She met Madeline outside the bookstore.
“Look,” she said proudly. “There’s already a long line of people waiting for me. They snake right around the block. That should make the bookstore owners happy. Poor Oldwhatshername. I hope a few people buy her book just so she won’t feel left out.”
“Ye-e-es …,” drawled Madeline uncertainly. She had heard of Oldwhatshername. In fact, she was pretty sure everyone in the world had. Oldwhatshername obviously hadn’t tapped into the bunny market yet, but it was only a matter of time. Oh dear, thought Madeline. Oh dear. She didn’t know what might happen today, but she had a feeling it was not going to be good.
“Well, shall we?” asked Mrs. Bunny, going inside and marching up to the card table that was set up for her signing. But there a surprise met her. There was a woman already sitting there. Why, it was the translator of Mrs. Bunny’s book!
“What are you doing here?” Mrs. Bunny asked her. “I suppose you have come to support me. How kind, how very kind of you!”
“Well, uh, yes,” said the translator, looking uncomfortable. But then she always looked a little uncomfortable. “That and, uh, signing a few books.”
“What books would those be?” asked Mrs. Bunny with perfunctory interest. She was getting very excited about her own signing. Her ears were twitching.
“Uh, you know, uh, your books.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Bunny—Detectives Extraordinaire!?” asked Mrs. Bunny in surprise, suddenly noticing the three huge stacks of her book in front of the translator. “How odd. But you didn’t write it.”
“I know, I know,” said the translator hastily, picking lint off her clothes and those of anyone who came within reach. “I keep telling everyone that. But the thing of it is, Mrs. Bunny, they never seem to believe me. They think I’m joking. They ask me to sign anyway. They interview me anyway. It’s as if … uh”—she paused, debating whether to tell Mrs. Bunny this—“they don’t believe you exist!”
For a second Mrs. Bunny’s ears shot up and made exclamation points on top of her head. “DON’T EXIST?” she squawked.
“Yes, I try to disabuse them but they think I’m …” And here the translator paused again. She did not like being the bearer of bad news. She was almost saintlike on her better days. “Lying. Or being, you know, overly cute. Humans, huh? That’s why I live on an island. I figure it keeps most of them away. Unless they’re, you know, very swimmy sorts.”
“Oh well, I suppose it’s not your fault,” said Mrs. Bunny. “I’m here now, so you can just go home. Shoo. Shoo.”
“Mrs. Bunny,” whispered Madeline, “don’t tell her to shoo.”
She turned to the translator, who was standing up and collecting her things. “She’s just nervous, you know. She gets this way when she’s nervous.”
“Oh, that’s quite all right, Madeline,” said the translator. “I didn’t want to be here anyway. I’d much rather be out shopping. I’ve been invited to the queen’s annual tea party at Buckingham Palace, and as usual, I haven’t a thing to wear.”
“You were invited to have tea with the queen?” squealed Mrs. Bunny.
“Yes. You know, because of that bit in Mr. and Mrs. Bunny—Detectives Extraordinaire! about Prince Charles. I guess they found it flattering.”
“But that’s so unfair,” said Mrs. Bunny. “I was the one who wrote that. And in the book it is I who says flattering things about Prince Charles, not you. What kind of dolt would attribute it to the translator?”
“Well, I think we’ve covered that subject …,” said the translator, looking more and more uncomfortable. She kept adjusting the straps of various undergarments and brushing randomly at her hair. “Anyhow, see your bunny publisher about it. Maybe they can snag you an invitation. The tea isn’t for a few more days.” Just then there was a great excitement outside and people standing in line began applauding.
“Oh, look,” said Mrs. Bunny. “Here comes Oldwhatshername. No doubt they are applauding because she finally got here and now they can come in and get their bunny books signed.”
There was a great fuss as the store owner led Oldwhatshername to her table. It was then that Mrs. Bunny noticed that Oldwhatshername’s signing table was a priceless antique, not just some card table such as the one the owner had set up for the translator.
Never mind, said Mrs. Bunny to herself, do not be a diva bunny. Probably just trying to buoy Oldwhatshername’s spirits as she sits quietly alone with no books to sign.
