‘Doom is another word for death?’ asked Ludwig.
‘Yes,’ I said.
Tell me, fair knight, can I, with your help, avert it?’ asked my princess.
‘Lady, fear not,’ I said. ‘No uncle, however incestuous, however depraved, however twisted of soul, backed by a thousand minions, however squat, however hairy, however medieval, whatever the forces ranged against us — we will, with our trusty sword Excalibur . . .’
‘You know this girl?’ asked Ludwig, with interest.
‘Sir Lancelot, ‘tis you!’ cried the lady in tremulous tones.
‘’Tis I, madam, and at your service,’ I replied.
‘You meet her maybe somewhere before?’ asked Ludwig.
‘Look,’ I said, exasperated, ‘shut up a minute.’
The jackdaws wheeled about the tower, calling querulously.
‘Lady,’ I called, ‘we have waiting below my trusty steed, my horse Mercedes, upon whose back we will transport you to safety.’
‘Mercedes is not one horse,’ said Ludwig, ‘it is twenty in this model.’
‘Sir Lancelot, your kindness is equal to your courage,’ said my princess.
Then I shall scale your battlements, kill your guards, and transport you to the village of Ye Bournemouth for a dinner of venison and mead.’
‘In Germany, we have much venison,’ said Ludwig, ‘with dumplings.’
‘Alas, Sir Lancelot,’ said the princess, ‘I fear it cannot be, even though I yearn for mead with vodka and a dash of angostura bitters. In yonder hamlet my betrothed awaits my release and he is of jealous mien.’
‘What means “mien”?’ asked Ludwig.
‘Disposition,’ I said. ‘Damn! She would be engaged.’
‘Mien is plural for men?’ asked Ludwig.
‘Princess,’ I said, sorrowfully, ‘you should not have been so precipitate. Remember the adage, “Marry in haste, repent at leisure,” and quite apart from that, I had such a hell of a job pulling my sword out of that stone, specially for you.’
She laughed.
‘You will find other princesses, I’m sure,’ she said. ‘Farewell, Sir Lancelot.’
‘Farewell, sweet Guinevere,’ I said.
‘You said you didn’t know her,’ said Ludwig, as I led him down to the castle gates. ‘But how do you know her name?’
‘She’s Guinevere Smith from Jollytown, Ohio,’ I said, ‘and I met her in New York. Now let’s get back to Bournemouth. The bars will be open.’
‘This castle,’ said Ludwig, as we made our way towards the arched entrance, ‘is not in a very good state of repair.’
‘We English like them like this,’ I said. ‘We like to feel they are a bit on the old side, you know.’
‘But on the Rhine,’ said Ludwig, ‘we have many castles, many beautiful, big castles, and they are all in a very good state of repair.’
Luckily, just by the entrance was standing a rather forlorn wheelbarrow full of gravel.
‘There,’ I said, pointing at it, ‘we are doing something about it. Come back in a year or two and it will look like a Hilton.’
The green of the fields in the fading light had turned to dark emerald, and the ploughed fields had turned a curious deep purple brown. The light on Poole harbour was pink and the gulls, wheeling home to roost, were reflected in the almost smooth waters like snowflakes. Ludwig played some more Bavarian music and thumped the steering wheel as he was not wearing leather knickerbockers.
‘Well, it has been a most interesting day,’ he said, as we turned into the road leading to the hotel. ‘When my parents come over, I will take them to Corfe Castle and tell them everything.’
I felt a little guilty.
‘I should buy a guide-book,’ I said. ‘You’ll never remember it all.’
‘Yes,’ said Ludwig. ‘I will do that.’ ‘And thank you for a lovely day,’ I said. ‘Thank you,’ he said, formally.
We garaged the car and, as we were walking towards the hotel, he glanced at me shyly.
‘You will not forget those pills, will you?’ he asked.
‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘I’ve packed them somewhere, and I can’t find them. But I’ll have a proper look tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow is last day,’ he reminded me. ‘The next day I go on holiday.’
‘You shall have them, I promise.’
