by A. D. Winch
Ursula’s room was only big enough for a small amount of furniture. The neatly made bed rested against one wall and on top of the pink blanket slept Ursula’s teddy bear, Fred. On the opposite wall, separated by a thin strip of carpet underlay, was a wardrobe and the desk. The wardrobe was so old that the wood had warped, and the doors no longer shut. Mémé would not permit anything to be stuck on the walls of the room, as she thought it looked unsightly, but allowed the wardrobe to be used instead. For this reason, Ursula had completely covered it in clippings from Granddad Benjamin’s newspapers. Zinedine Zidane fought for space with cyclists in the Tour de France who overlapped with French astronauts who partially covered Lady Diana, who nudged against Nelson Mandela and so on.
Next to the wardrobe, was her worn little desk and Ursula sat down. It had been used so much that the letters, words and sentences were etched into the wood. Until Granddad Benjamin placed a piece of glass on the surface it had been too bumpy to use, but now it was perfect and, if Ursula became bored while working, she could read what was written underneath it. At the moment, she was not bored. School work bored her as it was all too easy. Crosswords and puzzles from Mémé’s magazines bored her, but this puzzle was something else, and it definitely was not boring.
There was a quiet knock at the door, and Granddad Benjamin entered sheepishly. Ursula was so deep in concentration that she didn’t notice. On the desk in front of her, the puzzle lay untouched next to an old chess set. She absent-mindedly spun a stubby pencil in her left hand as she pondered the problem. Granddad Benjamin watched and leaned against the wardrobe door which creaked and broke Ursula’s concentration.
“Granddad, what are you doing out of bed?” she asked caringly.
Granddad Benjamin rarely left his bed other than to visit the toilet, which he often did. He gave her a big warm smile and placed one of his wife’s homemade, sunflower seed biscuits delicately on the desk, so as not to disturb the puzzle. Placing a finger to his bald head he silently mouthed, “brain food,” and shuffled out in small, careful steps.
The moment he closed the door behind him, the smell of the biscuit reached Ursula’s nose, and it smelt delicious. It was still warm as she picked it up, and it felt comforting in her skinny fingers. She ate in small bites, savoured every mouthful and caught any crumbs that fell in her palm. Mémé’s biscuits were the best in the world, better than any Ursula had eaten from a shop, and the sunflower ones were her favourite. She finished off the remaining crumbs from her hand and, feeling suitably energized, she continued to work on the puzzle.
Within sixty minutes, she had completed it and within another thirty she had written her own similar puzzle, with a solution, and was sitting on her grandparents’ bed explaining how she had done it. Outside, the sun had set but Ursula was basking in the warmth of her Granddad’s delighted smile.
“I knew you could do it,” he said, more excited than he had been for years.
“And I knew I would find you with your Granddad,” interrupted Mémé as she appeared in the bedroom doorway. “It’s bedtime for you young lady.”
Her hands were placed forcefully on her hips, and Ursula knew that this pose meant Granddad Benjamin was in trouble.
“But Marie-Thérèse,” he pleaded, in French, as his wife spoke limited English. “Ursula has just solved the prize puzzle in Le Monde,”
“I don’t care if she’s just solved the planet’s energy crisis. It’s bedtime! And that applies to you too, Jerome. I’m not happy with you at all, NOT AT ALL, I say.”
Granddad is in for it now, thought Ursula.
She looked for a place to hide, in case Mémé started throwing things at him. Even though Mémé had not done this for years, Ursula did not want to get caught in the cross-fire in case it happened again.
“The whole of Europe will be entering that competition, millions and millions of people who are probably a lot cleverer than Ursula.”
She looked at Ursula and apologized for the last comment.
“But…” began Granddad Benjamin
“But this means absolutely no chance of winning. Getting Ursula excited for no reason is one thing but getting yourself so excited at your age, and with your health, and with a lack of proper medications is just, just,” she hunted for the right word, “dangerous! Ursula, au lit.”
