The 2084 Precept (20 page)

Off we went for our walk, up to the petrol
station, the IHT is always available there, then back down by the
side of the stream which leads to the sports ground and the river.
I settled myself on a bench, lit up a cigarette, and started
reading about the day's wars, terrorists and murderers. Not as
interesting as the sports section, at least for me, but your masses
love it. The more the slaughter and the bigger the tragedies, so
much the better; you can’t argue with it, these are armchair
pleasures the newspaper circulation statistics are the proof.

Mr. Brown loves it here, there are usually
children playing on the football pitch and he has a passionate love
for children. Most of them here know him well by now. He traverses
the nice green grass in huge leaps and bounds and uses up his
adrenaline by sniffing around in the bushes for rabbits who
presumably are sitting comfortably down in their burrows enjoying
their tea and cakes. Actually, probably not enjoying it very much.
This is a murderous planet at all levels; brutal death awaits those
rabbits and their children just outside of that burrow day and
night, as they well know. And as we also know. Nevertheless, you
might say, if you happen to be a believer in this or that, nature
is a marvelous invention. A little bloody at times maybe. Murderous
and horrific perhaps. But artistic creation in all its glory, is
that not so?

It became cooler as the afternoon passed.
Mr. Brown was fetching and carrying a tennis ball for some of the
children, ball recuperation being one of his strengths. "Brownie,"
I called, for that is how I address him, "time to go home."
Obedience is also one of his strengths, usually anyway, and he came
straight over and we walked back home. I took another shower, gave
Mr. Brown his food and took him along with me to the Italian a
couple of streets away. A snooze under the table for Mr. Brown,
pizza, Merlot and coffee for me, eleven Euros plus tip, no
complaints, and then back to the ranch.

Mr. Brown went straight to his mat, lay down
with a thump, put his head on his long front legs and started
philosophizing about the issues currently affecting the dog
world.

I took my laptop out onto the balcony, lit a
cigarette, checked my emails, nothing of interest except a request
for me to call Sr. Pujol at Industrias y Transportes Pujol S.A. in
Barcelona. These are the people wanting me to wave my wand and make
their container shipping subsidiary profitable again. I'll call
them tomorrow.

I checked into my online banking account and
looked at the shares, not bad, the market just yo-yoing from one
day to the next, up and down, up and down, down and up, neither
rhyme nor reason to any of it. Does anyone really know what they're
doing? A bloody casino is what it is, no more no less, but not too
risky if you play it carefully. Very, very carefully. I should
transfer another €20,000 to the savings account, minuscule
interest, but better than no interest at all on my current account.
Except that, hey, wait a minute, my current account has about
€100,000 more in it than it should do.

Well, well, well, Mr. Jeremy Parker, thank
you very much, you have made my day, you have definitely made my
day, I'll make it two weeks in Corsica for Monika. I sat there,
staring at the screen. Life on this planet is simply fascinating,
and sometimes the ocean waves just wash you up onto a desert island
full of food, drink and women aged between twenty five and thirty
five, and all they want to do is take care of you. So poor demented
Jeremy not only has his delusions but he also really
does
have money. A lot of money. And he does not hallucinate about
paying stupid amounts of it to one or more of his interviewees—he
actually goes ahead and does it.

I stared some more at the screen. There was
no doubt about it, a transfer from Obrix Consultants, London, U.K.
I don't normally drink at home but there are exceptions. I fetched
myself a glass of ten year-old Château Lignère, a decent enough
cognac as I am sure you will agree if you happen to have come
across it. To hell with the savings account, I'll use the money to
buy some more of that bear certificate—big gains are possible and
the risk of loss is zero. Zero, because that money is not mine. I
just happened to grab it as it was passing by on an ocean current
of some kind.

I closed down the computer, transferred my
laundry into the dryer, finished the cognac, and climbed into the
pit.

I got up late again, Jeremy Parker and his
money occupying my mind. What if he's sent the second batch of
euros? It's possible. In fact logic says it's probable. Well, we'll
just have to wait and see. I'll check it tomorrow. The poor guy
belongs in a padded cell, no two ways about it.

