The Umbrella Man and Other Stories

by Roald Dahl

  Mike Schofield was an amiable, middle-aged man. But he was a stockbroker. To be precise, he was a jobber in the stock market, and like a number of his kind, he seemed to be somewhat embarrassed, almost ashamed to find that he had made so much money with so slight a talent. In his heart he knew that he was not really much more than a bookmaker—an unctuous, infinitely respectable, secretly unscrupulous bookmaker—and he knew that his friends knew it, too. So he was seeking now to become a man of culture, to cultivate a literary and aesthetic taste, to collect paintings, music, books, and all the rest of it. His little sermon about Rhine wine and Moselle was a part of this thing, this culture that he sought.

  “A charming little wine, don’t you think?” he said. He was still watching Richard Pratt. I could see him give a rapid furtive glance down the table each time he dropped his head to take a mouthful of whitebait. I could almost feel him waiting for the moment when Pratt would take his first sip, and look up from his glass with a smile of pleasure, of astonishment, perhaps even of wonder, and then there would be a discussion and Mike would tell him about the village of Geierslay.

  But Richard Pratt did not taste his wine. He was completely engrossed in conversation with Mike’s eighteen-year-old daughter, Louise. He was half turned towards her, smiling at her, telling her, so far as I could gather, some story about a chef in a Paris restaurant. As he spoke, he leaned closer and closer to her, seeming in his eagerness almost to impinge upon her, and the poor girl leaned as far as she could away from him nodding politely, rather desperately, and looking not at his face but at the topmost button of his dinner jacket.

  We finished our fish, and the maid came round removing the plates. When she came to Pratt, she saw that he had not yet touched his food, so she hesitated, and Pratt noticed her. He waved her away, broke off his conversation, and quickly began to eat, popping the little crisp brown fish quickly into his mouth with rapid jabbing movements of his fork. Then, when he had finished, he reached for his glass, and in two short swallows he tipped the wine down his throat and turned immediately to resume his conversation with Louise Schofield.

  Mike saw it all. I was conscious of him sitting there, very still, containing himself, looking at his guest. His round jovial face seemed to loosen slightly and to sag, but he contained himself and was still and said nothing.

  Soon the maid came forward with the second course. This was a large roast beef. She placed it on the table in front of Mike who stood up and carved it, cutting the slices very thin, laying them gently on the plates for the maid to take around. When he had served everyone, including himself, he put down the carving knife and leaned forward with both hands on the edge of the table.

  “Now,” he said, speaking to all of us but looking at Richard Pratt. “Now for the claret. I must go and fetch the claret, if you’ll excuse me.”

  “You go and fetch it, Mike?” I said. “Where is it?”

  “In my study, with the cork out—breathing.”

  “Why the study?”

  “Acquiring room temperature, of course. It’s been there twenty-four hours.”

  “But why the study?”

  “It’s the best place in the house. Richard helped me choose it last time he was here.”

  At the sound of his name, Pratt looked round.

  “That’s right, isn’t it?” Mike said.

  “Yes,” Pratt answered, nodding gravely. “That’s right.”

  “On top of the green filing cabinet in my study,” Mike said.

  “That’s the place we chose. A good draught-free spot in a room with an even temperature. Excuse me now, will you, while I fetch it.”

  The thought of another wine to play with had restored his humour, and he hurried out of the door, to return a minute later more slowly, walking softly, holding in both hands a wine basket in which a dark bottle lay. The label was out of sight, facing downwards. “Now!” he cried as he came towards the table. “What about this one, Richard? You’ll never name this one!”

  Richard Pratt turned slowly and looked up at Mike, then his eyes travelled down to the bottle nestling in its small wicker basket, and he raised his eyebrows; a slight supercilious arching of the brows, and with it a pushing outward of the wet lower lip, suddenly imperious and ugly.

  “You’ll never get it,” Mike said. “Not in a hundred years.”

  “A claret?” Richard Pratt asked, condescending.

  “Of course.”

  “I assume, then, that it’s from one of the smaller vineyards?”

  “Maybe it is, Richard. And then again, maybe it isn’t.”

