by Tom Sharpe
‘No, those hadn’t occurred to me,’ the Praelector said, ‘though now that you mention it …’ He knelt beside Kudzuvine and the look in his eye was very cold. ‘Now open your mouth.’
Kudzuvine clenched his teeth. ‘I’ve told you before,’ he said nasally and with the greatest difficulty, ‘I’m a free-born citizen of the world’s greatest su –’
The Praelector poured some brandy onto his teeth and Kudzuvine closed his mouth entirely.
‘I can see this is going to be very difficult,’ said the Praelector. ‘We are going to have to prise his mouth open with something.’ He rose immediately to his feet and looked round for a suitable instrument. He seemed to find one in the Chaplain’s umbrella. ‘Now then Walter, if you and Henry will just hold him steady …’
But Kudzuvine was on his feet again and backed against the wall with a wild look in his eye and a round ebony ruler in his hand. ‘You lay one hand on me,’ he squealed, ‘I’m going to fucking kill you. Kill you, understand? You ain’t going to make me drink fucking alcohol no way and you’d better know it. I want out of here and as a free-born natural –’
‘He does go on about being free-born and natural rather a lot,’ said the Praelector, but the Chaplain had disappeared into the next room.
He came back with a large pink rubber bag with a pipe attached to it. ‘I wonder if this would be of any use,’ he said. ‘A very nice girl from Addenbrooke’s comes occasionally to give me colonic irrigation …’
‘Shit,’ said Kudzuvine.
‘Exactly. I find it helps a lot. You put the liquid in this bag here and this plastic bit on the end of the pipe goes up –’
‘Oh no, it fucking doesn’t,’ yelled Kudzuvine. ‘You think you’re going to stick that thing up my ass and pour a quart of fucking brandy down a douche, you’re out of your fucking minds. I’m telling you when I get onto the Embassy you bastards are going to learn what it means to be a citizen of … an American citizen …’
He stopped and stared. The Chaplain had handed the douche to Walter who was filling it with cooking brandy. As the bag swelled the Chaplain explained its mechanism. ‘This sort of clothes-peg thing is what controls the flow,’ he said, pointing to a plastic grip on the rubber pipe. ‘Once we have inserted this rounded piece into his mouth –’
A yell from Kudzuvine stopped the explanation. ‘Mouth? Mouth? That thing don’t go anywhere near my fucking mouth. No way. It’s unhygienic. You know where that thing has been?’
‘As a matter of fact I do,’ said the Chaplain, ‘quite a number of times too. I suppose she’s been coming here since 1986. A delightful girl called Daisy with such very delicate hands. I had constipation at the time I remember and –’
He was interrupted by Kudzuvine, who had hit Henry with the ruler and was making a dash for the door. He was overcome and pinned to the wall.
‘I think it would be easier to administer if he was lying down,’ said the Praelector. ‘Mind you, we don’t want to spill any brandy on the bed. It will have to be the floor again.’ There was a brief but violent struggle and Kudzuvine was held down on the carpet.
‘You hold the bag, Henry,’ Walter said, ‘and I’ll just insert this plastic bit … Funny shape it is too and a bit too long to get it right in. Does it matter if we spill a bit, sir? Because it’s got these holes in the side and like I say it’s a bit long to shove right in. I mean, we might pour the brandy down his lungs and that wouldn’t do him a lot of good, like.’
They considered the problem for a moment and the Chaplain found the answer. ‘Blu-Tack,’ he said. ‘I know I’ve got some somewhere. I use it for cleaning the keys of my typewriter and picking up pins off the floor, you know. Now if we block up the top holes we won’t have to push it right down his throat.’
On the floor Kudzuvine’s struggles redoubled and were coupled with the most terrible threats and what the American Embassy and Government would do to them and Porterhouse like …
‘Grenada and Haiti? And of course we are an island and a small one too,’ said the Praelector and wondered aloud why the United States always seemed to prefer wars with island nations. ‘But never mind about that. Now then, Mr Mafia man, you are either going to tell us your real name and address and who you are and what you were doing with a team of …’ He searched for a word.
Walter supplied it. ‘Goons, sir?’
