by Roald Dahl
The little man shifted his umbrella from one hand to the other. ‘I’ve never forgotten it before,’ he said.
‘You’ve never forgotten what?’ my mother asked sternly.
‘My wallet,’ he said. ‘I must have left it in my other jacket Isn’t that the silliest thing to do?’
‘Are you asking me to give you money?’ my mother said.
‘Oh, good gracious me, no!’ he cried. ‘Heaven forbid I should ever do that!’
‘Then what are you asking?’ my mother said. ‘Do hurry up. We’re getting soaked to the skin standing here.’
‘I know you are,’ he said. ‘And that is why I’m offering you this umbrella of mine to protect you, and to keep forever, if… if only…’
‘If only what?’ my mother said.
‘If only you would give me in return a pound for my taxi-fare just to get me home.’
My mother was still suspicious. ‘If you had no money in the first place,’ she said, ‘then how did you get here?’
‘I walked,’ he answered. ‘Every day I go for a lovely long walk and then I summon a taxi to take me home. I do it every day of the year.’
‘Why don’t you walk home now?’ my mother asked.
‘Oh, I wish I could,’ he said. ‘I do wish I could. But I don’t think I could manage it on these silly old legs of mine. I’ve gone too far already.’
My mother stood there chewing her lower lip. She was beginning to melt a bit, I could see that. And the idea of getting an umbrella to shelter under must have tempted her a good deal.
‘It’s a lovely umbrella,’ the little man said.
‘So I’ve noticed,’ my mother said.
‘It’s silk,’ he said.
‘I can see that.’
‘Then why don’t you take it, madam,’ he said. ‘It cost me over twenty pounds, I promise you. But that’s of no importance so long as I can get home and rest these old legs of mine.’
I saw my mother’s hand feeling for the clasp on her purse. She saw me watching her. I was giving her one of my own frosty-nosed looks this time and she knew exactly what I was telling her. Now listen, mummy, I was telling her, you simply mustn’t take advantage of a tired old man in this way. It’s a rotten thing to do. My mother paused and looked back at me. Then she said to the little man, ‘I don’t think it’s quite right that I should take a silk umbrella from you worth twenty pounds. I think I’d just better give you the taxi-fare and be done with it.’
‘No, no, no!’ he cried. ‘It’s out of the question! I wouldn’t dream of it! Not in a million years! I would never accept money from you like that! Take the umbrella, dear lady, and keep the rain off your shoulders!’
My mother gave me a triumphant sideways look. There you are, she was telling me. You’re wrong. He wants me to have it.
She fished into her purse and took out a pound note. She held it out to the little man. He took it and handed her the umbrella. He pocketed the pound, raised his hat, gave a quick bow from the waist, and said, ‘Thank you, madam, thank you.’ Then he was gone.
‘Come under here and keep dry, darling,’ my mother said. ‘Aren’t we lucky. I’ve never had a silk umbrella before. I couldn’t afford it.’
‘Why were you so horrid to him in the beginning?’ I asked.
‘I wanted to satisfy myself he wasn’t a trickster,’ she said. ‘And I did. He was a gentleman. I’m very pleased I was able to help him.’
‘Yes, mummy,’ I said.
‘A real gentleman,’ she went on. ‘Wealthy, too, otherwise he wouldn’t have had a silk umbrella. I shouldn’t be surprised if he isn’t a titled person. Sir Harry Goldsworthy or something like that.’
‘Yes, mummy.’
‘This will be a good lesson to you,’ she went on. ‘Never rush things. Always take your time when you are summing someone up. Then you’ll never make mistakes.’
‘There he goes,’ I said. ‘Look.’
‘Where?’
‘Over there. He’s crossing the street. Goodness, mummy, what a hurry he’s in.’
We watched the little man as he dodged nimbly in and out of the traffic. When he reached the other side of the street, he turned left, walking very fast.
‘He doesn’t look very tired to me, does he to you, mummy?’
My mother didn’t answer.
‘He doesn’t look as though he’s trying to get a taxi, either,’ I said.
