My Uncle Oswald Read online

  'You really mean there was an engine under the sofa? Did you see it?'

  'Of course not. But I heard it all right. It made the most godawful grinding noise.'

  'You mean a petrol engine?'

  'No, it wasn't a petrol engine.'

  'What was it then?'

  'Clockwork,' she said.

  'Clockwork! It's not possible! How did you know it was clockwork?'

  'Because when it started to run down, he had to roll off and wind the thing up again with a handle.'

  'I don't believe a word of this,' I said. 'What sort of a handle?'

  'A big handle,' she said, 'like the starting handle of a motor-car and when he was winding it up it went clickety-click. That's how I knew it was clockwork. You always get that clicking noise when you wind up clockwork.'

  'Jesus,' I said. 'I still don't believe it.'

  'You don't know much about kings,' Yasmin said. 'Kings are different. They get very bored, therefore they are always trying to think up ways of amusing themselves. Look at that mad King of Bavaria who had a hole drilled in the middle of the seat of each chair around his dining-room table. And halfway through dinner, when all the guests were sitting there in their wonderful expensive clothes, he would turn on a secret tap and jets of water would squirt up through the holes. Very powerful jets of cold water right up their backsides. Kings are crazy.'

  'Go on with the clockwork sofa,' I said. 'Was it amazing and terrific?'

  Yasmin sipped her champagne and didn't answer me at once.

  'Did it have the maker's name on it?' I said. 'Where can I get one?'

  'I wouldn't get one,' she said.

  'Why not?'

  'It's not worth it. It's only a toy. It's a toy for silly kings. It has a kind of shock value that's all. When it first started up I got the shock of my life. "Hey!" I shouted. "What the hell's going on?"

  ' "Silence!" the King said. "Talking is forbidden!"

  'There was a loud whirring noise coming from underneath the damn sofa and the thing was vibrating most terribly. And at the same time it was jogging up and down. Honestly Oswald, it was like riding a horse on the deck of a boat in a rough sea. Oh God, I thought, I'm going to be seasick. But I wasn't and after he'd wound it up a second time I began to get the hang of it. You see, it was rather like riding a horse. You had to go along with it. You had to get the rhythm.'

  'So you began to enjoy it?'

  'I wouldn't say that. But it does have its advantages. For one thing, you never get tired. It would be great for old people.'

  'Alfonso's only thirty-three.'

  'Alfonso's crazy,' Yasmin said. 'Once when he was winding up the motor, he said, "I usually have a servant doing this." Christ, I thought, the silly sod really is crazy.'

  'How did you get away?'

  'It wasn't easy,' Yasmin said. 'You see, with him not having to do any work except winding the thing up now and again, he never got puffed. After about an hour, I'd had enough. "Switch off," I said. "I've had enough."

  ' "We go on till I give the order," he said.

  ' "Don't be like that," I said "Come on, pack it in."

  ' "Nobody gives orders here except me," he said.

  'Oh well, I thought. I suppose it'll have to be the hatpin.'

  'Did you use it? Did you actually stick him?' I asked.

  'You're damn right I did,' she said. 'It went in about two inches!'

  'What happened?'

  'He nearly hit the ceiling. He gave a piercing yell and bounced off on to the floor. "You stuck me!" he shrieked, clutching his backside. I was up in a flash and starting to put my clothes on and he was jumping up and down stark naked and shrieking, "You stuck me! You stuck me! How dare you do that to me!"'

  'Terrific,' I said to Yasmin. 'Marvellous. Wonderful. I wish I'd seen it. Did he bleed?'

  'I don't know and I don't care, but I was really fed up with him by then and I got a bit ratty and I said, "Listen to me, you, and listen carefully. Our mutual friend would have you by the balls if he ever heard about this. You raped me, you do realize that, don't you?" That shut him up. "What on earth came over you?" I said. I was getting dressed as fast as I could and stalling for time. "Whatever made you do a thing like that to me?" I shouted. I had to shout because the damn sofa was still rattling away behind me.

  ' "I don't know," he said. Suddenly he had become all meek and mild. When I was ready to go, I went up to him and kissed him on the cheek and said, "Let's just forget it ever happened, shall we?" At the same time, I quickly removed the sticky rubbery thing from his royal knob and marched grandly out of the room.'

  'Did anyone try to stop you?' I asked.

  'Not a soul.'

  'Full marks,' I said. 'You did a great job. You'd better give me that notepaper.' She gave me the sheet of Palace notepaper with the signature on it and I filed it carefully away. 'Now go and pack your bags,' I said. 'We're leaving town on the next train.'

  15

  Within half an hour we had packed our bags and checked out of the hotel and were heading for the railway station. Paris next stop.

  And so it was. We went to Paris on the night sleeper and arrived there on a sparkling June morning. We took rooms at the Ritz. 'Wherever you are,' my father used to say, 'when in doubt, stay at the Ritz.' Wise words. Yasmin came into my room to discuss strategy over an early lunch - a cold lobster for each of us and a bottle of Chablis. I had the list of priority candidates in front of me on the table.

  'Whatever happens, Renoir and Monet come first,' I said. 'In that order.'

  'Where do we find them?' Yasmin asked.

  It is never difficult to discover the whereabouts of famous men. 'Renoir is at Essoyes,' I said. 'That's a small town about 120 miles south-west of Paris, between Champagne and Burgundy. He is now seventy-eight and I'm told he's in a wheelchair.'

  'Jesus Christ, Oswald, I'm not going to feed Blister Beetle to some poor old bastard in a wheelchair!' Yasmin said.

  'He'll love it,' I told her. 'There's nothing wrong with him except a bit of arthritis. He's still painting. He is easily the most celebrated painter alive today and I'll tell you another thing. No living painter in the history of art has ever received such high prices for his pictures during his lifetime as Renoir. He's a giant. In ten years' time we'll be selling his straws for a fortune.'

  'Where's his wife?'

  'Dead. He's a lonely old man. You'll cheer him up no end. When he sees you, he'll probably want to paint you in the nude on the spot.'

  'I'd like that.'

  'On the other hand, he has a model called Dedee he's absolutely mad about.'

  'I'll soon fix her,' Yasmin said.

  'Play your cards right and he might even give you a picture.'

  'Hey, I'd like that, too.'

  'Work on it,' I said.

  'What about Monet?' she asked.

  'He is also a lonely old man. He's seventy-nine, a year older than Renoir, and he's living the life of a recluse at Giverny. That's not far from here. Just outside Paris. Very few people visit him now. Clemenceau drops in occasionally, so I'm told, but almost no one else. You'll be a little sunbeam in his life. And another canvas perhaps? A Monet landscape? Those things are going to be worth hundreds of thousands later on. They're worth thousands already.'

  The possibility of getting a picture from one or both of these great artists excited Yasmin a good deal. 'You'll be visiting lots of other painters before we're finished,' I said. 'You could form a collection.'

  'That's a pretty good idea,' she said. 'Renoir, Monet, Matisse, Bonnard, Munch, Braque and all the rest of them. Yes, it's a very good idea. I must remember that.'

  The lobsters were huge and delicious, with enormous claws. The Chablis was good, too - a Grand Cru Bougros. I have a passion for fine Chablis, not only for the steely-dry Grands Crus but also for some of the Premiers Crus where the fruit is a little closer to the surface. This particular Bougros was as steely as any I had ever tasted. Yasmin and I discussed strategy while we ate and dr