‘Exactly. Thank you, Walter. A team of goons, or hoods. Who did very substantial structural damage to a building, namely the Chapel, which was built several hundred years before your charming country was so unfortunately discovered. Such a shame Columbus didn’t go the other way. Now, if you tell us what we need to know, we will not have to put this rather peculiar enema contraption which, I agree, is not at all sanitary, to a purpose I cannot believe it was originally intended for. This is your last chance.’
‘I’ve got the Blu-Tack,’ said the Chaplain excitedly. ‘Now if we just put it in these holes at the top of the plastic bit …’
‘I don’t think it’s going to be necessary with some of the holes, sir,’ Walter told him. ‘Some of them are sort of blocked already with … well, I don’t like to say, sir, but if you ask me …’
But Kudzuvine was a broken man. ‘I swear to God my name is Kudzuvine, Karl Kudzuvine, from Bibliopolis, Alabama, sir,’ he said, weeping copiously.
The Praelector was unimpressed. He had served as a recruiter for MI6 and knew some of its methods. ‘A likely story,’ he said. ‘First Linnaeus and a very unpleasant convolvulus plant rather like Russian Vine or Mile-a-Minute used to prevent soil erosion on roadside cuttings in the South, and now a town called Bibliopolis which clearly doesn’t exist. What will you think of next?’
‘I swear to God it’s true. I’m Vice-President of Transworld Television Productions and I –’
‘Oh dear,’ the Praelector interrupted, ‘have you ever known an American who wasn’t a vice-president of something or other? I’m sure I haven’t. So terribly boring, all this self-importance.’ He simulated a yawn. ‘And can’t you come up with something better than Transworld Television Productions? Such a very trite name for a company. Transworld indeed!’
‘But I swear to God –’
The Chaplain intervened. ‘This does happen to be Sunday,’ he said, ‘and I would be obliged if you would refrain from using that sort of language.’
Kudzuvine looked at him pitifully. The Chaplain was holding the end of the douche, which now had blue holes as well as brown ones, in a very threatening manner.
‘Language? What language for Chrissake? You keep asking me questions how the fuck am I supposed to answer without language? I don’t know no deaf and dumb. You know, with the hands and all.’
He lay and wept and the Praelector continued with his questioning. He had decided to soften his approach for the time being. ‘Now I don’t want to have to do this but –’
‘You don’t?’ Kudzuvine broke in. ‘You don’t want it? You think I do? You think I want that filthy thing in my mouth where it’s been? You think that, you’re wrong. Man, you couldn’t be more wrong, sir.’
‘Well, it’s up to you,’ said the Praelector. ‘It’s either that thing, as you call it, and frankly I don’t know what to call it myself, or the brandy. I don’t know if you are acquainted with cooking brandy but the taste isn’t pleasant, not pleasant at all. I always stick to decent cognac myself.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Now then, which is it to be?’
Kudzuvine tried to consider the alternatives and found it very difficult. The Praelector seemed to have left something out. ‘You mean between cooking brandy and cognac? Man, I don’t know what to say. I keep telling you I’m a non-alcoholic teetotaller. I don’t even touch beer. I don’t smoke grass, nothing. Not any more. You know, keep my body clear and clean. Even gave up Listerine somebody tells me it’s got alcohol. And you want to go easy on the under-arm stuff too. Some of that’s got aluminum in it. Gives you Alzheimer’s.’ He paused as a new and more terrible thought hit him. ‘You
guys haven’t got Alzheimer’s, have you? Dear shit …’
The Praelector drew up a chair. He had reached the end of what little patience he had managed to retain. ‘If you are ready, Walter,’ he said to the Head Porter, but the Chaplain had remembered something. ‘You know, I do believe he may be right,’ he said.
The Praelector looked up at him. So did Kudzuvine. ‘About what?’ asked the Praelector, who couldn’t for the life of him believe that this filthy American gangster could be right about anything at all.
‘About the television thing. Weren’t they trying to bring some sort of lorry with wires in through the Main Gate, Walter?’
‘What, this morning, sir? Come to think of it, they were. Had Transworld Television written on the side. I wouldn’t let them. I wasn’t having that. I told them the last time them bolts was undone was when Her Majesty –’
‘Is this true, Walter?’ the Praelector interrupted. ‘You actually saw this … these words?’
