The Buns of Nazarone
Extends this cute scene: NS and IK find poison darts in their pillows and turn to check their mattresses. Butt bumping ensues.
He picks the needle carefully out of his hotel room pillow and holds it out to me. I sniff and, sure enough, detect the poisonous chemical agent. Scrutiny of my pillow reveals a similar killing dart. Diabolical indeed.
We both turn immediately to examine our mattresses for more of the deadly little spikes but in the narrow space between our twin beds, the joint operation is rather constricted and I become conscious that our posteriors are being pressed together somewhat snugly.
I turn to look at him and he turns to look at me. He has a surprised, rather peculiar expression on his face. I arrange mine, hopefully, into one of unruffled dignity and resume my task. I refuse to let such a trivial matter of physical proximity compromise my attention. Let him be the one to remove himself if he finds it disturbing.
Amusingly, he does. Soon afterwards, clearing his throat with a strained chuckle.
'Ah...I think this is a one-person operation, Illya. Why don't I let you get on with it, huh?'
He moves out from between the beds and crosses the room, straightening his cuffs.
'I think it is best I should clear only one bed', I announce firmly to his retreating back.
He pauses, turns, raising his eyebrows. 'Why's that?'
I straighten, frowning. 'Surely you would not trust me in yours?'
His normally healthy complexion appears a trifle rosier than usual, and his breath a little shorter.
'You mean... to... remove the darts?' He recovers himself, smiling, clearly trying to control his embarrassment. 'Well, of course I trust you, Illya'.
'Are you sure, Napoleon?' I cross the room to stand toe to toe with him, gazing solemnly into his eyes. 'Just one prick, Napoleon, and all would be over'.
His face is a picture. A tremor seems to be working beside the mole on his cheek. He opens his mouth but nothing emerges. The proverbial cat, it seems, has got his tongue.
Just then, he grabs my arm and lays a warning finger to his lips, despite the blaring radio. He unholsters his gun and stalks to the French windows. He presses his back to the inside wall, then darts out onto the balcony, gun raised, checking to right, left and above, and over the balustrade. He steps back inside.
'Thought I saw somebody out there. I'll go take a look outside. Just, uh, just you carry on here'.
He exits the room and I shake my head, greatly amused at his pantomime. I sweep his bed and mine minutely for poisonous darts three times, followed by every other piece of furniture in the room. I then painstakingly affix an ordinary pin upright on his mattress at butt level and smile in anticipation.
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