My Uncle Oswald Part 17

"Will you give him the Beetle?"

"A double dose," she said.

"Isn't that a bit risky? Don't forget what it did to old Woresley."

"That's just how I want him," she said. "I want him out of his mind."

"Would you please tell me exactly what you propose to do?" I asked her.

"Don't ask so many questions, Oswald. Just leave that side of it to me. I regard Monsieur Proust as fair game. He's in the joker cla.s.s and I shall treat him as a joker."

"Actually he's not," I said. "He's another genius. But take the hatpin by all means. The royal hatpin. The one that's been two inches into the King of Spain's b.u.m."

"I'd feel happier with a carving-knife," she said.

We spent the next few days dressing Yasmin up as a boy. We told the couturier and the wigmaker and the shoe people that we were rigging her up for a very grand fancy-dress party, and they rallied round with enthusiasm. It is amazing what a good wig can do to a face. From the moment the wig was on and the make-up was off, Yasmin became a male. We chose slightly effeminate pale grey trousers, a blue s.h.i.+rt, a silk stock tie, a flowered silk waistcoat, and a fawn jacket. The shoes were brogues, white and brown. The hat was a soft felt trilby the colour of snuff, with a large brim. We took the curves out of her n.o.ble bosom by strapping it with a wide crepe bandage. I taught her to speak in a soft whispering voice to disguise the pitch, and I rehea.r.s.ed her diligently in what she was to say, first to Celeste when the door was opened, and then to Monsieur Proust when she was shown into his presence.

Within a week, we were ready to go. Yasmin had still not told me how she intended to save herself from being inverted in true Proustian fas.h.i.+on and I did not press her any further about this. I was happy enough that she had agreed to take the man on.

We decided that she should arrive at his house at seven p.m. By then our victim would have been up and about for a good three hours. In her bedroom at the Ritz, I helped Yasmin to dress. The wig was a beauty. It gave her a head of hair that was golden-bronze in colour, slightly curly, and a bit on the long side. The grey trousers, the flowered waistcoat, and the fawn jacket turned her into an effeminate but ravis.h.i.+ngly beautiful young man.

"No b.u.g.g.e.r could resist b.u.g.g.e.ring you," I said.

She smiled but made no comment.

"Hang on," I said. "There's something missing. Your trousers look distinctly empty. It's a dead giveaway." There was a bowl of fruit on the sideboard, a present from the hotel management. I selected a small banana. Yasmin lowered her trousers and we strapped the banana to the inside of her upper thigh with sticking plaster. When she pulled up her trousers again, the effect was electric--a telltale and tantalizing bulge in exactly the right place.

"He'll see it," I said. "It'll drive him dotty."

19.

WE WENT DOWNSTAIRS and got into the motor car. I drove to the rue Laurent-Pichet and stopped the car about twenty yards short of number eight, on the other side of the street. We examined the house. It was a large stone building with a black front door. "Off you go," I said. "And good luck. He's on the second floor."

Yasmin got out of the car. "This banana's a bit uncomfortable," she said.

"Now you know what it's like to be a man," I said.

She turned away and strode toward the house with her hands in her trouser pockets. I saw her try the door. It was unlocked, presumably because the place was divided into separate apartments. She went in.

I settled down in the motor car to await the outcome. I, the general, had done all I could to prepare for the battle. The rest was up to Yasmin, the soldier. She was well armed. She carried a double dose (we had finally decided) of Blister Beetle and a long hatpin whose sharp end still -bore the crusted traces of Spanish royal blood which Yasmiri had refused to wipe off.

It was a warm cloudy August evening in Paris. The canvas hood of my blue Citroen _torpedo_ was folded back. My seat was comfortable but I was too fidgety to concentrate on a book. I had a good view of the house and I fixed my eyes upon it with a certain fascination. I could see the large windows on the second floor where Monsieur Proust lived, and the green velvet curtains that were drawn back on either side, but I couldn't see in. Yasmin was up there now, probably in that very room, and she would be saying, as I had so carefully instructed her to say, "Pray forgive me, monsieur, but I am in love with your work. I have come all the way from England simply to pay homage to your greatness. Please accept this little box of chocolates . . . they are delicious . . . do you mind if I have one . . . and here's one for you . . ."

I waited twenty minutes. I waited thirty minutes. I was watching the clock. The way Yasmin felt about 'that little b.u.g.g.e.r' as she called him, I reckoned there would be no _tete-a -tete_ and pleasant conversation afterwards, as there had been with Renoir and Monet. This, I reflected, would be a brief sharp visit and possibly a rather painful one for the great writer.

