"She doesn't have to do the form," said her father.
"Everybody does the form." She held the pen poised. "Name. Vivienne Wainwright. How do you spell Vivienne?"
Vivienne spelled it. Georgie wrote it down in large, determined capitals, her tongue between her teeth.
"Where are you from?"
"New York City."
"Manhattan or one of the other ones?"
"Manhattan. West Seventy-Fourth Street."
Georgie wrote it down. "Have you met Madonna?"
"I have not."
"Have you met anyone?"
Vivienne considered. "I have met the president of France. And the foreign minister of Senegal, who once stepped on my foot and apologized in four languages."
Georgie lowered the pen. "Are you famous?"
"Quite the opposite. I'm an interpreter. When someone gives a speech in French, I sit in a little glass box with headphones on and say it in English, at the same time, so the people who only speak English can understand. And the other way round. Nobody ever sees me. I'm the voice in people's ears saying what someone else said."
Georgie thought about this for a full quarter mile. "So you never get to say what you said."