Great Short Stories

by Stan Mason

  He trudged back to the town and entered the police station with a worried expression on his face. Three policemen were sitting around a table playing cards, with lighted cigarettes drooping from their lips. They looked up as he entered recognising that he was a tourist by the clothes he wore.

  ‘What do you want?’ asked the first policeman tiredly. He was fed up with tourists arriving gloomily at the police station complaining that their wallets or purses had been stolen in the town or at the market place. What did they expect the police to do about it when there were so many other important things for them to do to keep crime at bay at the resort?

  ‘I don’t know how to tell you this,’ began Polanski swallowing hard, ‘but I was walking up the cliffs behind our hotel this morning with my wife. We started to argue and I walked away from her. When I turned back to look at her she’d been turned into a tree. I know it’s hard to believe but that’s what happened.’

  ‘Turned eento a tree?’ repeated the officer calmly. ‘What do you mean, turned eento a tree?’

  ‘Exactly that. She wasn’t there but the tree was, and I never saw it before. The tree was there but my wife wasn’t.’

  ‘Loco, loco!’ muttered the second officer placing his cards down on the table as he shook his head from side to side. It appeared almost certain that they were going to be forced to investigate a case of a missing person.

  ‘You say you were arguing,’ continued the first policeman. ‘’ow much were you arguing wiz each other?’

  ‘Quite strongly,’ replied the Pole candidly. ‘You see, we never really got on very well. We were always arguing.’

  ‘I see,’ commented the officer suspiciously. ‘So you argued wiz each other and it got worse and zen you lost your temper and pushed ‘er over the edge. Is that what ‘appened?’

  ‘No, no!’ protested the Pole. ‘That’s not it at all! We did argue but I didn’t push her over the top. She turned into a tree. It’s up there now for everyone to see. I mean my wife was five feet six inches tall and that’s exactly the same height of the tree. And it’s a funny shape too... like that of a human being. I tell you, it’s my wife!’ Polanski was becoming frantic at this point throwing caution to the winds without any care for his own salvation.

  ‘Loco, loco,’ repeated the second officer in a whisper shaking his head once again.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ intruded the first policeman, extinguishing his cigarette and picking up his peaked cap from one of the chairs nearby. ‘Let’s go and look at zees tree and see whezzer we can find your wife. She ees probably playing a trick on you and ‘as gone back to ze ‘otel to teach you a lesson for arguing wiz ‘er. Women are like zat.’

  Two of the three police officers left the building and the Pole followed them closely behind.

  ‘Don’t you have lots of forms to fill in first,’ he protested angrily. ‘You need to know my name, my wife’s name, the hotel where we’re staying... ’

  ‘Not necessary,’ interrupted the first officer rudely, opening the rear door of the vehicle to allow the complainant to climb inside. ‘All we need is ze name of your ‘otel. Zat’s where she probably went after you finshed your argument. What ees ze name of it?’

  ‘The Tropicana Gardens,’ muttered Polanski miserably, ‘but she won’t be there. I tell you she was turned into a tree.’

  ‘And ‘ow do you sink zat ‘appened?’ asked the second officer benignly with a slight smile touching his lips. There was no doubt in his mind that the complainant was absolutely loco but at least it gave them something to do on this fine day.

  ‘I have no idea,’ replied the Pole desolately. ‘No idea whatsoever. But you’ll soon see for yourselves.’

  They arrived shortly at the Hotel Tropicana Gardens and asked the receptionist for the key to Polanski’s room. The receptionist produced it immediately proving that the woman had not returned to the hotel as she would have needed to key to gain entry. The policemen then searched the grounds, the swimming pool, the bars, the restaurants and the lounge areas of the hotel but Mrs. Polanksi was nowhere to be found. In due course, they gave up the search at the hotel and decided to drive up to the cliffs. When they arrived at the precipice, Polanski showed them the tree explaining that it hadn’t been there when he first arrived at the top with his wife, telling them that she had been standing in the exact spot before being turned into a tree. They listened and raised their eyebrows before going to the very edge to peer down below in the expectation of finding her body laying on the rocks.

  ‘Zer is no one down zer so she couldn’t ‘ave fallen,’ uttered the first officer after completing his investigation. ‘What clothes was she wearing?’

  ‘A white plastic dress reaching down to the ground with a tight black belt. I bought it for her before we came away.’

  The second officer climbed down one of the treacherous paths leading to the rocks below to see whether he could find the woman’s body. After a while his voice could be heard in the distance. ‘She ees not ‘ere,’ he called out at the top of his voice. ‘She ees not ‘ere!’

  ‘But she is,’ cried the Pole adamantly. ‘She’s been turned into this tree. I don’t know how it was done but it happened. How else do you account for her disappearance?’

  ‘Zat is ze mystery we ‘ave to solve,’ retorted the first policeman removing his cap and scratching the back of his head. ‘But let me tell you somesing, my friend, zer is no way she was turned into a tree!’