She tried smiling encouragingly at Oldwhatshername, who didn’t seem to notice her. She had a sea of people swarming around her.
“Her entourage,” said the translator bitterly.
“Well, someone from the shoppe should be paying attention. All the customers are getting in the wrong line,” said Mrs. Bunny.
The people who had been outdoors were now rushing forward to be first at Oldwhatshername’s table.
“Uh, apparently not,” said the translator, and pointed. All the people had Oldwhatshername’s latest fantasy novel in hand.
“WHAT?” said Mrs. Bunny. “Mrs. Bunny may faint. Have you any smelling salts? I cannot process such a bizarre turn of events. Has the world been turned upside down and set upon its long and fuzzy ear?”
“Well …,” said the translator, chewing on a cuticle and wishing she still smoked.
The bookstore owner, having Oldwhatshername comfortably settled, came over to Mrs. Bunny’s table. “Oh my, such an exciting event has never before taken place in my shoppe,” she said, looking (and smelling), thought Mrs. Bunny, extremely sweaty.
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Bunny quietly.
Although the owner wasn’t paying enough attention to hear Mrs. Bunny, she suddenly spied her on the chair next to the translator and broke into laughter.
“You brought a rabbit in costume!” she said between guffaws. “That’s just hysterical! Now listen, dear, you’re very lucky, being booked the same day that Oldwhatshername just happened to have an opening. She wasn’t originally booked for this day, but when I found out she was willing to come, I said to her, come any day, come anytime at all. It is up to us to accommodate you. And I knew you wouldn’t mind. However would you have seen so many faces here otherwise? Look at all the business she brought you! And you can bask in her reflected glory.”
“Bask, bask,” said the translator, scratching an arm and wondering if she had Lyme disease.
“Of course, at first they will all want to make sure they get Oldwhatshername’s very, very special book signed, but afterward some will trickle over to see what your book is about.”
The translator gave a sickly smile. She was doing her best to be polite and hoping very much she would not vomit on anyone’s shoes.
Madeline squirmed uncomfortably. The owner suddenly noticed her.
“And I see you brought a young friend!” she said, and then turned to Madeline. “I bet you came hoping to meet Oldwhatshername. But she’s a very busy woman. Oh yes, a very busy woman.”
“I’m here really for the bunny book,” said Madeline. “That’s the book I’m a fan of. And this is Mrs. Bunny, not just some stuffed—”
“Of course, of course,” said the owner, winking at Madeline, and wandered away looking distracted and talking to her assistant. “Perhaps you should get Oldwhatshername some cookies? Does she eat cookies? She looks so very elegant and svelte. Most writers look like they spend their days eating potato chips and sticking their fingers in light sockets. My dear, when you’ve been in the business as long as I, the hairdos you’ll see on some of them! Well, like that one.” She pointed behind her hand at the translator, who was pretending not to hear and thinking she should never attend these things without a cyanide pill.
“Imagine being as beautiful as Oldwhatshername and so very successful. What a charmed life Oldwhatshername leads! But deserving, very deserving,” said the owner, and wandered away to find something to tempt slim Oldwhatshername’s capricious appetite.
“Charmed …,” e
choed the translator, sighing and opening her purse, digging around until she found a half-gnawed chocolate bar and then shoving it unceremoniously into her mouth. Then she remembered Mrs. Bunny, who had also heard every word, and dug around some more. “Do you want something? I think I’ve got a practically whole caramel here somewhere.”
“I don’t understand any of this,” said Mrs. Bunny. “Perhaps this is why I never seem to get any royalty checks from the human publisher. Even though I had been told my bunny book was selling like hotcakes in the human market.”
“It’s selling,” said the translator glumly. “Not like hotcakes, maybe. Oh dear. I was going to tell you this, I just hadn’t gotten around to it.” She dropped her head on the table. “The publisher has been sending me the royalties. They think I wrote it, you know. They think you’re … made up.”
Mrs. Bunny just stared blankly.
