by Mike Ashley
The brother gazed at him and gave a slight, polite bow, no more. “That is very kind of you, sir. Felicitations are perhaps premature. Suppose the child will be a girl?”
“Hm,” said Eszterhazy. “Hm, hm. Well, there is that possibility, isn’t there? Thank you, and good afternoon.”
He could not but suppose that this same possibility must have also occurred to Brother Kummelman. And, in that case, he wondered, would a second visit have been paid to the large, antiquated room in the Grand Dominik where the Milord anglais still prolonged his stay?
* * *
Herr von Paarfus pursed his lips. He shook his head. Gave a very faint sigh. Then he got up and went into the office of his superior, the Graf zu Kluk. “Yes, what?” said the Graf zu Kluk, whose delightful manners always made it such a pleasure to work with him. More than once had Herr von Paarfus thought of throwing it all up and migrating to America, where his cousin owned a shoe store in Omaha. None of this, of course, passed his lips. He handed the paper to his superior.
“From Mauswarmer, in Bella, Excellency,” he said.
The Graf fitted his monocle more closely into his eye and grunted. “Mauswarmer, in Bella,” he said, looking up, “has uncovered an Anglo-Franco-Czech conspiracy, aimed against the integrity of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.”
“Indeed, Your Excellency!” said von Paarfus, trying to sound shocked.
“Oh yes! There is no doubt of it,” declared Graf zu Kluk, tapping the report with a highly polished fingernail. “The liaison agent – of course, in Prague, where else? – is a man named Novotny. The password is ‘wizard.’ What do you think of that?”
“I think, Your Excellency, that Novotny is a very common name in Prague.”
Graf zu Kluk gave no evidence of having heard. “I shall take this up with His Highness, at once,” he said. Even Graf zu Kluk had a superior officer. But then, long years of training in the Civil Service of Austria-Hungary cautioned him. “That is,” he said, “as soon as we have had word on this from our people in London, Paris, and Prague. Until then, mind, not a word to anyone!”
“Your Excellency is of course correct.”
“Of course. Of course. See to this. At once!”
Von Paarfus went out, thinking of Omaha. Not until the door had closed behind him did he sigh once again.
Oberzeeleutnant-commander Adler had had a long and distinguished career in the naval service of a neighboring power. “But then,” he said, stiffly, “I – how do you put it, in English? Than I copied my blotting-book? I of course do not desire to go into details. At any rate, I thought to myself, even if I shall not be actually at sea, at any rate, at least I shall be able to put my finishing touches on the revision of my monograph on the deep-sea fishes. But the High Command was even more loath with me than I had thought; ah, how they did punished me, did I deserved such punishments? Aund so, here I am, Naval Attaché in Bella! In Bella! A river port! Capital of a nation, exceedingly honorable, to be sure.” He bobbed a hasty bow to Eszterhazy, who languidly returned it. “But one which has no deep-sea coast at all! Woe!” For a moment he said nothing, only breathed deeply. Then, “What interest could anyone possibly find in a freshwater fish, I do enquire you?” he entreated. But no one had an answer.
“Mmm,” said Milord Sir Smiht. “Yes. Yes. Know what it is to be an exile, myself. Still. I stay strictly away from politics, you know. Not my pidjin. Whigs, Tories, nothing to me. Plague on both their houses. Sea-fish, rich in phosphorus. Brain food.”
But the commander had not made himself clear. What he would wish to propose of the Milord Sir Smiht was not political. It was scientific. Could not Sir Smiht, by means of the idyllic – what? ah! – thousand pardons – the odyllic force, of which one had heard much – could not Sir Smiht produce an ensampling of, say, the waters of the Mindanao Trench, or of some other deep-sea area – here – here in Bella – so that the commander might continue his studies?
The milord threw up his hands. “Impossible!” he cried. “Im-pos-sib-le! Think of the pressures! One would need a vessel of immensely strong steel. With windows of immensely thick glass. Just to begin with! Cost: much. Possibilities of success: jubious.”
But the Naval Attaché begged that these trifles might not stand in the way. The cost, the cost was to be regarded as merely a first step, and one already taken; he hinted at private means.
