Chapter One Hundred and One
It was Curtis/Thaddeus who conveyed the rumour to Aloysius, who, being sensible enough not to trust this particular source, quizzed other members of staff, pondered their hints, and concluded that even were there a kernel of truth to it—that Charlotte Drig was cheating on him with Monsieur Bartoff—a kernel was more than he, in his infatuated state, could stand, and so provoked a showdown with his nemesis in the men’s toilet by the lunchroom, when no one else was about. He thought he would hit Bartoff where it hurt, so to speak; the locus of male pride; i.e., his cock.
While Bartoff stood at the pissoir, minding nobody’s business but his own—whose business could the expulsion of his urine be, after all, but his?; it was a matter between him and his pissoir, and perhaps his God, and no one else—pissing in the pissoir, I say, Bartoff fought to depose the image of his lover’s member from his mind, in order that his own member remain unclogged with lust, and thereby able to perform its function of emicting waste water from his person. Virile knight of excretion as he was, his stream slackened by not one drop as Aloysius stormed in, greeted him casually, and opined, “Pardon me, monsieur, but I couldn’t help noticing you’ve got quite a small penis there. How did this happen?”
Bartoff, ashamed of bearing such an appendage on his front, wishing as he did for a vulva in its stead, tapped out the final drops and turned round. He took no offence. But when Aloysius came face-to-face, as it were, with the actual dick in question, he was shocked to discover that “small” was not a word to be properly applied to this organ. “Titanic”, “monumental”—even “monstrous”—yes, but never “small”. Even a blind man, had one been present in that loo at that moment—there was not, but, I’m saying, if there were—even he could have sensed its gravitational pull and been forced to congratulate its bearer on his genetic bounty.
“Er. . .” was all Aloysius could say, wholly mesmerised by the sight.
“Let’s see yours, then, big boy,” Bartoff suggested. “I invite you to shame me by comparison.”
Aloysius gathered his bearings, such as they were. “Sir, you have insulted me.”
“Have I? I certainly hadn’t intended to, I assure you.”
Gulping, Aloysius stared above Bartoff’s head, at the ceiling. “Please stuff that, er, thing back into your trousers so we might fight like men.”
“Are we to fight, then? Over what, exactly?”
“Pardon, monsieur?”
“What are we to fight over?”
“Over your seduction of a married woman.”
“I’m sorry to have to contradict you, monsieur.”
“You can deny it?”
“That Monsieur Mifkin is a married woman? I do.”
“You mock me, sir!”
“If not of Monsieur Mifkin, then of whom do you speak, sir?”
“Pardon?”
“Did you not hear me?”
“I beg you to repeat your question.”
“You may look down from the ceiling, now, monsieur. I have buttoned up my trousers.”
Aloysius, indeed, now looked down, cleared his throat, and thanked his adversary.
“Pray don’t mention it.”
“And now, sir—your question, again, if you please.”
“Of whom do you speak?”
“When?”
“I believe you accused me of seducing a married man?”
“Woman, monsieur.”
“Ah yes—whom precisely?”
“Besides Missus Drig? None I know of, sir; but if there are others, that is between your conscience, their consciences, their husbands’ consciences, and, of course, God’s Conscience.”
“Of course. But I believe you mentioned Missus Drig?”
“Pardon?”
“I believe you mentioned Missus Drig?”
“Oh, come off it, man!” Aloysius was tired of the formal language. “Of course we both know you’re shagging Charlotte! But she’s my girl, now—do you follow?”
“I’ve never touched the woman.”
“Oh, but you’ve wanted to, haven’t you?”
“Not at all.”
“Well, that’s not what people are saying.”
“Which people?”
“Do you want a list?”
“Have you got one?”
“Not, you know, written out or anything. But I could have one made, if it would speed things up.”
“Very good. Shall we reconvene, here, in a week, once you’ve got it?”
“No, sir, for I demand satisfaction at once!” And with that noble call to arms, he launched himself at Bartoff, who struck him down with one heavy hand, leaving Aloysius curled up, humiliated, on the toilet floor. Bartoff leant down to stroke his hair, murmuring: “I know what it is to love. But believe me: I’m not your enemy. Your only enemy. . .is time.” And he left.
Ashamed, Aloysius defected from Mifkin’s team to Voot’s. Although he reserved for himself the right to change his mind again.