The 13.5 Lives of Captain Bluebear

by Walter Moers

  On the other hand, they were still very ugly. Contorted faces, long yellow teeth, exposed gums, rolling eyes, lolling tongues, hirsute ears, multicoloured lips, horned heads, facial warts, bristly hair – all these were typical features for which little could be done. The vainer demons made repeated attempts to remedy them, however. They had their teeth whitened and their lips bleached, tried to keep their tongues under control and refrain from rolling their eyes too wildly, concealed their horns under grotesque hats, wore tailormade clothes, and did their utmost not to be conspicuous.

  Nussram exploited this social aspect in his next group of stories. They were simply dolled-up demon jokes (which were very popular in Atlantis), but he lent them an artistic gloss with a variety of demon impressions and daring political allusions, and, above all, an intimate knowledge of demonological conventions that could only have stemmed from personal experience. He imitated the lisping speech of the Rickshaw Demons, the clumsy movements of the Balinese Shadow Ghosts, the squinting eyes of the Japanese Grimacers. He had a perfect command of all their dialects, the swallowed consonants of the Grailsundian Gallows-bird, the stuttering delivery of the Gloomberg Goblin, the keening of the Irish Banshee.

  Although every story was a masterpiece of parody, Nussram didn’t tread on the demons’ corns. He managed to portray their eccentricities and bizarre habits in such a sympathetic way that the numerous demons in the audience applauded him loudest of all.

  My own stories were less memorable, but I stood my ground. Although six of the eleven rounds went to Nussram, I scored a respectable number of points. The level of applause for Nussram continued to be high, whereas mine was in the medium range.

  Rounds 34-45

  Then came a phase when fatigue set in, for the audience as well as for us. We both had to ease off a little, recoup our energy, rest and refresh our imagination. The spectators’ attention span and capacity for enthusiasm had definitely diminished. The Megathon became restive. Many of the audience stood up and regaled themselves with corn cobs and hot beer.

  So the next twelve rounds were shared and the scores remained comparatively low. Neither of us registered more than five points, our stories were too feeble and the applause was too half-hearted. We both resorted to routine tricks, told new versions of old stories, picked up the thread of each other’s jokes, and marked time, narratively speaking. In an attempt to conserve our strength, we fought like weary boxers leaning on each other for a round or two.

  Rounds 46-57

  I managed to make up some ground in the next dozen rounds. Nussram Fhakir was showing slight but unmistakable signs of fatigue.

  Reserves of energy

  I now understood why Smyke had been so insistent on my losing: in the long run, the age difference was making itself felt. I was simply in better condition, with more staying power and younger vocal cords. Nussram’s lack of stamina (perceptible only to a pro) sent me into a state of restrained euphoria. We had now fought nearly sixty rounds and were roughly level on points. I was back in top form. Stories kept popping into my head as they had during my first congladiatorial contest with the Troglotroll. What was more, I bubbled over with such masses of ideas that I lumped several stories together in one round, using enough material for five, and tossed ideas around with wild abandon. The audience came to life again.

  Although it was contrary to all the rules and against all common sense to be so extravagant with one’s repertoire of lies, I felt I’d tapped an inexhaustible supply. There were plenty more where those came from.

  I told of my adventures on the Island of Sirens, of my ability to fashion a work of art out of any piece of wood, of the point I’d snapped off Neptune’s crown. I told of an elevator that had taken me to the centre of the earth, of collecting crocodile tears on the Amazon, and of painting the Aurora Borealis on the sky with the tail of a comet I’d ridden. I presented insights into my professional life and described how I’d worked as a star decorator, hiccup curer, equator supervisor, underwater policeman, wave comber, and tide conductor. Speaking in the strictest confidence, I informed the audience that I had been responsible for salting the oceans, icing the Polar Circle, and drying out the Demerara Desert.

  I gesticulated, performed convincing impressions, made generous use of my stage voice, and twisted around on my throne to squeeze the last laugh out of my listeners, who were once more, at long last, disposed to be enthusiastic. I was rewarded for my efforts with some more maximum scores, and none of my stories obtained fewer than nine points.

