A Letter from Henri

Since I have nothing to do but wait for my train to reach the capital, I thought I would transcribe a letter I received from Henri a few weeks back. It appears below in full:

Greetings,

Comrades, it is I, Henri.

I’m writing you this evening from my newly acquired mountain top plantation in Central America. Here, I smoke Cuban cigars dipped in brandy, and swim in glorious, crystal clear pools full of supermodels and tamed penguins, while eating my good friend Ricardo Rococo’s finest pizza (it is so rich).

Ricardo is even letting me borrow his white suit. I look as if I could pass for a cocaine merchant, for heaven’s sake. Talk about modern fashion. I’ve been mistaken for Richard Blaine during visits to town. All I need now is a pianist named Sam!

On a more serious note, I’m raising my own army for protection (it is hard out here for a gentleman of leisure). Hence, visiting my residence will become tricky in the not too distant future.

For those of you who remain adventurous in the face of certain death, however, I recommend the following five step plan of action:

1. Successfully complete a bank robbery.
2. Rent a dirigible.
3. Fly to, and land on, my spacious airfield.
4. Pay tribute money to yours truly (200 pounds sterling per night).
5. Receive double rewards points for your stay.

I have not yet quite worked through all the details, but it suffices to say, it is a good deal (for me, obviously).

Anyway, I must stop writing to attend to matters at hand. The penguins’ ice box is on the fritz, my Spanish tutor is due any minute, and a young American, Nicolas Cage, is trying to sell me a crate full of firearms. Sigh. All in a day’s work.

Go in peace (until I start a war with Colombia, which I will do),

-Henri Panama Spagé

Attached is a photo of Henri that was sent along with the letter above:

-Thomas

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Christmas in Buenos Aires

It is true what the old carol says; of all the trees that are in the wood, the holly bears the crown.  However, the floss silk trees in bloom are quite stunning.

I am writing to you in transit, on a train bound for the capital. I was able to secure an invite, in most part due to the efforts of my good friend Henri Spagé, to the Christmas Eve party being held at the British Embassy in Buenos Aires. In addition to Henri, I’ll again be in the company of Sir Malcom Robertson. Finally, after months of nothing but River Plate and the Boca Juniors, I’ll be able to talk to a fellow Spurs supporter (and one with a much better feed of sporting news than I have been provided in Mar del Plata). It is my hope to hear that the Scotsman McWilliam has the club in fine form as Spurs approach the second half of their campaign.

The playing of the merry organ, the sweet singing of the choir…

-Thomas

Mar del Plata

Ran into Terrance Gladstone taking in a match at the San Martín. He was in the company of the newly elected mayor, the socialist Bronzini. I wish the city good luck with that. Hard to remember a time any modern culture has collectively developed any amount of wealth, but leave Argentina to the Argentines I always say.

Gladstone and I were comparing different barbershop fragrances. Gladstone had the gall to slander my Grafton as harsh and synthetic, while his Bois d’Argent hardly qualifies as a barbershop. Almond overtones with too much honey. The iris overtones are nice, but the fragrance is far too sweet to be worn by a man. Despite his apparent poor taste, I will concede that Grafton only seems to last under humid conditions (which is just fine for Mar del Plata in December). As I have been on the lookout for a new barbershop, I picked up a small decant of Equistrius at Gladstone’s recommendation. I’m normally not much for the French houses, but Parfums d’Empire seems well received, and Gladstone hasn’t been the first to mention them.

-Thomas