  “But it’s a good year? One of the great years?”

  “Yes, I guarantee that.”

  “Then it shouldn’t be too difficult,” Richard Pratt said, drawling his words, looking exceedingly bored. Except that, to me, there was something strange about his drawling and his boredom: between the eyes a shadow of something evil, and in his bearing an intentness that gave me a faint sense of uneasiness as I watched him.

  “This one is really rather difficult,” Mike said. “I won’t force you to bet on this one.”

  “Indeed. And why not?” Again the slow arching of the brows, the cool, intent look.

  “Because it’s difficult.”

  “That’s not very complimentary to me, you know.”

  “My dear man,” Mike said, “I’ll bet you with pleasure, if that’s what you wish.”

  “It shouldn’t be too hard to name it.”

  “You mean you want to bet?”

  “I’m perfectly willing to bet,” Richard Pratt said.

  “All right, then, we’ll have the usual. A case of the wine itself.”

  “You don’t think I’ll be able to name it, do you?”

  “As a matter of fact, and with all due respect, I don’t,” Mike said. He was making some effort to remain polite, but Pratt was not bothering overmuch to conceal his contempt for the whole proceeding. And yet, curiously, his next question seemed to betray a certain interest.

  “You like to increase the bet?”

  “No, Richard. A case is plenty.”

  “Would you like to bet fifty cases?”

  “That would be silly.”

  Mike stood very still behind his chair at the head of the table, carefully holding the bottle in its ridiculous wicker basket. There was a trace of whiteness around his nostrils now, and his mouth was shut very tight.

  Pratt was lolling back in his chair, looking up at him, the eyebrows raised, the eyes half closed, a little smile touching the corners of his lips. And again I saw, or thought I saw, something distinctly disturbing about the man’s face, that shadow of intentness between the eyes, and in the eyes themselves, right in their centres where it was black, a small slow spark of shrewdness, hiding.

  “So you don’t want to increase the bet?”

  “As far as I’m concerned, old man, I don’t give a damn,” Mike said. “I’ll bet you anything you like.”

  The three women and I sat quietly, watching the two men. Mike’s wife was becoming annoyed; her mouth had gone sour and I felt that at any moment she was going to interrupt. Our roast beef lay before us on our plates, slowly steaming.

  “So you’ll bet me anything I like?”

  “That’s what I told you. I’ll bet you anything you damn well please, if you want to make an issue out of it.”

  “Even ten thousand pounds?”

  “Certainly I will, if that’s the way you want it.” Mike was more confident now. He knew quite well that he could call any sum Pratt cared to mention.

  “So you say I can name the bet?” Pratt asked again.

  “That’s what I said.”

  There was a pause while Pratt looked slowly around the table, first at me, then at the three women, each in turn. He appeared to be reminding us that we were witness to the offer.

  “Mike!” Mrs. Schofield said. “Mike, why don’t we stop this nonsense and eat our food. It’s getting cold.”

  “But it isn’t nonsen
se,” Pratt told her evenly. “We’re making a little bet.”

  I noticed the maid standing in the background holding a dish of vegetables, wondering whether to come forward with them or not.

  “All right, then,” Pratt said. “I’ll tell you what I want you to bet.”

  “Come on, then,” Mike said, rather reckless. “I don’t give a damn what it is—you’re on.”

  Pratt nodded, and again the little smile moved the corners of his lips, and then, quite slowly, looking at Mike all the time, he said, “I want you to bet me the hand of your daughter in marriage.”

  Louise Schofield gave a jump. “Hey!” she cried. “No! That’s not funny! Look here, Daddy, that’s not funny at all.”

  “No, dear,” her mother said. “They’re only joking.”

  “I’m not joking,” Richard Pratt said.

  “It’s ridiculous,” Mike said. He was off balance again now.

  “You said you’d bet anything I liked.”

  “I meant money.”

  “You didn’t say money.”

  “That’s what I meant.”

  “Then it’s a pity you didn’t say it. But anyway, if you wish to go back on your offer, that’s quite all right with me.”

