The Teleportation Accident

by Beauman, Ned

  ‘Good morning, Miss Norb, and to you too, Miss Norb,’ said Scramsfield. Because he’d comprehensively vomited, his hangover wasn’t as ruthless as it might have been, but his mouth still tasted as though he’d been tonguing Mordechai all night, and yesterday’s clothes were now stuck to him in various places by muck’s cruel tailor. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure of this—’

  ‘Mr Scramsfield!’ said Margaret Norb, interrupting him with a stinging emphasis on the initial syllable of the honorific. ‘I must ask you to explain yourself.’

  ‘Uh, yes?’

  ‘This morning we made sure to get to Shakespeare and Company before it closed for lunch. While we were there we found ourselves in conversation with a very agreeable clergyman from Philadelphia, and we confessed to him our excitement about the prospect of being introduced to so many of your celebrated “friends”. But this clergyman was a cultured fellow, and he was able to tell us that Joyce sees no one, Hemingway isn’t even in Paris any longer, and Diaghilev . . .’ She swallowed. ‘Diaghilev is dead! Thank goodness he wasn’t more tactful otherwise we still mightn’t know.’

  ‘Miss Norb, I assure you—’

  ‘Let me finish, please. As luck would have it, our conversation was overheard by a third party. This other man, from Chicago, told us that he had a cousin who came to Paris and had a very similar experience with a scoundrel who drank a lot of whisky on his tab. The cousin actually went as far as to put up money for a dinner party that never took place. He also bought a signed first edition of Ulysses, which a book dealer later informed him was a very poor fake – for one thing it was only fifty-eight pages long, including woodcuts and glossary. The man from Chicago gave various other details that led us to believe that you were the souse involved. The shop had your address in its lending library records and the proprietress was happy to give it to us after we explained that you had told lies about her for personal profit. Unless you can satisfy us that an improbable mistake has been made, we are going to report you to the gendarmerie as a confidence trickster.’

  As if to throw her support in with all this, Elisalexa Norb stuck her tongue out at him.

  Scramsfield smiled. ‘I’m so glad you’re giving me the chance to clear all this up, Miss Norb. To start with, I can tell you that I’ve never had anything to do with anyone’s cousin from Chicago, and I’ve certainly never tried to sell anyone a sham Ulysses. As for the introductions I promised: sure, Joyce normally sees no one, but he will make an exception for my dear friends. If Hem has left Paris then I’m a little offended he didn’t tell me but we’ll have it out as soon as he gets back. And Diaghilev—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Oh boy, you can’t have thought I meant Sergei Diaghilev, Miss Norb? Your clergyman pal from Philadelphia was right, of course, we lost him to tuberculosis a few years ago. I still remember the funeral – Cocteau gave such a moving elegy. No, I was going to introduce you to his brother Fyodor. Every bit as talented.’

  ‘And I suppose you have similar alibis for Fitzgerald and Picasso and Chanel?’

  ‘I think you’re being a tad unfair, Miss Norb, but let me say that if I have wandered away from the scientific truth once or twice . . .’ He shrugged and spread his hands, contrite and self-effacing. ‘Well, I’m a writer, Miss Norb. My imagination is my forge. If you stay in Paris much longer you will find many others like me.’

  ‘Not good enough, Mr Scramsfield. We are going to the police. Goodbye.’

  ‘No,’ said Scramsfield. ‘Wait. Please! Don’t be rash.’

  ‘Nothing you say can persuade me,’ said Margaret Norb, turning away.

  ‘I can get you an appointment with Voronoff.’

  She stopped. ‘The real Dr Voronoff?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In a week, I suppose? And we’ll be buying you dinner until then.’

  ‘No. Not in a week. This afternoon. I can hardly lie about that, can I? If you haven’t had the operation by six o’clock today then you can tell the flics anything you like.’

  He had her. He could tell. He did not have the remotest idea what he was going to do next, but he had put off calamity.

  Then she sniffed.

  ‘What in heaven’s name is that smell?’

  The effluvium from his bed and his clothes had reached her. Even knowing that most American tourists learned to shutter their olfactory epithelia as soon as they left their hotels, Scramsfield was surprised it had taken so long. ‘I don’t smell anything,’ he said.

  ‘It’s revolting.’

