The 13.5 Lives of Captain Bluebear

by Walter Moers

  The Colodrome, a huge theatre with 34 stages, was presenting a marathon performance of The Voltigork’s Vibrobass, an experimental drama by Wilfred the Wordsmith. It lasted 240 hours and employed a cast of 3000 actors. The spectators relieved each other in shifts, but this did not render the production any less intelligible because Wilfred’s play was intended as an attack on pure meaning and repeated the dialogue, with only minor variations, every twelve hours. Chemluth, who had seen parts of the play, was very disappointed by it. He’d been bewildered by the fact that the actors delivered their lines backwards and were permitted to eat their meals on stage.

  Psittachus Rumplestilt, the author of How Dank Was My Valley, was signing copies of How Dank Was My Valley II, the sequel to his best-seller, in the Topers’ Tavern, a literary café on the outskirts of the Italian quarter.

  The Zamonian Wolpertingers had issued a general invitation to a chess marathon at their favourite establishment, The Desperate Endgame. Their advertisement promised the victor free beer and immunity from physical violence.

  The Big-Footed Bertts were organizing a protest march down Ilstatna Boulevard. Participants, who were invited to suggest what the protest should be about, would be provided with plenty of blank placards and banners to write on.

  Culrossian Porg, a former troll-hunter turned trollophile, was chairing a public meeting at the North Lisnatat Youth Hostel. Those attending this event, which was bound to expose him to criticism of his former activities, would doubtless be limited to infuriated trolls and, possibly, to avowed trollophiles.

  Professor Yobbo G. Yobb, the founder of Yobbism, was scheduled to lecture and insult his audience at the Muchwater Museum.

  The Rickshaw Demons were organizing piggyback races in Atlantis Park, free of charge, to improve their image with the younger generation. (They had been trying to do this for years, but they were so hideous that no child ever turned up, and the Rickshaw Demons would probably find themselves deserted yet again, paper hats and free bottles of Demon Lemonade notwithstanding.)

  The Consortio Flagellantium, a group of fat, toad-headed Italian tenors, were scheduled to perform some ancient choral works on an open-air stage in Silnatat, simultaneously thrashing each other with fresh stinging nettles to attain still greater expression in the upper register.

  The Museum of Ineffabilities, which displayed objects people didn’t care to talk about, was presenting a special exhibition entitled ‘Zamonian Dental Instruments through the Ages’. Anyone who saw what Bluddums employed to perform extractions without anaesthetic was guaranteed to clean his teeth five times a day thereafter.

  ‘Flash’ Fangfang, the lightning tamer, was giving a show in the Square of Lost Souls, a kind of open-air theatre in central Lisnatat. ‘Flash’ had discovered that the shafts of greased lightning which flickered through Atlantis at night were attracted to water. Accordingly, he arranged buckets of water in ever-changing geometrical patterns at places in the city where this phenomenon occurred with particular frequency. The lightning shafts cavorted from bucket to bucket in an extremely graceful manner, producing a type of balletic son et lumière. Needless to say, ‘Flash’ cordoned off these sites well in advance and pocketed a fat entrance fee.

  Melliflor Gunk, the darling of every female Atlantean less than two hundred years old, was giving a recital that had been sold out for months. Stripped to the waist and accompanying himself on a diamond-encrusted harp, he sang all his songs, which told of eternal love and the purchase of exorbitantly expensive engagement rings, with tears streaming down his cheeks.

  The Half-Baked Meat Helmets, an avant-garde theatrical company from South Zamonia currently appearing in a nightclub cellar, allowed audiences to pelt them with coins in return for an admission fee.

  Heavily attended, no doubt, was the gebba match between the urban districts of Tatilans and Titalans for the Rickshaw Cup (another image-boosting venture on the part of the PR-minded Rickshaw Demons). Gebba was the prototype of football, the sport so popular today, except that the teams numbered as many as 5000 players and the game was played, not with a ball, but with 400 wooden discs of various colours. These had to be kicked into an indeterminate number of small round goals, which in turn were closely defended by forty goalkeepers. The venue was the Gebba Palace, a building on twenty floors. This made it impossible to maintain an overall view of the game, which lasted all day but could also continue, with numerous periods of extra time, far into the night. Every gebba match was followed by days-long arguments over who had really won, a question that often defied elucidation. Victory and defeat were immaterial, however, because taking part was all that mattered.