“I haven’t been spending them,” explained the translator desperately. “I tried to have them converted to rabbit money immediately, but of course …”
“I know, I know. The carrot standard and the gold standard are not compatible,” said Mrs. Bunny. She patted the translator’s hand absently. This was a blow.
“Yes, but I opened a special bank account and I have put all your money there. I’m sure we’ll find a solution eventually,” said the translator.
“Not that it’s ever the money that’s the major thing. The disappointment, the humiliation … Oh, never mind,” said the translator, and ate the half-chewed caramel herself.
She looked at Mrs. Bunny and sighed. It was painful to see such a brilliant writer as Mrs. Bunny slighted. But what could she tell her? Life is cruel, carry chocolate bars—that was her motto. “Ahem. Perhaps we should organize in case there is a trickle. I’ll tell you what, Mrs. Bunny, you sit next to me and Madeline can page for us. Madeline, that means you open the book to the page Mrs. Bunny wants to sign. I’ll sign it too, under the part that says translated by.”
“Yes, you must by all means sign too,” said Mrs. Bunny kindly if patronizingly. “Since you are here and all. And it is such a good translation.”
“I’m glad you think so,” said the translator. “At least we can be each other’s fans since we seem to have no others here.”
They sat and twiddled their thumbs. They talked quietly among themselves. Mrs. Bunny and the translator exchanged recipes. Mrs. Bunny knew a very good recipe for carrot soup and the translator for an Asian salad that was to die for. Meanwhile, practically next to them, they heard people gushing and gushing to Oldwhatshername, who sounded graciously bored.
As the minutes dragged on and they had nothing to do, Mrs. Bunny said truculently to Madeline, “What makes her books so popular? That one has a very pooey cover.”
“Oh, a bunch of wizards go to a British boarding school. There’s magical happenings and stuff,” said Madeline.
“Humph,” said Mrs. Bunny. “Anyone can make up a good fantasy. Try writing a gripping realistic novel like Mr. and Mrs. Bunny—Detectives Extraordinaire! That’s where the skill comes in!”
“What kind of magical happenings?” asked the translator, who hadn’t read the books either.
“Oh, owls deliver letters.”
“As if you could get an owl to deliver anything,” scoffed Mrs. Bunny.
“And the candy does magical stuff. Tricks.”
“The candy does tricks? What kind of tricks?” asked Mrs. Bunny, suddenly sitting up straight. Her ears formed two quivering question marks.
“Oh, there’s candy that fills the room with bubbles and candy that makes you levitate. You know, that sort of thing.”
“Hmmm,” said Mrs. Bunny. “Madeline, grab one of those books and get in line!”
“WHAT?” said Madeline.
“Oh no, you haven’t fallen under Oldwhatshername’s spell too, Mrs. Bunny? Well, go ahead, the both of you. I’ll just sit here by my lonesome and plan an early demise. Oh, I forget, that’s no longer possible,” said the translator gloomily, sinking lower and lower in her chair.
“I’m not interested in her books,” said Mrs. Bunny. “I’m interested in her candy. Don’t you see, Madeline? That’s how we’ll save the shoppe! What do people really want from a piece of candy? Not just its sugary goodness—they can get that from pie, for heaven’s sakes, or a cookie. No, they want that something elusive. That hint of childhood wonders. They want MAGIC!”
She said this so loudly several of the people lined up in front of Oldwhatshername’s table leaned over and said, “Shhhh!” They were trying to eavesdrop on what Oldwhatshername was saying to the patron in front of them.
“Oh, shhh yourself,” said Mrs. Bunny. “Listen, Madeline. Get in line and when it’s your turn, ask Oldwhatshername how you get candy to do tricks, the way it does in her books. She must know. She wrote about it, after all. She must have done some research. And then tell her she got the owls all wrong. Wait a second, better hold off on that. Get the candy-training techniques first.”
“Oh,” said Madeline. “Do you think she’ll tell me? Isn’t that a trade secret or something?”
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Bunny. “If someone asked me for used-dental-floss knitting patterns, I’d be happy to oblige. Any decent rabbit would.”
