Submitted for the April 2024 prompt: Meta-Sci-Fi

I will never forget the day I met the wittiest man in France.

 

It was 2179. Louis XXIII had taken the throne and I had returned to la patrie, hoping to gain entrance to high society. By dint of a number of generous donations to important charities, I had secured an invitation to a salon in the capital where the brightest and wittiest minds of France would be in attendance. It was a major event, and I had purchased a new suit and an excellent cravat for it.

 

The salon was in a mansion in the exclusive sixteenth arrondissement, the Beverly Hills of Paris. A robotic attendant let me in, and I climbed the long, steep, and treacherous staircase to the main room, holding the handrail to keep my balance and my nerve.

 

I composed myself at the top of the stairs, dabbed away a little sweat from my forehead, and entered the party, eager to meet the brilliant thinkers and sparkling conversationalists. Almost everyone was deep in discussion, but one fellow came over. I wish I could describe him in detail, but to be frank, he left very little impression on me. He was impeccably tailored, but his features, his demeanor, his observations: they were all completely unmemorable — as bland as an English sandwich. He left after exchanging a few inoffensive pleasantries, and I was joined by someone quite different: a man whose every expression and intonation seemed designed to show superiority and cause offense.

 

"De Sauvigny," he introduced himself, not caring for a reply. "So," he said, "you are a lucky man for once, to have met our guest of honor."

 

"The guy I was just talking to?" I asked. "A pleasant enough chap, but—"

 

De Sauvigny cut me off. "Mon Dieu! Can it be? You did not recognize him? Oh," he said. "How exquisite. How perfectly exquisite," and he chuckled to himself.

 

"Perhaps you will enlighten me, monsieur?" I said.

 

"But of course," he said with a grin. "Why, that was Monsieur Cavet, the wittiest man in France."

 

"Him?" I said. "But—"

 

"Oh, monsieur," he said, cutting me off again. "Surely you have heard of Cavet? The inventor of the espridelle?" he asked, in the same tone he would use to ask someone if they had heard of bread.

 

"I assure you that I have not."

 

"Amazing," he said. "Permit me to ask, how is this possible? What God-forsaken, cultureless place have you been living in? Did you just arrive from the Amazon? The Gobi Desert?"

 

"No," I said. "Los Angeles," which amused him no end.

 

"Extraordinary, extraordinary," he said. "Well, Cavet invented the espridelle, named for l'esprit de l'escalier — staircase wit, as they might say in Los Angeles."

 

I started to say that I was quite familiar with the concept, but he was not to be dissuaded from his exposition.

 

"You see, monsieur," he said. "L'esprit de l'escalier is when you are lost for words in the moment but come up with the right thing to say on the staircase after you have left the party: regrettably too late to make a difference."

 

"And how does this relate to the espridelle?"

 

"Very simply. Once Cavet has thought of the perfect remark, he uses the espridelle to roll back time so that he can deliver it in the moment and always remain the wittiest man in France. It is thought that sometimes he will use it many times for one conversation, much as a chess grandmaster devotes months to the details of an opening."

 

"So you mean he'll go back in time and be funny?"

 

"Exactement. And what a rich target he will have in his conversation with you, monsieur. Why, your suit, your shoes, your A-merry-kan-eyesd ak-sent — I would love to hear how he completely dismantles you, as a rapier might cut off that ridiculous cravat."

 

I paused.

 

"So," I said. "When Cavet uses his espridelle, this will all be forgotten?"

 

"Obviously. This part of the timeline will vanish soon: it will never have happened."

 

"Then in that case, De Sauvigny, let me say this while I can. You are one of the most pompous, unpleasant, and self-absorbed people I have ever had the misfortune to meet. You, Cavet, and most likely the whole of this group mistake cruelty for cleverness and rudeness for wit. I thoroughly regret that I have to meet with you to make progress in France." I confess that I was nearly shouting at this point, and several heads turned, but I did not care: soon enough, it would never have happened.

 

I paused for breath, and the room grew quiet — a silence that was interrupted by the sound of someone screaming and tumbling down a very long, steep, and treacherous staircase.

 

The robotic attendant entered. "Monsieurs et mesdames," it said. "I regret to inform you that Monsieur Cavet had an accident and has expired. Please be assured that an ambulance will be present shortly and that there is no need to interrupt the festivities."

 

"But what about the espridelle?" I asked weakly. "Can't Cavet use it to roll back time?"

 

"Of course not, you imbecile!" said De Sauvigny. "If he could, we would not be having this conversation. He is dead! Fini! Kaput! Startled by your uncouth outburst, no doubt. You are even stupider than you look, which is something I had not thought possible."

 

I was unable to come up with a witty retort, and did not have an espridelle to hand, so I did the next best thing under the circumstances: I punched De Sauvigny on the nose with what we Americans call a "haymaker". He fell to the floor with a satisfying thud, and I made my excuses and left.

 

I abandoned my dreams of entering high society and returned to Los Angeles, where I now lead an obscure and extremely comfortable life. But I will never forget the day I met the wittiest man in France.