A Perfectly Ordinary Evening

The duck who hired Vesper arrived with an itinerary.

It had a cream cover, a silk cord, and the words AN EVENING TO REMEMBER embossed in gold.

“I thought it best to be prepared,” he said.

Vesper opened it.

There were six entertainments, three changes of venue, and a twelve-minute interval marked Spontaneity.

“Ambitious,” she said. “Will there be time to enjoy any of it?”

“That’s what I hoped you would help with.”

At the first entertainment, a harpist performed a composition inspired by the movement of moonlight across water. Vesper’s guest spent most of it looking at actual water through the window.

At the second, a chef explained the ancestry of a pea.

The duck nodded carefully. He appeared concerned that there might be questions afterward.

At the third, a singer held a note for so long that two waiters changed shifts beneath it.

Vesper leaned toward her guest.

“Would you like to leave?”

“We’ve only just arrived.”

“Yes. We’re still close to the door.”

Outside, Plume City was carrying on without the benefit of an itinerary. A vendor argued with a customer over a bag of something fragrant. Music wandered out from beneath a bridge. Along the canal, the lamps broke into small, restless pieces on the water.

Her guest checked the programme.

“We’ve missed the fireworks.”

A distant explosion lit the roofs.

“Some of them,” Vesper said.

He shut the cover.

“I used to be rather good at evenings.”

She waited.

“People used to ask where I was going. Now I book things so I have an answer.”

A gondola passed. Neither duck waved.

“There’s a place to sit,” Vesper said. “Would you like that?”

He looked almost suspicious.

“For how long?”

“Until you want to stand up.”

They sat beside the canal.

After a while, he removed the silk cord from his programme and began worrying at its knot.

“May I?” Vesper asked.

He passed it over. She loosened the knot and returned the cord.

The programme opened across his knees.

In the interval reserved for Spontaneity, someone had printed a small advertisement for maritime insurance.

He began to laugh.

It was a brief, rusty sound.

“What?” Vesper asked.

He showed her.

“Comprehensive,” she said.

He tore out the page.

“Do you remember how to make a boat?”

“I can supervise a disappointing one.”

His first attempt resembled a hat that had received bad news.

The second had a pointed bow and a bottom of uncertain integrity.

He lowered it onto the canal.

For a moment it floated beautifully.

Then the insured portion went under.

“Oh, excellent,” Vesper said. “An immediate claim.”

He laughed properly this time.

A passing duck stopped to observe the wreck.

“You need a wider base.”

“Thank you,” said Vesper. “We’ll notify the shipyard.”

The stranger remained while a third vessel was constructed. Soon there were three ducks disputing the correct shape of something none of them had made since they were young.

The fireworks ended.

Nobody looked up.

At eleven, Vesper rose.

“Our evening ends here,” she said.

Her guest glanced at the clock across the water.

“Yes. Of course.”

She fastened her jacket.

“Was it dreadful?” he asked.

“The pea was difficult.”

“I meant the whole thing.”

Vesper looked at the damp programmes, the rescued silk cord, and the third boat, which was travelling steadily toward a patch of lamplight.

“I enjoyed the shipbuilding.”

“So did I.”

She wished him good night.

He stayed beside the canal. There were several unused pages.

The passing duck, who had never quite passed, pointed at the programme’s gold cover.

“That would make a magnificent one.”

The guest examined it.

“It might be too heavy.”

They considered the problem together.

Then he began to fold.