Dr. Jessegrim sat and went on staring at the glassy sea, shimmering so strangely in the starlight, until midnight struck.
Midnight!
He took out his watch and wound it slowly, until his fingertips felt the resistance of the winder. He pressed gently against it, and then more strongly ... there, a slight click and the spring was broken. The watch stopped.
Dr. Jessegrim laughed a mocking laugh. ‘That’s how I shall twist your springs too, you .
A frightful explosion rocked the town. It echoed from far away in the south; the old seafarers reckoned its source would be found somewhere near the great peninsula between Tampico and Vera Cruz.
Nobody had seen any signs of fire, nor was there any indication from the lighthouses.
Thunder? At this season? And under a dear sky? Impossible. Probably an earthquake therefore.
Everyone made the sign of the cross. Only the landlords of the shebeens fell to cursing, for all their customers had deserted the bars, and had run to the hills behind the town where they told each other fantastic tales of their escape.
Dr. Jessegrim took no notice: he went into his study humming a little tune: farewell, my land of Tyrol …
He was in a superb frame of mind as he fetched a map from the drawer and pricked it off with a pair of dividers, referring to his notebook and taking pleasure in the way everything fell into place. As far as Omaha, possibly even further to the north the oil-fields stretched, there couldn’t be any dispute about that any more, and he knew now that underground the oil must be present in great lakes, bigger even than Hudson’s Bay.
He knew it: he had worked it out, he had spent twelve whole years on the calculations.
According to his view the whole of Mexico lay across a series of caverns under the earth, which in large measure, at least in so far as they were full of petroleum, were all interconnected. His life’s work had been gradually to blast away any remaining dividing walls. For years he had employed armies of men at the work: what a mint of money that had cost!
All those millions he had made in the mescal business had gone into it.
And if just once he had struck oil it would all have been in vain. The government would have stopped him blasting – they didn’t like it anyway.
Tonight was the night when the last walls were to go: those against the sea, on the peninsula, and further north near St. Louis Potosí. The explosion would be automatically controlled.
Dr. Kunibald Jessegrim pocketed his few remaining thousand dollar bills, and drove off to the station. The express to New York left at four in the morning.
What else was there left to do in Mexico?
He was right: there it was in all the papers – the verbatim telegram from along the Mexican Gulf coast, abbreviated according to the international cable code:
‘Explosion calfbrain berrymush’ which approximately translates as ‘Seasurface completely covered in oil; cause unknown, everything stinks. State governor.’
This interested the Yankees enormously, as the occurrence was without a doubt bound to make a great impression on the stock exchange and to push up the value of petroleum shares. And property dealing is the best part of life, after all!
The bankers of Wall Street, when questioned by the government about whether the event would cause a rise or a fall in the exchange shrugged their shoulders and declined to make a prediction before the cause of the phenomenon should be discovered; and in any case, if the market reacted contrary to reason there would undoubtedly be a great deal of money to be made.
The news made no particular impression on European sentiment. In the first place they were covered by protective tariffs, and in the second place they were in the process of bringing in new laws, which involved the planned introduction of voluntary triennial numeric enforcement, together with the abolition of men’s proper names, which was intended to stimulate patriotism and encourage a better attitude towards military service.
Meanwhile the oil was busily spewing out of the subterranean Mexican Basin into the sea, just as Dr. Jessegrim had predicted, forming an opalescent layer on the surface that spread further and further, and which, carried by the Gulf Stream, soon seemed to cover the entire ocean.
The shores were devastated and populations withdrew inland. What a shame about those flourishing cities!
And the sea took on a fearfully beautiful quality: a smooth surface, extending into infinity, glinting and shimmering in all sorts of colours, red, green and violet, and then again a deep, deep black, like images from a fantastic starscape.
The oil was thicker than petroleum customarily is, and in its contact with the salt water seemed to undergo no other change than that it slowly lost its smell.
The expert opinion was that a precise investigation of the causes of this phenomenon would be of great scientific value, and since Dr. Jessegrim’s reputation (at least as a specialist in Mexican petroleum reserves) was well established, they lost no time in seeking his opinion as well.
This was brief and to the point, even if it did not deal with its subject in quite the expected way.
‘If the oil continues to flow at the present rate, the entire oceanic surface of the planet will, by my estimation, be covered in 27-29 weeks, leading to a total cessation of rainfall in the future, since there will no longer be any opportunity for evaporation. In the best case it will only rain petroleum.’
This frivolous forecast aroused violent disapprobation and yet it appeared with every succeeding day to gain in probability, and as the invisible springs showed no sign of drying up, but on the contrary seemed to be augmenting in quite extraordinary fashion, a panic terror began to overcome the whole of humanity.
Every hour brought new reports from the observatories of Europe and America – even the Prague Observatory, which had so far contented itself with taking photographs of the moon, gradually began to focus on these new and extraordinary phenomena.
In the Old World nobody was talking about the new military proposal any longer, and the author of the draft law, Major Dressel Ritter von Clubinger ab Zinkski auf Trottelgrun sank into oblivion.