  ‘Might be the people downstairs. I believe they’re French.’

  ‘Mr Scramsfield, you can hardly expect me to believe that you are a close associate of an important man like Dr Voronoff when your own apartment smells like a sewer.’

  ‘It must be the monkeys,’ said Scramsfield, and involuntarily squeezed his eyes shut for a second, as if he was thirteen again and had just thrown a baseball that would either win the afternoon’s game or break a neighbour’s window.

  ‘The monkeys?’

  ‘Yes. Until the day before yesterday, Dr Voronoff was keeping some stud monkeys here that he had just imported from Morocco. Now they’re at the Château Grimaldi. But the stink does linger, ha ha!’

  ‘You mean to tell me that Dr Voronoff sometimes uses this very apartment as a base of operations?’

  ‘Quite often,’ said Scramsfield, on a roll now. He pushed the door open wider, so that the Norbs could see into the apartment, and pointed at Loeser, who was still sprawled in Scramsfield’s wooden chair. ‘In fact this is Dr Voronoff himself.’

  Loeser went white.

  ‘This is Dr Voronoff?’ said Margaret Norb.

  ‘Yes. I’m afraid he was up very late last night operating. And he speaks very little English.’ He gave Loeser a significant look that meant ‘Get up and introduce yourself in a Russian accent’. But Loeser must have misunderstood this because instead he just performed something resembling a palsied military salute and then looked down at his feet. ‘The operation won’t take place here,’ Scramsfield hurried to add. ‘We will come to your hotel with all the equipment. Shall we say four o’clock?’

  ‘He’ll carry out the operation? For no charge? On both of us?’

  ‘Both of you?’

  ‘Elisalexa is young, Mr Scramsfield, yes, but I believe there’s no such thing as being young for too long.’

  ‘Of course not. Both of you, then. Absolutely. For no charge.’

  ‘In that case we shall await you this afternoon at the Concorde Sainte Lazare. If you do not appear as promised, you know what will happen. Good day, Mr Scramsfield. Good day, Dr Voronoff.’

  The Norbs made their exit and Scramsfield shut the door. He turned to Loeser. ‘That went damned well, I thought.’

  ‘Do not ever do that to me again,’ said the German.

  ‘Sorry, pal, but I knew you’d pull it off.’

  ‘You can’t sincerely expect me to go through with what you have just set in motion.’

  ‘I can’t have them go to the cops.’

  ‘It’s not my problem you’re on the run because you murdered your fiancée.’

  ‘What? I did not murder my fiancée and I am not on the run!’

  ‘You told me last night you pushed her off a steamship and she drowned,’ said Loeser. ‘That’s why you can’t go home to New York. Something like that.’

  ‘Were you listening at all?’

  ‘You rambled on for so long that I may have passed out a short while before the end. But I got the fundamentals.’

  ‘Phoebe tragically took her own life and it wasn’t my fault. I can go back to Boston whenever I like.’

  ‘Yes, all right, you’re welcome to type up the footnotes and I’ll give them my careful attention.’ Loeser levered himself out of the chair. ‘You know, when I woke up, I looked around at these squalid and unfamiliar surroundings and for a moment I really thought I might have met some wonderful floozie last night.’ He went to the sink and began to splash
his face with water.

  ‘Come on, old pal. You’ll do this for me, won’t you? Look here: if you do, I’ll take you to see Picquart.’

  ‘Your French friend? Why should I want to meet him?’

  ‘He’s a historian,’ said Scramsfield. ‘A scholar. There’s nothing he doesn’t know about Paris. He’ll be able to tell you the truth about Lavicini and . . . all those other fellows. The dog barber. The Castle of Mystery.’

  ‘Court of Miracles,’ said Loeser. He looked around for a towel to dry his face, but there was none, so he made the most of his arm hair.

  ‘Yes. He hates Germans, there’s no way he’d see you otherwise, but if I call in my very last favour with him, he will.’

  ‘If I believed you, wouldn’t that make me as gullible as the Norbs?’

  ‘He’s not Hemingway. He’s not Picasso. He’s just an old man I happen to know. Why would I bounce you about that?’

  ‘I don’t see how you expect this to work, anyway. We don’t have a monkey.’