Ursula was glad to leave, before Mémé gave her Granddad a proper roasting. She had only done the puzzle to make him happy; she hadn’t meant to get him excited or get him into trouble. Leaving the newspaper and her puzzle on the bed she stood up miserably and walked towards the door.
“Bonne nuit, Mémé,” she said and gave her Grandmother a kiss on the cheek.
“Bonne nuit, ma cherie,” replied Mémé, who moved away from the door.
Behind his wife’s back, Granddad Benjamin pulled a rude face which made Ursula giggle as she tiptoed past her Grandmother.
The moment Ursula had left the room, Mémé picked up Le Monde and Ursula’s puzzle and waved them in her husband’s direction.
“I mean it Jerome, Ursula will be devastated if she lost you and so would I.”
Granddad Benjamin dropped his head solemnly and mumbled an apology, but his wife hadn’t quite finished yet. She kept shaking the newspaper and puzzle, which were now screwed up together, and continued.
“And none of this puzzle nonsense!” she warned before storming out of the bedroom and turning out the light as she went.
In the darkness, Granddad Benjamin whispered, “She’s a softy, really. She’ll send it.”
A victorious smile appeared across his face, and he promptly fell fast asleep.
The next morning before anyone was up, Mémé took the screwed up newspaper and unfolded it as if it were made of gold. She cutout the completed puzzle as neatly as she could and put it with the puzzle Ursula had written. Taking extra care, she ironed each one and then placed them in an envelope she had addressed the previous evening. She slipped silently out of the flat, took the lift down to the post box on the ground floor of the block and secretly sent off Ursula’s entry.
Eric gripped Le Monde tightly in his right hand and a fountain pen in his left. He was worried, but he did not let it show as he stood in the centre of his parent’s luxurious Parisian living room. They had four other properties around the world, but this was undoubtedly his least favourite and, at nearly two hundred and fifty years old, the oldest. In his opinion, it belonged in the years before the French Revolution with its grandiose furnishings, marble flooring and fireplace the size of a shed. The decadent, crystal chandelier alone had just been valued at over one hundred thousand Euros, and his parents adored it.
Eric could understand why the French peasants had wanted to chop off aristocratic heads when they entered these buildings. Simple bad taste in furnishings alone was reason enough in his mind. However, the worst thing about the room, which he loathed more than everything else put together, was the family portrait. It hung above the crafted mantelpiece in a gold gilded frame and dominated the room. There were two reasons he hated it so much. Firstly, he had not posed for it. Secondly, it had been painted in a romantic style with pinkish rose hues that made him want to retch. To keep his food down, he looked from the painting to his parents. They were sat in front of him on a rich burgundy sofa with finely carved, teak legs.
Mr. and Mrs Meyer were sat very close together with knees touching and hands resting in each other’s. Eric had watched his father play poker and had seen that where money and gambling were concerned he was supremely focused. Eric had watched his mother on the catwalk and had seen that she oozed confidence from every beautiful pore. However, where Eric was concerned they were neither focused nor confident; most of the time they just avoided him. When they did spend time with him, they didn’t really know what to do, unless it involved giving presents.
“So, let me get this absolutely clear,” said Eric.
He threw the pen above his head. It spun around in the air so close to the expensive chandelier that
his mother winced.
“The only thing you wanted to tell me this evening is that you are running a rather childish competition in the international press of Europe, and the person who solves this silly little puzzle will win ten thousand Euros?”
“It’s not that silly, Bambino,” said his mother looking hurt and pouting.
“It took me slightly longer than an hour to complete it and I’m ONLY eleven! Of course it’s silly!”
“But it vas designed by a man I hired vith an IQ plus 200, son,” his father said.
“Next time why don’t you save yourself some money and ask me to do it?”
Eric was on edge. He knew that his parents were avoiding telling him something else. Their stalling was unnerving his Saxon reason and awakening his Latin temper.
“I’ll ask again. The only thing you wanted to tell me this evening was about this competition?”
