Gerald Durrell: The Corfu Trilogy

In his shroud of ropes and chains, his face leaden, his eyes closed, he certainly looked a macabre sight.

‘I think perhaps, you know, the ropes and chains are a little constricting,’ said Theodore judiciously, becoming the medical man.

‘Well, you put them on him, you get them off him,’ said Larry. ‘Come on, Theodore, you’ve got the key for the padlocks.’

‘I seem, rather unfortunately, to have mislaid it,’ Theodore confessed.

‘Dear God!’ exclaimed Leslie. ‘I knew they shouldn’t be allowed to do this. Damned silly. Spiro, can you get a hacksaw?’

They laid Kralefsky on the sofa and supported his head on the cushions; he opened his eyes and gasped at us helplessly. Colonel Ribbindance bent and stared into Kralefsky’s face.

‘This pygmy I was telling you about,’ he said. ‘His eyeballs filled up with blood.’

‘Really?’ said Theodore, much interested. ‘I believe you get the samewhensomeoneis… er… you know… garrotted. Arupturing of the blood vessels in the eyeballs sometimes bursts them.’

Kralefsky gave a small, despairing squeak like a field mouse.

‘Now, if he had taken a course in Fakyo,’ said Jeejee, ‘he vould have been able to hold his breath for hours, perhaps even days, possibly even months or years , vith practice.’

‘Would that prevent his eyeballs filling with blood?’ asked Ribbindane.

‘I don’t know,’ said Jeejee honestly. ‘It vould probably prevent them filling with blood; they might just go pink.’

‘Are my eyes full of blood?’ asked Kralefsky agitatedly.

‘No, no, of course they’re not,’ said Mother soothingly. ‘I do wish you all would stop talking about blood and worrying poor Mr Kralefsky.’

‘Yes, take his mind off it,’ said Captain Creech. ‘Shall I finish my song?’

‘No,’ said Mother firmly, ‘no more songs. Why don’t you get Mr Maga… whatever his name is to play something soothing and all have a nice dance while we unwrap Mr Kralefsky?’

‘That’s an idea, my lovely wench,’ said Captain Creech to Mother. ‘Waltz with me! One of the quickest ways of getting intimate, waltzing.’

‘No,’ said Mother coldly. ‘I’m much too busy to get intimate with anyone, thank you very much.’

‘You, then,’ said the captain to Lena, ‘you’ll give me a cuddle round the floor, huh?’

‘Vell, I must confess it, I like the valtz,’ said Lena, puffing out her chest, to the captain’s obvious delight.

Megalotopolopopoulos swung himself into a spirited rendering of ‘The Blue Danube’ and the captain whisked Lena off across the room.

‘The trick would have worked perfectly, only Dr Stephanides should have only pretended to lock the padlocks,’ Mr Kralefsky was explaining, while a scowling Spiro hacksawed away at the locks and chains.

‘Of course,’ said Mother, ‘we quite understand.’

‘I was never… er… you know… very good at conjuring,’ admitted Theodore contritely.

‘I could feel the air running out and hear my heartbeats getting louder and louder. It was horrible, quite horrible,’ said Kralefsky, closing his eyes with a shudder that made all his chains jangle. ‘I began to think I’d never get out.’

‘And you missed the rest of the cabaret too,’ put in Margo sympathetically.

‘Yes, by God!’ exclaimed Jeejee. ‘You didn’t see my snake-charming. Damned great snake bit me in the loincloth, and me an unmarried man!’

‘And then the blood started pounding in my ears,’ said Kralef-sky, hoping to remain the focus of attention. ‘Everything went black.’

‘But… er… you know… it was dark in there,’ Theodore observed.

‘Don’t be so literal, Theo,’ said Larry. ‘One can’t embroider a story properly with you damned scientists around.’

‘I’m not embroidering,’ said Kralefsky with dignity, as the last padlock fell away and he could sit up. ‘Thank you, Spiro. No, I assure you, everything went as black as… as black as…’

‘A nigger’s bottom?’ offered Jeejee helpfully.

‘Jeejee, dear, don’t use that word,’ said Mother, shocked. ‘It’s not polite.’

‘Vhat? Bottom?’ asked Jeejee, mystified.

‘No, no,’ said Mother, ‘that other word.’

‘Vhat? Nigger?’ he asked. ‘But vhat’s vrong with it? I’m the only nigger here and I don’t object.’

‘Spoken like a white man,’ declared Colonel Ribbindane admiringly.

‘Well I object,’ said Mother firmly. ‘I won’t have you calling yourself a nigger. To me, you’re just as, just as…’

‘White as driven snow?’ suggested Larry.

‘You know perfectly well what I mean, Larry,’ said Mother crossly.

‘Well,’ went on Kralefsky, ‘there was I with the blood pounding in my ears…’

‘Oooh,’ squeaked Margo suddenly, ‘just look what Captain Creech has done to Lena’s lovely dress.’

We turned to look at that section of the room where several couples were gyrating merrily to the waltz, none with greater enthusiasm than the captain and Lena. Unfortunately, unbeknownst to either of them, the captain at some point must have trodden on the deep layer of frills that decorated the edge of Lena’s gown and wrenched them away; now they were waltzing away oblivious to the fact that the captain had both feet inside Lena’s dress.

‘Good heavens! Disgusting old man!’ said Mother.

‘He was right about the waltz being intimate,’ said Larry. ‘Another couple of whirls and they’ll be wearing the same dress.’

‘D’you think I ought to tell Lena?’ asked Margo.

‘I shouldn’t,’ said Larry. ‘It’s probably the nearest she’s been to a man in years.’

‘Larry, that’s quite unnecessary,’ said Mother.

Just at that moment, with a flourish, Megalotopolopopoulos brought the waltz to an end, Lena and the captain spun round and round like a top and then stopped. Before Margo could say anything, the captain stepped backwards to bow and fell flat on his back, ripping a large section of Lena’s skirt away. There was a moment’s terrible silence while every eye in the room was riveted, fascinated, on Lena, who stood there frozen. The captain broke the spell, speaking from his recumbent position on the floor.

‘My, that’s a fine pair of knickers you’re wearing,’ he observed jovially.

Lena uttered what can only be described as a Greek screech, a sound that has all the blood-curdling qualities of a scythe blade scraped across a hidden rock; part lamentation, part indignation, with a rich, murderous overtone, a noise wrenched up, as it were, from the very bowels of the vocal chords. Galli-Curci would have been proud of her. It was, strangely enough, Margo who leaped into the breach and avoided what could have been a diplomatic crisis, though her method of doing so was perhaps a trifle flamboyant. She simply snatched a cloth from a side table, rushed to Lena and swathed her in it. This gesture in itself would have been all right except that she chose a cloth on which there were reposing numerous dishes of food and a large twenty-four-branch candelabra. The crash of breaking china and the hissing of candles falling into chutneys and sauces successfully distracted the guests from Lena, and under cover of the pandemonium she was rushed upstairs by Margo.

‘I hope you’re satisfied now!’ said Mother accusingly to Larry.

‘Me? What have I done?’ he inquired.

‘That man,’ said Mother. ‘You invited him; now look what he’s done.’

‘Given Lena the thrill of her life,’ said Larry. ‘No man ever tried to tear her skirt off before.’

‘It’s not funny, Larry,’ said Mother severely, ‘and if we have any more parties I will not have that… that… licentious old libertine.’