Брайс Кортни - The Power of One

‘You must excuse me, please, I have taken your picture. At other times I would not do such a thing. It is not polite. It was your expression. Ja, it is always the expression that is important. Without expression the human being is just a lump of meat. You have some problems I think, ja?’

At the sound of his voice I had stood up hastily and now faced him a little sheepishly, looking down at him from the rock, a good six feet higher than where he stood. He made a gesture at me and the rock and even at the sky beyond.

‘I shall call it Boy on a Rock.’ He paused and cocked his head slightly to one side. ‘I think this is a good name. I have your permission, yes?’ I nodded and he seemed pleased. Dropping the camera so that it hung around his neck, he extended his right hand up towards me. He was much too far away for our hands to meet but I stuck mine out too and we both shook the air in front of us. This seemed to be a perfectly satisfactory introduction. ‘Von Vollensteen, Professor Von Vollensteen.’ He withdrew his hand and gave me a stiff little bow from the waist.

‘Peekay,’ I said, withdrawing my hand at the same time as he dropped his. His friendliness was infectious and no hint of condescension showed in his manner. Best of all, I could hear nothing going on behind the scenes.

‘Peekay? P-e-e-k-a-y, I like this name, it has a proper sound. I think a name like this would be good for a musician.’ He squinted up at me, thinking, then took a sharp intake of breath as though he had reached an important decision. ‘I think we can be friends, Peekay,’ he said.

‘Why aren’t the thorns from that cactus sticking into your back?’ The canvas bag was much too lightly constructed to protect him from the vicious three-inch thorns.

‘Ha! This is a goot question, Peekay. I will give you one chance to think of the answer then you must pay a forfeit.’

‘You first took off all the thorns on the part that’s in the bag.’

‘Ja, this is possible, also a very goot answer,’ he shook his head slowly, ‘but not true. Peekay, I am sorry to say you owe me a forfeit and then you must try again for the answer.’ He stroked his chin. ‘Now let me see… Ja! I know what we shall do. You must put your hands like so,’ he placed his hands on his hips, ‘at once we will stand on one leg and say, “No matter what has happened bad, today I’m finished from being sad. Absoloodle!”’

I stood on the rock, balanced on one leg with my hands on my hips, but each time I tried to say the words the laughter would bubble from me and I’d lose my balance. Soon we were both laughing fit to burst. Me on the rock and Professor Von Vollensteen dancing below me on the ground, slapping his thighs, the cactus clinging like a green papoose to his back. I could get the first part all right, but the ‘Absoloodle!’ at the end proved too much and I would topple, overcome by mirth.

Spent with laughter, Professor Von Vollensteen finally sat down, and taking a large red bandanna from the pocket of his overalls, wiped his eyes. ‘My English is not so goot, ja?’ He beckoned me to come down and sit beside him. ‘Come, no more forfeiting, too dangerous, perhaps I die laughing next time. Come, Peekay, I will show you the secret.’ He jerked his thumb over his shoulder indicating the cactus. ‘But first you must introduce yourself to my prickly green friend who has a free ride on my back.’

I scrambled down from the rock and came to stand beside him. ‘Peekay, this is Euphorbia grandicornis , he is a very shy cactus and very hard to find in these parts.’

‘Hello,’ I said to the cactus, not quite knowing what else to say.

‘Goot, now you have been introduced you can see why Mr Euphorbia grandicornis does not scratch my back.’ I walked behind him and looked into the canvas bag. Inside was a small collapsible shovel and the roots of the cactus were swaddled in hessian and tied with coarse string. The part of the bag resting on Professor Von Vollensteen’s back was made of leather too thick for the long thorns to penetrate. ‘Not so stupid, ha?’ he said with a grin.

‘Aaw! If you’d given me another chance I would’ve got it,’ I said, immediately convincing myself that this was so.

‘Ja, for sure! It is always easy to be a schmarty pantz when you know already the trick.’

‘Honest, Mr Professor Von Vollensteen, I think I could’ve known the answer,’ I protested, anxious now to impress him.

‘Okay! Then I give you one chance more. A professor is not a mister but a mister can be a professor. Answer me that, Mister Schmarty Pantz?’

I sat down on a small rock trying to work this out, my heart sank, for I knew almost immediately he had the better of me. I had simply thought his first name, like Peekay, was a little unusual. I had never heard of anyone called Professor, but then I was also the first Peekay I knew of, so who was I to judge?

‘I give up, sir,’ I said, feeling rather foolish. ‘What is a professor?’ He had removed the canvas bag from his back and once again held the camera cupped in his hands.

‘Peekay, you are a genius my friend! Look what we find under this rock where you are sitting. This is Aloe microsfigma !’ I rose from the rock and joined him on his knees looking underneath it. A small cluster of tiny spotted aloes, each not much bigger than a two-shilling piece grew in the grass at the base of the rock. Even at close quarters they would have been hard to see and to an untrained eye almost impossible. The old man brushed the grass out of the way, and lying flat on his tummy he focused the camera on the tiny succulents. Behind him the sunset bathed the plants in a red glow. ‘The light is perfect but I must work quick.’ His hands, fumbling with the camera, were shaking with excitement. Finally he clicked the shot and got slowly back to his knees. Removing a Joseph Rogers from the pocket of his overalls, he used the small knife to separate four of the aloes, leaving twice as many behind. He held the tiny plants in his hand for me to see. ‘ Wunderbar , Peekay, small but so perfect, a good omen for our friendship.’

I must say I was not too impressed but I was glad that he was happy. ‘You haven’t said what a professor is.’

He wrapped the tiny aloes in his bandanna and placed them carefully into his canvas bag which he then slung back over his shoulder. ‘Ja, I like that, you have good concentration, Peekay. What is a professor? That is a goot question.’ He stood looking at the dying sun. ‘A professor is a person who drinks too much whisky and once plays goot Beethoven and Brahms and Mozart and even sometimes when it was not serious, Chopin. Such a person who could command respect in Vienna, Leipzig, Warsaw and Budapest and also, ja, once in London.’ His shoulders sagged visibly. ‘A professor is also some person who can not anymore command respect from little girls who play not even schopstics goot.’

I could see his previous mood of elation had changed and there was a strange conversation going on in his head. But then, just as suddenly, his eyes regained their sparkle. ‘A professor is a teacher, Peekay. I have the honour to be a teacher of music.’ He put his hand on my shoulder. It was the first time he had touched me and the gesture was unthinking and friendly, like another kid might hold you when you are playing. ‘You can call me Doc. You see I am also Doctor of Music, it is all the same thing. I am too old and you are too young for Mister this or Professor that. You and me will not hide behind such a small importance. Just Peekay and Doc. I think this is a goot plan?’

I nodded agreement, though I was too shy to say the word out loud. He seemed to sense my reluctance. ‘What is my name, Peekay?’ he asked casually.