To Emmz,
with love and Squalor
~0~
~~~
The fashions employed by the people of Dark Avenue are the stuff of legend – a phrase which here means “very famous for being very loud”. The word “loud”, as you may know, can refer to the sounds made by machinery in the ceiling of a large building but, in the case of fashions, it is more likely to mean “flamboyant”. When someone is dressed flamboyantly, for instance, they are wearing something ridiculous and impractical, usually for no discernible reason – such as women who wear headpieces made to look like blue telephones, or dresses made of bubbles, and the word can also be applied to food, furniture, or anything else that can be found in apartment buildings. The residents of 667 Dark Avenue, a particularly tall and modern building, had long been slaves to fashion, meaning that they dressed loudly, decorated their surrounds flamboyantly, and ate impractical foods, according to what was in style. You and I, of course, know that there are much better ways to spend our time than constantly trying to be stylish or “in”, but I’m sorry to say that this was not the case with the residents of this apartment building.
“Mirrors,” announced Kensicle, “are in now”. Kensicle herself did find it very interesting that having reflective surfaces all over your walls was in, and she knew her friends would find it even more so than she did. Emma Squalor, LadyGrantham and F.D. were all listening with rapt attention – a phrase which here means that they seemed fascinated by something very dull. There is nothing particularly wrong with mirrors, of course, but as they are nothing more than shiny flat places for people to stare at themselves in for long periods of time, they are really nothing to be fascinated by. “Does anyone else know, Kensicle?” Emma Squalor asked anxiously. Emma was a freelance writer, and a woman with a strong obsession with whatever was in at the time. “I don’t think so,” said LadyGrantham, adjusting her hair. She was eager to leave, as she had an article on ancient history and the ukulele she had been intending to write for some time. “Probably not,” F.D. agreed. F.D. was the oldest of the four people there, being over three hundred years old. “That’s smashing,” Emma said, smiling at everyone. “Thank you for telling us all, Kensicle. Needless to say, I would probably have overlooked it myself. ^^” LadyGrantham stood up hurriedly, her boots scraping on the hardwood floor. Picking up her satchel of papers, she waved to her friends, and left the room.
If you have ever been to the diner located at 141 Dark Avenue, you have probably walked straight back out again, because the Veritable French Diner is the sort of place that makes you feel that you would almost prefer to eat in a fast-food restaurant, or anywhere else where you would not feel inferior. “Inferior” is a word which refers to the feeling that one is lesser than whatever, or whoever, one is comparing oneself to. As most of the people who ate at the diner were wealthy, in residents of Dark Avenue, it was easy for anyone else to feel inferior there.
Emma Squalor, however, experienced no such feeling as she opened the doors of the Veritable French Diner at a quarter past eight the next morning. The diner had a low ceiling, and a floor that looked like a chess board, and the walls had recently been lined with mirrors. “Hello, Emma,” exclaimed Michelle, a waitress who had recently come back to work at the diner after a stint – a word which here means “time spent working in a variety of other places” – working in a variety of other places. “I’m sorry I haven’t seen you for so long,” she went on. “I worked for a few months in a pizza store, and then a coffee shop – I’m glad to be back at a diner.” “I come here regularly now, Shelley,” Emma told her friend. “Always at this time every morning,” she added carelessly. “Oh?” asked Michelle, using an expression meaning “I’d like you to tell me more, without suspecting that I suspect anything is up”. “
,” said Emma, which wasn’t much use. Michelle escorted Emma to a table, and took her order, noticing that her friend was repeatedly glancing toward an area at the front of the diner, and adjusting her bangs, though she tried to hide it. The waitress took her order of a breakfast special and walked away smiling, but convinced that Emma Squalor had something up her sleeve.
The expression “up one’s sleeve” is a curious one, because it does not refer to handkerchiefs, playing cards or cucumber sandwiches, or anything else a person may have up their sleeve. It simply means that the person has a secret they do not intend to reveal. I first heard the expression used when I met my second-cousin’s representative for the first time. The woman who introduced us commented in private afterward that she had always felt that this man had something up his sleeve relating to his work with my relative. At the time I wondered how anything could be held in the loose, short sleeves of his flimsy shirt, besides arms, but the woman explained that she was suspicious of Mr Snicket and his representative, mostly because they refuse to be seen together. Michelle was certainly suspicious of Emma Squalor who, as she began on her breakfast, did have the unrevealed secret of being at the Veritable French Diner at the same time as someone else.