It was, as it turned out, just as well that I eventually found the tranquillizers. Returning from the cinema, I was surprised to see a dense crown of people on the pavement and in the road outside the Royal Highcliffe Palace. When I got closer, I could discern in their midst a police car with a pulsating blue light on top, an ambulance and two fire-engines. Ladders from the fire-engines craned up into the sky like the necks of strange prehistoric beasts, and the pavement was covered with hosepipes, like a monstrous brood of newly-hatched pythons. High up on the side of the hotel was the cause of all the commotion, the great neon sign which had, in some mysterious way, caught fire. Although the alarm had been given promptly, by the time the fire was under control all that was left of the sign was YAL HIGH LACE which looked like a chapter heading for one of the Dead Sea Scrolls, or the name of some ancient Chinese philosopher. I pushed my way through the throng and found a distraught Ludwig escorting out a host of large firemen and even larger policemen. He looked so pale, exhausted and guilty, that one would have thought that he had set fire to the sign himself.
‘Hello,’ I said, cheerfully. ‘You’ve been having a jolly time.’
Ludwig groaned.
‘Terrible! Terrible!’ he said, brokenly. ‘The mess they make in the suites getting in and out on to the roof. I feel terrible! It is my holiday tomorrow.’
‘But you didn’t set fire to the sign,’ I pointed out.
‘No! No, but I was on duty,’ said Ludwig, his eyes anguished. ‘It caught fire when I was on duty.’
‘Very inconsiderate of it,’ I said, soothingly. ‘But it didn’t burn the hotel down, so you’re all right. Come and have a drink and calm down. Or, if you prefer it, they’ve got an ambulance outside.’
‘No, no, thank you,’ said Ludwig, refusing my offer of the ambulance quite seriously. ‘I cannot leave the hotel now. I must clean up the mess.’
He met me later for a drink and he was still in a highly nervous condition.
‘Have you those pills for me?’ he asked, plaintively. ‘With this happening now it is worse, you understand.’
‘Damn!’ I said. ‘I forgot. But don’t worry; you shall have them. What time do you leave?’
‘Two o’clock,’ said Ludwig, like someone stating the time of his own execution.
‘I shall have lunch in the Bella Vista,’ I said. Top in and have a glass before you go and I’ll have the pills ready.’
Thank you,’ said Ludwig. ‘I feel that without them I cannot enjoy my holiday.’
The next day, I had just demolished a delicious bowl of stracciatella, followed by a piece of crumbed veal with a green salad, accompanied by an excellent bottle of chianti, when Ludwig appeared, hands twitching, dark circles under his eyes.
‘Have you got them?’ he asked, desperately.
‘Yes,’ I said, giving him a professional look. ‘Now, sit down and relax for a moment. You’re enough to make any woman drop her brassiere on the floor.’
I eased one of the green and black pills out of the envelope into which I had put his supply.
‘Now,’ I said, in my best Harley Street manner. ‘You want to take one a day, no more. Do you understand? And only if you need it. OK?’
‘Yes! Yes!’ he said, eyeing the pill as though it were a touchstone that could turn all things to gold.
I ordered another bottle of wine and poured him a glass. He gulped it down. I poured him another.
‘Now take your pill,’ I said.
‘Are you sure you can drive with them?’ he asked.
‘You can drink and drive,’ I assured him. They’ve never had the slightest effect on me. I have jus
t taken one, as a matter of fact.’
‘Good,’ he said, swallowing the pill. ‘But I must drive a lot, you see, and so it is important.’
‘Quite,’ I said. ‘But you’re safe. They won’t affect you.’
After another glass of wine, he rose to his feet and wrung my hand.
‘I am so glad we met,’ he said.
‘So am I,’ I said. ‘Come over and see me some time. Bring Penny. I don’t mind if she drops her brassiere on the floor.’
‘You are joking,’ he said, with pride. ‘I can tell now when you joke.’
‘Well, have a good holiday,’ I said, and watched him twitch his way down to his Mercedes and his brief freedom from the cares of the hotel.
I finished the wine and then went to the cinema.
