[After the fine restaurant has closed, the maître-d' chats with cleaning woman Maria. She has just finished cleaning up the debris after Mr. Creosote has exploded. She contemplates her life - in a 'spoken poem'.]
Maria:
I used to work in the Acad?mie Française, but it didn't do me any good at all.
And I once worked in the library in the Prado in Madrid, but it didn't teach me nothing, I recall.
And the Library of Congress you'd have thought would hold some key -
but it didn't, and neither did the Bodleian Library.
In the British Museum, I hoped to find some clue.
I worked there from nine till six, read every volume through -
but it didn't teach me nothing about life's mystery.
I just kept getting older, it got more difficult to see,
'till eventually me eyes went, and me arthritis got bad.
So now 'm... cleaning up in here. But I can't be really sad.
'Cause you see... I feel that life's a game. You sometimes win or lose.
And 'though I may be down right now, at least I don't work for Jews.
[The maître-d' chokes on his cigarette, dumps Mr Creosote's puke-filled bucket on Maria's head, and addresses the camera.]
Maître-d': 'm so sorry. I... I had no idea we had a-a racist working here. I-I-I apologise most sincerely. I mean, whoa--
[The camera slowly pans off the maître-d'.]
Maître-d': W-where're you going? No-- I can explain, uh... eh, quel dommage.
. . .
[The camera follows waiter Gaston out of the restaurant, through the streets, and all the way home.]
Gaston: You know... one day, my... my mother, she put me on her knee and she said to me, "Gaston, my son, the world is a beautiful place. You must go into it and... love everyone, try to make everyone happy, and bring peace and contentment everywhere you go." And so, I became a waiter!
[He smiles for a moment, then gradually looks glum.]
Gaston: Well, it's... it's not much of a philosophy, I know. But, well... **** you! I can live my own life in my own way if I want to. **** off! Don't come following me!
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