  ‘We could use a little black boy,’ said Scramsfield. ‘One of those Algerians.’

  ‘I think there is some chance the ladies will penetrate that ruse.’

  ‘Well, if we bring a cage with a sheet over it, it doesn’t matter what’s inside. They’ll never see. They’ll be under anaesthetic.’

  ‘How are we going to manage that?’

  ‘I know some Cambodian medical students who will sell us barbiturates.’

  ‘Barbiturates?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you think they’d have any good cocaine?’

  ‘I don’t know. Probably.’

  Loeser went to the window and looked out. ‘This is going to take up the whole afternoon, isn’t it? I was going to visit the site of the Théâtre des Encornets today.’

  ‘You still can. I won’t need you for the preparations. Just be back here by three o’clock.’

  ‘You’d better have bathed. Get at least a gallon of carbolic acid from the Cambodians.’

  So a few hours later, Herbert Wolf Scramsfield and Sergei Voronoff arrived at the Hôtel Concorde Sainte Lazare wearing white doctor’s coats, carrying brown doctor’s bags, and wheeling a trolley on which rested an enshrouded birdcage, like the agents of some sinister and incomprehensible room service delivery. After they told the concierge their cargo was primatal he tried to throw them out, but they insisted he telephone up to the room and enough of a fuss was made that he had no choice but to let them into the service lift.

  The Norbs were staying in two bedrooms connected by a small drawing room. ‘Mordechai wants to see the monkey,’ said Elisalexa Norb as soon as they were through the door.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s out of the question.’

  ‘Why?’

  Scramsfield thought for a moment. ‘Patient confidentiality,’ he ventured. This seemed to satisfy the Norbs. You could pump this suite full of coal tar until there was only an inch of air beneath the corniced ceiling, he thought, and it would still, on balance, be nicer than his own apartment.

  ‘Will you require us to undress before surgery?’ said Margaret Norb.

  ‘No,’ said Dr Voronoff before Scramsfield could reply.

  ‘But where will you put the glands?’

  ‘Zyroid,’ said Dr Voronoff, gesturing at his neck.

  ‘You will at least need to roll up your sleeves for the anaesthetic, however,’ said Scramsfield.

  He took two needles out of his doctor’s bag and carried out the injections. Then he guided Margaret Norb to an armchair and Elisalexa Norb to a chaise longue. Within a few minutes they were both asleep, the latter with her tongue poking out of her mouth. Behind them, a folding Japanese screen of painted cedar wood showed a bearded man lifting a turtle into a fishing boat.

  ‘Why did you tell them not to undress?’ Scramsfield asked Loeser.

  ‘I’ve sunk pretty low in my time, but I am not yet at the stage where I will pose as a doctor to molest unconscious women. Not quite yet.’

  ‘Who said anything about molesting them?’

  ‘You would definitely have molested them.’

  ‘I wouldn’t, but in any case we’d better get a move on. I didn’t give them much of this nembutal stuff so I don’t know when they’ll wake up.’ If only Weitz were here, thought Scramsfield. He took a small brown paper parcel out of his doctor’s bag and emptied its contents on to the shiny top of the Boulle writing desk.

  ‘What are those?’ said Loeser.

  ‘What do they look like?’

  ‘Armoured raspberries.’

  ‘Haven’t you ever seen a lychee before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. Let’s hope the Norbs haven’t either. They’re delicious, by the way. The Cambodians go crazy for them. Surprisingly good in a martini, too.’ Scramsfield tossed one to Loeser. ‘Peel that.’

  With some difficulty, Loeser did so. Scramsfield peeled a second.

  ‘Perfect,’ said Scramsfield. ‘One hundred per cent convincing raw monkey balls.’

  He returned to his doctor’s bag and took out a small tube of glue.

  ‘That’s your plan?’ said Loeser incredulously. ‘Glue these things to their necks?’

  ‘What else are we going to do? We’re not surgeons. We could have glued them somewhere more discreet if you hadn’t interfered.’

  He was about to get to work when out of the corner of his eye he saw Mordechai sitting on the mantelpiece next to the clock.

  ‘Loeser,’ he hissed.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The lizard.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘It’s watching.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘What if it tells the girl what we did?’

  ‘How would it do that? It doesn’t talk.’

