promenade. Not only is the promenade wholesome and fun, but the bustle of the public boulevard would offer a pleasant contrast to the intimacy of the dining room.

The only point on which we disagreed was the called-for degree of formality. Ilsa was of the opinion that informality is perfectly de-rigueur in this day and age, besides being so much easier to pull off. But I had been developing my own sense of Calandrian propriety, and it seemed to me that the situation called for just a touch more.

Madame Lefarge's dinner party had been very formal indeed. She had answered the door dressed in the conservative and elegant couture of the ancestral forest---that is, without a single piece of jewelry, a single touch of makeup, or a single stitch of clothing. The raiment of birth and conception is the basic black of Calandrian fashion. Never out of style, within everyone's reach, simple, comfortable, unpretentious. Also ultimately democratizing. There are neither lords nor paupers in this long-house, it assures. Neither presidents nor third-level engineers. Only fellow tribesmen come together to enjoy one another's company.

This was the first time that I had ever seen Madame Lefarge naked. She was several inches shorter than me and probably in her early forties. Her hair was black and cut boyishly short. Her figure was trim, almost to the point of delicacy. Her skin was as white and fine as porcelain, without a trace of hair anywhere except on her head. Her breasts were exquisite, her vulva demurely tucked away right where it belonged.

"It is an honor to welcome you to my humble home," she said with a graceful bow. The words were part of a standard formula, but she spoke them with the directness and simplicity with which she might have greeted me in the hallway at the office.

"The honor is mine for your having invited me."

"This is your house. Please make yourself at home."

This was an invitation for me to disrobe as well. If the epitome of Calandrian comfort is to be comfortable in one's own skin, the epitome of Calandrian hospitality is to provide the ambiance of warmth and good feeling in which this can take place. Madame Lefarge got her first look at my cock and hung my shirt and trousers in the closet.

"Won't you come in and meet the other guests?"

There were two guests, both colleagues from the office: Simon, a friend of mine, and Gwendolyn, whom I did not know very well. Simon was darker and more muscular than me, and uncircumcised, with a bushy patch of pubic hair. Gwendolyn had wavy blond hair and very attractive breasts with tiny areolas and long, skinny nipples. We were soon joined by the fourth guest, Marianne. Marianne's office was just down the hall from mine. We were workout partners and occasional fuck mates.

The idea of mingling and exchanging small talk in the altogether is less off-putting in Calandria than it would be in the States, but also less titillating. Nudity is largely seen as just another form of dress. Whereas we rely on clothes to downplay differences and hide imperfections, Calandrians are not so much bothered by either differences or imperfections as long as one is reasonably trim and kempt. And since nudity is not so uncommon, one becomes somewhat acclimatized. That is not to say that one loses the frisson, but that one can go the distance. Hold one's liquor, as it were.

Madame Lefarge was a splendid hostess, engaging, interested, never patronizing, never dull. She drew out sparkling conversation and genuine bonhomie from every one of us. If someone put forward a preposterous proposition, she would play along and then join in the general laughter as the inconsistencies came tumbling down. If someone confessed a heartfelt emotion, she would listen with rapt attention and make it her own. I can truly say that this was one of the most enchanting and cathartic evenings that I have ever spent.

The ton-ton is not really so much a dance as a series of choreographed movements and interactions. At weddings and on special occasions it is often performed by a dozen or more couples arranged in a ring, but it can be pared down to fit any number. Normally the hostess would serve as mistress of ceremonies, but Gwendolyn was having her period and did not wish to dance. So Madame Lefarge took her place as my partner, and Gwendolyn became our mistress. Simon and Marianne formed the other couple.

For the first movement, the partners faced each other. The music (from Madam Lefarge's tape recorder) began with a slow and somewhat formless introduction that soon coalesced into a stately waltz-time march. The mistress of ceremonies struck a shimmering note on the thunder sheet. The partners approached each other with their arms held out to their sides. They took each other's hands and approached into a close embrace, torso to torso, cheek to cheek. Ideally the man's penis was semi firm, but still pointing down, and it pressed cozily between the lips of his partner's vagina in what is called a pink kiss. As the music fell and then swelled again the partners drew back slightly, still holding hands, and came together again aligned along the other cheek, and then a third time back along the original cheek. Another shimmering note from the mistress of ceremonies and everyone changed partners and repeated the three embraces with the new partner. Then another shimmering note and everyone went back to their original partner and repeated the embraces a final time.