My mother was standing very still and stiff, staring across the street at the little man. We could see him clearly. He was in a terrific hurry. He was bustling along the pavement, sidestepping the other pedestrians and swinging his arms like a soldier on the march.
‘He’s up to something,’ my mother said, stony-faced.
‘But what?’
‘I don’t know,’ my mother snapped. ‘But I’m going to find out. Come with me.’ She took my arm and we crossed the street together. Then we turned left.
‘Can you see him?’ my mother asked.
‘Yes. There he is. He’s turning right down the next street.’
We came to the corner and turned right. The little man was about twenty yards ahead of us. He was scuttling along like a rabbit and we had to walk fast to keep up with him. The rain was pelting down harder than ever now and I could see it dripping from the brim of his hat on to his shoulders. But we were snug and dry under our lovely big silk umbrella.
‘What is he up to?’ my mother said.
‘What if he turns round and sees us?’ I asked.
‘I don’t care if he does,’ my mother said. ‘He lied to us. He said he was too tired to walk any further and he’s practically running us off our feet! He’s a barefaced liar! He’s a crook!’
‘You mean he’s not a titled gentleman?’ I asked.
‘Be quiet,’ she said.
At the next crossing, the little man turned right again.
Then he turned left.
Then right.
‘I’m not giving up now,’ my mother said.
‘He’s disappeared!’ I cried. ‘Where’s he gone?’
‘He went in that door!’ my mother said. ‘I saw him! Into that house! Great heavens, it’s a pub!’
It was a pub. In big letters right across the front it said THE RED LION.
‘You’re not going in, are you, mummy?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘We’ll watch from outside.’
There was a big plate-glass window along the front of the pub, and although it was a bit steamy on the inside, we could see through it very well if we went close.
We stood huddled together outside the pub window. I was clutching my mother’s arm. The big raindrops were making a loud noise on our umbrella. ‘There he is,’ I said. ‘Over there.’
The room we were looking into was full of people and cigarette smoke, and our little man was in the middle of it all. He was now without his hat or coat, and he was edging his way through the crowd towards the bar. When he reached it, he placed both hands on the bar itself and spoke to the barman. I saw his lips moving as he gave his order. The barman turned away from him for a few seconds and came back with a smallish tumbler filled to the brim with light brown liquid. The little man placed a pound note on the counter.
‘That’s my pound!’ my mother hissed. ‘By golly, he’s got a nerve!’
‘What’s in the glass?’ I asked.
‘Whisky,’ my mother said. ‘Neat whisky.’
The barman didn’t give him any change from the pound.
‘That must be a treble whisky,’ my mother said.
‘What’s a treble?’ I asked.
‘Three times the normal measure,’ she answered.
The little man picked up the glass and put it to his lips. He tilted it gently. Then he tilted it higher… and higher… and higher… and very soon all the whisky had disappeared down his throat in one long pour.
‘That was a jolly expensive drink,’ I said.
‘It’s ridiculous!’ my mother said. ‘Fancy paying a pound for so
mething you swallow in one go!’
‘It cost him more than a pound,’ I said. ‘It cost him a twenty-pound silk umbrella.’
‘So it did,’ my mother said. ‘He must be mad.’
The little man was standing by the bar with the empty glass in his hand. He was smiling now, and a sort of golden glow of pleasure was spreading over his round pink face. I saw his tongue come out to lick the white moustache, as though searching for the last drop of that precious whisky.
Slowly, he turned away from the bar and edged back through the crowd to where his hat and coat were hanging. He put on his hat. He put on his coat. Then, in a manner so superbly cool and casual that you hardly noticed anything at all, he lifted from the coat-rack one of the many wet umbrellas hanging there, and off he went.
‘Did you see that!’ my mother shrieked. ‘Did you see what he did!’
‘Ssshh!’ I whispered. ‘He’s coming out!’
We lowered the umbrella to hide our faces, and peeped out from under it.
Out he came. But he never looked in our direction. He opened his new umbrella over his head and scurried off down the road the way he had come.
