Chapter Five
Poor Larry the bellhop scanned the sky through the lobby window. “Storm’s coming,” he reckoned to an older porter, for want of anything original to say.
“Metaphorical, or meteorological?” queried the porter.
Poor Larry shrugged. “Couldn’t say.” And he went back to work.
After breakfast, when Pluck had tripped into a waiter, causing a plate of sizzling eggs to drop onto the hand of an old woman and a jug of orange juice onto the head of one Mr Drig, much to the amusement of his six children, even if the broken glass did leave an unsightly gash in that innocent gentleman’s bald pate, Pluck came down into the lobby, fully coated for a winter morning’s walk. The coronel, having been reminded several times during the course of their meal, was ready as well, waiting in an armchair, dreaming of having died with dignity in one of his battles of old.
“Ready for our bracing walk, amico?”
The coronel did not deign to reply, but stood up, allowing the other guests to admire his well-worn hiking gear and the walking-stick he’d whittled to perfection himself out of an unprepossessing tree limb.
“But where are the Lapin-Défunts, Herr Voot and your Italian compatriots?” Pluck wondered. “Surely my invitation was clear?”
“I dare say they’ve forgotten.”
“Run up and remind them, will you? There’s a good egg.”
“Perhaps we might simply strike out on our own. And get this over with.”
Pluck shrugged. “Suits me.” He extended his hand. “Best friends?”
The coronel sighed, and looked around the lobby in search of a saviour. He found none. All he saw was a young lady in a travelling suit, examining her fingernails and looking for all the world like she expected nothing from life and would hardly be surprised if that were all she got; the Drig brood, fumbling with their skis, the patriarch glancing over spitefully at Pluck; the opera diva, adjusting her outfit in an intimate manner on account of her perception that no one was watching; an Indian gentleman who stared at the wall with an immensely solemn expression; and the establishment’s employees, who, the coronel felt, were hardly worth noticing. Curiously, though, some sort of sabre from the Orient hung on the wall, at such a height that it could be easily snatched by anyone of even moderate height, employed in an act of bloodshed and then returned to its place; and, next to that, what looked like a dried fish, perhaps a herring, smoked red in hue, was mounted upon a block of wood.
(What, the reader may well ask, is my purpose in detailing this fish? Is it intended simply as a tedious means of transcribing the visual appearance of the scene into superfluous linguistic detail? Or is it being seeded here because it might spring back into the story at some later point, perhaps, at that time, with actual dramatic relevance, pregnant with added poignancy because of its earlier, submerged implantation into the reader’s mind? Or is the fish symbolic of some abstract notion entirely unfathomable to the humble porter who had been tasked with nailing it upon the wall? Or none of these things?)
The air outside was ruthlessly cold and not at all refreshing, invigorating or in the slightest sense enjoyable. The two friends trekked across the lumpy brown ground, taking in the panoramic view of the mountains laurelled with dark cloud.
“Shall we climb a bit?” Pluck suggested. The coronel shrugged, and so they took a path which led, not too steeply, up a grassy crop. Several times they had to wait, much to Pluck’s annoyance, for the coronel to rest and regain his wind before proceeding; during such intervals, Pluck paced about, cursing his friend for his poor physical condition, and for his age. The coronel would not reply, but merely shut his eyes and did his best to stamp out his persistent visions of shoving Pluck off the mountain.
When they reached the top of the outcrop, they surveyed the valley which fanned out beneath them, patched with leaf-shorn trees and thin, dry riverbeds, beside, along certain slopes appointed for speeding down with sticks of wood strung to one’s feet for no meaningful motive, vast tracts of snow.
“Peaceful, here,” smiled the coronel, unmindful for the moment with whom he was conversing.
“Thaddeus Pluck!” Pluck suddenly screamed, and bounced up and down giddily at hearing his name rebound all around them.
The coronel sat down on a rock, ignoring Pluck’s immediate jeer. The Spanish gentleman saw, down in the valley, two figures slowly walking. He squinted. One appeared to be the Frenchman who had tried to assist them early that morning, Monsieur Lapine-Dayfoon, or something of that ilk, and the other was that rather morose-looking young lady who’d been sitting by herself in the lobby. To the extent that he could see, she looked no more happy now than she had then.
“Come on, come on, you pathetic old milksop!” Pluck laughed. “We have us a mountain to climb—or have you forgotten?”
They walked for ten more minutes, before the coronel begged for a rest. Pluck laid into him: “Of all the craven, disgraceful requests! Have you no shame, sir?! Have you no dignity?!”
The coronel stared up at the man’s little head, covered by a wool cap and, on top of that, a hat, and gripped his stick with a force calling to mind his military feats of an earlier epoch. Behind Pluck was a void as big as the universe, from his vantage, a universe that would neither peep nor protest at the sacrifice of so excruciating a man. But the stick lowered; the coronel had not so distinguished himself over his career in order to slaughter a man in cold blood; even so worthless a gnat as this.
But he left himself open to renegotiation.
They walked some more, and Pluck was seized by another inspiration to scream “Thaddeus Pluck! No, no, Curtis Pluck! Curtis Pluck!”
“Aiyee!” Pluck and the coronel bristled at the sound: it came from a small man just before them, sat on a rock, whom neither of them had noticed; he was a guest at the hotel, in fact, but neither of them had noticed him there either.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, gentlemen!” He rose, and performed a little bow, with a little wave, though it was clear he hadn’t much practice. “I was just sitting here, and that sudden bellowing—well! It sort of shook me out of my senses, is all. I beg your pardon.” And he sat back down.