‘Oh yes, sir, and Henry did too, didn’t you, Henry?’
The Junior Porter nodded. ‘He kept asking for Professor Purser and you said we didn’t have no Professor Purser and the Bursar came along. Been to Early Communion the Bursar had and you said that wasn’t like him to come so early …’
On the floor Kudzuvine managed to find words. Brandy had been dripping from the end of the douche onto his face. ‘Professor Bursar,’ he screamed, ‘Professor Bursar gave me permission to take … to video the College for Mr Hartang. You ask him he’ll tell you. I had his authorization. Okay, so not on the lawns.’
‘Not on the lawns? What not on the lawns?’
‘Like walk on them. They’re hundreds of years old you know that? Hundreds and hundreds of years old.’
‘Really?’ said the Praelector, who happened to know they had been relaid ten years before. ‘You know, I hadn’t thought of it like that.’ He was beginning to think that whatever had been going on the Bursar was going to have a quite staggering amount of explaining to do. In the meantime this man, whose name seemed as unlikely as his syntax, had to be handled with rather more care and sophistication than he had been shown to date. It would do the Porterhouse reputation no good at all if it leaked out – the word was unfortunately most appropriate – that he had been threatened with forced brandy-drinking by means of a douche that had for ten years been used for colonic irrigation purposes by the Chaplain. That sort of thing would not look good in the Cambridge Evening News.
The Praelector set out on a policy of appeasement. ‘My dear chap,’ he said, helping Kudzuvine to his feet. ‘You were saying something about the lawn being hundreds of years old and …’
‘Sure. Professor Bursar told me that. They’re protected species like whales and stuff,’ said Kudzuvine, still eyeing him very warily indeed. ‘Didn’t say nothing about roofs and chapels. They a protected species too?’
‘More or less,’ said the Praelector and changed his mind. This man Kudzuvine, if that was really his name, had very little grasp of English. ‘In fact very much more. They are Listed Buildings under an Act of Parliament signed by Her Majesty the Queen and cannot be altered, touched, damaged or in any way interfered with without the duly obtained permission given in writing and after due consultation by Her Majesty’s Commissioners for Ancient Monuments which permission will only be given should the Monument or Listed Building be in serious danger of collapsing. I can assure you that the Porterhouse Chapel and the Monuments it contains come into the latter category as a result of the actions of the men you introduced into the College and for whom you are responsible. I cannot begin to imagine the full consequences of your action except that they will be extremely drastic. The issue may have to go to the Privy Council. I hope I have made myself clear.’ By which the Praelector of course meant the opposite.
Kudzuvine was still gaping at him. ‘The Privy Council?’ he muttered. ‘Did you say Privy Council?’
‘Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Second’s Privy Council deals with matters –’
Kudzuvine held up a shaking hand. ‘Don’t tell me,’ he said, ‘and I had romantic dreams about that Princess of Wales and the Royal Family. And now you tell me Her Majesty … Shit! You British. I’m never going to understand anything round here.’
‘Few people do,’ said the Praelector. ‘We are, I suppose, an acquired taste. Am I not right, Chaplain?’
Kudzuvine turned to look at the Chaplain, who was helping Walter and Henry to drain the cooking brandy back into the bottle. ‘Did you say “an acquired taste”?’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have thought so. It’s only cooking brandy and I very much doubt that anyone will notice the Blu-Tack. In fact it might actually add a certain bouquet to the brandy which it presently lacks.’
‘I got to get out of here but now,’ said Kudzuvine and stumbled towards the door only to be tripped up again by the Praelector using the umbrella. As he slumped forward and hit his head Kudzuvine had the briefest moment of lucid thought. He had to get out of this terrible, terrible place before …
By the time Walter and Henry carried him across the Fellows’ Garden to the Master’s Lodge he was mercifully quite unconscious.
‘I am afraid the creature will have to be our honoured guest for a few days until he has quite recovered,’ the Praelector said. ‘I can think of no better place for an honoured guest than the Master’s Lodge. It is immensely secure and well-protected, and besides he will be company for the Master. I am sure Skullion will see he is looked after properly. I shall send for Dr MacKendly and perhaps it would be advisable for Matron to move into the room next to his with another porter on hand and possibly even one or two of the larger kitchen staff to see to his needs and to ensure he does not leave the College. In the meantime, I think a word with the Bursar is called for.’