“As for the rest.” Eszterhazy stepped forward, a degree of interest showing in his large eyes. “At least, as for the steel, there are the plates for the Ignats Louis . . .”
The Ignats Louis! With what enthusiasm the nation (particularly the patriotic press) had encouraged plans for the construction of the Triune Monarchy’s very first dreadnought, a vessel which (it was implied) would strike justly deserved terror into the hearts of the enemies – actual or potential – of Scythia-Pannonia-Transbalkania! A New Day, it was declared, was about to dawn for the Royal and Imperial Navy of the fourth-largest empire in Europe; a Navy which had until then consisted of three revenue cutters, two gunboats, one lighthouse tender, and the monitor Furioso (formerly the Monadnock, purchased very cheaply from the United States after the conclusion of the American Civil War). Particular attention had been drawn to the exquisitely forged and incredibly strong steel plate, made in Sweden at great expense.
Alas, the day of the Triune Monarchy as one of the naval powers of the world had been exceedingly short-lived and more or less terminated upon the discovery that the Ignats Louis would draw four feet more than the deepest reaches of the River Ister at high water in the floods. The cheers of the patriotic press were overnight reduced to silence, subsidies for the dreadnought vanished from the next budget, the skeleton of the vessel slowly rusted on the ways, the exquisitely forged and incredibly strong steel plating remained in the storage sheds of the contractor; and the two gunboats and the monitor alone remained to strike terror into the hearts of, if not Russia and Austria-Hungary, then at any rate Graustark and Ruritania.
The downcast face of the foreign naval commander slowly began to brighten. The countenance of the English wizard likewise relaxed. And, as though by one common if semi-silent consent, they drew up to the table and began to make their plans.
“Qu’est-ce qu’il y a, cette affaire d’une vizard anglais aux Scythie-Pannonie-Transbalkanie?” they asked, in Paris.
“C’est, naturellement, une espèce de blague,” they answered, in Paris.
“Envoyez-le à Londres,” they concluded, in Paris.
“What can the chaps mean?” they asked each other, in London. “‘English vizar Milor Sri Smhiti’? Makes no sense, you know.”
“Mmm, well, does, in a way, y’know,” they said in London. “Of course, that should be vizier. And sri, of course, is an Injian religious title. Dunno what to make of Smhti, though. Hindi? Gujerathi? Look here. Sir Augustus is our Injian expert. Send it up to him,” they said, in London.
“Very well, then . . . but, look here. What can this be about Tcheque novothni? They simply can’t spell in Paris, you know. Check up on the Novothni, what are the Novothni?”
“Blessed if I know. Some hill tribe or other. Not our pidjin. Best send it all up to Sir Augustus,” they said, in London.
But in Prague they sat down to their files, which, commencing with Novotny, Abelard, ran for pages and pages and pages down to Novotny, Zygmund. They had lots and lots of time in Prague, and, anyway, it was soothing work, and much more to their tastes than the absolutely baffling case of a young student who thought that he had turned into a giant cockroach.
They had directed the old hall-porter at the Grand Dominik to inform all would-be visitors that Milord Sir Smiht was not receiving people at present. But Frow Puprikosch was not one to be deterred by hall-porters; indeed, it is doubtful if she understood what he was saying, and, before he had finished saying it, she had swept on . . . and on, and into the large old-fashioned chamber where the three were at work.
“Not now,” said Smiht, scarcely looking up from his a
djustments of the tubing system to the steel-plated diving bell. “I can’t see you now.”
“But you must see me now,” declared Frow Puprikosch, in a rich contralto voice. “My case admits of no delays, for how can one live without love?” Frow Puprikosch was a large, black-haired woman in whom the bloom of youth had mellowed. “That was the tragedy of my life, that my marriage to Puprikosch lacked love – but what did I know then? – mere child that I was.” She pressed one hand to her bosom, as to push back the tremendous sigh which arose therefrom, and with the other she employed – as an aid to emphasis and gesticulation – an umbrella of more use to the ancient lace industry of the Triune Monarchy than of any possible guard against rain.
“And what would Herra Puprikosch say, if he knew what you were up to, eh? Much better go home, my dear lady,” she was advised.
“He is dead, I have divorced him, the marriage was annulled, he is much better off in Argentina,” she declared, looking all around with great interest.
