The Cossack Cowboy

by Lester S. Taube

  “Madame, we are solicitors from England. A relative of Lord... Mr. Sanderson has recently died and we are here to inform him of his great loss.”

  La Flamme’s shoulders sagged. “Then you have no message from him for me?” she asked plaintively.

  “No, Madame. We found a letter in his relative’s files in which he had asked for some mon… information of sorts, and your name in care of La Reine de Coeur was given as a forwarding address.”

  “Paul, Paul,” whispered La Flamme, sitting down heavily.

  “Do you know where he is now?” asked Mr. Blatherbell.

  She shook her head sadly. “If I knew I would climb mountains, cross rivers, fight lions.” Her hands rose to her breasts and pressed them tightly. “I would even make love to him only twice a day. I swear it. No more - only twice a day. That is the proof of my love.”

  “How long ago did he leave here?” asked Mr. Poopendal.

  “Over a year.” She began weeping. “Right after I caught that Italian bitch making eyes at him.” Her head suddenly shot up and the tears stopped. “Merde alors!” she snarled. “That black-eyed putain of an Italian bitch. That’s where he went. That bitch snared that poor innocent darling.” She jumped to her feet, seized a vase of flowers, and sent it smashing to the floor. An ash tray went next, then half a dozen bottles of perfume, a chair which shattered her vanity mirror, a slipper against the door, and finally a jar of cream out through the window.

  The three solicitors sat perfectly still on their chairs, not even blinking as each missile flashed by. That was quite understandable as La Flamme’s robe had fallen open and they were not about to miss one centimetre of the most enjoyable floor show of their lives.

  Finally, La Flamme fell onto a sofa, weeping with frustration and rage.

  “What was the girl’s name?” asked Mr. Snoddergas softly.

  “That putain!” screamed La Flamme. “That Maria Teresca. She stole him.” She raised her head and spat. “She couldn’t do it more than five or six times a day even if she ate the balls of a bull. What could my darling Paul see in that plate of noodles?”

  “Where would she have gone?” asked Mr. Snoddergas.

  “Gone!” shouted La Flamme. “To hell, I hope. May that Roman whore’s tits dry up and her hair fall out and …”

  Mr. Blatherbell stood up. “Thank you, Madame, and forgive us for upsetting you.” He motioned to his partners and they started to leave the room.

  “Monsieur,” the call came from behind him. He turned. La Flamme was seated upright on the sofa. “Monsieur,” she begged. “If you find him, please tell him to come back to me. Please, Monsieur. Tell him I will do anything, anything. Just come back to me.”

  The three solicitors sighed with envy as they passed through the door.

  The Stazione Termini of Rome was more elaborately decorated and vastly more crowded than any the solicitors had seen. Its inner dome rose high in the air, making an excellent reflector for the incessant shouting and screaming and yelling which come naturally to the inhabitants of that strange land when arriving or departing or merely standing about.

  Once the solicitors had found a carriage and been seated, Mr. Blatherbell leaned forward and said to the driver, “Ufficio Centrale della Regia Questura.” As they sped through the narrow, winding streets, they saw knots of soldiers strolling among the crowds milling about the squares and in front of fountains of water gushing from dragons’ mouths and women’s breasts and athletes’ penises, and whirled by statues of nobles and generals mounted high on their bright-eyed steeds with sabres in their hands and bird droppings on the tips of their noses, looking arrogantly down on the common herd cluttering up the walks. Bicycles had become the vogue, and the cyclists sped recklessly along the streets, turning their heads to watch a swaying tail wiggle by, crashing bloodily into each other, rising from the wreckage to shake their fists in each other’s faces, shouting and cursing, threatening vendetta to the twelfth generation, and riding off on wobbling wheels before their words were taken seriously.

  At the Central Police Station, Mr. Blatherbell approached the first officer who appeared to be of some importance and had a few words with him in a corner. The officer saluted and raced down a musty corridor to a room at the far end, returning soon with a slip of paper which he offered with one hand while holding out the other. His grip remained firm on the slip of paper until enough banknotes had covered his palm, then Mr. Blatherbell, wiping the sweat from his forehead, returned to the carriage and looked at the address he had paid a small fortune to obtain.