I was correct about its being brief. Thirty-three minutes after Yasmin had gone in, I saw the big black front door opening and out she came.

As she walked toward me, I looked for traces of dishevelment in her clothes. There were none. The snuff-coloured trilby was at the same saucy angle as before and altogether she looked as trim and crisp coming out as she had going in.

Or did she? Was there not a slight lack of bounce in her walk? There was indeed. And was there not a tendency to move those splendid long limbs of hers rather carefully? Unquestionably yes. She was walking, in fact, like a person who had just dismounted from a bicycle after a long ride upon an uncomfortable saddle.

These small observations comforted me. They were evidence, surely, that my gallant soldier had been engaged in fierce combat.

"Well done," I said as she got into the car.

"What makes you think it was so successful?"

She was a cool one, our Yasmin.

"Don't tell me it went wrong."

She didn't answer me. She settled herself in the seat and closed the car door.

"I have to know, Yasmin, because if you do have the loot I must rush it back quickly and freeze it up."

She had it. Of course she had it. I rushed it back to the hotel and made fifty exceptional straws. Each straw, according to my microscopic density count, contained no less than seventy-five million sperm. I know they were potent straws because at this very moment, as I write these words nineteen years after the event, I am able to state positively that there are fourteen children running around in France who have Marcel Proust as their father. Only I know who they are. Such matters are great secrets. They are secrets between me and the mothers. The husbands don't know. It's a mother's secret. But my goodness me, you should see those fourteen silly rich ambitious literary-minded mothers. Each one of them, as she gazes proudly upon her Proustian offspring, is telling herself that she has almost certainly given birth to a great writer. Well, she is wrong. All of them are wrong. There is no evidence whatsoever that great writers beget great writers. Occasionally they beget minor writers, but that's as far as it goes. There is, I think, slightly more evidence that great painters sometimes beget great painters. Look at Teniers and Bruegel and Tiepolo, and even p.i.s.sarro. And in music, the wonderful Johann Sebastian had such an overwhelming genius that it was impossible for him not to pa.s.s some of it on to his children. But writers, no. Great writers seem to spring more often than not from stony soil--the sons of coal-miners or pork butchers or impoverished teachers. But that simple truth was never going to prevent a small number of wealthy literary-sn.o.b ladies from wis.h.i.+ng to have a baby by the brilliant Monsieur Proust or the extraordinary Mr. James Joyce. My job, anyway, was not to propagate geniuses but to make money.

By the time I had filled those fifty Proust straws and had immersed them safely in liquid nitrogen, it was nearly nine o'clock at night. Yasmin was now bathed and changed into fine feminine clothes and I took her out to Maxim's for supper to celebrate our success. She had not yet told me anything of what went on.

My diary from that date informs me that we both started the meal with a dozen escargots. It was mid-August and the grouse were just beginning to come in from Yorks.h.i.+re and Scotland, so we ordered one each and I told the head-waiter we wanted them blood-rare. The wine was to be a bottle of Volnay, one of my favourite burgundies.

"Now," I said when we had given our order. "Tell me all."

"You want a blow by blow account?"

"Every tiny detail."

There was a bowl of radishes on the table and Yasmin popped one into her mouth and crunched it up. "He had a bell on his door," she said, "so I rang it. Celeste opened the door and glared at me. You should see that Celeste, Oswald. She's skinny and sharp-nosed with a mouth like a knife and two small brown eyes that looked me up and down with utter distaste. 'What is it you wish?' she said sharply, and I gave her the bit about having travelled from England to bring a present to the famous writer whom I wors.h.i.+pped. 'Monsieur Proust is working,' Celeste said and tried to shut the door. I put my foot in it and pushed it open and marched in. 'I have not travelled all this distance to have a door slammed in my face,' I said. 'Kindly inform your master that I am here to see him.'"

"Well done, you," I said.

"I had to bluff it out," she said. "Celeste glared at me. "What name?' she snapped. 'Mister Bottomley,' I said, 'of London.' I was rather pleased with that name."

"Apt," I said. "Did the maid announce you?"

"Oh yes. And out he came into the hall, this funny little pop-eyed b.u.g.g.e.r, still holding a pen in his hand."

"What happened next?"

"I immediately launched into the long speech you taught me, starting with, 'Pray forgive me, monsieur . . .' but I'd hardly got half a dozen words out when he raised his hand and cried, 'Stop! I have already forgiven you!' He was goggling at me as though I were the most beautiful and desirable and spicy little lad he'd ever seen in his life, which I'll bet I was."

"Was he speaking in English or French?"