  Yes indeed, Atlantis had many forms of entertainment to offer, but the main event on Wednesdays, beyond a doubt, took place in the city’s Megathon. This was the Duel of the Congladiators, for which Chemluth obtained two tickets to celebrate my invention of the pizza sandwich.

  From the

  ‘Encyclopedia of Marvels, Life Forms and Other Phenomena of Zamonia and its Environs’

  by Professor Abdullah Nightingale

  Congladiators of Atlantis, The. Popular idols endowed with an ability to con an audience in an entertaining manner. Professional congladiators regularly engage in so-called Duels of Lies at the Megathon in Atlantis, where they compete for the title ‘King of Lies’ by exchanging fictitious stories. Audiences assess and evaluate the contestants’ relative entertainment value with the aid of a rather complicated scoring system. In order to practise this profession, aspirants must undergo intensive training at the Liars’ Institute, rising by degrees from assistant liar to certified congladiator. The congladiators of Atlantis belong to the Self-Employed Guild. They combine the talents of a conman, comedian, stage actor, samurai, heavyweight boxer, chess grandmaster, and – of course – Roman gladiator.

  Congladiators are more idolized in Atlantis than any other kind of talented entertainer. Popular congladiators have schools and observatories named after them. To keep his name on everyone’s lips, the reigning King of Lies has it stamped on every loaf of bread baked in Atlantis. The most popular of all time was →Nussram Fakhir the Unique, who held the title for twelve years before relinquishing it of his own free will.

  The Megathon

  The Megathon was a circular, roofless stadium with tiers of seats for approximately a hundred thousand spectators and a small stage in the middle. We entered it by one of the four main gates and looked for our row – one of the cheaper ones, naturally. The stadium was completely sold out, as it was for every Duel of Lies. The upper tiers at the back, whose occupants got in free because they could see almost nothing, were largely monopolized by roistering Bluddums and Yetis who belched, bellowed the names of their favourite congladiators, and pelted other spectators with gnawed corn cobs (it was a traditional feature of duels of lies that grilled corn cobs and hot beer were sold at the entrance to the stadium).

  Seated in the front row were Norselanders, city dignitaries, celebrities, and – of course – Reganaan Salias II, the current mayor of Atlantis. The central tiers were occupied by Atlanteans of every conceivable kind, all mixed up together: Draks, Venetian Mannikins, Poophs, Waterkins, Anklemen, Woodentops – duel-of-lies enthusiasts were drawn from all social classes. The only absentees were the Invisibles, not that one knew this for certain because they couldn’t be seen in any case.

  High above the spectators, stationed at regular intervals on the circular stadium wall, were the Gryphons and Gargylls whose task it was to keep order. Duels of Lies were emotional occasions, and the hard-bitten fans of certain congladiators had a tendency to brawl. Bluddums, in particular, seized every opportunity to vandalize seats and swear at inoffensive spectators.

  Corn cobs and hot beer

  Chemluth and I were seated in the twentieth row, each holding a steaming beer and a sizzling corn cob. Chemluth was a prey to mixed emotions. He had just broken it off with a troll girl because she had turned up for their date with her hair bobbed in the latest fashi
on. That was the real reason for our presence in the Megathon: Chemluth declared that the best aids to banishing one’s cares were a hot beer, a corn cob, and a thrilling Duel of Lies.

  I began to enjoy the show even before it opened. The excited chatter of a hundred thousand spectators, the solemn phnagguff music played by the Mountain Dwarf band in the orchestra pit, the scent of toasted corn cobs – all these generated an atmosphere that enthralled me from the very first. I shuffled excitedly to and fro on my seat and asked Chemluth at five-minute intervals how soon the show would start. He himself, having already witnessed several such duels, was considerably calmer.

  ‘A while yet, gah. They like to boost the suspense by keeping the audience on tenterhooks.’

