A Bumbling Fool

It’s hardly worth even spending a few seconds with elegance knowing that it means spending the remainder of your years in a Turkish prison. Still I shouldn’t entirely blame her as she was as foolish as I. Although a woman, especially an attractive one, would rather die than admit to that. But look, just as I fell for her joie de vie, the way she dressed and her beauty she fell for his charm, the illegality of his acquired wealth but most of all his ridiculous ambition. Marco Polo, I have you to blame for my inescapable predicament. Many years ago after your travels as well as introducing the hot tempered children of Bella Italia to pasta and ice cream you brought the most beautiful jewels from all the countries that you set foot on back to your homeland. Now your homeland has taken it upon herself to return those jewels to their countries of origin. For that act of political goodwill I am eternally grateful to you. Oh Marco, why couldn’t you be content with knickerbocker glories and tagliatelle? Still, I will always treasure the moment when I first met the delectable young lady.

I was stood outside Fortnum and Mason one sunny August afternoon. I wasn’t greeting anybody as they went in my dear friend, oh no, I was actually on the other side of the road. Carrying a sign pointing the way to a golf sale might be seen as the most unlikely situation to encounter a delightful specimen of womanhood but stranger things have happened in the city Dr. Johnson never tired of. Feeling the onset of ennui as the umpteenth pedestrian ignored my golfing bargains promoter I decided to fetch around my pockets for a Turkish Delight chocolate bar I had purchased in a WH Smiths that morning. Appreciate the irony, Marco. I wager that I must have looked a vulgar site to the manager of Fortnum and Mason for it was at that time he took it upon himself to send down one of his employees to have me removed. And it was her. Thinking about it now I remember she kept looking to her right now and again. Was ‘he’ there? If so was she already in league with him and if not was it a case of him casting a spell over her with a look? In any case I cannot be sure if he was there or not so who really knows why the lovely lady was darting her glances. I’m not much to look at I’ll be the first to admit but I’m not that repellent either. Well, Marco, even though one would get into big trouble for downing tools when one is told to down tools by such a graceful lily then one does that straight away.

The gods must have been smiling on me for our paths crossed again. This time in the high-water-ways and by-water-ways of Venice. Managing to wangle a job as a gondolier I would practise singing my ‘O Sole Mio’ whilst standing in the bath. One July afternoon a slender woman dressed in white with a large rimmed black hat stepped onto my gondola. My thick accent gave me away as I sang the ice cream promoting song. Her giggle gave her away as well. I greeted her with the question, “Madam?” We talked, we laughed but soon parted company. This shop girl outshone all the Italian beauties that decorated the nooks and crannies of sublime Venice. That this encounter led to me walking The Great Wall of China with a semi-blind Scotsman called Jimmy Boswell is reason to regard me as a bumbling fool. The panicking that ran through the very fibre of my being as I scurried to and fro on that wall increased second by second. Why couldn’t we just give him the fakes? Jimmy Boswell was quite feverish that day. So much pomp and ceremony. All that needed to be done was for the authorities to collect the appropriate riches at their airports. But no, by way of goodwill and publicity the Premiere of your country said that your journeys would be re-created but this time with the “gifts” (the inverted commas were his) being returned to their “rightful” owners (the inverted commas are mine). How on Earth did I get to such a state you may ask, how come I mentioned the name of Jimmy Boswell but not the elegant young woman who politely asked me not to promote any sales of golfing items? Well Marco one does not forget a ruddy millstone no matter with how much superhuman effort one tries. As for the beautiful young woman all I can say is I’m like those sentimental made-for-television movies, I withdraw such information to protect the innocence (God rest her sweet soul). As for the architect of all you’ll soon find out.

Anyway let us return to Italy. I asked the young woman her name and she gave it to me. Afterwards when our sojourn came to an end she stepped off the gondola and I remained where I was waiting for the next punter. Which wasn’t very often as most people, by that terminology I mean everybody, want to be taken round the canals of the city by a real Italian. With my earnings I stepped off my gondola and meandered to the nearest equivalent of a public house. I’m a bit of an old stickler in the mud when it comes to tradition but when parched I’ll make do with my beer being cold. As I sat down with my Italian phrasebook in the hopeless hope of acquiring a young Italian woman for intimate company I felt a warm manly tap from all four fingers and thumb of a singular skinny hand. Turning round and noticing the good taste in his dress along with his careful posture I presumed the man to be homosexual. I lifted up my drink to show him I already had one and did not need another. He raised his hand and said, “I wonder, dear sir, if I might have the pleasure of your company?”
“Oh no, no. I’m afraid I’m in dispose.”
“You don’t look it.”
“Well, ah,” Said I scraping the bottom of the barrel, “I’m quite busy at the moment. Things to do, old chap. I run my own business you see.” This was true up to a point. Lifting off his hand the gentleman feigned disappointment, “Oh well. It’s probably for the best. You couldn’t handle the job anyway.” Now if there is something that I am a sucker for, Marco, it is reverse psychology. As he stepped out of the tavern I called for him to wait just a minute. He turned and smiled. Handsome bugger. I got up and told him that I might find someone or someway…er…if I know what it was and what it entails. The gentleman smiled at me and said, “We’ll pick you up at your place of work.” Then he left. I waddled back to my table to continue supping on my beer when I said to myself, “But you don’t know where I work.” I shrugged my shoulders and swotted up on asking the way to the museum.