"A bit of each. His English was pretty good, about like my French, so it didn't matter."

"And he fell for you right away?"

"He couldn't take his eyes off me. 'That will be all, thank you, Celeste,' he said, licking his lips. But Celeste didn't like it. She stayed put. She scented trouble.

"'You may go, Celeste,' Monsieur Proust said, raising his voice.

"But she still refused to go. 'You do not wish anything more, Monsieur Proust?'

"'I wish to be left alone,' he snapped, and the woman stalked out of the room in a huff.

"'Pray sit down, Monsieur Bottomley,' he said. 'May I take your hat? I do apologize for my servant. She's a trifle overprotective.'

"'What is she protecting you from, monsieur?'

"He smiled at me, showing horrid teeth with wide gaps. 'From you,' he said softly.

"By golly, I thought, I'm going to be inverted any moment. At this point, Oswald, I seriously considered skipping the Blister Beetle altogether. The man was drooling with l.u.s.t. If I'd so much as bent down to do up a shoelace, he'd have been on me."

"But you didn't skip it?"

"No," she said. "I gave him the chocolate."

"Why?"

"Because in some ways they're easier to handle when they're under the influence. They don't quite know what they're doing."

"Did the chocolate work well?"

"It always works well," she said. "But this was a double dose so it worked better."

"How much better?"

"b.u.g.g.e.rs are different," she said.

"I believe you."

"You see," she said, "when an ordinary man is driven crazy by the Beetle, all he wants to do is to rape the woman on the spot. But when a b.u.g.g.e.r is driven crazy by the powder, his first thought is not to start b.u.g.g.e.ring right away. He begins by making violent grabs for the other fellow's pizzle."

"A bit awkward, that."

"Very," Yasmin said. "I knew that if I let him come near enough to grab me, all he'd get in his hand would be a squashed banana."

"So what did you do?"

"I kept jumping out of the way," she said. "And in the end, of course, it became a chase with him chasing me all round the room and knocking things over right and left."

"Rather strenuous."

"Yes, and in the middle of it all the door opened and there stood that dreadful little maid again. 'Monsieur Proust,' she said, 'all this exercise is bad for your asthma.'

"'Get out!' he yelled. 'Get out, you witch!'"

"I imagine she's fairly used to that sort of thing."

"I'm sure she is," Yasmin said. "Anyway, there was a round table in the middle of the room and so long as I stayed close to it I knew he couldn't catch me. Many a girl has been saved from a dirty old man by a round table. The trouble was he seemed to be enjoying this part of it, and soon I got to thinking that a good old chase around the room was probably an essential preliminary for those chaps."

"A sort of pipe-opener."

"Right," she said. "And he kept saying things to me as we circled round and round the table."

"What sort of things?"

"Dirty stuff," she said. "Not worth repeating. By the way, putting that banana in was a mistake."

"Why?"

"Too big a bulge," she said. "He noticed it at once. And all the time he was chasing me round the table, he kept pointing at it and singing its praises. I was longing to tell him it was just a silly old banana from the Ritz Hotel but that wasn't on. It was driving him up the wall, that banana, and the Blister Beetle was. .h.i.tting him harder every second, and suddenly I had another problem on my hands. How in G.o.d's name, I thought, am I going to get the rubbery thing on him before he jumps me? I couldn't exactly say it was a necessary precaution, could I?"

"Not really."

"I mean after all, what earthly reason had I even to be carrying the b.l.o.o.d.y thing?"

"Tricky," I said. "Very tricky. How did you get out of it?"

"In the end I said to him, 'Do you want me, Monsieur Proust?'

"'Yes!' he screamed. 'I want you more than anyone in my life! Stop running!'

"'Not yet,' I said. 'First you must put this funny little thing on him to keep him warm.' I took it from my pocket and slung it across the table. He stopped chasing me and stared at it. I doubt he'd ever set eyes on one before. "What is this?' he cried.

"'It's called a tickler,' I said. 'It's one of our famous English ticklers invented by Mr. Oscar Wilde.'

"'Oscar Wilde!' he cried. 'Ha, ha! A great fellow!'

"'He invented the tickler,' I said. 'And Lord Alfred Douglas helped him.'

"'Lord Alfred was another fine fellow!' he cried.

"'King Edward the Seventh,' I said, laying it on, 'carried a tickler on his person wherever he went.'

"'King Edward the Seventh!' he cried. 'My G.o.d!' He picked up the little thing lying on the table. 'It is good, yes?'

"'It doubles the rapture,' I said. 'Put it on quickly like a good boy. I'm getting impatient.'

"'You help me.'