  It was the Royal Opera House, and as they drove by the Imperial Zoo and then past graceful swans in the lakes of the Imperial Park, he daringly doffed his hat at nursemaids wheeling their charges and saluted members of the Sisterhood plying their wares is broad daylight.

  Upon their arrival at the Royal Opera House, they found the doorman unyielding.

  Impossible, Signori,” he cried, holding out his hand. “The Prima Donna Teresca cannot be disturbed under any circumstances. She practices for her role tonight in La Traviata, No one,” he emphasized with vast expression, moving his hand nearer to them, “not even His Majesty himself, who would give rubies by the, bucket to meet her, is permitted to enter the building during rehearsals. Not even for two thousand lire would I consider breaking my mortal oath to protect her from interruption.” He eyed the three Englishmen who stood stolidly in front of him and cleared his throat, “Never, fine Signori, not even for one thousand, eight hundred lire.”

  Mr. Blatherbell sighed, opened his wallet and counted out a sum of money. The doorman’s hand snapped shut on the bills and, with a flourish he bowed them through the door.

  As they stepped into the darkened theatre, the sound of a clear, beautiful voice filled their ears. On stage was Maria Teresca - it could be no other. She was not just a woman, but fire, her raven-black hair piled high on her head, half-closed dusky eyes bewitching all who gazed into them, hand-filling pear-shaped breasts thrusting against the sheer silk of her bodice, long handsome legs spread wide apart as a pivot for her hips to sway in movements so provocative that all on stage and in the audience stared at her vortex, hidden beneath the layers of cloth, but visible in imagination.

  Quietly, the three solicitors took seats until she finished her aria, then rose as one man to applaud loudly as she whirled off the stage.

  “Come,” said Mr. Blatherbell, leading his two junior partners to the side of the theatre. He asked a stagehand for directions to Maria Teresca’s dressing room and knocked softly on the door. A maid looked out.

  “I would like to speak with Signora Teresca regarding a Mr. Paul Sanderson,” he said.

  “Paul!” screamed a voice from within, and the door was jerked open. The three solicitors were not completely disappointed even though she still had on her bloomers. Mr. Blatherbell sighed again as he came face to face with two naked breasts bouncing up and down with her excitement. She pushed him aside and looked out into the corridor. “Where is my Paul?” she shouted.

  “Signora, please allow me to explain,” said Mr. Blatherbell, his head bobbing up and down with the movements of her breasts. “We are searching for Mr. Sanderson ourselves. We had hoped to find him here?

  Maria threw herself on a chair and covered her face with her hands. I knew it was too good to be true,” she sobbed. “He will not come back to me - not from her.”

  “From whom?” asked Mr. Snoddergas softly.

  “That ... that beast!” she cried bitterly. The three solicitors looked at each other knowingly. Maria sat up with tear-stained face, her arms hanging limply by her sides, unaware that she was naked from the navel up. She sighed. “I curse the day we walked in the park. Until then, he was my Paul, mine to slave for, to caress, to awaken each morning with joy in my heart at seeing him there by my side. Never, never has there been a man like him.”

  “Do you know the name of this woman?” asked Mr. Blatherbell.

  Maria’s head rose sharply. “What
woman, Signor?”

  “The one you spoke of - in the park.”

  “Pah! You think a woman could take my Paul from me? Never.” Her face fell. “It was a horse.”

  “A horse!” shouted Messrs. Blatherbell, Poopendal and Snoddergas together.

  “Yes,” she said sadly. “I must admit, it was a magnificent one, that beast. Oh, how I tried to buy it for him, but”, she shrugged, “there are things neither flesh nor money can purchase.”

  “Then he went after the horse?” asked Mr. Blatherbell, unbelievingly.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you expect him to return here?”

  Maria’s hands rose and fell in the most expressive language of a defeated woman. “Who knows, Signor, what is in the heart of a man. A year he is gone now. What can one hope for?”

  “This horse,” said Mr. Snoddergas. “Where did it go?”

  “Poland.”

  “Poland!” shouted Mr. Blatherbell. “Impossible.”