It's cloudy today and windy, but at least
it's not cold. I put my fresh laundry into a couple of plastic
bags, was ushered out of the door by Mr. Brown, up to the petrol
station for the IHT and I dropped off the laundry for ironing at
the cleaners next door. I had breakfast at the café in the street
next to mine and walked back to the apartment. Mr. Brown checked
his empty bowl, went to his mat, lay down and started
philosophizing again.

I twisted my brain into Spanish mode, picked
up the phone and dialed Sr. Pujol in Barcelona. Lucky guy, he had
inherited the whole group from his father. He is also an unlucky
guy, he will have to speak to me in Spanish. Catalans don't like
doing that, but I don't use Catalan for the simple reason that I
can't speak it. In any case it's not a language really, no wonder
Franco banned it. Most of it is Spanish with the last syllable
chopped off, and the remainder is derived from French and English
and maybe a word or two from somewhere else. And all of it spoken
with a ghastly, grating cacophony of nauseating vowel noises.

Sr. Pujol sounded nervous. They'd taken the
decision; when could I start? I said maybe in about two months (a
bit of vacation time wouldn't hurt me, and with Jeremy's money
there, I’d make it a luxury one). He said that might be a problem,
could I make it sooner. I said I didn't know, but I would try, I
would let him know as soon as I were in a position to do so. Was he
in agreement with the conditions we discussed last time? Yes, he
was, no problems there. He still got in a Catalan word at the end,
'Adeu, Sr. O'Donoghue'
, which I did not replicate.
'Adios, Sr. Pujol, hasta la próxima'
is what he got from me.
Set the tone. Man, it sounds as if their losses are big. Whenever
they can't wait, the problem is a big one. Great news, the bigger
the problem, in my experience, the easier it usually is to fix
things.

I finished off the newspaper, put on a
jacket, took Mr. Brown downstairs with me again and rang Monika's
bell.

She opened the door. She was looking extra
good today, not much make-up, wearing a skirt, she's still got the
legs for it, but also wearing a bra. Never mind, can't blame her,
restaurant coming up, neighbors all over the place and why
shouldn't she comply with the customs of the human race anyway,
none of my business.

"Hi Peter," she said and we gave each other
the mandatory two kisses. This stirred things up as usual, she does
it on purpose, makes it seem natural, but I know she knows and I
know she knows I know.

"How about
Zum Grünen Baum
today?",
she asked, "it's sunny and warm."

"Cloudy and windy," I said.

"Was," she said. "And now it's sunny and no
wind. You won't need your jacket."

She was right. I stuffed the dog's lead into
my pocket, put my jacket over my arm and off we went down to the
river. The Green Tree pub sits back from the river Main, separated
from the river by parkland, lots of old trees and home to plenty of
wild geese, ducks and a couple of swans. Great home cooking and an
open-air
Biergarten
under the trees. Monika and I sat down
and Mr. Brown went off to pursue his canine pursuits which,
however, did not include trying to murder any amphibians. We all
have lessons to learn in life and he had had to learn his.

A big sign also proclaims this
pub-cum-restaurant to be 'Chez Marie-Anne' and here she came now
across the grass to take our orders. A German girl with a French
mother.

"Peter," she said with a happy smile. "The
wandering minstrel. Back home again to the lovely Monika?" Said
with a sideways grin at Monika, I would like to know what they
discuss when I'm not here. Kisses all round again, but without any
stirrings. First of all she avoids any squashing—at least with me
and presumably with Monika as well, although you never know—and
secondly she has a husband, younger than me too. But the poor
bugger is the cook, he spends most of his time in the kitchen and
who can tell how the oceans' tides may one day flow? No, that's not
really fair, let me tell you he is a nice guy, I like him, I can
talk to him and we sometimes do some cycling together. Even so, you
never know…

"Back home again to the lovely Monika," I
agreed. "I always miss her tremendously. It’s almost as bad as not
being able to see you for weeks on end."