Observing someone without their knowledge is a difficult thing to do successfully, but it is usually well worth the effort, particularly if you have the chance to observe the same person over many days, as you are sure to learn many of their characteristics – things they are good at, what they eat, and any secret identities they use. The worst thing that can happen, of course, is that you will learn that they are very good at finding out when they are being observed, and that you will be discovered and yelled at, and so it is generally not very dangerous, unless the person is a police officer, a criminal or an orthodontist.
Emma Squalor’s hazel eyes darted in the way people’s eyes often dart in restaurants, and fixed on a tall, broad-shouldered man who was almost finished his breakfast at a booth near the door. He faced the front windows, and so couldn’t see the two admiring eyes observing him. He could, however, look into the dark brown eyes of the woman sitting across from him, who he had met no more than five minutes ago. Emma’s eyes narrowed as the woman smiled and drummed her fingers on the tabletop. She had never seen her before. Jerome Squalor – that was the name of this man – always ate alone at breakfast, ordering the special for one, and unaware of Emma’s eyes boring into the back of his head during the meal.
When one refers to someone’s eyes boring into something, they do not literally mean that the eyes are using a drill, or that they are dull and tedious, or even that wild pigs are involved. The term simply means “staring with such concentration that it seems as if the eyes will drill holes into whatever object is in front of them”. The strange woman at Jerome Squalor’s table was also staring at him with concentration, so much so, that it appeared she hadn’t bothered to order any food for herself. Jerome finished his meal, and stood up, saying something to the woman as he did so, and approached the staff counter to pay. As one of Michelle’s fellow staff members came to take the money, Emma saw the woman hand Jerome some notes out of her purse, which was small and very ugly. The two had a brief struggle for politeness, and finally Jerome accepted the money, and handed it to the waiter, who had been watching quietly.
Emma’s appetite disappeared like it had been shut down, and she stood up, nearly running down Michelle, who was carrying a coffee pot decorated with tiny mirrors on a reflective tray. “Something wrong, Emma?” she asked, looking at Emma’s alarmed face. “I’m… finished,” Emma said awkwardly. “Sorry for nearly knocking you over. I wasn’t thinking. ^^,” she added, to be polite and to change the subject. Emma quickly picked up her pink purse and paid for the meal, which was only half-finished, at the counter. The strange woman who paid for Jerome’s breakfast had just left, and the door was still swinging. Jerome Squalor himself was standing at the far end of the counter and leaning his hand on it as he wrote on a scrap of paper. Emma glanced longingly over, though he didn’t notice, and backed out the door.
Dark Avenue continued to the left and right, completely straight, with a slight hill extending to the right. Emma stared up and down the avenue, and saw the woman from the diner a long way up the hill. She was very tall, and a fast walker, and Emma had to hurry in her five-inch heels to be able to follow her. The woman turned into the door of a shiny, boxy building at 281 Dark Avenue with “Empire of In” on the large front window in curly script. It was about two minutes later that Emma stampeded through the door. A few of the shop assistants and customers looked up to glare, in case an unknown and less in person was entering, but they recognised Emma K. Squalor, a person at almost the very height of inness, and lowered their heads again.
The strange woman who had sat with Jerome could be seen near the back of the store, by the hat table. She had short black hair that flicked upward at the edges, and she was wearing a pale brown blazer with white suit pants. Emma glanced toward Sixteen, a staff member who she knew well, due to all her regular visits. She was unable to catch his eye as he was engaged with the rack of faux sheepskin coats, and she was about to go over and ask the identity of the strange woman, when she thought better of it. It is a sad fact of life for the residents of Dark Avenue that one can never betray a lack of knowledge about something unless one is sure that a reasonable number of other people have the same lack, for fear of standing out.
Standing out, whether by being the only person not disguised as a ghost at a fancy gathering, or by asking a question that no one else has the need to ask, is usually something one tries to avoid, even if only to evade embarrassment, or to evade capture by guards dressed as scorpions. Of course, in some situations, there are questions that make one stand out if one doesn’t ask them, such as “how are you today?”, or “what are you doing in there?”, or “what in the world is that ominous-looking cloud of tiny white buzzing objects coming toward us?”, and in the case of that last question, being disguised as a ghost may in fact be quite helpful, particularly if the ghost is smoky. Emma was reluctant to ask Sixteen about the identity of the woman from the diner, in case she was actually very well-known, and Emma should seem badly-informed.
