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LA | NY A Special Edition of The East Village
ORIENT EXPRESS Let me introduce the Gilberts of winter insisting after coffee I wouldn't understand who smile and most politely call for the check while finishing their little story of sailing up the Nile after forlorn departures from Vienna and Budapest, not to mention a chilly Istanbul almost bereft of caviar. Take the pencil-thin moustache deleted this morning, fresh gothic brows for the winter afternoons of Cairo, their accents nearly impossible to place amid the sheen of purple and crimson velours these drear nights when talk of Duveen or Tesori lingers at table like a dormant Havana. You know it can only mean something if the vague insults are forgotten by morning along with the defeated moustache or lace collar, if the name of the dead boy is identical to a street down the block from that quaint city hall where a movie about psychics may be shot next summer. So now it's just a matter of getting it down quicker telling the popular from what only seems inspired, the bang and the burp and the burr under the saddle, all the little voices left over since childhood was imprinted in comic strips, in cartoon exile of sleepy orange orange trees and flat hippopotami, natives native to baggy pants and losing cigars. Who are you, you say, to ask whodunit to question the confidence of the Gilberts to listen for the anger behind their dexterity no matter the pleasure or how far they've come. The Gilberts are always waiting traveling smoking ordering another cognac champagne martini a salad nicoise just before dinner they don't have the least intention of eating.