  The Mountain Dwarf orchestra was now playing a phnagguff arrangement of the Zamonian national anthem. Everyone rose and joined in, the Bluddums loudest of all:

  All hail to thee, Zamonia,

  beloved native land,

  encircled by the ocean blue

  and girt with silver sand … and so on.

  Having got that over, we could resume our seats. Next, some Norselander mimes mounted the stage of the Megathon and launched into an unutterably boring routine that illustrated the history of the mayors of Atlantis. This drew enthusiastic applause from the ringside seats.

  Then came the master of ceremonies, who announced the contestants in an awe-inspiring voice: Mutra Singh, an Indian fakir, and Deng Po, a former Rickshaw Demon. He laboriously enumerated the two congladiators’ victories and defeats, their relative weights, their hobbies and favourite authors, their star signs and dates of birth. Then, unaccompanied and with no discernible musicality, he sang a song in Old Zamonian, a language unintelligible to ninety-nine per cent of his audience. Although this ritual invariably evoked impatient murmurs and hisses, it was a centuries-old tradition.

  At long last the supporting bouts began. Not to be compared with the main event in terms of form and quality, they served as a warm-up and provided ambitious young congladiators with an opportunity to prove themselves in front of a sizeable audience. Two youthful tyros would mount the circular stage, stand there looking diffident, and verbally joust in a rather puerile way.

  They tried to sell each other ill-constructed tall stories and, at the same time, accuse each other of lying – a pretty unedifying affair, and one that usually culminated in the following type of dialogue:

  ‘It just isn’t true!’

  ‘It is!’

  ‘It isn’t!’

  ‘It is, so!’

  I was very disappointed. After all the fuss people made about congladiators, this struck me as quite pathetic. Resentful that so much good money had been wasted on the tickets – enough to buy me a month’s ration of honey – I conveyed my displeasure to Chemluth.

  ‘Wait a bit, gah,’ he told me. ‘It’s all part of the show. They’re beginners – they need practice.’

  The Duel of Lies

  The main bout began at last. Two large, thronelike chairs, gilded all over and set with precious crystals, were trundled into the arena. Mounted on the high back of each, like a clock or tachometer, was a huge dial. The chairs were also attached to a complex system of cables. Then another piece of equipment was pushed on to the stage: a big silver box with an outsize, stylized ear projecting from either side.

  ‘That’s the applause meter. The louder the applause, the more points.’

  I realized that the spectators’ reaction played a substantial part in assessing each performance. The applause meter registered the volume and converted it into points for the contestant in question. The duellists eventually mounted the stage. They wore traditional velvet duelling cloaks, blue for the challenger and red for the reigning King of Lies. The spectators rose from their seats, simultaneously humming and strumming their lower lips. This produced the thousandfold ‘Brrrr!’ with which audiences customarily paid homage to the contestants.

  Urged on by their fans, the pair approached their chairs with stately tread and sat down. Then a mighty gong was struck in the orchestra pit and the duel commenced.

  As challenger, Deng Po had to start the contest. Singh sat back with a relaxed air. Having held the title for the past six months, he calmly awaited the challenger’s opening move. Deng Po began with a story from his native land, a delicately constructed fairy tale in which, if my memory serves me, an important part was played by sundry Chinese wind and water sprites. His delivery was crisp and devoid of stage fright, and he embellished his story with one or two humorous interjections and a dramatic dénouement.

  The audience applauded politely, the applause meter registered 2.5, and Sing embarked on his response. He countered with a story from his own native land. This dealt with the discovery of rice, to which Singh laid personal claim, and with an epic novel which he had allegedly written with a fly’s eyelash.

  Far more suspenseful than his opponent’s, Singh’s story embodied a wealth of hair-raising scientific details and razor-sharp witticisms. He also possessed greater histrionic ability. He enunciated better, his gestures were more assured, and his talent for mimicry captivated the audience. He scored a straight 6.0 on the applause meter.