10
While Kudzuvine was stripped of his polo-neck sweater, his trousers and underwear, his white socks and his moccasins and put to bed stark naked (his clothes were sent to the College laundry for unnecessary attention), the exhausted Praelector gave orders that only undergraduates and Fellows were to be allowed to enter or leave Porterhouse. Then he went to see if the Senior Tutor was in a fit state to discuss matters with the Bursar. He found him sipping a cup of beef tea and in a very nasty mood indeed. But at least he was sober.
‘I must have been insane,’ he muttered, staring blankly into the empty fireplace.
The Praelector patted his shoulder sympathetically. ‘You certainly acted most peculiarly, old chap, though I would not have gone so far as to say you were actually insane. Just not your usual self.’
The Senior Tutor started in his chair and looked at him with genuine hatred. ‘Don’t you start again,’ he snarled. ‘I had enough of that this morning. Whether I was beside myself or in two minds and whether I had a right mind or a left one. And then you accused me of masturbating. I wonder you didn’t come out with it and say I was suffering from Wankers’ Doom and ask if I had hair on the palms of my hands. And then to top it all you had to send that bloody Matron round when you knew I was lying naked on the floor and could hardly move. Have you ever been … I won’t say nursed by that foul woman because her methods of nursing predate Florence Nightingale. Do you know what she did to me?’
‘No,’ said the Praelector hurriedly, ‘I don’t. Anyway why did you say you must have been insane when I came into the room just now?’
‘Because,’ said the Senior Tutor with extraordinary venom, ‘because I thought two large Benedictines taken after an entire bottle of 1947 crusted port at Corpus Christi, and that’s not a name I’d use for that damned college, would settle my stomach nicely. Have you ever drunk an entire bottle of crusted port and two Benedictines?’
The look on the Praelector’s face was a sufficient answer.
‘Well, don’t is all I can say. I wouldn’t wish the consequences on my very worst enemy. And what damned fool told me ’47 was a good year for port? It was a bloody awful year for everything. Whale meat and snoek and the coldest
winter imaginable … If anyone mentions 1947 to me ever again …’
The Senior Tutor sipped more beef tea and gave the Praelector the opportunity he had been waiting for. ‘On the topic of little problems,’ he began and stopped.
The Senior Tutor had choked. ‘Little? Little problems? You come in here and talk to me about little problems. This is the worst problem …’
He gave up and the Praelector went on. ‘I’m talking about Kudzuvine and the damage done to the Chapel.’ He stopped. The Senior Tutor was looking homicidal again.
‘The leader of that group of hoodlums calls himself Mr Kudzuvine,’ the Praelector explained.
Quite clearly the Senior Tutor didn’t believe him. ‘Why?’ he demanded.
‘I don’t know why. I’m just saying he does. And I have to say I didn’t believe him to begin with either.’
‘I don’t believe the bastard now. End of story,’ said the Senior Tutor.
‘Well, not quite, as it happens,’ said the Praelector tentatively. The Senior Tutor’s temper wasn’t just uncertain – in fact uncertainty didn’t come into it – it was extremely nasty all the time.
He had turned a furious face towards the Praelector. ‘Go on. What do you mean “not quite”? You mean there’s more?’
‘I’m afraid so. You see, when the roof of the Chapel began to give way …’ he began.
‘You are a liar, a bloody liar,’ shouted the Senior Tutor. ‘You come in here and deliberately set out to torment me.’ He rose from his chair and spilt some of the beef tea down his trousers. ‘I’ve looked out of windows I don’t know how many times today to make sure those ghastly figures weren’t there and I’m not going blind on account of the masturbating you accuse me of and the Chapel roof is still there. It has not given way.’
‘I didn’t actually accuse you of masturbating, you know. I just thought that –’
‘Thought? What’s that if it isn’t accusing?’
‘Well, we all think things all the time but it doesn’t mean to say we do them. God alone knows what would happen if we did,’ said the Praelector.