Roald Dahl - The Collected Short Stories of Roald Dahl, Volume 2

Clements stood up, they shook hands, and then at once, even before they had sat down again, Mr Botibol said, "I have decided, yes I have decided to accept the offer which you made to me before you left my office last night."

For some days Clements had been negotiating, on behalf of clients, for the purchase of the firm known as Botibol & Co., of which Mr Botibol was sole owner, and the night before, Clements had made his first offer. This was merely an exploratory, much-too-low bid, a kind of signal to the seller that the buyers were seriously interested. And by God, thought Clements, the poor fool has gone and accepted it. He nodded gravely many times in an effort to hide his astonishment, and he said, "Good, good. I'm so glad to hear that, Mr Botibol." Then he signalled a waiter and said, "Two large martinis."

"No, please!" Mr Botibol lifted both hands in horrified protest.

"Come on," Clements said. "This is an occasion."

"I drink very little, and never, no never during the middle of the day."

But Clements was in a gay mood now and he took no notice. He ordered the martinis and when they came along Mr Botibol was forced, by the banter and good-humour of the other, to drink to the deal which had just been concluded. Clements then spoke briefly about the drawing up and signing of documents, and when all that had been arranged, he called for two more cocktails. Again Mr Botibol protested, but not quite so vigorously this time, and Clements ordered the drinks and then he turned and smiled at the other man in a friendly way. "Well, Mr Botibol," he said, "now that it's all over, I suggest we have a pleasant non-business lunch together. What d'you say to that? And it's on me."

"As you wish, as you wish," Mr Botibol answered without any enthusiasm. He had a small melancholy voice and a way of pronouncing each word separately and slowly, as though he was explaining something to a child.

When they went into the dining-room Clements ordered a bottle of Lafite 1912 and a couple of plump roast partridges to go with it. He had already calculated in his head the amount of his commission and he was feeling fine. He began to make bright conversation, switching smoothly from one subject to another in the hope of touching on something that might interest his guest. But it was no good. Mr Botibol appeared to be only half listening. Every now and then he inclined his small bald head a little to one side or the other and said, "Indeed." When the wine came along Clements tried to have a talk about that.

"I am sure it is excellent," Mr Botibol said, "but please give me only a drop."

Clements told a funny story. When it was over, Mr Botibol regarded him solemnly for a few moments, then he said, "How amusing." After that Clements kept his mouth shut and they ate in silence. Mr Botibol was drinking his wine and he didn't seem to object when his host reached over and refilled his glass. By the time they had finished eating, Clements estimated privately that his guest had consumed at least three-quarters of the bottle.

"A cigar, Mr Botibol?"

"Oh no, thank you."

"A little brandy?"

"No really. I am not accustomed..

Clements noticed that the man's cheeks were slightly flushed and that his eyes had become bright and watery. Might as well get the old boy properly drunk while I'm about it, he thought, and to the waiter he said, "Two brandies."

When the brandies arrived, Mr Botibol looked at his large glass suspiciously for a while, then he picked it up, took one quick birdlike sip and put it down again. "Mr Clements," he said suddenly, "how I envy you."

"Me? But why?"

"I will tell you, Mr Clements, I will tell you, if I may make so bold." There was a nervous, mouselike quality in his voice which made it seem he was apologizing for everything he said.

"Please tell me," Clements said.

"It is because to me you appear to have made such a success of your life."

He's going to get melancholy drunk, Clements thought. He's one of the ones that gets melancholy and I can't stand it. "Success," he said, "I don't see anything especially successful about me."

"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 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 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 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.