Though the rock on which the little man sat was barely wide enough for his own bottom, Pluck rushed right over and sat down on it next to him, impelling the latter to shift uncomfortably over and almost fall off. “I accept your apology, my friend,” said Pluck. “It takes a big man to dishonour himself so much to apologise without so much as a protestation. I respect that. Allow me to introduce myself: my name is Thaddeus—er, Curtis—Pluck.”
“Yes, I heard.”
“And you, sir? Would you be so kind as to cease your tedious evasions and identify yourself?”
“Me? Charles Snede.”
“‘Charles Needs’? A noble name.”
“That’s ‘Snede’, actually.”
“‘Charles Deens’—even better.”
“Um, ‘Snede’.”
Pluck looked him up and down. “You seem a decent sort of fellow, Mister Seed.”
The little man smiled at him. The chevrons he had for eyebrows rose. “I do?”
Pluck nodded. “Yes. I am Thaddeus—er, Curtis—Pluck.”
“Yes, you’ve said.”
“Yes.” He leant a little closer, practically onto his lap. “What sort of work are you in, Charles?”
“Oh, I’m a clerk. That is, I was a clerk. For a grain exporter—nothing exciting there, ha ha. But I’ve retired. Just this month. And so I’ve gone on holiday. It’s my first holiday, ever, you know. Isn’t that something?”
Mister Snede looked terribly excited about it, in his way. Pluck studied him: his eyelids were so slight as to be non-existent, and for all that, his eyes were so meagre and translucent as to be impossible to pay any attention to, or take at all seriously.
“What about you?” Snede went on.
“Oh. I’m Pluck.”
“Yes, I—”
Pluck pointed an indicting finger at the coronel. “And that infirm old weakling there is Eye-Goo—my best friend.”
“Oh?”
“Certainly. We fought in the Italian War of Independence together, back in forty-nine.”
“Don’t be absurd,” muttered the coronel, who, assuming the quiet, natural dignity that enveloped him in repose, stood upon a precipice, leaning on his walking-stick, staring out into the aether.
“Do you want to be our friend?” Pluck asked the clerk.
“Oh, well, that is, of course.”
“Well—we’ll have to talk it over, Eye-Goo and I.”
“Oh, very well.”
“We can’t admit just anybody into our little club, you know.”
“I understand.”
“It’s very exclusive.”
“Of course.”
“You’ll have to submit a written application. I have the form back in my room.”
“I see, yes.”
“Let’s go back to the hotel and get it.”
“Well, perhaps I’ll see you when I—”
“No, come on, now, now! Eye-Goo, you old bat, let’s go!”
When the three friends (application pending) arrived back at the hotel, the coronel left the group as soon as he could.
“Well, I’ll be going up to my room now,” said Snede.
“Very well,” agreed Pluck. “I’ll go up and let you know when I’ve found the application.”
“See you later.” The clerk stepped softly up the staircase, Pluck just behind him. He walked down the corridor, Pluck just behind him. He ascended a small flight of stairs at the corridor’s end, Pluck just behind him. He arrived at his room, and turned round to find Pluck beaming behind him.
“Hi there!” Pluck greeted him.
“Uh, hello.”
“I just happened to be in the neighbourhood.”
“Oh. Well, I’ll see you later.”
“Certainly.”
Snede turned back around, unlocked the door, opened it, stepped in, and closed the door—just after Pluck had shot in, under Snede’s arm.
“Won’t you invite me into your room to have a look around?” he asked, casually, whilst already starting to open drawers, pick up objects and move things around into, he felt, more logical arrangements.
“Um, those are just my underthings,” Snede said, observing Pluck tear through the contents of a drawer.
“It’s moronic to place the socks lengthwise like this, alongside your pants,” Pluck explained. “It takes nearly a third more space, looks unsightly, and, when you’re stumbling around blind in the morning with a hangover, you might very well confuse the two. And this?”
“That’s a postcard my aunt sent me from Wales.”
“Perfectly horrid place,” Pluck sniffed. He pulled out a folder from the suitcase he’d found under the bed. He opened it, then stood up straight and fixed his tiny black eye on his new comrade. “What is this?!”
“Prints—they’re prints, of classical deities.”
Pluck’s voice rose to an irritating pitch: “They are devoid of clothes, sir!”
“That’s how artists rendered them, I’m afraid, Mister Pluck.”
“Hmph!” Pluck slapped shut the folder, leaving no doubt about his feelings on the subject of filth. “I have half a mind to report you, Mister Eeps,” he muttered whilst tracing a finger along a high shelf in search of dust, “but I think we can let it slide, this once, as it’s your first offence.”
“Oh, thank you, Mister Pluck.”
Pluck whirled round to look at him. “It is your first offence?”
“Of course—sir.”
Pluck nodded, clapped the dust from his hands, withdrew a handkerchief (miniscule grey mucus stain from an earlier adventure tinting one corner) and wiped his fingers, face and the back of his neck. “I’ll bring round that application form.”
“Please do.”
“This evening, perhaps. Or the next day.”
“Whenever you wish.”
Pluck stood in silence, staring at him.
“. . .Are you planning to open the door for me, or were you thinking I should stand here till doomsday?”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” The clerk shuffled to the door and opened it. Pluck sailed through without a word, and Snede closed it, and locked it, then retrieved the folder of prints, lay down on his bed and pleasured himself, Pluck-like.