It was a film I had long wanted to see and I was greatly looking forward to it. I paid my admission and chose my seat with care. The cinema darkened and the titles of the film appeared on the screen — then I knew nothing more until, three quarters of an hour later, I was woken by a man in the seat behind me shaking my shoulder and asking me not to snore so loudly as he couldn’t hear the dialogue. I leapt to my feet in astonishment. I had never fallen asleep in the cinema in my life. It must have been that damned pill, plus the wine, I thought.
Then I remembered Ludwig and went cold.
My God! He’ll be bowling along on his way to meet Penny and he’ll suddenly fall into a deep sleep behind the wheel of his Mercedes, I thought. I visualized the crumpled, blood-stained wreckage wrapped round a tree. Hopefully, I wondered if perhaps he hadn’t started yet. I fled from the cinema like one possessed, and burst into the garage, doubtless looking as distraught and wild-eyed as Ludwig did in an emergency.
‘Mr Dietrich — has he gone?’ I asked the attendant.
‘Yes, sir, he left nearly an hour ago,’ he said.
I must confess, I had a very uncomfortable three days before I received a postcard from Calais which eased my mind. It said: ‘Have met Penny and am starting tomorrow for a happy holiday.’ It was signed: ‘Your filthy Hun, Ludwig’.
Somewhere there is, I believe, a saying about having the last laugh, but I am sure that Ludwig had never heard of it.
The Jury
The river steamer Dolores broke down — as river steamers are wont to do — midway between her point of departure and her destination at Meriada, a small township of some two thousand souls on the banks of the Parana River. There seemed no justification for this misdemeanour for here the river was wide, deep, placid and with a good current that was hastening us on our way. I was annoyed for I had in the hold, among other things, two jaguars, twenty monkeys and an assortment of some thirty birds and reptiles. I had calculated my food supply for a five-day journey and if we were delayed too long my supplies would run out. My two jaguars, though tame as kittens, lived to eat and their agonized screams of rage and frustration if their demand for three square meals a day was not met were a blood-curdling cacophony that had to be heard to be believed.
I went to see the captain. He was a squat, dark-skinned little man with a heavy black moustache and eyebrows, a mass of curly hair, very white teeth, and he smelt overpoweringly of Parma violets.
‘Capitano,’ I said. ‘I am sorry to worry you, but have you any idea how long we will remain here? I am worried about food for my animals.’
He gave one of those wide, enormously expressive Latin shrugs and raised his eyes heavenwards.
‘Señor, I cannot tell you,’ he said. The part of the Hico de Puta engine which is broken they say that it may be mended at a forge in town, but I doubt it. If it cannot be mended we must send back for the part from our last port of call.’
‘Has someone phoned back for one?’ I enquired.
‘No,’ said the captain, shrugging. ‘The telephones are out of order. They cannot mend them until tomorrow, they say.’
‘Well, I’m going into town to get some more food for my bichos. Don’t leave without me, will you?’
He laughed.
‘No fear of that, señor,’ he said. ‘Look, I’ll send a couple of the Indios with you to carry. They have nothing to do at the moment.’
So I and my two Indians padded off along the road to the centre of town where I knew, inevitably, the market lay. These were real Paraguayan Indians, small of stature, copper skinned, with straight soot-black hair and eyes like blackberries. Presently, loaded down with avocados, bananas, oranges, pineapples, four legs of goat meat and fourteen live chickens, we made our way back to the Dolores. I stored my comestibles, ignored the jaguars’ efforts to get me to play with them, and went back on deck. Here I was surprised to find a gentleman occupying one of the few dilapidated deck-chairs provided for the delight of passengers. Most of them were so frayed you feared to sit in them, most so rotten they collapsed if you touched them. This gentleman had, however, found one of the rare ones that supported weight. He now rose, swept off his enormous straw hat and held out his hand.
‘My dear sir,’ he said in perfect English, ‘may I welcome you to Meriada, though, of course, this delay must be irritating for you. My name is Menton, James Menton, and you, I believe, are Mr Dun-ell?’ I admitted this fact while I stared at him.
His hair, brown flecked with grey, stretched down his back almost to his buttocks and was neatly plaited and the ends kept under control by a small leather lariat with a blue stone in it. His beard, moustache and eyebrows were immense and untouched by scissors as far as I could judge, though scrupulously clean. He had huge green eyes which flicked from side to side and his body twitched in an odd disjointed way, giving him somewhat the aspect of a slender, agitated animal hiding in a bush.
