The Goddess Of Fortune

by Andrew Blencowe

  Satisfied with his inspection of the bathroom, Albert returned to the main room and picked up the telephone and called room 353.

  “I’ve arrived, please come over when you are ready,” he said into the instrument.

  Five minutes later there was a sharp knock on the door.

  Albert opened the door, and a woman entered.

  “Albert, so wonderful to see you, I have been waiting to see you again for so long,” she said in a thick Russian accent.

  “Mrs. O’Connell, wonderful to see you. Please, come in.”

  “Oh Albert, you always call me Ayinotchka, do you not?”

  “Please take a seat; how are Oscar and Oswald?”

  The woman smiled. She was short, with the wide hips that one associates with the East, perhaps Leningrad. She gauchely wore a somewhat odd outfit topped with a white triangular hat that more suited an effeminate Napoleon than a woman. Her dress was plain brown and did not flatter her mannish body. She had the round face of a friendly Russian peasant. Her dark-brown hair was cut short, in the style of a 1920s flapper, in a forward-slanting bob. However, what Albert—and what all men—noticed were her eyes: deep, luminous, hypnotic and magnetic.

  “I have brought you a present.”

  With that, Albert opened his small suit case and gave her a box wrapped in brown paper, inside there were six boxes marked “Panzerschokolade.”

  She opened it and gasped,

  “Oh Albert, you shouldn’t have. Or perhaps you should have.”

  They both laughed.

  “You know I love tank chocolate, and it will help me complete the book. You know I am just a writing machine and this is the most wonderful gift. There is just so much more to do.”

  “Well, when my friends at the Spanish embassy passed me your letters from America, I thought it might come in useful.”

  “Well, you know how I write, constantly and often throughout the night. I try to squeeze out a few more hours at the fountain of creativity each day by wearing wet towels stuffed with ice from my ice box around my neck. But your sweets will be far more effective to keep the juices of the Muses flowing. You know, I am just a channel for the Muses, just their poor servant ever. The Muses are everything, I am nothing. I just write what the Muses tell me, I never edit, or review, or change, or tamper—it just comes out like a stream, a cascade, a torrent. Any change would be a sin, a cardinal sin, a mortal sin.”

  Albert ignored her harping about the “Muses” with aplomb.

  “So how is the book progressing?”

  She placed a new cigarette in the long, curved, black cigarette holder,

  “Well, I am making progress, but with all the events in Europe, it is a little distracting. But I am sure this trip to Spain will be worth the trouble. I have checked and re-checked my premises and found them all to be entirely and completely sound. I found it very interesting to observe Spain on the train from Portugal. Thank God the communists have been defeated, but I am afraid the Spanish have replaced one horror with another—Christianity is just the kindergarten of communism. And it seems the new leader is very communistic in his own way, regardless of how he professes to hate the Left—a central government council that stymies creativity and innovation by taxes and government thugs with guns, and this could go on for decades, long after he is dead. The Caudillo seems to be using the standard approach of all dictatorships of the Left and Right by telling the people they need to work together, ‘for the common good,’ that ‘we need protect the weak.’ What utter hogwash. He is bribing them. No, no, that is too vague. Actually, he is drugging them with a cascade of entitlements created solely by the transient power of his currency’s printing presses. He seems to be copying precisely what Roosevelt is doing, so lazy losers are elevated at the expense of producers. You know, I saw one poster at a train station that exhorted, ‘Prison To Those Elements Who Demean Spanish Sustenance Tickets.’ When I asked a fellow passenger, he explained Sustenance Tickets were food tickets given to people who did not work. I suppose there is no better way to generate unemployment than these Sustenance Tickets—why work when the government encourages you to take handouts from government moochers? And one pack of moochers encourages another. The American President certainly has a lot to answer for. Who with any honor would demean themselves by taking such dreck as these Sustenance Tickets? I mean, what noble and honorable producer would stoop so low? Only the moochers would do this, am I correct, dear Albert? With this collectivist nonsense sooner or later the producers will go on strike—why should they work when the fruits of their sweat and their efforts are stolen from them? And the gentleman on the train explained another weird, collectivist insanity. In 1938, the Caudillo required all Spanish government mortgage institutions to approve 30% of all mortgages from poor people who did not qualify, people who the banks would—quite intelligently and reasonably—not lend to because their credit was unacceptable; last year he raised it to 55%. The overt reason was to ‘help the poor;’ for the sake of Saint Peter, what a crock. The way to help the poor is to show them the way not to be poor through thrift and self-reliance, concepts gone from this planet now. The real effect of this government meddling, of course, was to create a bonanza for the looters, who did precisely what the government told them to do and fabricated millions of phony mortgage applications, which the mortgage institutions were delighted to approve—after all they were just doing what the government told them to do. According to my gentleman, the stock market is reaching new highs every day as these bogus loans are packaged into tranches and are happily sold to even happier banks throughout Iberia and South America. Now, the looters are valuing beach shacks in Spanish Morocco for 10 or 20 or 100 times their actual value. But—at least for the moment—everyone is happy to live in this Fool’s Paradise as the looters get to print free money (citizens of Spain are forbidden to hold gold); the government struts it success; the bankers, like all leeches worldwide, are happy to get their commissions selling the tranches; the investing banks get a glorious return; and God is in His heaven. Well, that is, until this house of cards collapses. Think Dutch tulips, but just no pretty flowers. I am surprised the Americans have not thought of this diddle, as they tend to be at the forefront of government thievery, as America now has the humorless fascist Roosevelt as emperor, albeit sans clothes—‘Washington’ should be probably be renamed ‘Moocherton.’