  “It’s not a question of going back on my offer, old man. It’s a no-bet anyway, because you can’t match the stake. You yourself don’t happen to have a daughter to put up against mine in case you lose. And if you had, I wouldn’t want to marry her.”

  “I’m glad of that, dear,” his wife said.

  “I’ll put up anything you like,” Pratt announced. “My house, for example. How about my house?”

  “Which one?” Mike asked, joking now.

  “The country one.”

  “Why not the other one as well?”

  “All right then, if you wish it. Both my houses.”

  At that point I saw Mike pause. He took a step forward and placed the bottle in its basket gently down on the table. He moved the salt cellar to one side, then the pepper, and then he picked up his knife, studied the blade thoughtfully for a moment, and put it down again. His daughter, too, had seen him pause.

  “Now, Daddy!” she cried. “Don’t be absurd! It’s too silly for words. I refuse to be betted on like this.”

  “Quite right, dear,” her mother said. “Stop it at once, Mike, and sit down and eat your food.”

  Mike ignored her. He looked over at his daughter and he smiled, a slow, fatherly, protective smile. But in his eyes, suddenly, there glimmered a little triumph. “You know,” he said, smiling as he spoke. “You know, Louise, we ought to think about this a bit.”

  “Now, stop it, Daddy! I refuse even to listen to you! Why, I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous in my life!”

  “No, seriously, my dear. Just wait a moment and hear what I have to say.”

  “But I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Louise! Please! It’s like this. Richard, here, has offered us a serious bet. He is the one who wants to make it, not me. And if he loses, he will have to hand over a considerable amount of property. Now, wait a minute, my dear, don’t interrupt. The point is this. He cannot possibly win.”

  “He seems to think he can.”

  “Now listen to me, because I know what I’m talking about. The expert, when tasting a claret—so long as it is not one of the famous great wines like Lafite or Latour—can only get a certain way towards naming the vineyard. He can, of course, tell you the Bordeaux district from which the wine comes, whether it is from St. Emilion, Pomerol, Graves, or Médoc. But then each district has several communes, little counties, and each county had many, many small vineyards. It is impossible for a man to differentiate between them all by taste and smell alone. I don’t mind telling you that this one I’ve got here is a wine from a small vineyard that is surrounded by many other small vineyards, and he’ll never get it. It’s impossible.”

  “You can’t be sure of that,” his daughter said.

  “I’m telling you I can. Though I say it myself, I understand quite a bit about this wine business, you know. And anyway, heavens alive, girl, I’m your father and you don’t think I’d let you in for—for something you didn’t want, do you? I’m trying to make you some money.”

  “Mike!” his wife said sharply. “Stop it now, Mike, please!”

  Again he ignored her. “If you will take this bet,” he said to his daughter, “in ten minutes you will be the owner of two large houses.”

  “But I don’t want two large houses, Daddy.”

  “Then sell them. Sell them back to him on the spot. I’ll arrange all that for you. And then, just think of it, my dear, you’ll be rich! You’ll be independent for the rest of your life!”

  “Oh, Daddy, I don’t like it. I think it’s silly.”

  “So do I,” the mother said. She jerked her head briskly up and down as she spoke, like a hen. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Michael, even suggesting such a thing! Your own daughter, too!”

  Mike didn’t even look at her. “Take it!” he said eagerly, staring hard at the girl. “Take it, quick! I’ll guarantee you won’t lose.”

  “But I don’t like it, Daddy.”

  “Come on, girl. Take it!”

  Mike was pushing her hard. He was leaning towards her, fixing her with two hard bright eyes, and it was not easy for the daughter to resist him.

  “But what if I lose?”

  “I keep telling you, you can’t lose. I’ll guarantee it.”

  “Oh, Daddy must I?”

  “I’m making you a fortune. So come on now. What do you say, Louise? All right?”

  For the last time, she hesitated. Then she gave a helpless little shrug of the shoulders and said, “Oh, all right, then. Just so long as you swear there’s no danger of losing.”

  “Good!” Mike cried. “That’s fine! Then it’s a bet!”

  “Yes,” Richard Pratt said, looking at the girl. “It’s a bet.”