Mr Meyer’s eyes moved away from Eric and made contact with his wife’s. Without speaking but with an unsubtle nodding of his head, he prompted his wife to tell Eric the news. She looked guilty and flustered; began to pout again and shot glances at her son. Even though he looked calm and stood almost like a statue, inside Eric was turning to jelly. All he wanted was a normal family life, but his parents seemed opposed to such boring matters as bringing up a child. What else could he expect from a beauty queen and poker king who met in Vegas, dated in Monaco and were married by a pastor dressed as Elvis on the Great Barrier Reef?
The pouting stopped, and Mrs Meyer began, “Erika, Bambino.”
Eric’s back tensed. His mother would never let him forget that he was not the daughter she had so desperately desired.
“We are worried that you are lonely. That you are talented and... gifted and... special.”
Eric did nothing but waited for the punch line. He was being complimented which, he had learnt from experience, meant the news he was about to receive was really bad. His mother continued.
“Therefore, we wanted to find someone who was a match or an equal to you.”
“In other vords, son,” his father interrupted, “ve have decided to use the ‘Meyer Foundation for the Deprived, Needy and Challenged’ to find you a friend.”
“I don’t need your foundation for the poor, dirty and stupid to find me a friend. I don’t need friends,” Eric stated forcefully and then blurted out, “I just need you.”
If his parents had been tortoises, they would have chosen that moment to retreat sharply into their shells and not re-emerge until Spring.
“If a suitable person enters a vinning puzzle into the competition, son, ve vill use the foundation to avard them a scholarship to your school in Prague.”
Just as Eric was about to say, “Great! I’m going to bed,” Mr. Meyer nudged his wife. This new development was frightening, and it meant they had not finished yet. Eric’s mouth froze before he could utter the words.
“As well as the scholarship, Bambino, we will also support the winner financially in Prague.”
There was more to come. Eric could feel it, and his blood started to boil.
“And Erika,” she paused, fearful to go on, “they can live in our house too.”
That was it, the big news that they were scared to tell him was out in the open. The bombshell had been detonated.
Phew, it’s over, thought Eric.
Despite being mightily annoyed at the future intrusion on his privacy, he relaxed. He congratulated his parents on such noble charity work, and he applauded his ‘Parents’ Pet Project’ as he had instantly named it. He hoped that the PPP would be happy in the cellar with the rats, bid his parents good night and spun round to leave. Behind him, his father let out an extremely false cough that he normally reserved for waiters in fancy restaurants. Eric stopped in a heartbeat and without hurrying, for fear of showing his concern, turned around on the spot.
“You have not fully understood, son,” said Mr Meyer. He stumbled over his words as he said them. “They von’t be staying vith the rats, they’ll be staying vith us, sort of, in a manner of talking, if you see vhat I mean.”
Eric’s mind went into overdrive. Shared dinners, wet towels in his bathroom, fights over the television channel, locks on his room, no chocolate biscuits... but all he could think of saying was, “Fine, I don’t have to communicate with your PPP, I’ll just ignore it and speak to you instead.”
Mrs Meyer removed a frilly handkerchief from a satin sleeve and dabbed her forehead delicately.
“Erika, Bambino, you may have to if we are not there.”
“I’ll wait until you get home,” he answered and crossed his arms securely to show that he meant what he said.
“That might be hard, son because your mother and me, ve have been speaking, and next month is our anniversary of fourteen years.”
“Congratulations,” said Eric flatly but his father ignored him.
“So ve decided to go on a second honeymoon.”
“Good for you,” said Eric without any trace of enthusiasm. “Take a week or two weeks, I’m sure I can handle the PPP for that long.”
Suddenly Mrs Meyer blurted out, “We’ll be gone from September until April.”
Eric’s jaw hit the floor. “What? Eight months!”
“Yes, we’ve decided to make good use of the yacht and sail around the world,” declared his mother as if she were just going down the shops. “But don’t worry, Andrea will be here to look after you both.”