As always in confused times, when the signs of disaster stand ominously in the sky, the voices of discontent, who are never satisfied with the status quo, could be heard as they dared to question hallowed institutions.
‘Down with the army, wasting our money! Waste, waste waste! Build machines, think of ways to save mankind in its desperate plight from the threat of petroleum!’
‘But that won’t do’ warned the more circumspect. ‘You can’t simply put so many millions of people out of a job!’
‘What do you mean, out of a job? The troops only need to be paid off. Everyone of them has learned something, even if it’s only the most elementary trade,’ came the reply.
‘Oh yes, that’s all very well for the men – but what are we to do with the officers?’ Now that was a significant argument.
For a long time opinions swayed back and forth, with no party gaining the upper hand, until the encoded message came via cable from New York: ‘Hedgehog poundwise peritonitis America’, meaning: ’Oil flow increasing, situation extremely dangerous. Wire by return whether the smell is as bad with you. Regards. America.’
That was the last straw.
A popular demagogue, a wild fanatic rose up, mighty as a rock against the breakers, hypnotic, spurring the people on to the most ill-considered actions by his oratory.
‘Away with these games! Let the soldiers go, and make the officers useful for once. Give them new uniforms if it makes them feel better – bright green with red spots, if it’s my choice. Send them down to the beaches with blotting paper to mop up the oil, while the rest of us think of a way out of this frightful mess.’
The crowds shouted assent.
The counter-suggestion that such measures could hardly have any effect, and that it would be better to use chemical means found no favour.
‘We know, we know all that,’ came the reply. ‘But what are we go
ing to do with all those redundant officers, eh?’
The Curse of The Toad
Broad, moderately agitated, sedate
The Mastersingers
On the road to the Blue Pagoda the Indian Sun beats down – sun beats down. People are singing in the temple, strewing white blossoms before Buddha, while the priests chant: Om mani padme hum; om mani padme hum. The streets are empty and deserted: today is a holiday.
The tall stems of cusha-grass had formed a guard of honour along the meadows beside the road to the Blue Pagoda – the road to the blue pagoda. The flowers waited on the millipede, who lived across the way under the bark of the venerable old fig tree.
The fig tree was the most exclusive residential district.
‘I am the Venerable,’ he said of himself, ‘and from my leaves Swimming Trunks can be made – swimming trunks can be made.’
But the great toad, who always sat on the stone, despised him for being an old stick-in-the-mud, and she had no interest in swimming trunks. She hated the millipede too. He was inedible, for he was too hard, and was full of Poisonous Juice – poisonous juice.
For that reason she Hated Him – hated him.
She wanted to destroy and ruin him, and had spent all night in communion with the spirits of toads.
And now she had been sitting on the stone since sunrise, waiting and twitching her hind leg from Time to – twitching her hind leg from time to time.
Now and then she spat at the cusha-grass.
All was silent: blossoms, beetles, flowers and grass, and the broad, broad sky. It was a holiday.
Only the old batrachians in the pond croaked out their profane songs: de-
To hell with lotus blossoms To hell with life,
To hell with life
There came a gleam from under the bark of the fig tree, and a string of black pearls shivered shimmering down, curled languorously and, raising its head, danced playfully in the glittering sun.
The Millipede – the millipede.
The fig tree rubbed his leaves in delight, and the cushagrass Rustled Ecstatically – rustled ecstatically.
The millipede scuttled across to the big stone, where his dance-floor lay: a bright, Sandy Patch – sandy patch. And he swept about in curls and swirls until, bedazzled, all his spectators were compelled to Close their Eyes -close their eyes.
The toad gave a sign, and from behind the stone her eldest son stepped forward. With a profound obeisance he proffered a written communication from his mother to the millipede.
With foot No. 37 the latter accepted it, and enquired of the cusha-grass if it was all properly stamped and franked.
‘We are the oldest grass in the world, we know, but that we don’t know. The laws change every year. Indra Alone knows that – Indra alone knows that.’
The spectacled cobra was sent for, who read the letter aloud, as follows: To the Right Honorable Gentleman, Mr. Millipede.
I am but a poor, wet, slippery thing, despised of the earth, whose spawn is considered beneath both plants and animals. I do not shine, I do not glitter. I have but four legs – but four legs, not a thousand like you – not a thousand like you, oh most honorable! Blessing upon you, Nemescar, Nemescarl’
‘Nemescar, Nemescar,’ chimed in the wild roses of Shiva, repeating the Persian Greeting-the Persian greeting.
‘Yet wisdom resides in my head, and deep knowledge – deep knowledge. I know the grasses, all of them, by name, I know the number of the stars in the sky, and of the leaves of the figtree, the stick in the mud. And my mind has not its equal among all the toads of India.
But lo, even so I can count things only if they stand still, and not when they are in movement – not when they are in movement.
Tell me then, oh most honourable one, how it can be that when you walk you always know which foot to begin with: which is the second, and the third, which one comes next as fourth, fifth, sixth – whether the next is the tenth or the hundredth; what meanwhile the second is doing, and the seventh: is it standing, or moving; when you get to the 917th, whether you should lift the 700th, put down the 39th, bend the 1000th or stretch the fourth – stretch the fourth?