  “Where in Poland?” probed Mr. Snoddergas.

  “Somewhere near Warsaw, on the estate of a Count Greski.”

  Mr. Blatherbell drew out his black notebook and wrote down the information. He shook his head as he placed it back into his pocket and got up from his chair. “That man, he is incredible. Thank you, Signora, for your help.” He motioned to the others and they turned towards the door.

  “Signor,” came a plaintive call from behind him. He turned.

  “Yes, Signora.”

  “If ... if you find him, please tell him to come back to me. Tell him I will do anything if he will just take me into his arms again. Please, please.”

  Mr. Blatherbell gazed helplessly at the half-naked goddess and heaved a sigh of envy. “If I find him, I will give him your message.”

  The Greski estate was a vast empire of forests and farms through which rivers flowed from end to end and streams crisscrossed, rising from or emptying into lakes many miles long, quilted by herds of cattle and sheep and fleet-footed horses, and dark with countless pens of swine. Peasants tilled the fields of cabbages and hay and beet, and Mr. Poopendal, a farm boy at birth, pointed out to his associates how modern were the ploughs and rakes and seeders.

  They rode contentedly in a troika drawn by pale white horses, their manes and tails braided and decorated with ribbons, trotting smoothly over the dirt road, the driver flicking his whip idly, not really requiring it to make the trim animals pull steadily but as an ornament like the ribbons.

  As they rounded a bend, they saw a cart piled high with hay, and the troika driver raised a horn slung over one shoulder by a leather strap and blew three toots, never slackening speed as his quick-trotting horses bore down on the slow-moving cart, the peasant working desperately to get it out of the way. They whirled past with only inches to spare, the driver raising his whip in salute, not looking back to see, nor caring, that the peasant was shaking his fist at them.

  In the forest, woodsmen were cutting logs from huge pine trees, snaking them out by horse to trails running alongside the road and then to a sawmill set back by a stream, surrounded by stack after stack of sawn lumber drying in the sun, the smell of pine leaves and resin filling the air.

  A few miles ahead stood a large hill, and on its crest was a vast, silent, grey stone castle. It was a warrior’s fortress, no doubt of that, The walls were solid and fearsomely high, projecting outwards slightly at the top to show their teeth of embedded spikes, and everywhere were narrow shooting slits, even in the turrets that guarded each angle.

  The entrance was protected by two heavy steel doors, each ten feet high and six feet wide, and behind these forbidding doors stood two more doors, exactly the same, to doubly fortify the castle’s portal.

  Four men waited in the courtyard as the troika drove up. Huge, hard-looking men, with bald pates and close-shaven chins and wide moustaches, carrying thick whips.

  The driver spoke rapidly in Polish to the largest of the men, explaining that he was bringing three foreigners from England to speak with His Excellency, Count Greski. The big man eyed them suspiciously, then, without a word, turned and walked into the castle. A few minutes later, he came out and motioned for them to follow him inside.

  He led them into a cathedral-sized ballroom and to a thick oaken door at one side, knocked softly upon it, then drew it open for them to enter. The room contained a massive wooden desk standing squarely in the center with four matching, hand-carved chairs lined up in front of it. Two more chairs stood near a huge open fireplace which broke up the austerity of the cold stone walls, and flanking the fireplace were racks of rifles and shotguns. Verily, this was a fighting man’s citadel,

  Seated behind the massive desk was a tall, grey-haired noble. From his haughty bearing, his high, thin eagle nose, the narrow line of his lips, the piercing grey eyes, one would not regard him as being a mere human - he was first and last a noble.

  He neither rose nor motioned them to be seated. “What do you want here?” he asked, his voice hard and sharp as steel.

  “My Lord,” said Mr. Blatherbell, advancing a step, not in the least cowed by the stern figure seated there. “We are seeking an Englishman whom we understand might have come here. His name is Paul Sanderson.”

  “I know of no Paul Sanderson,” said Count Greski without a moment’s pause. “Why do you seek him?”

  Mr. Blatherbell stretched himself an inch or two higher. “We wish to inform him that he is now His Grace, the Fourteenth Duke of Wesfumbletonshire.”