  “For part of the same train journey, I shared a compartment with two men. And these two men could not be more different. One was tall and thin and a natural athlete; he told me that he favored the decathlon and the marathon; he spoke approvingly of the purity of athletic competition, of how athletes require discipline and self-denial. The other man was his opposite—short, very fat, and seeming to be jolly, as so many fat men seem, at least at first blush. But just beneath the surface of this superficial conviviality was a bitter man who loved power solely as a compensation for his fatness and laziness; instantly, I could sense he was a moocher, but I was willing to give the very fat man the benefit of doubt. But then they started speaking and all was suddenly clear. Both were of the Right, not that I think there is much of the Left in Iberia these day. But the handsome athlete was modest and disciplined and even-handed, while his companion just barely hid his vitriol, but after a few minutes the very fat man’s hatred became apparent. Whereas the athlete advocated self-discipline and had the gall to suggest that government was ‘thugs with guns’ (as you know one of my favorite phrases), the very fat man vehemently disagreed and was most earnest in his advocating of government and government surveillance as both good and necessary, that individual liberty was a sin and at the cost of the collective good. How could a man who professed to be of the Right even contemplate such a transgression—that government was more important than the individual? He went on to state—most emphatically—that every time there was a storm the government should compensate the victims who had so stupidly built their houses too close to the shore. Albert, is there any better way to encourage reckl
ess and immoderate behavior—well, is there? The very fat man is a lawyer for the government while the thin man is a doctor, specializing in diseases of the eye. I smiled to myself at this natural contradiction between the moocher and the producer. The journey was a long one—the total time was 15 hours—so we three children of philosophy had bags of time to check and re-check our premises and to review the position of our opponent. But suddenly, just before ten that evening, the very fat man became extremely agitated and suddenly ejaculated that the dining car was about the close and that he must have his dinner. At this outburst, the thin athlete calmly asked if the ethereal mind was not more important than the baseness of the belly. The very fat man’s lawyerly coarseness emerged and he said it was unhealthy not to eat. The athlete asked the very fat man if the very fat man lacked the discipline to withstand a modicum of discomfort. The very fat man did not reply. At which the athlete asked the very fat man how many pushups the very fat man had done that morning. The very fat man looked startled and was about to speak, but the athlete beat him to the punch (the fat man sparring seemed then, as it does now, ridiculous). ‘I did my daily one hundred pushups, how many did you do?’ The very fat man’s mouth opened but no sound was emitted. ‘You see, all you fat people are lazy, and as lazy people you want to be given government pork and this so-called social contract makes you feel superior.’ The very fat man looked at this opponent with spitting hatred in his eyes. He stood up and finally exclaimed, ‘The government will find you and prosecute all the people like you, the people who are—ipso facto—anti-government. You know we will find you, all you people who promulgate these insane notions of personal freedom and liberty, these crazy and outmoded and insane ideas. Now, I will leave you two anti-government idiots and take my dinner; I do hope I am not too late.’ With that he stood and waddled out. In complete silence, I looked at the athlete and he looked at me. Then suddenly we both burst out laughing at the same time. Water was coming from my eyes I was laughing so hard. For a moment I feared I was going to destroy my ladylike composure. Fortunately, this embarrassing event was avoided. After we calmed down, the athlete said to me, ‘You know, my rule is that love of authority is directly proportional to weight—my slogan is ‘Thin People Love Freedom, Fat People Loathe Freedom.’ And as countries become fatter, so too will the moochers thrive.’ I looked at him and saw his premise was correct. And you know how intelligent men excite me so, and therefore we locked the door to prevent the return of the moocher pig and I had him take me and to take me roughly and without end and with no regard and with pain that slowly changed into pleasure and a pleasure that was sublime in its radiant purity.”

  Albert listened in silence.

  Mrs. O’Connell’s eyes were big and black and glowed with energy. Their luster radiated a powerful sexual magnetism. Her mouth was sensual, round and prominent, with beautiful lips. Not for the first time, Albert sensed the erotic power of this woman. “There is a lot of sex in that face,” he thought. And in turn, she could sense his interest. Later that afternoon, she first uncrossed her ankles and then very, very slowly moved her shoes apart. The effects of the Spanish Rosé wine was working its effect on both of them, and just as slowly, Albert realized her broad hips and frumpy clothes mattered less and less. She was in heat, as was always the case when she spoke to intelligent men. Albert knew that Mr. O’Connell, in spite of his movie star looks, drooped in this area and she was always looking to be satisfied from other men; she stalked men she deemed worthy of being worshipped. Of course, it would all end in tears for her, as she took no exercise (apart from that taken lying on her back); all too soon she would become a short, stout, and very roly-poly elderly Russian woman. But that was in the future, and for now she was a conquest Albert wanted very much.