Madeline thought this might be where rabbits and humans differed, but she would give it the old college try. She would do anything for Mrs. Bunny. Even though, of course, Mrs. Bunny was doing this for her. She ran over to the table with the piles of books on it. She grabbed one and ran outside to take her place in line. But when Madeline was three people from the front, Oldwhatshername looked at her watch, turned to her personal assistant and whispered something.
The assistant stood up and said, “Ladies and gentlemen and children, I’m sorry to announce that Oldwhatshername must flee to her next event. She mustn’t keep her fans waiting. Thank you all for coming!”
“NONONO!” cried Mrs. Bunny so despairingly that several people looked to see who had been stabbed.
“Don’t worry,” said the owner, who thought it was the translator who had screamed and came over to put a hand on her shoulder. “I put aside a signed copy for your little friend. A voice seemed to tell me she might not be quite so interested in your book as she pretended. Wasn’t it nice of her to pretend so, though?”
“Oh, put a sock in it,” said Mrs. Bunny, hopping out from under the table. She tried to snag one of Oldwhatshername’s ankles as she walked by but was too late.
“Do something! Get up and trip her!” she said to the translator, who, having run out of chocolate, was experimentally nibbling on a little lint.
“Oh right, I’ve always kind of wanted to do that,” said the translator, leaping forward but crashing to the floor because she was too late as well.
“Where’s Madeline?” they asked each other, for they couldn’t see her among the sudden melee of people trying to grab Oldwhatshername and detain her. Fortunately for Oldwhatshername, her personal assistant was a karate whiz and quite a few of the fans landed on the ground with dislocated bits and pieces.
Madeline, meantime, was in the back of Oldwhatshername’s limo. The driver had gotten out to have a smoke and left the doors unlocked. When Oldwhatshername got in, Madeline said, “Hello. I just have one quick question.”
“Better not let my personal assistant see you,” said Oldwhatshername, who had just spied her assistant on the sidewalk heaving children over the car. “I keep telling her she has to stop throwing children.” They looked out the window as people sailed across the car and into traffic. “What an arm, though. She ought to pitch cricket. All right. So you’re one of those, are you?”
“One of whats?”
“Children who sneak into my limo while Sidney is having a smoke. It’s not original, you know. I suppose you have something you want to ask me.”
“Exactly,” said Madeline.
“I’m not telling you how the series ends.”
“I don’t care. I’ve never read your bo
oks.”
“Oh right,” said Oldwhatshername, but looked as if she didn’t believe her.
“I haven’t. Really. But, of course, I know all about them. You can’t escape that even if you want. And I just need to know about the magical candy. How do you get it to do those things? The tricks.”
Oldwhatshername rolled her eyes. “And here I thought I’d been asked everything. Well, you must train it, of course. Consistent training is the answer. Just like with dogs.”
“Thank you,” said Madeline. She was preparing to alight from the limo when Mrs. Bunny, who was hopping madly outside searching for her, saw her opening the door and hopped over.
“I suppose you have a question too,” said Oldwhatshername to Mrs. Bunny.
Mrs. Bunny’s mouth opened. Was she supposed to have a question? What had Madeline been telling this woman? Was Madeline trying to delay Oldwhatshername with questions? She thought she’d better play along, so she asked Oldwhatshername the first question that came to mind. “Don’t you really think the queen of England should be a rabbit?”
“Yes,” said Oldwhatshername. “Now I really have to run.” She tapped on the window at the driver. “Sidney, let’s roll.” Madeline barely had time to get out before the limo pulled away with a screech of tires. She fell into a man standing nearby who was scribbling in a notebook.
“Ah,” said Mrs. Bunny to Madeline, pulling her off the man’s foot. “Another writer. I must warn him, writer to writer.” She looked up at the scribbling man and said, “A word of advice: don’t do any book signings at that store. They don’t know the difference between writers and translators. They don’t even give you a cookie!”
But the man didn’t seem to notice her, he just kept scribbling.
That night the headline in all the papers worldwide read, “Oldwhatshername Says She Thinks the Queen of England Should Really Be a Rabbit!”
Lord and Lady Bunny—Almost Royalty! Page 14