  Deng shrugged off this initial setback. His second story, a kind of fisherman’s tale from the China Sea, described the catching of a huge fish made of solid gold. He had clearly saved it with a view to raising the stakes. His delivery was better, too, and his gestures were more confident. He embroidered the story with fictitious biological facts about goldfish and satirical asides aimed at the Chinese fishing authorities. These evoked uproarious laughter from his audience, especially the Rickshaw Demons. He scored 3.8 on the dial, not bad for a challenger at this early stage in the contest.

  But here my powers of recall fail me a little. I can’t remember the adversaries’ tall stories in every detail, but I do know that their duel developed into an equal and exciting contest lasting over three hours. The stories became more and more ingenious and imaginative, the details more subtle, the jokes more fanciful. The audience bestowed its favour sometimes on Singh, sometimes on Deng, but the needle never came to rest below 4.0, some indication of the high standard of the lies on offer.

  In the end, rather predictably, victory went to the more experienced Mutra Singh. Deng Po had not yet learnt to pace himself, it seemed, because he definitely flagged during the final phase. He had used up his best material in the middle of the duel, whereas Singh saved his best stories for the end. Deng eventually threw off his cloak as a mark of submission, for a Duel of Lies continued until one of the contestants resigned.

  Singh, who had won deservedly but not spectacularly, was carried around the Megathon for an hour by boisterous Bluddums. Then the Mountain Dwarf orchestra struck up a Zamonian lullaby and the gates were opened to allow the spectators to disperse into the darkness.

  Slightly tipsy after our hot beer, we discussed the contest as we walked home. The night was sultry, and Atlantis was bathed in a flickering blue glow by the shafts of greased lightning that rampaged through the streets.

  Chemluth, who had placed a small bet on the outsider, was correspondingly disappointed with his performance. I was thoroughly delighted by the whole affair because it was so new to me. Never had I been so carried away by a cultural event. It fascinated me that an activity as disapproved-of as lying could be turned into a thrilling sport. I had chewed several of my claws to the quick, and I couldn’t help chuckling retrospectively at some of Singh’s brilliant punchlines.

  But something else kept nagging me. During the contest I had put myself in the duellists’ place and devised my own tactics, my own tall stories – indeed, I had sometimes been faintly disappointed by what they themselves had come out with. This seemed presumptuous of me, so I didn’t dare tell Chemluth, but I genuinely felt I could match the performances I had seen that night, if not improve on them.

  The congladiatorial contest preoccupied me for days afterwards. I couldn’t concentrate on my work – much to
the delight of our customers, because I anointed the pizzas far too liberally – and became more and more dissatisfied with my job as a pizza-topper. True, I earned good money, worked in warm surroundings and always had plenty to eat, but surely that couldn’t be the acme of my professional career.

  The restaurant was particularly full one night, and Chemluth and I had to work flat out to keep up with demand. The weather was hot and sultry, the stoves had been stoked until they were white-hot, and we were both streaming with sweat.

  But my thoughts strayed out into the open air and back in time. They roamed through the streets of Atlantis to the Megathon and the night of the Duel of Lies. I analysed the congladiators’ tactics and mistakes, ran through the entire contest in my mind’s eye, dreamed up my own tall stories – and topped the pizzas more generously than ever. I was so preoccupied, I failed to notice that Nabab Yeo had planted himself in front of me and was giving me a dressing-down. Waving his four arms wildly in the air, he brandished a ladle under my nose and accused me of trying to ruin him. He had often done this before without getting under my skin, but this time I threw my apron at his feet and strode off. Chemluth, who was glad of an excuse to quit the job, followed suit.

  An earthquake

  I was on my way to the exit when the ground suddenly fell away from under my feet. Airborne, I flailed around with my forelegs and hind legs, then landed on my back. The ground was shaking so violently that all the tables in the restaurant went walkabout and big flakes of plaster showered down from the ceiling. The staff and customers let out a chorus of panic-stricken cries. Chemluth dragged me under a table, to which we clung by the legs. The jolting persisted for a while, and more and more customers came crowding into our refuge. Then the tremors abruptly ceased. One of the pizza ovens had burst, spewing a stream of red-hot coals into the restaurant. The floor was littered with plaster, broken crockery, and splintered glass. It was the most violent earthquake to have occurred since my arrival in Atlantis.