Each movement proceeded in this same way, as three sets of three actions. In a larger ring, the first set would have been with the neighbor on your right, the second with the neighbor on your left, and the third with your original partner. The music was different for each movement, but it always followed the structure of three sets of three. The mistress of ceremonies accentuated the changes with her thunder sheet. Madame Lefarge moved into and out of each action with dancing grace; I pretty much just shuffled along.

The music and the choreography built gradually toward a crescendo. In the second movement, the man stood behind the woman and caressed her breasts and her vulva. Then she stood behind him and caressed his chest and his testicles. Next the woman lay on her back and the man knelt athwart her head and bowed down to kiss her clitoris. Then he lay down and she bowed to kiss his glans. In each movement the actor performed each action three times with the original partner, then three times with the neighbor, then three times again with the partner. In the penultimate movement, the man remained supine and the woman impaled herself three times on his rigid cock. In the final movement, the woman knelt and bowed toward the mistress, and the man penetrated her three times from behind.

If you find it shocking that the national folk dance of a small but relatively well known parliamentary democracy is really little more than choreographed debauchery, you would not be alone. If it strikes you as depraved that there is a society that not only condones, but actually encourages, promiscuous copulation at its wedding celebrations and office dinner parties, there are those who would agree with you.

In defense of this custom I can only tell you what Ilsa has told me. That for the last who-knows-how-many hundreds of years, the universal consumption in Calandria of a native herb with foolproof androgynous contraceptive properties has essentially decoupled the sensual and procreative aspects of sexual intercourse. Fucking has come to be seen as a shareable pleasure, more intimate than a kiss on the cheek, somewhat less intimate, perhaps, than a kiss on the lips. The ton ton does not celebrate fertility, it celebrates the giving and receiving of venereal joy. Is it promiscuous to throw a sumptuous dinner party and invite more than one guest? Is it depraved to attend a savory feast just because it is hosted by your neighbor?

In any event, the adept ton tonner climaxes on the third and final penetration of the third set of the final movement, at the very apogee of the musical trajectory and accompanied by strident ripples of thunder. Madame Lefarge was thus adept, but the rest of us were not. It was not so much lack of stimulation as anxiety over the proper footwork. Fortunately, Madame Lefarge's tape foresaw this possibility and continued with a romantic coda to give the rest of us a chance to catch up.

I gave Madame Lefarge a few more thrusts from behind. But then I eased her over, and entered her from the front. I lay my body upon hers, my chest against hers, and, on impulse, I kissed her full on the lips, my boss's boss's boss, the President and Chief Executive Officer of the Central Calandrian Engineering Company. She framed my face with her alabaster fingers and kissed me back. And that was enough. We crossed the finish line nose to nose. And although she was on her victory lap, she was sprinting alongside me full out.

My initial impulse for my little supper, then, was to match formality with formality. I would answer the door in the garb of the ancestral tribesman and invite Madame Lefarge into my humble home. But wasn't it just a tad bit ostentatious to flaunt a humbleness that already spoke so loudly for itself? Well, at least I would impress her with my knowledge of Calandiran custom. As if she would be impressed by such a dilettante as me. Well, at least I would create such an ambiance of warmth and good feeling . . . In the end I acquiesced to Ilsa's better judgment and laid out a nice pair of trousers and my best Hawaiian shirt.

---

Madame Lefarge arrived on the appointed day wearing a beautiful kimono of ultramarine buffeted with gusts of lavender, mist, thistle down, ivory, and ice. I welcomed her in, and couldn't help but notice how warmly the walls of the room lit up in her presence, and how proudly the flowers on the sideboard stepped up on tiptoe to greet her.

"Lilacs! Freshly cut!" She breathed in their delicate perfume. "Did you know that I used to live in a flat not too far from here? The thing that I loved the most was the lovely courtyard, full of lilac bushes. I was just out of university, living on my own for the very first time.

"I remember sitting out in the early mornings, in that special hour when the only ones up are you and the sun. I would see my day laid out before me like a fresh piece of paper, just brimming with possibility, just waiting for me to dip my pen into the ink. Some mornings I would dip, some mornings I would just savor the possibility.