  Like a runaway train, she raced on,

  “Albert, it is glorious to see your country has grasped the nettle and is purging the world of the pus that is Russia. It’s a graveyard there and the sooner you cauterize it the better. And the collective drivel of Versailles, with its bizarre premises, can finally be ended. You see Albert, people generally look through the wrong end of the telescope—their basic premises are wrong and so all that follows is equally false. The theory of knowledge is based on language. This is what people never seem to understand. The language defines how people think—the Germans and Japanese think clearly because their language is clear and unambiguous; the Spanish on the other hand never stop talking as Romance languages are all cluttered with flowery nonsense. The extreme case is the Australian aboriginal language, where counting is limited to three words: ‘One,’ ‘Two,’ or ‘Many’—not much chance of Leibnitz’s calculus being invented by these Stone Age primitives, is there? Here’s another example: the worthies at Versailles mandated the creation of what they laughingly call ‘countries.’ Now what is a country? Well, a school boy would say it is a geographic area, such as the island of Ireland. But, as Ireland proves, this is a false premise. A country is really a group of likeminded people who share a common language and a common belief structure. So, to say there is a country called Germany is really a false premise. What there actually is what I will call a supra-country—you can call it the Grosse Reich—that consists of all German-speaking people in central Europe. Now that is a logical premise—not lines on a map, and certainly not these bizarre monstrosities created in 1919. The single most important component of a nation is its common language, without a single shared language, the so-called country will sooner or later collapse. This is what makes America strong, and what makes both Greater Germany, and Japan so strong. This is why the Soviet Union would have collapsed even without your act of preemptive self-defense. A nation needs a common language, the Soviet Union is really just a renamed Czarist Russia dominating its distant serfdoms by brutality—there is no common language and no common beliefs in the Soviet Union. For example, the people of the Ukraine are Orthodox Christian. Therefore, the Soviet Union is a false premise and as such will collapse, sooner or later. Compare that graveyard in the East to the British Empire, where the English language is the glue that holds the whole thing together; this is how they are able to control India—before the British, India was riven with hundreds of languages, now it is part of the greatest empire since Rome. But, back to Ireland. The second requirement is common beliefs. The North with its Protestants imported from Scotland sees itself as British, while the Catholic South sees itself as Irish. There will never be peace until this is resolved, probably by force. By examining our basic premises, we can see what the yellow press call ‘countries,’ such as Czecho-Slovakia, are not really countries at all—these are just artificial play-words.

  “Regarding the book, it is moving forward, and your tank chocolate will help a lot. My husband occasionally helps me with a little of the dialogue, but it is all my work. The basic premise of the book is to take Nietzsche’s idea of the lone creative Superman and write it in such a way that when all the little people read my book they will each quickly and easily identify with the hero. They will see their own weaknesses and failures as proof of their greatness and to reverse these weaknesses to prove their hidden creative talents. So, all these sheep say ‘yes, yes, yes—that is me.’ It’s as if they were back in kindergarten and they all got gold stars on their work every day, and every day the lady teachers told each and every one of them they were extra-ordinarily talented and creative. Think of my new book as a sort of bible for the mediocre, as a phantasy where the reader is a gallant and brave knight from the tales of Ivanhoe, whereas the reality is my readers are all a bunch of lazy, fat, and farting moochers who pine over their lost ‘greatness’ as they identify with the book’s heroes. As you can see Albert, the sheep will love their portrayals as Olympian heroes. Philosophical novels are where the money is, Albert. The secret of my book is to create a duality of us versus them, of the noble outsider versus the insiders, of the blessed versus the damned.”

  She paused, concerned she had given a little too much away, so she changed tack
,

  “The mob never created anything—the light bulb was invented by one man, not a government department; the telephone was invented by one man, not a government department; the flying machine was invented by two men, not a government department. Are my premises sound? Yes, they are. As a fellow artist, you know this Albert. And you know the Muses only appear when you are alone. All artists need quietude and being alone. ‘Being alone with your thoughts’ is the goal of all artists. For most artists the results are disappointing. But ideas alone survive, and we artists are simply the conduits and the channels of ideas. There are three traits of the real and true artist: Aloneness—the artist prefers solitude, and prefers to be alone; Focus—the artist is rude when told of his social obligations, ‘you need visit aunt Mary in the hospital, she is very sick,’ the artist’s polite reply is ‘I am sorry, I am working that day,’ the less polite reply is ‘let her die, she is a nobody;’ and Unstoppable—the artist’s work is truly his life, for most people, for most slugs, work is odious, it’s the old saying about Italians and Germans, the former work to live, while the latter live to work. A person’s creativity can instantly be judged by how much they like to be alone. The true artist works alone, and loves being alone, otherwise the crass looters frighten off the timid Muses. And God knows, the Muses can be timid bitches at times. No one said genius was ‘run of the mill.’