I pray you, tell me, poor wet slippery thing, who has but four legs – but four legs, and not one thousand like you – not one thousand like you: how do you do it, O most Honourable One?
Respectfully,
Toad’
‘Nemescar,’ whispered a little rose-blossom, who had almost fallen asleep. And the Cusha-grass, the flowers, the beetles and the figtree, and also the spectacled cobra gazed expectantly at the millipede. Even the Croakers were silent – croakers were silent.
But the millipede was glued to the ground, paralysed, unable to move one single joint.
He had forgotten which leg to lift first, and the more he thought about it, the less he could Work It Out – work it out.
And along the road to the Blue Pagoda, the Indian Sun burned down – the Indian sun burned down.
The Black Ball
Originally, it was just a kind of fable, a rumour spreading out quite generally from its source in Asia to the centres of Western culture.
It was said that in Sikkim, south of the Himalayas, the Gosains, as they are called, an order of uneducated, almost barbarian holy men, had come up with a truly fabulous invention.
The Anglo-Indian papers carried the story, though they seemed less well informed than the Russians; those who know the ways of the place were not surprised, as it’s well-known that the Sikkimese make a point of treating everything English with detestation.
This was probably the reason why news of the mysterious invention reached Europe via Petersburg and Berlin.
The academic world was thrown into turmoil when the phenomena were demonstrated.
The great lecture hall, dedicated otherwise to purely scientific presentations, was packed.
On a podium in the middle stood the two Indian experimentalists: the Gosain Deb Shumsha Jung, his gaunt features liberally smeared with white, sanctified ashes, and the dark-skinned Brahman Rajendralalamitra, wearing the insignia of his caste, a slender cotton ribbon hanging down from his left shoulder.
A number of glass vessels had been suspended on wires from the ceiling, so that they hung at eye-level; traces of white powder were visible inside them. An unstable explosive, probably iodide, as the interpreter suggested.
The Auditorium fell silent as the Gosain went to one of the flasks, wrapped a narrow gold chain around its neck and attached the two ends either side of the Brahman’s forehead.
He then stepped round behind him, raised both arms into the air and began to recite the mantra – the incan-tatory formula – of his sect.
These two ascetic figures were standing absolutely still, with that peculiar form of immobility singularly characteristic of aryan Asiatics when they are sunk in religious meditation.
The Brahman’s black eyes were focused on the flask. The onlookers held their breath.
Many of them were obliged to close their eyes, or to look away, in order to avoid a fainting fit. The sight of such petrified figures has an hypnotic effect, and people started to ask their neighbours in an undertone if they too didn’t think that the Brahman’s face sometimes looked as if it were wreathed in mist.
This impression was, however, merely caused by the sight of the holy tilak-sign on the Indian’s dark skin: a large white U, worn by every believer as a symbol of Vishnu the Saviour, on forehead, chest and on each arm.
Suddenly a spark inside the flask ignited the powder. There was a momentary puff of smoke, and then as it cleared there appeared inside the flask – an Indian landscape of indescribable beauty. The Brahman had projected his thoughts into the glass!
It was the Taj Mahal at Agra, that magic palace of the Great Mogul Aurungzebe, in which he had, centuries ago, imprisoned his father. The bluish white cupola of snow-like crystal, together with the slender minarets at its sides, of a magnificence that would force you to your knees, could be seen etern
ally reflected in the perpetually shimmering water bordered by dream-drenched cypresses.
An image that reawakens a secret longing for forgotten fields, swallowed up in the deep slumber of one’s wandering soul.
There was a buzz of voices in the audience; amazement and curiosity as the flask was detached from its support and passed from hand to hand.
Such a fixed, three-dimensional thought-picture (said the interpreter) would survive for months, inasmuch as it had sprung from the vast and consistent imaginative power of Rajendralamitra. Projections by European brains, in contrast, would have nowhere near such colour or longevity.
Numerous similar demonstrations now took place, in the course of which sometimes the Brahman again, sometimes one or other illustrious academic fixed the gold chain to his forehead.
It was in fact only the images projected by the mathematicians that were at all clear. By contrast, the results excogitated by heads of a juridical capacity were most peculiar. General amazement and a universal shaking of heads, however, greeted the concentrated effort of that famous practitioner of Internal Medicine, Professor Maul-drescher. Even the solemn Asiatics were amazed: an incredible jumble of small, discoloured lumps appeared in the glass, followed by a mass of blurry blobs and points.
‘Like an Italian salad,’ said one theologian derisively – but he had carefully ensured that he had not been drawn into the experiments. Especially near the middle, where in the case of scientific thought conceptions of physics and chemistry condense (as the interpreter stressed), the material seemed to be totally pickled.
Explanations of why and by what means the phenomena were actually produced were not forthcoming from the Indians. ‘Later perhaps, later,’ they said in broken phrases.
Two days later another demonstration took place, this time on a more popular level, and in another European metropolis. Once more the same breathless hush among the public, followed by the same exclamations of amazement, as an image of the strange Tibetan fortress of Taklakot took shape under the imaginative influence of the Brahman.
The Opal, and Other Stories Page 5