  ‘I think they have some sort of . . . some sort of connection. Catch it and put it in your bag.’

  Loeser made a grab for the iguana, but it leaped from the mantelpiece and fled through the doorway into Elisalexa Norb’s bedroom. That was enough to put it out of sight, so Scramsfield began the operation. ‘Das ist ein Tiefpunkt,’ muttered Loeser several times to himself after that. ‘Das ist ein echter Tiefpunkt.’

  Within an hour, the Norbs had begun to stir. Margaret was lagging behind so Elisalexa kept pinching her aunt’s calf until she woke up properly. Both then tottered over to the mirror to examine their ripe gemmeous xeno-transplants.

  ‘They do rather stick out,’ said Margaret Norb. ‘The glands.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Scramsfield, ‘but they’ll soon be absorbed into your body.’

  ‘Can I touch it?’

  ‘If you like.’

  She hesitantly brought an index finger up to the little moist bulb, then stiffened in shock. ‘It’s so sensitive.’

  Elisalexa Norb did the same, then licked her finger. ‘It tastes sweet,’ she said.

  ‘Please don’t do that, dear, it’s disgusting,’ said Margaret Norb. She turned to Voronoff. ‘This is wonderful, Doctor. Mr Scramsfield, perhaps you’d be so good as to telephone down for a bottle of champagne.’

  A few minutes later an olive-skinned boy arrived with a bottle of Veuve Cliquot and four glasses. He looked at Margaret Norb, then he looked at Elisalexa Norb, then he squinted in puzzlement and raised his hand to his own neck as if he were about to point out a minor oversight in the guests’ toilette – but of course he thought better of it. On his way out, Margaret Norb gave him fifty francs, which he nodded at philosophically as if somehow it explained everything.

  Margaret Norb led a toast to Dr Voronoff. ‘How is the health of our donor?’ she said after her first sip of champagne. Scramsfield couldn’t work out what she meant until she nodded at the birdcage on the trolley under its black sheet.

  ‘Still under sedation,’ he said. ‘But stable.’

  ‘They lead comfortable lives, do they? After their . . . sacrifice?’

  ‘Luxurious, yes,’ said Scramsfield.

  Elisalexa Norb gave a small bur
p. Scramsfield looked over and saw that she had already drained her glass.

  ‘Purhayps zay lady should not bay dvinkink so soon aftur hur anayzaytic,’ said Dr Voronoff with genuine concern. But his warning was too late, because Elisalexa Norb almost immediately staggered backwards and bumped against the writing desk.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said her aunt. ‘Elisalexa, you must be put straight to bed to recuperate.’ She stepped forward with the intention of carrying this out, but was almost as unsteady herself. Dr Voronoff caught her arm as several ounces of champagne hopped from her glass to the carpet. ‘Or – goodness – well – Mr Scramsfield, might you be kind enough to . . .’

  ‘Certainly, Miss Norb,’ said Scramsfield. He guided a giggly Elisalexa into her bedroom. She was quite pliant, but as they went through the doorway she grabbed for the brass knob so that the door swung most of the way shut. This didn’t worry Scramsfield until he was helping her down on to her bed and he realised she was pulling him down with her by the lapels of his doctor’s coat. He lost his balance.

  ‘Miss Norb!’ was all he had a chance to say before her mouth was on his. Somehow she got his tongue between her lips and began to suck it down like a steamed mussel that wouldn’t slip out of its shell. With one hand she was unbuttoning her dress and with the other she was bullying his crotch. Her whole body was quivering like a nervous poodle. At last she gave up the kiss and he got his tongue back. He felt as if he’d been punched in the mouth. ‘For Christ’s sake stop this,’ he whispered. ‘Your aunt is in the next room.’ But by then her girdle was half unlaced, and he got a glimpse of a cranberry nipple.

  Elisalexa Norb flung her head back against the pillow. With his mouth on her breast, the lychee glued to her neck was only inches from his eyes, and there was something soothing, almost spiritual, about its smooth pale surface, so that by meditating on it he could almost forget that at any moment they might be caught. He switched to the girl’s other nipple. He would not have thought that anything could possibly improve on the first breast, but the second breast was, somehow, even more sensational, and he was enjoying this so much that he was beginning to think he might be able to support an erection for long enough to make love to her.