“Argentina?”
“Somewhere in Africa!” she said, and, with a wave of her umbrella, or perhaps it was really a parasol, disposed of such pedantries. “What I wish of you, dear wizard,” she said, addressing Eszterhazy, “is only this: to make known to me my true love. Of course you can do it. Where shall I sit down here? I shall sit here.”
He assured her that he was not the wizard, but she merely smiled an arch and anxious smile, and began to peel off her gloves. As these were very long and old-fashioned with very many buttons (of the best-quality mother-of-pearl, and probably from the establishment of Weitmondl in the Court of the Golden Hart), the act took her no little time. And it was during this time that it was agreed by the men present, between them, with shrugs and sighs and nods, that they had beter accomplish at least the attempt to do what the lady desired, if they expected to be able to get on with their work at all that day.
“If the dear lady will be kind enough to grasp these grips,” said Sir Smiht, in a resigned manner, “and concentrate upon the matter which is engaging her mind, ah, yes, that’s a very good grasp.” He began to make the necessary adjustments.
“Love, love, my true love, my true affinity, where is he?” demanded Frow Puprikosch of the Universal Aether. “Yoi!” she exclaimed, a moment later, in her native Avar, her eyebrows going up until they met the fringe, so pleasantly arranged, of glossy black hair. “Already I feel it begins. Yoi!”
“‘Yoiks’ would be more like it,” Smiht muttered. He glanced at a dial to the end of the sideboard. “Good heavens!” he exclaimed. “What an extraordinary amount of the odyllic forces that woman conjugates! Never seen anything like it!”
“Love,” declared Frow Puprikosch, “love is all that matters; money is of no matter, I have money; position is of no matter, I expectorate upon the false sham of position. I am a woman of such a nature as to crave, demand, and require only love! And I know, I know, I know, that somewhere is the true true affinity of my soul – where are you?” she caroled, casting her large and lovely eyes all around. “Oo-hoo?”
The hand of the dial, which had been performing truly amazing swings and movements, now leaped all the way full circle, and, with a most melodious twang, fell off the face of the dial and onto the ancient rug.
At that moment sounds, much less melodious, but far more emphatic, began to emanate from the interior of the diving bell. And before Eszterhazy, who had started to stoop toward the fallen dial hand, could reach the hatchcover, the hatchcover sprang open and out flew – there is really not a better verb – out flew the figure of a man of vigorous early middle age and without a stitch or thread to serve, as the French so delicately put it, pour cacher sa nudité . . .
“Yoiii!!!” shrieked Frow Puprikosch, releasing her grip upon the metal holders and covering her face with her bumbershoot.
“Good heavens, a woman!” exclaimed the gentleman who had just emerged from the diving bell. “Here, dash it, Pemberton Smith, give me that!” So saying, he whipped off the cloak which formed the habitual outer garment of the wizard anglais, and wrapped it around himself, somewhat in the manner of a Roman senator who has just risen to denounce a conspiracy. The proprieties thus taken care of, the newcomer, in some perplexity, it would seem, next asked, “Where on earth have you gotten us to, Pemberton Smith? – and why on earth are you rigged up like such a guy? Hair whitened, and I don’t know what else. Eh?”
Pemberton Smith, somewhat annoyed, said, “I have undergone no process of rigging, it is merely the natural attrition of the passage of thirty years, and tell me, then, how did you pass your time on the sidereal level – or, if you prefer, astral plane?”
“But I don’t prefer,” the man said, briskly. “I know nothing about it. I’d come up from the Observatory – damned silly notion putting an observatory in Wales, skies obscured three hundred nights a year with soppy Celtic mists, all the pubs closed on Sundays – and, happening to drop in on the Royal Society, I allowed myself to act as subject for your experiment. One moment I was there, the next moment I was there—” He gestured toward the diving bell. Then something evidently struck his mind. “‘Thirty years,’ you say? Good heavens!” An expression of the utmost glee came across his face. “Then Flora must be dead by now, skinny old bitch, and, if she isn’t, so much the worse for her, who is this lovely lady here?”