What did he want? It was without a shadow of a doubt preying on my mind dear Marco. I didn’t want to think about such hyper-possibilities as it would cause the pulse rate in my cerebral muscle to increase. Now I’m in this Turkish prison with all time to think. That is, if they let me. Returning back to my floating office I was pondering on the pros and cons of mimicking an Italian accent to attract the American clientele when she stepped into my workplace. “I love to give you this one on the house my love, but profits are rather short at the moment.”
“You’ll get your pay. Now drive on.” She replied curtly. What had gone into her? Who had been giving her evening classes in rudeness? A fine sophisticated woman such as she does not suit the mannerisms of coarseness and as I took her once more along the canals she apologised to my feelings, “Henry told me to meet you here.” Henry? “He’s got a proposition for you. How would you like to be a wealthy man?” The wrong answer to that particular question is, “Yes my dear, I’d very much like to be a wealthy man.” But I wasn’t aware of it at the time. Better to live a hand to mouth existence in the most divine place in the world than to discover you’ve lost a substantial amount of valuables across China’s Great Wall. Jimmy Boswell. Why couldn’t I have been paired off with the acrobat? If only the young woman was paired off with me.

I was briefed on Henry’s plans for your jewels eventual resting home. She told me she was taking a great risk informing me but she felt certain as I had a kind and trustworthy face. I couldn’t let that beautiful creature get into trouble. In all honesty I should have answered her first question with, “Not really, no.” To cut a long story short, goodness knows how much I’ve waffled, a whole kaboodle of us ended up at Henry’s rendezvous. A grand abode in Tuscany furnished and decorated with such refinery. “Good afternoon, Gentlemen. I am satisfied to see you all here. For that you have my eternal gratitude and I am indebted to you all. Believe me you will get rewarded. In time of course. First however I have to brief you all on your tasks in hand.” Henry then went on to warn us that if any of us now had second thoughts or if second thoughts happen to float in the vicinity of our minds when undertaking the task in hand then he will deal with the matter appropriately. Myself and the acrobat noticed stood at either side of a projection screen were a pair of burly knuckleheaded twin brothers. As long as they were fed and watered no job would be refused by those siblings. Nevertheless for what Henry needed, judging by their pudgy fingers these men would be more than unsuitable. “Being a group of upstanding intelligent capable men,” Was he referring to me? “You don’t need me to explain to you that behind myself is a screen. Just about there. So you are all going to be treated to a little side show. Now!” He clapped his hands together and called on his girlfriend, oh it had to be her, who was designated slide projector operator.

I can see why she fell under Henry’s spell. As well as his silken hair, blue eyes and taste in hand made tailored suits he had honourable reasons for roping us all into committing crime. “Gentlemen can you imagine such beautiful objects imprisoned within glass boxes? On show for ignorant plebeian tourists who have to have everything spelt out for them and who then need colour coded alphabet lessons.” I could see his point. The jewellery that we were shown in the slide show really rightly belonged on the person of a Heavenly slide projectionist. We were all paired off on Henry’s whim and given a specific task to do according to our abilities. If truth be told only half of us were needed. The rest of us were chosen for our perplexed expressions of innocence. To distract whilst the true professional got on with the job in hand. I have to admit Marco I never realised that so many of yours truly could possibly exist. It can’t all be coincidence. What was the semi-blind Scotsman Jimmy Boswell’s speciality? Diamonds. Identifying them and faking them. A master craftsman and his skill in diamond identification is the reason for his partial blindness. These diamonds were to be returned to China via The Great Wall route. Not only that they were of a particularly small size. To make matters worse they were being returned (as were many of the other items) traditionally. An entourage of horses and Italians in traditional dress (this is what they spend the taxpayer’s money on, Marco) with all the tourism and television that entails. I had to somehow distract from all of that whilst Jimmy Boswell swapped the real diamonds for the fake ones. What happened was that the fake diamonds and the real diamonds in a fit of panic were scattered along the wall. Net result, the Italian government returned nothing to China and yours truly had to run about the wall like a blue arsed fly headbutting an open window.

I decided to take the matter in my own hands and make a run for it. So as to escape any brutal consequences involving Henry’s knuckleheaded henchmen I attempted to escape China via means of hitchhiking or being a stowaway on trucks, lorries or trains. Marco, I ended up in Istanbul and how I wish I never had. I had three shocks in that Turkish city. The first shock was when I saw that elegant woman’s face in a small photograph on the front of a Turkish broadsheet. I asked the newspaper salesman if he could vaguely translate what the article said and in broken English he replied “something terrible” and “fell to her death” and “accident” but the word “waterfall” will always stick in my mind. Should I feel sorry for Henry a criminal with a penchant for the finer things in life yet unable to hold onto life’s finest? No. A man who thinks of himself never thinks of those he has hurt or something. I’m not reliable at making aphorisms or whatever they are called these days. My second shock was being grabbed and dragged away quickly. As I turned to look to see who it was taking me away from the newspaper salesman I got the third shock. It was the acrobat. His assistant must have done a runner too. So he immediately latched onto me.

The acrobat whose name is Pierre Prokofiev (no relation) now shares a cell with me. I must admit, I think I’d prefer the insufferable company of Jimmy Boswell. Oh well, I’d better be on my best behaviour. C’est la vie Mr Polo.

© 2009 Clinton Morgan