They both gave a little snigger at this, men
are so transparent. But they love the charm, they all do, it brings
that little bit of extra happiness into their lives. They love the
flirting, in particular when they know that you're not
really
flirting, that you represent no danger to them. As
far as they can judge and at the present point in time anyway.

Fish and white wine for me, fish and white
wine and a salad for Monika. I leaned back and lit up a
cigarette.

"You should give that up one day, you know,"
said Monika for the thousandth time. "It's not good for you, it
damages all kinds of things."

"So I'm told, so I'm told, and mainly by
you. And you're right, I agree with you, it's obvious. But I don't
want a lot of children," I said with a grin, referring to one of
the 'damages' she had mentioned last time.

"It's not that Peter, you might not have the
time to have any children if you carry on for much longer with that
stinking habit. And don't start on again about all those eighty
year olds still puffing away."

"No intention of doing so, Monika. Those
poor buggers are few and far between and in any case they haven't
been able to breathe properly for a couple of decades. Some kind of
life that is, I'd rather die at sixty. But where's your problem,
you can't still get pregnant can you?"

A heavy one that, but we both did it, it was
just our way.

"I don't know; probably not and that is a
good thing too. Such an event would have a serious negative effect
on our sex lives and just imagine, you would have to practice
coitus interruptus
whenever the baby needed its nappies
changing. The benefits of the older woman, Peter, never
underestimate the benefits of the older woman."

She laughed at this, the sound floating away
under the trees, across the grass and over to the river and the
ducks.

"O.K., I'll let you make me give up one
day," I said. "But I am not a chain smoker and I'll just carry on
for a little while under the auspices of that old adage, if you
don't mind."

"Which old adage?"

"That smoking is stupid. But that he or she
who never does anything stupid from time to time, is stupid."

"Oh very clever. And to which idiot is that
quote attributable, might I ask? No, don't tell me, he's obviously
a complete asshole."

"Why do you say 'he'?"

"Because a 'she' would never come up with
something as inane as that."

"O.K., it was a 'he', but he's no longer
with us. And in any case, he was referring to getting drunk. I just
adapted it for my purposes."

Our meal arrived, some pretty young teenage
girl who hadn't yet learned how to talk. But now was not an
occasion for a training session. And it would possibly be a waste
of time anyway, maybe only three brain cells available on the
receiving end.

"You know something Peter? You are a lovely
man. As I've told you before, you have your defects, but you are a
lovely man. And here I am, sitting with a lovely man, in a lovely
place, and the sun is shining and the ducks are quacking and the
fish is good and the wine is good and Mr. Brown will soon be back
to say hello, and you are a lovely man."

I think her eyes had begun to glisten a
little while she was saying this, I couldn't be sure. But in fact I
am not a lovely man, you know it and I know it, cynics are not
particularly adorable persons. There are plenty of men, thousands,
maybe millions, who would be far better for her than I. On the
other hand, it must be said, there are plenty of men who would be
worse for her than I. Just take a look around.

"Monika, you err in your judgment," I said.
"But I'm glad you do. I'm glad you do because it means I can
continue knowing one of the most stupendous women wandering around
on the face of this planet. And I mean that."

The old charm again. But I
did
mean
it, the cynic is not present on this one. Here is this woman,
existing on next to no money, enjoying the sun and the ducks and
the meal and Mr. Brown and me and everything else as well. Enjoying
life in fact, the same as I do. Except that I wouldn't be if I had
to eke out a living like she did, I know that for a fact. Some
woman she is, no doubt about it. She knows the secret of life and
the secret of living, and one day I might need to try and grasp
that myself, who knows.

"Oh Peter," she sighed. She was happy, but
she was sad as well, you could tell.

"I'm just lucky enough to be able to know
someone like you, that's all," I said, and I meant that as well,
and it made her look really weepy. Happy weepy.

Marie-Anne came by and we ordered two more
glasses of wine. We lapsed into silence while we finished our meal,
another good thing between us, we didn't always have to talk. And
in my little book of life's policies and procedures, that is a
major indicator of how much a man and a woman like each other and
has nothing to do with the millions of poor sods who never say
anything to each other because they have absolutely nothing to
say.