In a fraction of a second, Eric’s blood reached boiling point, and his brain spun out of control. He had no idea who was now talking to him. It could not be his parents. Parents would never leave their child for eight months! On the sofa, with reassuring smiles plastered all over their faces, sat his mother and father. They looked as if they did not have a care in the world.
With a jolt that made him wince, Eric’s mind went blank. The thoughts that had been exploding in his brain like fireworks stopped, and a new one emerged. It flashed in his head like breaking news on the television, ‘PARENTS AWAY FOR EIGHT MONTHS TO BE REPLACED BY INSIGNIFICANT PPP FLAT-MATE. ERIC MEYER WHEN ASKED TO COMMENT STATED...’
In truth, Eric did not know what to say; his dream of a normal family life had been put on hold for yet another eight months, and he felt, he felt, he felt... His thoughts were broken by a rather ill-timed comment from his mother.
“Cuddle, Bambino?”
It was the straw that broke the camel’s back, and Eric felt his rage about to spin out of control. His parents took this point to stand up, walk quickly behind the sofa and out of the living room into the hallway. They didn’t even say goodnight. Eric saw in quick succession yellow, orange and then RED. Without thinking he charged, like an Olympic long jumper, towards where they had been sitting and sprang into the air.
Eric hit the bouncy sofa with the speed of a train, his feet sunk into the cushions and he sprang backwards up towards the high ceiling. He twisted effortlessly in the air, dropped Le Monde, put out his hands and caught hold of the chandelier. The force of his movement swung the chandelier upwards and just before it made contact with the ceiling Eric let go. He somersaulted towards the door, landed calmly on his feet and walked quietly out of the room as if nothing had happened. Behind him, there was a thunderous crash as the chandelier hit the ceiling and smashed into countless crystal hailstones which rained down upon the room.
When at last the glass and dust had settled, Eric’s parents appeared from the hallway door.
“I thought that vent vell,” said Mr Meyer gleefully.
“I agree,” purred his wife. “Let’s go out for dinner.”
Back to Contents
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Chapter 4 - The Competition Entries
Within three days of the competition being published the first entry arrived. It had been sent from Portugal and arrived in a manila envelope with looping handwriting on the front. Attached to the entry was a letter praising the puzzle and offering, it claimed, an even more challenging version. The solution was
wrong. Andrea filed it carefully in the paper recycling bin and opened the second envelope.
Andrea was working in a windowless office in the Meyer’s Parisian apartment. It was hot and stuffy in the room due to the large number of sacks full of entries. They were piled up high and blocked the vent leading to the central air-ventilation shaft, which ran through the building from the basement to the roof. Amongst the sacks, and almost hidden, was a laptop with a special scanner attached. Andrea was sitting in front of it.
The process was simple. First she would open the envelope, with a well-manicured fingernail, and place the solution under the scanner. She would wait zero point five seven seconds for the laptop to declare if the solution were correct and then file the entry. Winners were placed in a wire mesh tray, losers in the recycling bin. It was a laborious and mechanical task, but she didn’t mind. She had been asked to do it and she would.
For four days, she worked tirelessly through the entries one-by-one. By the morning of the fifth day she had handled, and the computer had scanned 404,210 entries. Some were only slightly wrong and contained only one or two errors. Others were not even close. A huge number of people had blatantly filled in the puzzle randomly and hoped they would win. Over a thousand people sent begging letters and seventeen more sent threats. Only twenty-eight entries were correct and, of these, only four contained alternate puzzles that worked.
On the fifth day, Andrea took the winning entries from the tray and looked them over in detail. The first winner was from Finland. Her name was Aamu Kuusi and she was twenty-six years of age. She would receive the prize money, but she was not a suitable ‘friend’ for Eric. Jose Moreno from Spain was in his eighties. Eliisabet Raudsepp from Estonia was fifteen and ‘Fraser’ from Scotland did not give his age but claimed he was, “no spring chicken.” Even though they were all winners, none of them fitted the criteria she had been given. Mr. and Mrs Meyer would not be happy. Instead, she picked up a headset attached to the laptop and used it to call Serge.