In order to not disappoint the staff, Emma hurriedly stepped over to the jewellery section to find a purchase to make. She eventually chose a ring with a large pink stone in it. The round part of the ring was gold, with a small gold butterfly ornament perched on the pink. She also, after a moment’s thought, selected a small wall mirror with silver edging, for her apartment. Sixteen was soon finished attending to the coats, and came over to talk to Emma. “Hi, Sixteen *hugs*,” said Emma, politely. “That’s quite nice,” he said conversationally, nodding at the mirror she was holding. Inside “Empire of In” everyone talked in fairly low, smooth voices, or else risk being frowned at. They walked together over to the counter, and Emma paid for her purchases, which cost far more than I would ever be prepared to pay for a ring and a small mirror, but being a regular customer, she wasn’t even mildly surprised. Sixteen wrapped the ring in tissue paper and put the mirror in a large shopping bag with the store name on it.
The bag was far more fancy than anything made only for carrying things needs to be, with thin satin ribbons threaded through the upper edge as handles, and the store’s business card attached, though anyone shopping there would certainly have at least one already, having been there before. As Emma picked up the bag and thanked Sixteen, she tried to walk backward away from the counter, angling her head so she could watch the strange woman, who had moved onto inspecting the silverware display. “Emma, what is it?,” asked Sixteen curiously. “Sorry, Sixteen
I was preoccupied. Thanks so much for making the transaction so smoothly. I was just a little distracted there XD.” Emma smiled and let herself out the door.
The next morning Kensicle was disturbed by Emma Squalor knocking on her apartment door. “Kensicle? Hello?
.” “Sorry… coming,” Kensicle called. Kensicle hadn’t slept at all during the night, as she had been enjoying reading, thinking and watching a film. Normally, after nights like this, she liked to have a little peace after the sun came up and before she started her day, but this time it seemed she had to receive a guest. “Emma?” she said opening the door. “Hi!” said Emma. “You won’t believe this, because I can hardly believe this – almanacs are
still out!! .” Like anybody who has been interrupted by someone at the door when it was the last thing they wanted, Kensicle spent a few moments taking this in. “Er – they were expected to come back in today, I think,” she ventured, missing the point. “Yes!! They haven’t!
,” Emma explained. “Oh…” Kensicle realised what Emma was saying. “So, we don’t have to bother about buying them today. I guess the predictions were a bit off.” “I guess so. Kensicle? I would
love it if you could spread the word a bit.
Thanks.” Emma clattered away. If you have ever been to 667 Dark Avenue and met the residents – although I hope you have not – you will not be surprised to learn that Emma and Kensicle’s piece of news about almanacs was of great interest to everyone in the building. It was ridiculous, of course, that anyone should even bother to predict something as insignificant as the rise and fall of “in” items and ideas, but unfortunately it was a very common thing in this neighbourhood.
It was early in the evening - by which time the news of the incorrect prediction had lost its freshness – when Emma, Hermes, Lady Grantham and Sherry Ann were having a conversation in the lobby about bacon milkshakes, which were going out, and aqueous martinis, which were expected to come in within a week. Sherry Ann’s frizzy hair puffed from under her beret. Like F.D., she was one of the senior residents of 667 Dark Avenue, known to be at least one-hundred. “Apparently bacon shakes won’t actually stay out for very long this time,” she remarked. “!!!!
,” Emma suddenly exclaimed in evident horror, stumbling backward against a large box on the floor nearby. There was a noise like a furnace exploding as whatever was in the box crashed around inside, but Emma was staring over her friends’ heads at the huge mirror with notices taped to it that the lobby had been using in place of a corkboard since mirrors came in. “What’s wrong?” asked Lady Grantham, very startled. Emma pointed weakly at one of the smaller notices, and the others leaned in to read it. Hermes put on his monocle. “It’s just a note about someone’s engagement,” Sherry Ann said after a moment. “That’s the guy who bought the penthouse, I think,” Lady Grantham pointed to one of the two names on the paper. “Jerome Squalor.” Emma gave a small wail, and then remembered to smile. “Oh! Uh, yes, I think it is.
,” she said with composure.