  They spent fifteen minutes more making absolutely certain that neither she nor her body was in the vicinity and then they left, driving the Pole into the centre of town. Polanski nursed feelings of anger yet he felt so foolish for his claim that he was determined to prove that his wife had been turned into a tree to clear his name. The policemen were less than suspicious. If, by fair means or foul, the complainant had pushed his wife over the edge of the cliff to dispose of her, and made sure that her body floated out to sea, that was his problem and not theirs. After all, practically every tourist spent a period of only one or two weeks in their country and then returned home, so why should they become involved in some seedy little murder of a tourist who killed his wife before leaving Spain. It was far too much trouble filling in all the forms and taking all the appropriate action of searching for a missing person, especially as that person would almost certainly be on a plane shortly flying back to their own country.

  Polanski thought over the situation for a while and then embarked on the next step in his investigation. He went directly to the Town Hall, found the appropriate office, and asked to see maps of the cliff area on the east side of the town. The clerks were less than impressed by his unsolicited appearance. At first, they looked down their noses at him, almost ignoring his request. Who was this tourist who made such difficult demands? Maps of the east side of town indeed! What did he think they were there for? When he realised they were unwilling to help him, Polanski hammered his fist on the counter, shouting for assistance at the top of his voice. These actions impressed the clerks even less. After all, he was a tourist who ought to know better than to disturb them in their peaceful abode. As one of the clerks uttered under his breath: “If it wasn’t for the public, this would be one hell of a good job!” despite the fact that he wouldn’t be employed by the local ayuntamiento if the public wasn’t there.

  ‘I want to see all the maps of the cliff area,’ shouted the Pole at the top of his voice. ‘No... I demand to see them.’

  ‘Why do you want to see the maps?’ asked one of the clerks in perfect English.

  ‘I want to know if there are any trees at the top of the cliff near the edge of the precipice.’

  ‘That’s an unusual request,’ continued the clerk. ‘Why should you want to know this information?’

  ‘Well, it’s difficult to understand, I have to admit, but my wife and I were up there this morning and she became turned into a tre
e.’

  ‘She became what?’ retorted the startled clerk.

  ‘She became turned into a conifer tree at the top of the cliffs. I know because I saw it.’

  ‘Loco,’ declared one of the clerks sitting at a desk nearby in a whisper. ‘Loco!’

  A number of maps were procured in due course and handed to the Pole for examination. He looked carefully at every one, shaking his head each time, for there were no trees shown in any of the documents.

  ‘Don’t you have anything else? Like an ordinance survey map of some kind showing more detail,’ he asked when he had finished examining all of them. ‘Something more specific to show the trees in that area.’

  ‘Loco, loco,’ muttered the same clerk as before.

  There was a shrug of shoulders from all the clerks in unison and Polanksi felt certain that the absence of any arboreal entries in the documents indicated that his wife had definitely been turned into a tree. He took photocopies of two maps before approaching the clerk with a final request.

  ‘Isn’t there anything else that would show whether there was a tree on that cliff?’ he asked with a pleading expression on his face. It was his last shot in an impossible situation.

  The clerk thought for a moment and then nodded. ‘Si,’ he replied. ‘There is a aeronautical organisation which takes photographs from the air. They may have something to help you.’

  ‘How do I get in touch with them?’ asked the Pole.

  ‘They have an office in Alicante. You can try there.’

  ‘Thanks!’ retorted Polanski with gratitude. ‘I’ll do that right away. I just have to prove it’s what happened.’

  ‘Loco, loco,’ repeated the same clerk as the Pole left the office in great haste.

  He soon found a taxi which took him to the office of the aeronautical organisation in Alicante. Following his request, a woman showed him several photographs of the cliffs taken from a great height and he fervently feasted his eyes on them. It was difficult to see the detail very clearly but he couldn’t see any trees on the cliff top.

  ‘When were these taken?’ he asked the woman.

  She turned the photographs over to look at the dates on the back. ‘Over twelve years ago,’ she replied.

  ‘How long does it take a conifer tree to grow to about five and a half feet?’

  ‘I’m not really sure how long to be honest,’ she admitted. ‘Perhaps about seven or eight years.’

  He huffed and puffed for a while and asked to borrow one of the photographs which he promised to return. She was reluctant to release it but eventually conceded to his request. He quickly left the building and found another taxi to return him to Benidorm before proceeding to return to the police station where the officers had returned to their card game around the table.

  ‘There’s your proof!’ he told them bluntly throwing the photocopies and the photograph rudely on the table as soon as he entered the room. ‘I’ve been to the Town Hall to look at maps and also the aeronautical organisation in Alicante which took photographs of the area. As you can see, not one of them shows a tree in that spot.’

  The first officer picked up the documents and examined them cursorily. ‘No surprise,’ he retorted equally bluntly. ‘’Oo takes photos of trees? ‘Oo puts zem on maps? Thees ees no proof. Any’ow, ze tree may ‘ave grown after zees maps were made an’ after the photograph. When was eet taken?’

  ‘About twelve years ago,’ replied the Pole solemnly.

  ‘Aha!’ grunted the police officer. ‘Eet ‘as grown since that time.’