  Nussram, meanwhile, was looking overtired. Although he continued, on the acting level, to serve up some brilliant theatrical fictions which any younger congladiator would have envied, an expert could tell from his diminished body language that he was soft-pedalling.

  My own strength abated too, not gradually but all at once. With fifty-seven rounds behind me I was ten clear rounds in the lead and should now have put on speed, but every muscle in my face hurt from talking and grimacing, my throat was parched, and my tongue was as swollen and rough as sandpaper. Worst of all, my brain had dried up.

  I couldn’t think of a single idea.

  And that was when Nussram Fhakir really turned up the heat.

  Rounds 58-77

  I hadn’t expected that. Nussram had been fooling me all the time. It was a tactical ploy. He’d leaned on the ropes, so to speak, recouped his strength, and showed me up like a greenhorn. I was completely burnt out – I had senselessly squandered my best ideas, intoxicated with the certainty of victory, whereas he seemed to be in better shape than he had been at the outset.

  I had underestimated two things. In the first place, there was the immense amount of experience he’d amassed during a reign twelve times as long as mine. He had not only told thousands of stories but heard and memorized thousands more, a fund of material from which to assemble entirely new ones. Secondly, he’d enjoyed a long rest. It was six years since he’d trodden the boards, whereas I had fought one duel after another for the past year. I was finished; he was on the brink of a new beginning. He now came up with an utterly novel variant of the congladiatorial duel, a revolutionary way of presenting lies which he had devised during his self-imposed absence from the stage and now played like a trump card. He raised his hand, and at his signal the stage was invaded by a band of Voltigorks, each armed with a bizarre instrument. I registered two troll-hide drums, two Florinthian trumboons, a crystal harp, three musical saws, two Hackonian alphorns, two vibrobasses, and a Yhôllian concertina. The musicians formed up behind Nussram’s throne and awaited his word of command.

  Nussram’s musical innovation

  Astonished whispers ran round the auditorium. It was neither expressly permitted nor forbidden to underscore lies with a musical accompaniment. It was simply that no one had thought of the idea. So that was what Nussram had been up to during his mysterious absence: he had devoted himself to music and developed and trained his voice in that artistic discipline; he had devised new lies and arrayed them in musical attire. As a former admirer I couldn’t help secretly taking my hat off to him. He had reinvented the art of lying.

  His first musical lie took the form of an operatic aria, with a slow, heart-rending trumboon solo overlaid by Nussram’s sonorous tenor as he sang the words in Old Zamonian. It didn’t matter that very few of the audience understood the libretto. They knew what it was about, like all arias, because the music translated the words into emotions. It dealt with great things like love, betrayal, death, and – of course – infamous lies. Nussram used the short flight of steps in front of his throne for histrionic interludes. He pranced skilfully up and down them, crawled around on them, pounded them with his fists. In conclusion he fell down them with consummate artistry, simulating his own death, and breathed his last in a deep bass voice.

  I had to admit that Nussram was not only a talented singer but a gifted composer. The melodies really did have great appeal. Needless to say, he scored ten points. The audience went absolutely wild – more
enthusiastic than at any other stage in the duel.

  As for me, I failed even to complete my next story. I was booed to a standstill for the first time in my career. All the audience wanted was to see and hear what my opponent had devised for his next offering.

  The musicians rearranged themselves. I had expected Nussram to pursue his proven operatic line still further, but his next story was a complete change in every respect: type of music, tempo, volume, even his own appearance. Discarding his congladiatorial cloak, he treated the audience to the sight of his bare chest, which was remarkably muscular for his age. This earned him a few gasps from the fair sex. Then – there’s no other way of putting it – he swept the board.