  Immediately, Mike picked up the wine, tipped the first thimbleful into his own glass, then skipped excitedly around the table filling up the others. Now everyone was watching Richard Pratt, watching his face as he reached slowly for his glass with his right hand and lifted it to his nose. The man was about fifty years old and he did not have a pleasant face. Somehow, it was all mouth—mouth and lips—the full, wet lips of the professional gourmet, the lower lip hanging downward in the centre, a pendulous, permanently open taster’s lip, shaped open to receive the rim of a glass or a morsel of food. Like a keyhole, I thought, watching it; his mouth is like a large wet keyhole.

  Slowly he lifted the glass to his nose. The point of the nose entered the glass and moved over the surface of the wine, delicately sniffing. He swirled the wine gently around in the glass to receive the bouquet. His concentration was intense. He had closed his eyes, and now the whole top half of his body, the head and neck and chest, seemed to become a kind of huge sensitive smelling-machine, receiving, filtering, analysing the message from the sniffing nose.

  Mike, I noticed, was lounging in his chair, apparently unconcerned, but he was watching every move. Mrs. Schofield, the wife, sat prim and upright at the other end of the table, looking straight ahead, her face tight with disapproval. The daughter, Louise, had shifted her chair away a little, and sidewise, facing the gourmet, and she, like her father, was watching closely.

  For at least a minute, the smelling process continued; then, without opening his eyes or moving his head, Pratt lowered the glass to his mouth and tipped in almost half the contents. He paused, his mouth full of wine, getting the first taste; then, he permitted some of it to trickle down his throat and I saw his Adam’s apple move as it passed by. But most of it he retained in his mouth. And now, without swallowing again, he drew in through the lips a thin breath of air which mingled with the fumes of the wine in the mouth and passed on down into his lungs. He held the breath, blew it out through his nose, and finally began to roll the wine around under the tongue, and chewed it, actually chewed it w
ith his teeth as though it were bread.

  It was a solemn, impressive performance, and I must say he did it well.

  “Um,” he said, putting down the glass, running a pink tongue over his lips, “Um—yes. A very interesting little wine—gentle and gracious, almost feminine in the aftertaste.”

  There was an excess of saliva in his mouth, and as he spoke he spat an occasional bright speck of it on the table.

  “Now we can start to eliminate,” he said. “You will pardon me for doing this carefully, but there is much at stake. Normally I would perhaps take a bit of a chance, leaping forward quickly and landing right in the middle of the vineyard of my choice. But this time—I must move cautiously this time, must I not?” He looked up at Mike and he smiled, a thick-lipped, wet-lipped smile. Mike did not smile back.

  “First, then, which district in Bordeaux does this wine come from? That’s not too difficult to guess. It is far too light in the body to be from either St. Emilion or Graves. It is obviously a Médoc. There’s no doubt about that.

  “Now—from which commune in Médoc does it come? That also, by elimination, should not be too difficult to decide. Margaux? No. It cannot be Margaux. It has not the violent bouquet of a Margaux. Pauillac? It cannot be Pauillac, either. It is too tender, too gentle and wistful for Pauillac. The wine of Pauillac has a character that is almost imperious in its taste. And also, to me, a Pauillac contains just a little pith, a curious dusty, pithy flavour that the grape acquires from the soil of the district. No, no. This—this is a very gentle wine, demure and bashful in the first taste, emerging shyly but quite graciously in the second. A little arch, perhaps, in the second taste, and a little naughty also, teasing the tongue with a trace, just a trace of tannin. Then, in the aftertaste, delightful—consoling and feminine, with a certain blithely generous quality that one associates only with the wines of the commune of St. Julien. Unmistakably this is a St. Julien.”

  He leaned back in his chair, held his hands up level with his chest, and placed the fingertips carefully together. He was becoming ridiculously pompous, but I thought that some of it was deliberate, simply to mock his host. I found myself waiting rather tensely for him to go on. The girl Louise was lighting a cigarette. Pratt heard the match strike and he turned on her, flaring suddenly with real anger. “Please!” he said. “Please don’t do that! It’s a disgusting habit, to smoke at table!”