  ‘No person can be turned into a tree,’ exclaimed the second officer placing his cards down on the table tiredly. ‘Eet ees not possible for such a sing to ‘appen! Now will you please go away and leave us in peace. Come back in twenty-four hours. No one can be a missing person until one ‘ole day ‘as gone by.’

  The Pole grimaced but he had no option but to leave the police station and he returned to the hotel realising how much he loved his wife. It was always the same. Once a person lost something precious, he realised the true value of it.

  On the following day, a number of telephone calls were made to the police from people complaining about an escaped lunatic standing on the cliff top talking to a tree. Some people say that he touched the tree, others declared he had fondled it, even more said that he was cuddling the tree as though he wanted to make love to it. It wasn’t long before the police soon came to collect him and they took him back to the police station. By then, Polanski’s mind was in a turmoil. It had become an obsession which caused him to start raving and the police had no idea how to deal with the situation. No one had ever come to them with a story of a missing person turning into a tree before.

  ‘What do you expect us to do?’ demanded the first officer at the end of his tether. His only option was to lock the man in a cell in the hope that he would soon calm down and come to his senses. However, if the police were known to be heavy-handed with tourists throwing them into cells when they asked for help, such action might cause an international incident and affect tourism to the area.

  ‘I want to see a spiritualist,’ cried the Pole irrationally.

  The second policeman looked at his colleague. ‘More likely ‘e could use a psychiatrist,’ he ventured.

  ‘Si, zat’s zee thing to do,’ responded the first officer. ‘I’ll contact one immediately.’

  He made a brief telephone call and then the two policemen bundled the unfortunate Pole into their car to take him to Alicante again. It was the only method by which they could lose him until he became rational again. Once there, Polanski was taken to the office of a psychiatrist who asked him to lay down on a comfortable couch and relax.

  ‘Tell me of your trouble,’ the doctor asked him.

  ‘My wife was turned into a tree this morning,’ bleated the Pole sadly, ‘and I miss her very much. She stands proudly on the cliff top at Benidorm and I want you to transform her back into a human-being again. I promise never to buy her clothes without her being with me and I’ll change my attitude and never argue again. I promise her that with all my heart. But please change her back again!’

  The psychiatrist stared at the man bleakly. Most of his clients had problems concerning their wives or mothers, their emotions, depressions, and of life itself. This client was a completely different kettle of fish. He was obviously insane ... out of his mind! After a while, Polanski began to become agitated. Why didn’t this spiritualist do something to restore his wife back to human form? Why was he asking all these stupid questions? Eventually, he began to lose his temper and started smashing items in the office. The psychiatrist became extremely concerned and he made a swift telephone call to call for assistance. Shortly two men in white coats came to collect the unfortunate man, bundling him into an ambulance. They took him to the local sanatorium which infuriated the Pole who lashed out at everyone forcing them to place him in a strait-jacket. Sadly, he could never get the incident out of his mind. His wife had been turned into a tree and he couldn’t get her back. He told everyone the same story. Ultimately, he remained in the sanatorium and is still there today sticking to the same story, despite the use of drugs. As far as the authorities are concerned, the man is insane, and he will probably stay there until his dying day claiming that his wife had been turned into a tree on the cliff top at Benidorm.

  The true solution to the mystery lay in the white plastic dress given to Melanie by her husband. Not surprisingly, she had not been turned into a tree as Polanski imagined. The conifer had been there all the time. It’s just that, in the heat of the argument with his wife, he hadn’t noticed it. After the argument, when Polanski had stalked off along the cliff, Melanie went right to the edge staring out to sea seething with anger. Without realising, she had gone too far to the edge and it gave way beneath her. Instead of falling to the savage rocks below, the plastic dress, which reac
hed right down the ground with a tight belt around her waist, expanded like a bell-tent and the wind trapped within it carried her beyond the rocks out into the sea. She was struck dumb by the fall, failing to call out for help, and she soon found herself quickly drifting in the current which carried her around the side of the cliff, out of sight of her husband. She remained buoyant in the water, sitting on a cushion of air for about five minutes, until she was seen by a fisherman on his way back home in his boat.

  ‘Madre de Dios!’ he cried as he hauled her out of the sea and hoisted her onto his small vessel filled with fish. ‘A mermaid! All my life I search for the right woman and suddenly she comes to me as a mermaid! And with beautiful legs instead of a fish tail. God has truly blessed me this day.’

  He gave her a towel and she dried herself, easing the tight black belt on the plastic dress. If nothing else, it had saved her life because without it she would certainly have perished on the rocks beneath the cliff.

  ‘Let me see your right hand,’ he demanded when she had settled down in the vessel.

  She held it out to him with a concerned expression on her face. ‘What do you want to see my right hand for?’ she asked.

  ‘Because married Spanish women wear a wedding ring on the fourth finger of their right hand. But you are not married. I can see that because you do not wear a wedding ring.’

  She surreptitiously eased the ring off the fourth finger of her left hand and dropped it over the edge of the boat into the sea. Suddenly, a new scenario had opened in her life and she was hopeful of seizing the opportunity. ‘No, I’m not married,’ she lied blatantly. She knew that she could always obtain her birth certificate in her maiden name if push came to shove.