  The troll-hide drummers struck up a steady rhythm, actively supported by the Voltigorks in the vibrobass section. The brutal but infectious beat made the Megathon shake. Then the musical saws came in with an electrifying melody that caused the first few spectators to stand on their seats and set even my knees twitching. Nussram, who had switched to a smoky bass register, was shaking his hips – rather inanely, in my opinion, but the audience liked it. Even the concertina’s shrillest chords enlivened the atmosphere. It was all I could do to refrain from clapping the rhythm myself and preserve a stoical demeanour. Meantime, the spectators were shaking their hips like Nussram.

  This was not only an entirely different way of telling lies but a wholly new conception of music. All that had previously been known in Atlantis were tragic operas, a wide variety of folk music, and the trashy, sentimental ballads of the crooner Melliflor Gunk. This was a novelty. Nussram really did have guts: he was staking everything on a single card.

  The story itself was almost unintelligible because of the din (it dealt with the acquisition of eternal youth by means of hip-shaking), and I doubted whether it could be called a lie at all, but Nussram’s success spoke for itself.

  Another ten points, another deafening ovation. Me, I had only to open my mouth to be booed.

  Nussram’s next mendacious tale was clearly audible because he employed a harp accompaniment only. Having donned his cloak again, he presented a musical account of the origin of the Impic Alps in a high-pitched, eunuch’s soprano. His song took the form of a fictitious saga which only just fell within the rules but was benevolently accepted by the audience. The melody was genuinely moving, albeit in a different way from the operatic aria. This time, Nussram was appealing to Zamonian love of country.

  Then he proceeded to yodel. Accompanied by the Hackonian alphorns, he warbled a curiously rhythmical melody that evoked wild applause, especially from the Mountain Dwarfs present. He also underlined the beat by leaping around in a circle and slapping his thighs with the flat of his hands, a procedure spontaneously copied by the audience.

  Finally, he reverted to a dramatic song that spoke of the mountains’ rosy glow and his inextinguishable love of his native land.

  The Bluddums sobbed at this. It was rather too sentimental for my taste, but there was no stopping Nussram. He scored ten points.

  All that remained for me was to tell my next story despite the booing.

  Nussram cleared his throat and ruffled his hair so that it hung over his face in wild disarray. He took over the Yhôllian concertina and delivered the most delicate tissue of lies in a voice of which any Irish Druid would have been proud. With glassy, tearful gaze, he sang in a sobbing tremolo of his sweetheart, who had been devoured by a vicious Tyrannomobyus Rex. She was still alive in the whale’s belly, however, and regularly sent him messages in a bottle.

  The Voltigorks formed a hoarse-voiced choir and joined in the refrain, which described the drinking habits of the sea gods. The audience joined in too, swaying rhythmically. The words of the song culminated in a dramatic rescue operation in the course of which Nussram not only extricated his sweetheart but strangled the whale with his bare hands. I couldn’t repress a silent, scornful laugh at this. Not so the audience. Ten points for Nussram, corn cobs and boos for me.

  By now, Volzotan Smyke had relaxed completely. The stadium had never before witnessed such enthusiasm for one contestant and such scathing rejection of the other. Nussram Fhakir was staging a sensational comeback.

  And so it went on for fifteen rounds, in each of which he changed his style of music, his voice, his appearance, and his narrative technique. He sang a mournful blues to the wailing saws, belted out an ecstatic war song in time to the troll-hide drums, presented operatic interludes, sang a cappella in a voice as clear as glass, played the vibrobass like a virtuoso, conducted his orchestra with lordly gestures, belaboured the crystal harp with his feet, tap-danced up and down the steps, and performed a few acrobatics of which I genuinely wouldn’t have believed him capable at his age. And he scored ten points every time. Meantime, the Bluddums had set some greasy corn cobs alight and were waving them in time to the music.

  Learning to take it

  I now had to display a congladiatorial quality that had never been tested in me before: the nerve to withstand boos and catcalls. Only the toughest possessed this, and many a congladiator had failed to pass the ordeal. But no duel was over until you resigned. The true congladiator showed genuine greatness when he held his ground at this, his darkest hour, and resisted the urge to run, sobbing, from the arena.