‘So that’s his little game!’ my mother said.
‘Neat,’ I said. ‘Super.’
We followed him back to the main street where we had first met him, and we watched him as he proceeded, with no trouble at all, to exchange his new umbrella for another pound note. This time it was with a tall thin fellow who didn’t even have a coat or hat. And as soon as the transaction was completed, our little man trotted off down the street and was lost in the crowd. But this time he went in the opposite direction.
‘You see how clever he is!’ my mother said. ‘He never goes to the same pub twice!’
‘He could go on doing this all night,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ my mother said. ‘Of course. But I’ll bet he prays like mad for rainy days.’
Mr Botibol
Mr Botibol pushed his way through the revolving doors and emerged into the large foyer of the hotel. He took off his hat, and holding it in front of him with both hands, he advanced nervously a few paces, paused and stood looking around him, searching the faces of the lunchtime crowd. Several people turned and stared at him in mild astonishment, and he heard – or he thought he heard – at least one woman’s voice saying, ‘My dear, do look what’s just come in!’
At last he spotted Mr Clements sitting at a small table in the far corner, and he hurried over to him. Clements had seen him coming, and now, as he watched Mr Botibol threading his way cautiously between the tables and the people, walking on his toes in such a meek and self-effacing manner and clutching his hat before him with both hands, he thought how wretched it must be for any man to look as conspicuous and as odd as this Botibol. He resembled, to an extraordinary degree, an asparagus. His long narrow stalk did not appear to have any shoulders at all; it merely tapered upwards, growing gradually narrower and narrower until it came to a kind of point at the top of the small bald head. He was tightly encased in a shiny blue double-breasted suit, and this, for some curious reason, accentuated the illusion of a vegetable to a preposterous degree.
Clements stood up, they shook hands, and then at once, even before they had sat down again, Mr Botibol said, ‘I have decided, yes I have decided to accept the offer which you made to me before you left my office last night.’
For some days Clements had been negotiating, on behalf of clients, for the purchase of the firm known as Botibol & Co., of which Mr Botibol was sole owner, and the night before, Clements had made his first offer. This was merely an exploratory, much-too-low bid, a kind of signal to the seller that the buyers were seriously interested. And by God, thought Clements, the poor fool has gone and accepted it He nodded gravely many times in an effort to hide his astonishment, and he said, ‘Good, good. I’m so glad to hear that, Mr Botibol.’ Then he signalled a waiter and said, ‘Two large martinis.’
‘No, please!’ Mr Botibol lifted both hands in horrified protest.
‘Come on,’ Clements said. ‘This is an occasion.’
‘I drink very little, and never, no never during the middle of the day.’
But Clements was in a gay mood now and he took no notice. He ordered the martinis and when they came along Mr Botibol was forced, by the banter and good-humour of the other, to drink to the deal which had just been concluded. Clements then spoke briefly about the drawing up and signing of documents, and when all that had been arranged, he called for two more cocktails. Again Mr Botibol protested, but not quite so vigorously this time, and Clements ordered the drinks and then he turned and smiled at the other man in a friendly way. ‘Well, Mr Botibol,’ he said, ‘now that it’s all over, I suggest we have a pleasant non-business lunch together. What d’you say to that? And it’s on me.’
‘As you wish, as you wish,’ Mr Botibol answered without any enthusiasm. He had a small melancholy voice and a way of pronouncing each word separately and slowly, as though he was explaining something to a child.
When they went into the dining-rom Clements ordered a bottle of Lafite 1912 and a couple of plump roast partridges to go with it. He had already calculated in his head the amount of his commission and he was feeling fine. He began to make bright conversation, switching smoothly from one subject to another in the hope of touching on something that might interest his guest. But it was no good. Mr Botibol appeared to be only half listening. Every now and then he inclined his small bald head a little to one side or the other and said, ‘Indeed.’ When the wine came along Clements tried to have a talk about that.
‘I am sure it is excellent,’ Mr Botibol said, ‘but please give me only a drop.’