  A faint light kindled in the, cold grey eyes of the Count. “A Duke!” he said respectfully. He waved the solicitors to seats, then leaned back in his chair, pursing his lips. “Sanderson, Sanderson, I know of no one by that name.” He picked up a handbell from his desk and rang it. Instantly, the door opened and the huge man who had led them inside entered the room.

  “Yes, My Lord?” he said, bowing.

  “Do we have an Englishman named Sanderson working on the estate?”

  “Sanderson? We did, My Lord. He was the young man who came from Italy when the Arab mare was brought up from there. He’s the one.”

  “Oh, yes, I remember him now,” cut in the Count. He waved out the huge man, who backed out bowing. The Count pursed his lips again. “Your fine Duke is a horse thief!” he snapped at the solicitors.

  “What!” shouted the three men.

  “Yes, he worked here quite satisfactorily for about a month, then one morning my servants found both him and the Arab mare gone. They tracked them for a week and finally found the mare in a forest. It must have tripped and injured its leg or else my servants would never have caught up to them.”

  “And Paul… His Grace?” asked Mr. Blatherbell

  “My servants roused the countryside and they discovered his trail not far from where they found the mare. He seemed to have remained behind to tend it. Unfortunately, the next evening someone broke into their horse-lines and stole another animal. They were never able to catch up with the thief, and I am inclined to believe he also was your Duke.”

  He broke off as the door opened. In walked a ray of gold, a tall, slim, elegant woman, burnished blond hair flowing to her shoulders, grey-green eyes looking out coolly from under curled lashes and perfectly trimmed brows, an expressive, Grecian nose which would seem haughty on any other woman, and soft wide lips that held their own private amusement. Her shoulders would appear stiff if held so by anyone else, but she made it appear regal, and her small, pointed breasts seemed to fit her exactly right as they pressed against an embroidered blouse. Her long, slender legs and tiny waist could belong only to a fine horsewoman. The solicitors stood up at once.

  The Count rose. “My dear, I present three gentlemen from England. Gentlemen - my wife.” Without waiting for them to speak, he stepped around the desk and led her to one of the chairs standing near the fireplace.

  Remaining next to her, the Count motioned for the solicitors to be seated. “My dear,” he said, his arm resting on the back of her chair and his finge
rtips gently caressing her blond hair. “I have just heard the most amusing news. Do you recall that Englishman who worked with our horses? The one who ran off with the Arab mare?”

  “We had two or three,” she answered, her voice as light as the flutter of a bird’s wings. “Was he the one with that horrible cut on his forehead?”

  “No, I think he had blond hair.” He turned to the solicitors. “A most ordinary looking person, your Duke. It’s actually difficult to remember what he did look like.”

  “A Duke?” asked Countess Greski.

  The Count gave vent to a mirthless laugh. “Incredible, isn’t it? Could happen only among the English.”

  “My Lord,” said Mr. Snoddergas. “Have you any indication as to where His Grace went after the … episode in the forest?”

  “There could be only one place – Russia.”

  “Russia!” shouted Mr. Blatherbell, forgetting himself. Instantly calming down, he bowed to Count Greski. “Forgive me, My Lord, for my outburst, but Russia is so very distant and so very large. I would not know where to begin looking.”

  The Count stopped fondling his wife’s hair. “I could give you a clue.”

  “Yes, My Lord,” prompted Mr. Snoddergas.

  “I do remember hearing of a discussion between this Duke of yours and one of my horse trainers. My trainer mentioned a group of people who are considered to be the best horsemen in the world, and your Mr. Sanderson said he would go to them even if it took a lifetime.”

  “And who are these people, My Lord?” pressed Mr. Snoddergas.

  The Count smiled coldly. “The Cossacks. The Don Cossacks?”

  There was nothing more to be said. Bowing; the solicitors took their leave and walked quietly, thoughtfully, to the troika. As they settled themselves in the carriage, the door of the castle opened and the Countess came out.

  “One moment, gentlemen,” she called, holding something in her outstretched hand. Advancing to the carriage she showed them a small chain. “I found this after you left. Did any of you drop it?”