Zoran Jankez took up a paper. "I have here a report from a journalist of the West who but recently returned from a tour of our country. She reports, with some indignation, that the only available eyebrow pencils were to be found on the black market, were of French import, and cost a thousand dinars apiece. She contends that Transbalkanian women are indignant at paying such prices."
The Party head looked hopelessly at first Josip and then Kardelj. "What is an eyebrow pencil?"
Kardelj said, a light frown on his usually easygoing face, "I believe it is a cosmetic."
"You mean like lipstick?"
Josip took courage. He flustered. "They use it to darken their eyebrows—women, I mean. From what I understand, it comes and goes in popularity. Right now, it is ultra-popular. A new, uh, fad originating in Italy, is sweeping the West."
Number One stared at him. "How do you know all that?" he rasped.
Josip fiddled with the knot of his tie, uncomfortably. "It is probably in my dossier that I have journeyed abroad on four occasions. Twice to International Youth Peace Conferences, once as a representative to a Trades Union Convention in Vienna, and once on a tourist vacation guided tour. On those occasions I ... ah ... met various young women of the West."
Kardelj said triumphantly, "See what I mean, Zoran? This comrade is priceless."
Jankez looked at his right-hand man heavily. "Why, if our women desire this ... this eyebrow pencil nonsense, is it not supplied them? Is there some ingredient we do not produce? If so, why cannot it be imported?" He picked at his uneven teeth with a thumbnail.
Kardelj held his lean hands up, as though in humorous supplication. "Because, Comrade, to this point we have not had expediters to find out such desires on the part of women comrades."