CHAPTER 3

In which Jean-Remy surprises everyone, and Gügor surprises Jean-Remy

At the top of Jean-Remy’s telegram, a jungle of curlicues and flourishes surrounded these words:

Wail Mail Inc.

~ When you need your message to get through
LOUD and CLEAR! ~

(Delivering fine musical Yell-A-Grams to all of creaturedom, since 1602)

“Look,” said Leslie, pointing to the page. “Something happened to the letter!”

A third of the way down the page, a jagged gash cut across the words. The letter appeared to be torn almost completely in two.

“Don’t worry,” said Harrumphrey. “That’s not a tear. It’s a mouth.”

“A mouth?” asked Elliot.

“Of course,” said Patti. “It’s a singing telegram.”

Jean-Remy opened the page a little farther and it suddenly came to life, fluttering in his hands. The tear creased itself into a distinct pair of lips, and the telegram began to sing:

My dearest BROTHER!

Something TERRIBLE has happened! I know it’s been a long time, but please believe me; I had NO CHOICE but to write! Because I NEED YOUR HELP! After you left Paris all those years ago, I missed you TERRIBLY, and so I followed you across an OCEAN! I’ve tried to find you so many times!

I thought I had LOST YOU, lost track of you completely, but then I saw the news of the BRAVE BATTLE you and your friends fought against those insufferable ghorks! What a surprise to discover all this time you’ve been working in a creature department not far from my own! The company where I work is called HEPPLEWORTH’S HEALTH FOOD! At our factory we make the most delicious dishes you can possibly imagine!

Or at least we USED TO!

(Here, the violins spiraled down through a cascade of minor notes.)

OH! Oh-oh-oh-oh-OOOOOH! Oh! Oh, yes, my dear Jean-Remy, YOU MUST HELP US! Quazicom and the ghorks have taken over the HEPPLEWORTH FOOD FACTORY! This very weekend, at our city’s ANNUAL FOOOOOD FESTIVAAAAAAAL, they are planning something TRUUUUULY HORRENDOOOOUS!

YOU and your FRIENDS are our only hope! I know we’ve had our differences in the past, but please, brother . . . WILL YOU HEEELLP UUUUUUUUSSS?!

Your sister!

Eloise-Yvette!

The song ended with the five dainty syllables of El-o-ise-Y-vette, tinkling off what sounded like a xylophone. On the final plink, everyone applauded. (It was the respectable thing to do. The telegram had an exceptional voice.)

“You have a sister?” asked Harrumphrey. He was as surprised as everyone else.

Jean-Remy nodded. “Eloise-Yvette. Zat was her voice. But zis telegram? No, it can only be a fake.”

“You callin’ me a liar?” asked the telegram. Its voice was no longer that of an angelic soprano. Now it sounded more like a New York cabbie. “Listen, buddy, this here’s the genuine article. I was there when your sis wrote it!”

Jean-Remy crumpled the paper.

“Hey! Watch where you’re foldin’ that, buddy!”

Jean-Remy flew across the laboratory and dropped the telegram in the trash bin.

Elliot couldn’t believe it. “Jean-Remy! What’s the matter with you? What if it’s not a fake?”

“It must be,” said Jean-Remy. “Ma soeur? She does not work in some nearby food factory! She is in Paris! Probably singing in some seedy club under ze street!”

“What if she’s not?” asked Elliot. “She said she followed you here.”

Jean-Remy stubbornly refused to believe the telegram was genuine. “No,” he said, slicing his hand through the air as if to cut off further discussion. “It is not true.”

“Oh, yes it is,” said Leslie, “and I can prove it.”

Jean-Remy paused, hovering in the air.

“You can?” Elliot looked at his friend. “How?”

“The food festival,” Leslie explained. “The Simmersville Food Festival. Heppleworth’s Health Food is the main sponsor. I know all about it because every year there’s a big market square where chefs come from all over to set up stalls and show off their new dishes. Grandpa Freddy goes every year, and I was hoping he’d be back in time, but . . . well, it doesn’t seem like he’s gonna make it.” Leslie hung her head. “This year it’ll just be me and my mom.”

“Okay,” said Elliot, “but what does that have to do with the telegram? I thought you said you could prove—”

“I can. Jean-Remy’s sister mentioned the food festival. It’s famous, but not that famous. How would she know about it if she lived in Paris? She must be working at Heppleworth’s!”

Jean-Remy floated down to Leslie. “Zat does not prove anything. Anyone could have penned ze telegram.”

Elliot was still confused. “Why don’t you want to help your sister?”

Jean-Remy sighed. “You do not understand. Even if ze telegram is real—which it is not—why would I want to help a sister like Eloise-Yvette? She is vain and selfish and cannot be trusted!”

Everyone was shocked to hear this. How could Jean-Remy, so beloved by everyone, have someone like that for a sister?

“No,” said a slow, deep voice, from over near the trash bin where Jean-Remy had just discarded the singing telegram. “Eloise-Yvette isn’t like that at all.”

It was Gügor. He had reached into the bin with his enormous knucklecrumpler hand and fished out the envelope.

Jean-Remy narrowed his eyes, regarding the knucklecrumpler suspiciously. “And how,” he asked, “would you know?”

Gügor looked down at the floor and, to everyone’s surprise, he blushed. “Because . . .” he said at last, “Eloise-Yvette is Gügor’s 1TL.”

Jean-Remy narrowed his eyes. “1TL? What does zees mean, 1TL?”

Gügor took a deep breath. “One. True. Love.”

For the second time that morning, the laboratory fell silent. Jean-Remy zipped across the room and stopped so abruptly in front of Gügor’s face, you could almost make out the skid marks he left floating in the air behind him.

“My sister? Eloise-Yvette? Your one true love?!”

Gügor nodded sheepishly.

“You had better explain yourself, my friend.”

“Okay. But if you want to know Gügor’s story, I’ll have to start at the beginning. . . .”