Legal alien December 15, 2006Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.
She was perfectly nice, actually, as aliens go.
It was quite the least likely place to meet my one and only alien, in the office at my job – one with all the moral merits of child-trafficking – in Paris. And of course, to start with, I didn’t know she was from outer space. She’d had to disguise herself to get through the recruitment process, to start with, and it probably would have been a legal minefield getting a work-permit for an extra-terrestrial in France in the mid-90s.
So she disguised herself as a Dane.
Which was a brilliant bit of disguise, actually, when you think about it. For those of you who haven’t had the good fortune to have had an extended sojourn in Paris, you should know that the city is awash with young Danes, though mostly of a terrestrial nature. Her tribe, presuming she wasn’t a lone operator, though I didn’t get a chance to go into the polity of her world with her, had clearly done some quite careful research before sending her down to mingle with us earthlings with whatever maleficent intentions – call me an alienophobe if you will, but I don’t trust ’em – it was they had. “Tell you what,” they must have said to each other, at an alien powwow, though their musings would have looked something like ╨╤◘∩‡₪₣⌂⌂◊ in the original, I’m guessing, “rather than disguising her as an obvious alien, like Sigourney’s one, a big black cock with a poor oral hygiene record, let’s make her be a blonde Dane, and we’ll send her to Paris, as that seems like one of the epicentres of the earthlings’ activities.” And that’s what they did.
I didn’t know it at the time, of course, but the aliens had somehow orchestrated for me to be the one earthling in the company to have the rare privilege of close access to their emissary. I was to train her. And she was awfully nice, and had been endowed with many of the characteristics of her new compatriots. She was jolly, friendly. Had had perfect English implanted into her alien cerebrum along with French, Danish (natch) and, oddly, Norwegian. She was affable and intelligent, and learnt the job more easily than many before her, superior life-form that she was.
But there had been one small flaw in the aliens’ plans. The company’s training period was two weeks long, which meant by the end of it I practically knew the alien as well as if she were my own wife (though not in the biblical sense). And she made a few obvious non-human slips that should have had alarm-bells ringing straight away, the most obvious of which was wearing white tights, which no human has ever been known to do. And her ability to sing along, in perfect tune, and with all the words, to whatever pop-song came on the radio was also testament to a non-human brain. The girl knew too much, and I knew all was not right with the world.
But what really gave it away was the eyes. Sort of window-display dummy eyes. Lifeless. Glassy. A bit like Laura Bush’s. Our job entailed quite a lot of doing precisely nothing and staring out at passers-by in the Quartier Latin. (The aliens had chosen well. I’ll give ’em that.) And you’ve never seen a blanker expression in your puff. I think it was a combination of the aliens saving energy – her body would shut down when not required to do anything – and her using the time to telepathically send them all the vitally important pieces of intelligence she’d picked up that day: there’s a drink called a kir aligoté, French people don’t hold doors open for you, or stand on the right and walk on the left. That kind of thing.
In the name of harmonious intergalactic relations, I stayed in touch with the Danish alien when our life-paths diverged: mine back to London, hers back to Saturn or wherever. A letter arrived, with a ◘:^¬¤Ð postmark – see, they’re not infallible – though addressed Paris, asking if she could come to London to visit. “Of course,” I said, and she turned up at the appointed hour with a human Dane in tow. “Oh, it looks just like Denmark,” she said, keeping up the pretence of being human as we walked back to my place from the tube station before heading out to the Mongolian barbecue.
The London leg of her research was tiresome for a local. Her superiors had insisted she go to a musical and to see Evita, starring top humans Madonna and Antonio Banderas. To be hostly, and in the name of those harmonious intergalactic relations, I went along. Evita was bad enough. She sang all the songs on the tube on the way home. But Grease was worse. She sang the songs from that on the way home too. And did the actions.
Now I know having an alien in one’s social set should endow one with a certain cachet. And for the sake of the advancement of humankind, and as it appeared I was the only one who had noticed she was from outer space – I never heard a Dane say to her, for example, “Your Danish is perfect, but is that a trace of Saturn I hear in your accent?” – I know I should have asked her what fuels they used in her world, and had they come up with a way to achieve social harmony, and did God exist, and what was the best way to balance social freedoms with order, but I didn’t do any of that. I just let her drift out of my life and get on with her research unhindered. Nor did I jam the metaphorical switchboard and alert the authorities that there was an alien Dane in our midst.
And did she abduct me back to the mother-craft for a bout of being prodded and rodded senseless by the best her kind had to offer? Did she fuck…