The lady herself, displacing her parasol and coming toward him in full-blown majesty, said, in heavily accented but still melodious English, “Is here the Madame Puprikosch, but you may to calling me Yózhinka. My affinity! My own true love! Produced for me by the genius of the wizard anglais! Yoi!” And she embraced him with both arms, a process which seemed by no means distasteful to the gentleman himself.
“If you don’t mind, Pigafetti Jones,” the wizard said, somewhat stiffly, “I will thank you for the return of my cloak. We will next discuss the utmost inconveniency which your disappearance from the chambers of the Royal Society has caused me throughout three decades.”
“All in good time, Pemberton Smith,” said the former Astronomer-Royal of Wales, running his hands up and down the ample back of Frow Puprikosch—or, as she preferred to be called by him, Yózhinka. “All in good time . . . I say, Yózhinka, don’t you find that corset most constrictive? I should. In fact, I do. Do let us go somewhere where we can take it off, and afterward I shall explain to you the supernal glories of the evening skies – beginning, of course, with Venus.”
To which the lady, as they made their way toward the door together, replied merely (but expressively), “Yoi . . .!”
Standing in the doorway was a very tall, very thin, very, very dignified elderly gentleman in cutaway, striped trousers, silk hat – a silk hat which he raised, although somewhat stiffly, as the semi-former Frow Puprikosch went past him. He then turned, and regarding the wizard anglais with a marked measure of reproof, said, “Well, George.”
“Good Heavens. Augustus. Is it really you?”
“It is really me, George. Well, George. I suppose that you have received my letter.”
“I have received no letter.”
“I sent it you, care of Cook’s, Poona.”
“Haven’t been in Poona for years. Good gad. That must be why my damned remittances kept arriving so late. I must have forgotten to give them a change of address.”
Sir Augustus Smith frowned slightly and regarded his brother with some perplexity. “You haven’t been in Poona for years? Then what was all this nonsense of your calling yourself Vizier Sri Smith and trying to rouse the hill tribes with the rallying cry of ‘No votny’? Votnies were abolished, along with the tax on grout, the year after the Mutiny, surely you must know that.”
“I haven’t been in Injia for eleven years, I tell you. Not since the Presidency cut up so sticky that time over the affair of the rope trick (all done by the odyllic forces, I tell you). As for all the rest of it, haven’t the faintest idea. Call myself Vizier Sri Smith indeed, what do you take me for?”
Sir Augustus bowed
his head and gently bit his lips. Then he looked up. “Well, well,” he said, at last. “This is probably another hugger-mugger on the part of the Junior Clarks, not the first time, you know, won’t be the last,” he sighed. “I tell you what it is, you know, George. They let anyone into Eton these days.”
“Good heavens!”
“Fact. Well. Hm. Mph.” He looked around the room with an abstracted air. “Ah, here it is, you see, now that I have seen with my own eyes that Pigafetti Jones is alive and playing all sorts of fun and games as I daresay he has been doing all these years, ahum, see no reason why you shouldn’t come home, you know, if you like.”
“Augustus! Do you mean it?”
“Certainly.”
The younger Smith reached into the clothes press and removed therefrom a tightly packed traveling bag of ancient vintage. “I am quite ready, then, Augustus,” he said.
There was a clatter of feet on the stairs in the corridors beyond, the feeble voice of the hall-porter raised in vain, and into the room there burst Kummelman Swartbloi, who proceeded first to fall at the younger Smith’s feet and next to kiss them. “My wife!” he cried. “My wife has just had twin boys! Bella is guaranteed another generation of Brothers Swartbloi (Snuff-Tobacco)! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” And he turned and galloped away, murmuring that he would have stayed longer but that it was essential for him to be at the mill in a quarter of an hour in order to grind the Rappee.
“Do twins come up often in the chap’s family?” asked Sir Augustus.
“I’m afraid that nothing much comes up often in his family at all, any more. I merely advised him to change his butcher and I may have happened to suggest the well-known firm of Schlockhocker, in the Ox Market. Old Schlockhocker has six sons, all twins, of whom the youngest, Pishto and Knishto, act as delivery boys on alternate days. Wonderful thing, change of diet . . . that, and, of course, the odyllic forces.”
Sir Augustus paused in the act of raising his hat to his head. “I should hope, George,” he said, “that you may not have been the means of introducing any spurious offspring into this other tradesman’s family.”