‘Now my dear fellow,’ he continued, ‘the reason I came a-running when I heard you were on board was to invite you to stay with me. I know what these river steamers are like, stink to high heaven, oily, nasty, uncomfortable and serving you food that looks as though it has been refused at the local pigsty. You must admit it, eh?’
I had to admit it. The Dolores was all and more than he described.
‘Now,’ he continued, pointing, ‘just through the trees there is my house. Wonderful veranda, fans — the lovely old sort that look like windmills in Holland — screened in, so no bugs, one ancient German maid who cooks like a dream and, my dear fellow, the most comfortable hammocks from Guinea, imported them myself. Give you the most wonderful sleep in the world, I do assure you.’
‘You make it sound irresistible,’ I said, smiling.
‘But, I must confess to you,’ he said, holding up a hand that trembled and twitched, ‘my wish to have you stay with me is certainly a selfish one. You see, one gets so little company here — I mean real company. People don’t come here to stay. It gets lonely.’
I looked at the ramshackle dock, the oily water full of beer cans and more sordid detritus, the starved dogs foraging along the shoreline. I had already seen the dilapidated township and its tatterdemalion inhabitants.
‘No, I can see it is hardly a tourist spot,’ I said, ‘so I will be glad to take you up on your offer, Mr Menton.’
‘Oh, James, please,’ he exclaimed.
‘But I will have to be back here at five to feed my animals.’
‘Your animals?’ he queried.
‘Yes, I collect animals for zoos in Europe. I have a whole host of them in the hold.’
‘How extraordinary. What a curious occupation,’ he exclaimed delightedly. In view of what he was to vouchsafe to me later, on looking back I found this odd.
‘I’ll go and get my things together,’ I said. ‘Won’t be a moment.’
‘I wonder,’ he said, urgently, ‘I am really ashamed to ask it, but you haven’t got any whisky about you? You see, I’ve stupidly run out and so has the local store and we won’t get any more until the supply ship comes in next week. I know it’s an awful imposition . . .’ his voice trailed away.
‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘As a matter of fact I have discovered here, in Paragua
y of all places, a rather good Scotch that goes under the unlikely name of “Dandy Dinmont”. It’s really very smooth and drinkable. I was taking six crates back to Argentina for friends because that stuff they dish out in Buenos Aires called “Old Smuggler” is only fit to remove the rust from ancient cars. I’ll get a crate of Dandy and you can try it.’
‘Too kind, really kind. I’ll get a couple of Indians to help you carry your things,’ he said, and he twitched even more behind his hairy bush as he sped away disjointedly.
I got together the few things I thought necessary for my sojourn with James Menton and pulled out from under my bunk one crate of the six Dandy Dinmonts and handed it over to the two smiling Indians who waited outside my minuscule and grubby cabin. As soon as they appeared on deck, James flung himself into a flurry of twitches. It was obvious that his main concern was for the whisky and he occasionally referred to the senor’s crate as though it were a chalice full of holy water that must not under any circumstances be spilt. To the sure-footed, lithe, competent Indian who carried the divine nectar on his shoulder, he gave constant instructions as we wended our way along the river bank to his house.
‘Now watch that root. Now here’s a slippery bit coming. Watch that branch — now mind that log . . .’ he went on twitching and instructing until we climbed up the wooden steps to his spacious veranda and the crate of whisky was safely installed on the table.
His house was a faded two-storey clapboard one, with huge windows and shutters and the wide veranda running right round the lower floor of the building. To allow for the vagaries of the Parana River’s moods, the whole house was perched upon massive wooden piles some ten feet above the ground. The garden — if you could describe this wilderness in such grandiose terms — was full of orange, avocado, mango and loquat trees, through which you could see stretches of the river sliding and glinting along.
‘Now,’ said James, his voice shaking as much as his hands, ‘a little libation — that’s to say with your permission. A small toast to welcome you here.’
He undid the crate and pulled out a bottle and his hands shook so much that I thought he would drop it. Casually, I took it from his frantically clutching hands.