"The days were longer then, I remember that very well. Or at least the hours were not so filled up. There were days when I had absolutely nothing that needed to be attended to between supper and bed time. Nothing except the fireflies and the swallows and the wafting scent of lilac."

She had brought me a gift, wrapped up in paper and twine. It was a child's abecediary---used, but respectfully so. Every page was devoted to a different letter of the alphabet, with a colorful picture and a simple verse. It would have been gift enough just to see how pleased she was to give it to me.

"If any volume can be said to be an essential part of the Calandrian canon, this one certainly can. It's known to every schoolchild, past and present, throughout the country. It's a sort of touchstone to our shared vocabulary---its verses have entered the language as proverbs, and its pictures feature regularly in our dreams. I suppose you could say that it's a primer on what it is to be Calandrian."

I was touched. The pictures were indeed charming---of a certain age, but captivating, archetypal. I stopped by chance at the letter P. A verdant bower. A curly haired boy, shy but determined. A frizzy haired girl, coquettish but uncertain. A golden piece of fruit. "Will you taste the sweetness of the pear?" No serpent. No fiery sword. Just sunshine, a sturdy arbor, hanging gourds, an earnest exchange, the promise of sweetness shared.

Supper was a complete success. Madame Lefarge had two helpings of stew. She had learned to calculate using a slide rule and punched cards. She had never come across a bear in the wild. She loved traditional Calandrian folk songs. She was fascinated to hear about the colorful patterns on old Amish quilts.

As we cleared away the dishes, I asked her if she would like to go to the promenade. She clapped her hands together just like Claire might have done. "Oh, Hector," she said. "That's a lovely idea. I hardly ever get the chance to promenade these days."

"We should be right on time."

"Hector." She was suddenly very animated. "I have an idea too. Would you consider escorting me to the promenade en regale?"

"Of course I'd be more than happy to. But I don't really know what it means."

"In my parents' and grandparents' day, and even when I was a little girl, the promenade was somewhat more formal than it is now. The ladies would wear their best kimonos." She spread her arms. "That is part of what gave me the idea."

"And the gentlemen?"

"They had their own special uniforms too. Their principle accoutrement was a ceremonial sword. I know that the idea of swords in Calandria must strike you as funny. Even in my grandfather's day they were just a ceremonial remnant of an earlier time. But they convey a very deep association with our ancestral past, and they are still worn today on very special occasions."

"I'm afraid I don't have a sword."

"I wish I had thought of it earlier. Let's think. Do you happen to have within your circle of friends any older gentlemen? Gentlemen who might be about my father's age?"

"Well, there's Mr. Papago."

"Tell me, are you good friends?"

"We get along. He lives downstairs."

"Do you think he would mind if we paid him a visit?"

"I'm sure he would be delighted by the company."

---

Mr. Papago answered the door and looked up at me through his thick glasses.

"Hector," he said. "Come in, come in." He was dressed casually, in khaki shorts. His bare chest and bald head were as brown as a nut.

"Mr. Papago, may I introduce Madame Lefarge. Madame Lefarge, this is my friend Mr. Papago."

Mr. Papago undoubtedly recognized the distinguished name, because all of a sudden he was too tongue-tied to speak.

Madame Lefarge kissed him on both cheeks. "Mr. Papago. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Come in, come in," he managed at last. "Will you have some tea?"

"It is very kind of you to offer," said Madame, kneeling gracefully at the low table, "but we do not want to trouble you. We were only hoping we could ask you for a piece of advice."

"Of course, Madame. It would be my pleasure."

"Mr. Papago," said Madame, "May I ask, are you perhaps a member of one of the Calandrian Orders?"

"I am, Madame. The Royal Kardosians. In good standing."

"Ah, Mr. Papago! How well I remember when I was a little girl and my father used to take us down to watch the Flag Day Parade. How thrilled we would all be to see the Red and White being carried so proudly by by the gallant Royal Kardosians."

"I would have been among their number, Madame," said Mr. Papago proudly.

"And I'm sure that you must have carried the Kardosian steel on promenade more than once in your day as well."

Mr. Papago chuckled. "Aye, Madame, that I did."

"Those were glorious days, Mr. Papago."

"They were indeed, Madame."

"Sometimes I think that as long as those days still live in our memory, they are not entirely gone. And then I think that if they are not entirely gone, why shouldn't we fetch them down from the attic every now and then so that the younger generation can get to know them as well?"