Hemingway was wrong about the very rich, and when he walked
into my nonfiction class I told him so. He wanted to punch me
but I told him all physical violence on campus was prohibited
by the Peaceful Menno Code, so he just glared and stomped
out the door. The Code also prohibits gloating, so I asked
the students what we’d learned. “You blew our chance to talk
to a famous dead guy,” said the smart kid. “And a rich one,” said
Melinda, who never said anything. “Yeah, but rich people aren’t
like you and me,” I answered, weakly. “You mean they don’t
attach lame adverbs to their speech tags?” said the smart kid.
I opened my mouth to tell him off graciously, within the guidelines
of the P. M. C., but just then the door opened and a sweet voice
said, “Qu’ils mangent de la brioche.” I was baffled, but the Code
requires unconditional intercultural affirmation, so I smiled
and nodded. The woman sashayed towards me, glittering
as she walked. Fifty billion earthlike planets in the galaxy
and there she was, a golden, liquid comet on a collision course
with my poor sinful earth. She circled me, twice, and then she
was more like a hawk pondering whether it was worth the effort
to swoop down and snatch a meadow vole. The students
were spellbound, Hemingway forgotten. “Everyone thinks
you said, ‘Let them eat cake,’ I muttered. “Everyone in your
stupid country, maybe,” she answered. “As if the whole world
speaks your silly language.” She slid a finger from my ear
to my chin, and I shivered, but then she turned to the class,
and she was not at all a vain, dead queen. “There are
fifty billion earthlike planets in the Milky Way,” she said.
“How will you spend your tiny, whirly, unrepeatable life?”