Clements told a funny story. When it was over, Mr Botibol regarded him solemnly for a few moments, then he said, ‘How amusing.’ After that Clements kept his mouth shut and they ate in silence. Mr Botibol was drinking his wine and he didn’t seem to object when his host reached over and refilled his glass. By the time they had finished eating, Clements estimated privately that his guest had consumed at least three-quarters of the bottle.
‘A cigar, Mr Botibol?’
‘Oh no, thank you.’
‘A little brandy?’
‘No really, I am not accustomed…’ Clements noticed that the man’s cheeks were slightly flushed and that his eyes had become bright and watery. Might as well get the old boy properly drunk while I’m about it, he thought, and to the waiter he said, ‘Two brandies.’
When the brandies arrived, Mr Botibol looked at his large glass suspiciously for a while, then he picked it up, took one quick birdlike sip and put it down again. ‘Mr Clements,’ he said suddenly, ‘how I envy you.’
‘Me? But why?’
‘I will tell you, Mr Clements, I will tell you, if I may make so bold.’ There was a nervous, mouselike quality in his voice which made it seem he was apologizing for everything he said.
‘Please tell me,’ Clements said.
‘It is because to me you appear to have made such a success of your life.’
He’s going to get melancholy drunk, Clements thought. He’s one of the ones that gets melancholy and I can’t stand it. ‘Success,’ he said, ‘I don’t see anything especially successful about me.’
‘Oh yes, indeed. Your whole life, if I may say so, Mr Clements, appears to be such a pleasant and successful thing.’
‘I’m a very ordinary person,’ Clements said. He was trying to figure just how drunk the other really was.
‘I believe,’ said Mr Botibol, speaking slowly, separating each word carefully from the other, ‘I believe that the wine has gone a little to my head, but…’ He paused, searching for words. ‘…But I do want to ask you just one question.’ He had poured some salt on to the tablecloth and he was shaping it into a little mountain with the tip of one finger.
‘Mr Clements,’ he said without looking up, ‘do you think that it is possible for a man to live to the age of fifty-two without ever during his whole life having exper
ienced one single small success in anything that he has done?’
‘My dear Mr Botibol,’ Clements laughed, ‘everyone has his little successes from time to time, however small they may be.’
‘Oh no,’ Mr Botibol said gently. ‘You are wrong. I, for example, cannot remember having had a single success of any sort during my whole life.’
‘Now come!’ Clements said, smiling, ‘That can’t be true. Why only this morning you sold your business for a hundred thousand. I call that one hell of a success.’
‘The business was left me by my father. When he died nine years ago, it was worth four times as much. Under my direction it has lost three-quarters of its value. You can hardly call that a success.’
Clements knew this was true. ‘Yes yes, all right,’ he said. ‘That may be so, but all the same you know as well as I do that every man alive has his quota of little successes. Not big ones maybe. But lots of little ones. I mean, after all, goddammit, even scoring goal at school was a little success, a little triumph, at the time, or making some runs or learning to swim. One forgets about them, that’s all. One just forgets.’
‘I never scored a goal,’ Mr Botibol said. ‘And I never learned to swim.’
Clements threw up his hands and made exasperated noises. ‘Yes yes, I know, but don’t you see, don’t you see there are thousands, literally thousands of other things, things like… well… like catching a good fish, or fixing the motor of the car, or pleasing someone with a present, or growing a decent row of French beans, or winning a little bet or… or… why hell, one can go on listing them for ever!’
‘Perhaps you can, Mr Clements, but to the best of my knowledge, I have never done any of those things. That is what I am trying to tell you.’
Clements put down his brandy glass and stared with new interest at the remarkable shoulderless person who sat facing him. He was annoyed and he didn’t feel in the least sympathetic. The man didn’t inspire sympathy. He was a fool. He must be a fool. A tremendous and absolute fool. Clements had a sudden desire to embarrass the man as much as he could. ‘What about women, Mr Botibol?’ There was no apology for the question in the tone of his voice.