"Diplomacy à la vodka" from A Mysterious Evening in Vienna
Translated into English Throughout
Translated into English Throughout
“Your excellency, are you –”
“Nope, I’m just drunk.”
“But – ”
“I’m putting you in charge of the negotiations. Don’t start World War Three.” And he passed out.
The Under Minister of Foreign Affairs stared at his boss, Soviet Foreign Minister Molotov, who was now collapsed on the couch. “Well, I guess it’s up to me to handle the negotiations,” he mused.
The Prussian diplomats arrived in Geneva. And the Russians arrived … three weeks late because they needed to take the train from Leningrad through Central Europe.
“You’re late,” said the Germans, who had driven from Berlin and arrived early, 3 days ahead of the scheduled meeting time just in case they got a flat tire. Germans are always on time. Germans are always early.
There are times when the dictatorship of the proletariat is worse than the dictatorship of tyrants. At least the kaiser runs his government on time. Meanwhile Lenin is drunk on vodka.
The negotiations began. And continued. And went nowhere. Because there was no translator. The Germans made propositions in Deutsch and the Russians confusedly responded in Russkiy. And the press kept saying, “It’s Greek to Me!”
“What the hell is going on in Europe?” demanded Churchill. “Why can’t the European Union get their shit together?”
“The affairs of Europe are the affairs of Europe. You are an island,” said de Gaulle. Although it sounded more like [zee affairez œv œrʌp aʁ zee affairez œv œrʌp. juw aʁ ʌn ajlənd].
“I know. Thank god for Brexit,” said Churchill.
Vladimir Lenin sent a cable to his Foreign Minister. “How are the negotiations with the Germans going? Stop. Report back when your hangover is done. Stop. Awaiting news from the Eastern Front. Stop.”
Molotov muttered, “Damn. The proletariat has awoken. Which means I need to get up.” The Russian foreign minister pulled himself up off of the couch, made his way through the maze of vodka bottles and proceeded to put on his bow tie and 3 piece suit and top hat. As he sobered up on his way to the League of Nations downtown, he asked the cab driver, “What year is it?” The taxi driver replied, “This is an asynchronous piece of fiction, you idiot. There is no year!”
As the Soviet foreign minister arrived he asked his Under Minister, “Did you start World War Three?” “No, your excellency.” “Ok, then you did a good job.” “Spasibo.” “Pozhaluysta.”
“Nope, I’m just drunk.”
“But – ”
“I’m putting you in charge of the negotiations. Don’t start World War Three.” And he passed out.
The Under Minister of Foreign Affairs stared at his boss, Soviet Foreign Minister Molotov, who was now collapsed on the couch. “Well, I guess it’s up to me to handle the negotiations,” he mused.
The Prussian diplomats arrived in Geneva. And the Russians arrived … three weeks late because they needed to take the train from Leningrad through Central Europe.
“You’re late,” said the Germans, who had driven from Berlin and arrived early, 3 days ahead of the scheduled meeting time just in case they got a flat tire. Germans are always on time. Germans are always early.
There are times when the dictatorship of the proletariat is worse than the dictatorship of tyrants. At least the kaiser runs his government on time. Meanwhile Lenin is drunk on vodka.
The negotiations began. And continued. And went nowhere. Because there was no translator. The Germans made propositions in Deutsch and the Russians confusedly responded in Russkiy. And the press kept saying, “It’s Greek to Me!”
“What the hell is going on in Europe?” demanded Churchill. “Why can’t the European Union get their shit together?”
“The affairs of Europe are the affairs of Europe. You are an island,” said de Gaulle. Although it sounded more like [zee affairez œv œrʌp aʁ zee affairez œv œrʌp. juw aʁ ʌn ajlənd].
“I know. Thank god for Brexit,” said Churchill.
Vladimir Lenin sent a cable to his Foreign Minister. “How are the negotiations with the Germans going? Stop. Report back when your hangover is done. Stop. Awaiting news from the Eastern Front. Stop.”
Molotov muttered, “Damn. The proletariat has awoken. Which means I need to get up.” The Russian foreign minister pulled himself up off of the couch, made his way through the maze of vodka bottles and proceeded to put on his bow tie and 3 piece suit and top hat. As he sobered up on his way to the League of Nations downtown, he asked the cab driver, “What year is it?” The taxi driver replied, “This is an asynchronous piece of fiction, you idiot. There is no year!”
As the Soviet foreign minister arrived he asked his Under Minister, “Did you start World War Three?” “No, your excellency.” “Ok, then you did a good job.” “Spasibo.” “Pozhaluysta.”
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A Mysterious Evening in Vienna
By John R. Teevan III
ISBN 978-1-5489-2287-0