  I stood there, straight as a ramrod, as the gnawed corn cobs whistled past my ears. It was the nadir of my artistic career. Everything within me itched to flee the stage and crawl into the sewers, but I stood fast and endured all that came my way: boos, catcalls, hisses, corn cobs, beer mugs – even dismantled seats and an entire Bluddum hurled bodily on to the stage by his cronies. I didn’t sit down although these humiliations were even harder to endure while standing because they turned my hind legs to jelly. I even forced myself to stand on one paw to show how little they affected me.

  The audience knew that boos alone could not drive a congladiator from the stage. Negative reactions were also recorded on the meter; the louder the boos, the higher the score, so they eventually calmed down. Once you’ve passed that point, you’re over the worst. The manifestations of displeasure gradually ebbed and were replaced, first by peevish mutters and then by subdued applause. Audiences resemble wild beasts; they must first be tamed by iron will-power. Only the finest congladiators were capable of this.

  Nussram knew this too, which was why my endurance earned me more respect from him than all my stories put together. He was now learning, at long last, that he’d met his match.

  The applause did not begin to wane until his last five musical numbers. His two concluding vocal offerings earned him only nine and eight points respectively. After the seventy-second round his repertoire was exhausted, and he only gave encores. The spectators, tired of clapping and stamping their feet, had resumed their seats.

  The Voltigork orchestra waddled off the stage, peace returned, and I bravely told my next fictitious story. The audience was ready for a quieter style of presentation. Resistance to me had largely subsided.

  Rounds 78-90

  Rock bottom

  Our scores in the next thirteen rounds were the lowest of the duel to date. The spectators had been physically drained by Nussram’s musical interlude, and he himself was close to collapse. He had undoubtedly assumed that I would throw in the towel at some stage in his recital, but it hadn’t happened: I was still on my feet and his repertoire was exhausted. He fell back on routine stories, repeated some well-tried material, and scored minimum points. As for me, who was having to fight my way back from the brink of the abyss, I could likewise count myself lucky if I scored more than two or three points.

  In the end, three low-scoring rounds went to him and ten to me. The audience was running out of enthusiasm.

  ‘That’s enough, that’s enough!’ chanted a handful of Yetis.

  We had fought ninety rounds and won forty-five apiece. We were absolutely dead beat, both of us. Our histrionics were limited to an occasional, feeble wink or a twitch of the eyebrow.

  The audience
applauded out of politeness only, and none of our stories scored more than a single point. Shame forbids me to disclose their contents, but they really hit rock bottom. Our brains had been wrung dry of every last drop of imagination. Neither of us was willing to give up, of course, not after such a protracted battle. We seemed to be heading for a draw. I scanned the audience in search of inspiration. I needed something on which to base my next story.

  My eye fell on Smyke, who was still regarding me coldly. He had started it all, and I couldn’t help remembering how he had laughed when I described some episodes from my past. His belief that they were elaborate lies had been the making of my congladiatorial career.

  Episodes from my past …

  Just a minute!

  If Smyke had enjoyed them, why not the audience? He had an unerring nose for what was in demand. It wasn’t quite fair, because they weren’t fictitious at all, but who could prove that? Besides, Nussram’s musical interlude hadn’t been entirely in accordance with the rules.

  Round 91

  I began with the Minipirates. I described their nightly firework displays and their unsuccessful attempts to capture other vessels, my rapid growth on a diet of plankton and my ability to tie a knot in a fish. The spectators, who had almost forgotten what a good lie was, pricked up their ears. They were still in a state of lethargy, so the applause was nothing to write home about (three points), but I’d caught their attention again.

  That was a beginning. The beginning of the end.

  Nussram threw off his torpor with an effort. He was surprised, not having expected me to recover, but he pulled himself together and quickly stitched together a threadbare lie. It earned him two points.

  Round 92

  My next story dealt with Hobgoblin Island. I carefully built up the suspense in the dark, shadowy forest, then gave a vivid description of the spirits’ first appearance, imitating their frightful songs and movements. There followed a detailed account of my performances as a tear-jerking tenor and the Hobgoblins’ grisly eating habits.