The lobby door opened and a young woman with black hair and dark eyes came through. She looked exhausted and frazzled – a word which here means that she had the appearance of one who has been run over by an ox, had a conversation with a team of realtors, or gone through something equally tiring and difficult. “Hi, Bee
,” said Emma, who had well recovered from her terrible shock. “Oh,” said Bee, as if she had only just noticed the four people standing there. “Sorry guys, I’ve just been running around madly, trying to keep up with promotions for ATWQ. It’s been taking up heaps of time.” She barged up the stairs out of the lobby, and almost collided with a red-haired man in a trench coat who was coming out of one of his two first-floor apartments. Hermes, on seeing this man, slipped out the front door quietly, being anxious not to meet him, but unfortunately his escape was given away by Emma’s loud “Bye, Hermes!
” as the door closed. Bee hurried around the man on the stairs and disappeared.
“Mr Rubens?” asked a respectful voice from behind the little group in the lobby a few moments later. A man in a very formal suit, more formal even than Hermes’, had entered 667 Dark Avenue, holding a small paper package on a silver tray. Emma Squalor frowned. The man’s suit was nice,
but very out, she thought –
plus, neckties have been out for weeks now, and yet he, whoever he is, hasn’t replaced his with a cravat. “Yes?” replied the red-haired man, coming down to the foot of the stairs. The visitor handed Dante Rubens a business card and began explaining nervously “Er - I’m here to deliver material concerning the personal history of Gerald Trinity? The uncle of a retired employee of Ink Inc?”. “
There’s nothing darker,” quoted Lady Grantham, smiling. “XD,” Emma agreed. Dante Rubens frowned at them, and then turned to the nervous man. “Oh, yes. Thank you very much.” The man handed Dante the package, and smiled anxiously at the others, and backed out.
It was well known that Dante Rubens owned two apartments at 667 Dark Avenue, in order to house his collection of books and other paraphernalia – a word which here means “various items relating to my second-cousin and his work” - and that he had been hoping to rent a third, in order to house his rapidly growing collection of envelopes. “So, who was that guy, Dante?,” Sherry Ann asked. “Did you order that stuff, or was it sent to you anyway?
,” asked Emma. “This has already been discussed. You can find records of the original discussion in my archives,” said Mr Rubens firmly but politely, and disappeared into one of his doors.
Most of the residents of Dark Avenue, as I’m sure you can tell, have long been slaves to fashion, but nevertheless there were several newer residents who didn’t care much for common styles, and therefore found themselves very separate from the majority. It was awful, of course, that people should be excluded on the basis of what trends they follow, or decide not to follow, but unfortunately people find themselves in this situation quite often. So it was with Sophie Baudelaire, a reasonably new arrival at number 667. She was, she realised, still getting used to how society “worked” on this avenue, when the next day she made her first visit to “Empire of In” within a fortnight of moving into her new apartment. She peered through the glass in the front window and saw mostly kimonos and pinstripe suits on the racks, mirrors on the walls, and empty umbrella stands on the floor. There were a few staff moving around, though Sixteen was having the day off. Looking at the clothes, she realised that her own outfit of blue jeans and a cream blouse would be considered out, but there was nothing she could do about it.
Sophie pushed the door open slowly. Antenora raised her eyes from the staff desk, and Pandora turned her head from the urn she was dusting, and they both stared with surprise at the unknown customer wearing out clothes. Pandora stepped reservedly across the shop to Sophie – the word “reservedly” here means “in a distant and standoffish way” – and asked in a low smooth voice “can I help you?” “Oh… uh – no, thanks,” said Sophie, in a voice that she realised was slightly too loud for the shop’s constantly quiet atmosphere. “I’m just browsing,” she added in a softer tone.
Of course, she thought to herself,
though it is a little embarrassing, it’s necessary to go shopping in an “out” outfit at least once, or else there’s no way of buying anything “in” to be seen wearing the next time. “Are you looking for something particular?” Pandora asked. “I was thinking of getting a kimono, maybe.” “Yes.” “These are pretty nice,” Sophie commented, shuffling through a rack. “Thank you,” Pandora replied, though her manner was increasing in reserve. “This one, perhaps?” Sophie asked, holding out the side of one deep blue garment from where it hung on the rack. Pandora frowned. “I don’t think this would fit you,” she said, smoothly and without emotion. Sophie Baudelaire was taken aback. She glanced at the label attached to the kimono. “Er – it’s my size,” she pointed out. “How much is it?”
