Completely Unexpected Tales Read online

  ‘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 experienced 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 a 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.

  ‘Women?’

  ‘Yes women! Every man under the sun, even the most wretched filthy down-and-out tramp has some time or other had some sort of silly little success with…’

  ‘Never!’ cried Mr Botibol with sudden vigour. ‘No sir, never!’

  I’m going to hit him, Clements told himself. I can’t stand this any longer and if I’m not careful I’m going to jump right up and hit him. ‘You mean you don’t like them?’ he said.

  ‘Oh dear me yes, of course I like them. As a matter of fact I admire them very much, very much indeed. But I’m afraid… oh dear me… I do not know quite how to say it… I am afraid that I do not seem to get along with them very well. I never have. Never. You see, Mr Clements, I look so queer. I know I do. They stare at me, and often I see them laughing at me. I have never been able to get within… well, within striking distance of them, as you might say.’ The trace of a smile, weak and infinitely sad, flickered around the corners of his mouth.

  Clements had had enough. He mumbled something about how he was sure Mr Botibol was exaggerating the situation, then he glanced at his watch, called for the bill, and said he was sorry but he would have to get back to the office.

  They parted in the street outside the hotel and Mr Botibol took a cab back to his house. He opened the front door, went into the living-room and switched on the radio; then he sat down in a large leather chair, leaned back and closed his eyes. He didn’t feel exactly giddy, but there was a singing in his ears and his thoughts were coming and going more quickly than usual. That solicitor gave me too much wine, he told himself. I’ll stay here for a while and listen to some music and I expect I’ll go to sleep and after that I’ll feel better.

  They were playing a symphony on the radio. Mr Botibol had always been a casual listener to symphony concerts and he knew enough to identify this as one of Beethoven’s. But now, as he lay back in his chair listening to the marvellous music, a new thought began to expand slowly within his tipsy mind. It wasn’t a dream because he was not asleep. It was a clear conscious thought and it was this: I am the composer of this music. I am a great composer. This is my latest symphony and this is the first performance. The huge hall is packed with people – critics, musicians and music-lovers from all over the country – and I am up there in front of the orchestra, conducting.

  Mr Botibol could see the whole thing. He could see himself up on the rostrum dressed in a white tie and tails, and before him was the orchestra, the massed violins on his left, the violas in front, the cellos on his right, and back of them were all the woodwinds and bassoons and drums and cymbals, the players watching every movement of his baton with an intense, almost a fanatical reverence. Behind him, in the half-darkness of the huge hall, was row upon row of white enraptured faces, looking up towards him, listening with growing excitement as yet another new symphony by the greatest composer the world had ever seen unfolded itself majestically before them. Some of the audience were clenching their fists and digging their nails into the palms of their hands because the music was so beautiful that they could hardly stand it. Mr Botibol became so carried away by this exciting vision that he began to swing his arms in time with the music in the manner of a conductor. He found it was such fun doing this that he decided to stand up, facing the radio, in order to give himself more freedom of movement.

  He stood there in the middle of the room, tall, thin and shoulder-less, dressed in his tight blue double-breasted suit, his small bald head jerking from side to side as he waved his arms in the air. He knew the symphony well enough to be able occasionally to anticipate changes in tempo or volume, and when the music became loud and fast he beat the air so vigorously that he nearly knocked himself over, when it was soft and hushed, he leaned forward to quieten the players with gentle movements of his outstretched hands, and all the time he could feel the presence of the huge audience behind him, tense, immobile, listening. When at last the symphony swelled to its tremendous conclusion, Mr Botibol became more frenzied than ever and his face seemed to thrust itself round to one side in an agony of effort as he tried to force more and still more power from his orchestra during those final mighty chords.

  Then it was over. The announcer was saying something, but Mr Botibol quickly switched off the radio and collapsed into his chair, blowing heavily.

  ‘Phew!’ he said aloud. ‘My goodness gracious me, what have I been doing!’ Small globules of sweat were oozing out all over his face and forehead, trickling down his neck inside his collar. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped them away, and he lay there for a while, panting, exhausted, but exceedingly exhilarated.

  ‘Well, I must say,’ he gasped, still speaking aloud, ‘that was fun. I don’t know that I have ever had such fun before in all my life. My goodness, it was fun, it really was!’ Almost at once he began to play with the idea of doing it again. But should he? Should he allow himself to do it again? There was no denying that now, in retrospect, he felt a little guilty about the whole business, and soon he began to wonder whether there wasn’t something downright immoral about it all. Letting himself go