There were no price labels on anything at “Empire of In”. Pandora sighed very slightly. She turned her head to ask her colleague, still at the desk, “how much is this, Antenora?”, without taking her eyes off Sophie. “It’s very expensive,” Antenora replied firmly. “It’s very expensive,” Pandora stated unnecessarily, turning back to the customer. “Look, I’ve got money to spend in here,” Sophie said, feeling now that being frank would at least get the point across. “I don’t think we have anything for you,” Pandora pronounced. “You’re obviously in the wrong place. Please leave,” she said finally with distinction.
“
,” Emma Squalor was remarking to F.D. a few hours later, as the two stood outside Emma’s apartment at 667 Dark Avenue. “Oh, yes,” F.D. replied. Emma was still recovering from yesterday’s awful shock of Jerome Squalor getting engaged, but she knew she must put on a brave face – a word which here means “try to look as though nothing had upset her”. There were footsteps approaching on the stairs from above. The sound of approaching footsteps is often bad news. If you are sitting at the edge of a cliff and looking at the sky, the sound of approaching footsteps could mean that someone is intending to push you off. If you are standing in a basement with one of your friends, the sound of approaching footsteps coming down the stairs could mean that someone is about to fall, and you will be accused of attempted murder, and it will be necessary for both you and your friend to leave town in disguise. And if you are sitting and reading this on a screen, the sound of approaching footsteps could easily mean that your filing cabinet is not what it appears to be, and you would do well to leave as soon as possible.
“Spicy sauce of tomatoes, onions and chilli!,” Emma suddenly exclaimed, in an even more horrified voice then she had used the previous evening, as the two footstep-ers appeared around a bend in the staircase. “It’s
her!” Jerome Squalor was coming slowly downstairs with the strange woman Emma had seen at the Veritable French Diner beside him. F.D. glanced from Emma to the couple and back, completely puzzled as to what the problem was, until he suddenly remembered the news of Jerome Squalor’s engagement.
I am very sorry I left you hanging like that, but just as I was recording those last few sentences of my research, I realised I was very nearly late for a fancy engagement party that would be attended by an acquaintance of mine, Lady Cahill. In order to avoid being bad-mouthed by her to every other guest – a phrase which here means that she heavily criticizes anyone late to any social occasion, no matter if she is hosting it or not – I had to dash off quite suddenly.
Jerome himself turned slightly at the sound of Emma’s shrieking, wondering what was going on, but the woman beside him frowned and tugged his arm to indicate that it was nothing to worry about, and that he mustn’t delay her. The two stopped at a door one floor below Emma’s residence, which was two floors below the penthouse, which was on the sixty-sixth floor, and knocked. Emma was shaking violently. “Sorry about that, F.D. *hugs* I just had a bit of a shock, but that’s me, I suppose. XD *wonders who that woman is*
,” she managed to say, as the door closed behind the couple. “Aqueous martini?
,” Emma continued. “They only came fully in today.” “Thanks,” said F.D., and followed Emma into her very pink apartment. He knew, of course, that the strange woman must be Mr. Squalor’s fiancée, and what a terrible blow to his friend Emma this was.
There was suddenly a blast of tinny music in the room, and Emma stood up to answer her phone. “Emma speaking.
.” There was a muffled squawking from the earpiece. “
,” said Emma. “Uh – who is this?
,” she added uncertainly. The phone squawked again, or at least that was what F.D. heard. “Yes
,” Emma replied. “Yes
yes
yes
*hugs* yes
.” F.D. listened patiently, but was unable to guess what the call was about. “Thank you very much, BTW. I look forward to it ^^.” There was a pause while the caller said a few more things. “SQUEE! XD,” said Emma thoughtfully, fiddling with her collar in the way most people thinking during a telephone call do. “Thanks
.” Emma finally hung up the phone. “Well?” asked F.D. “Apparently pens are in now
,” Emma told him. F.D. frowned in thought, finding pens interesting for no discernible reason.
It appeared that it was a very social day for Emma, because then there was a quiet knocking at the door. Emma Squalor’s visitor was none other than her cousin, Tiago J. Squalor, who wanted to ask Emma if two siblings, close in age, being raised apart for an experiment, was still in. “*hugs*,” said Emma, waving, as he entered. “In answer to your question, that sort of thing is most definitely in
.” “Thanks, Emmz,” Tiago Squalor smiled, calling his cousin by her nickname. “That’s fine, Tiago.
."
The residents of 667 Dark Avenue were a supercilious – a word which here means “very stuck-up” – community, but they were not without nobility, and they would soon see the need for such a trait, as they were about to embark on a terrifying and depressing mission that would only send them further into doom.