The Fantastical Adventures of Leutenlieb of the House of Munchausen

by Shlomo Kalo

  "All is lost! In exactly two minutes from now – no trace or relic of this fine vessel will be left. So let us drink to the good life that has passed away, never to return!" He raised his hand, lifted his glass, but I stopped him, smiled a reassuring smile at him and declared:

  "All is not lost!" And then I poured the contents of my glass into his and, feeling fully energized, jumped onto the iceberg which projected some ten meters above the surface of the water, took out my penknife, the superior "Solingen" knife, and plunged the stainless steel blade into one of the sensitive points of the iceberg, where the "veins" lead to the "heart".

  In fact, I was imitating with outstanding success the action of the professional ice-sellers, previously mentioned. According to my precise calculations and my advanced intuition, and the acute and alert senses with which I have been blessed, the iceberg was bound to split into two equal parts and release our ship from its crude and violent, and ursine embrace – within three thousandths of a second.

  Meanwhile, gathered on the deck were those of the ship’s passengers for whom no space had been found in the lifeboats, and those who had found the various types of life-belt unsuitable on grounds of size or rejected them for aesthetic reasons – and they watched what I was doing in tense, breathless silence. Also observing me was my friend the captain, who was standing on the bridge, legs wide apart and mouth gaping at the sight of my heroism, without parallel in human history, his raised hand still clutching the glass of French Pernod.

  Anyway, that long and fateful moment passed – in fact, it seemed long and was perceived as long. A distinguished civil engineer who happened to be among the passengers, measured the time – he was a cool-tempered man whose body formed a perfect square and likewise his shaved skull and eyes, ears and nose, all of them perfect squares – and he told me later that the whose process had lasted no longer than three thousandths of a second (as I had estimated), with a margin of error of 77 millionths of a second (something I had omitted to calculate due to pressure of time).

  And then an awesome explosion was heard and much to my relief and to the sound of deafening cries of "bravo", and kitchen utensils and items of clothing flung into the air – the regal iceberg split as anticipated into two equal parts and released the ship from its cruel clutches.

  But this was not the end of the affair. The time that the ship spent in the embrace of the ice mountain left its mark, a gash in the keel the size of a moderately affluent house from the last century.

  Without losing my nerve even for a fraction of a second, I leapt back onto the deck of the ship, leaving the cleft iceberg to float on its way, picked up the loud-hailer and uttered those melodious whistling sounds that speak to the hearts of dolphins and whales, reproducing them in the most faithful and precise manner of which humankind is capable. The results surprised even me.

  It seems that the dolphins and whales did not detect a single false note. They swam up from the depths and rose in their hordes, gathered together in a moment from the open expanses of the Atlantic Ocean, drawn inexorably to the sounds, like iron filings to a powerful magnet. And without making a sound, as if they had discussed it beforehand, they raised the clumsy vessel on their sturdy shoulders. At once the flow of water into the punctured keel was halted, and the inevitable sinking of the ship into the depths forestalled. The water that had managed to penetrate the body of the stricken craft poured back into the sea, over the heads and bodies of those hosts of dolphins and whales, still gathering, packed tightly together, enchanted by the sounds emerging from the loud-hailer in my hand.

  Meanwhile I signaled to the ship’s carpenter to set to work and he needed no further bidding, immediately enlisting the services of all the surgeons, without exception, and with their aid carrying out a full "skin-transplant" on the sophisticated vessel, according to all the principles of progressive surgical medicine as practiced in those days.

  The process did not take longer than three hours. And all this time I continued to grip the loud-hailer and utter the enchanting whistles, so sweet to the ears of regal whales and sensitive dolphins.

  But at the end of those three hours, I felt an urgent need to run to the toilet, and luckily for me and luckily for all those watching me, I remembered the marvelous pianist Arthur Rubinstein, who was standing close by me, all wonderment and pure professional admiration. I gestured to him anyway, an expansive gesture that any man would fully understand at once, and sure enough he realized what was afoot and hurried to me. I trusted him absolutely. His celebrated musical ear, his wealth of professional experience, the generous artistic spirit pounding in his heart – these were all the assurance I needed.

  With a stylish movement he took the loud-hailer from my hand, bowed slightly towards me, according to the rules of etiquette as followed in the world’s finest concert-halls and without wasting any more time began emitting those sweet and elevated sounds, which the ignorant and those with no feeling for music would simply call "whistles".

  But the eminent artist could not resist his creative impulse, and a few moments after uttering the original sounds, he began introducing orchestral variations, all of them delightful and uplifting, not only to the ear of man but also to the sensitive, invisible ears of those whales and dolphins, massing in their hordes under the keel of the damaged ship… and the latter responded to the invigorating variations, and instead of continuing to mass in a kind of aesthetic hypnosis under the giant ship and bearing it securely on their powerful backs, they dispersed in all directions and launched into a riotous dance…

  The massive vessel was hurled into the embrace of the icy waters of the Atlantic Ocean. And it was only by a Heavensent miracle that at that very moment – the highly skilled "skin-transplant" job was completed, and no more water penetrated the interior, and no damage was done to man or to material goods. It would be more accurate to say, virtually no damage to material goods, as it turned out that at the very last moment, one of the surgeons lost his special and unique scalpel, sharpened by some Japanese sword-smith living in the suburbs of Tokyo, renowned for his expertise in sharpening the famous swords of all the Samurai of his generation.

  The surgeon was distraught, but all the passengers hurried to console him in the most practical way – they had a whip-round among themselves and gave him the cash to buy a new scalpel, at the first opportunity, from that Tokyo-based Samurai sword-smith. There was enough in the sum collected to send a deputation to Japan, finance it there for ten full days and bring it back whole and healthy, plus the new scalpel.

  Anyway, the man was mollified and he gave his trusty assistant the job of setting out for his destination immediately after the ship reached New York and before the start of the surgical conference; at one of the sessions he was due to operate on a lame cat with that special scalpel. And because the concept of the "airplane" was then new and promising and redolent of mystery, the surgeon instructed his assistant to charter one of these canvas birds and fly the shortest way to Japan and back, thus saving time. And as it later emerged, the enterprising assistant did exactly this, thus giving the Japanese advance warning of the dangers of an atomic bomb falling on their heads, if they should fail to abandon the evil ways of the Samurai.

  Needless to say, all the passengers, without exception, including those who had gone down to the lifeboats and returned in the meantime, were effusive in their gratitude to me, singing my praises in all kinds of ways and extolling my exceptional talents, my incomparable resourcefulness and superhuman genius. I accepted their compliments with appropriate humility but resisted resolutely any attempt to reward me, believing in the principle that "the hater of gifts will live". As for the words addressed to me, I did not blush at all, on the contrary I encouraged them to continue, since they were telling no more than the unvarnished truth and I am never embarrassed by the truth.

  I soon noticed that among those gathering round to congratulate me, my good friend the captain of the ship was absent. When I inquired and investigated, it became c
lear that under the influence of excitement the like of which he had never experienced, the succession of fateful spectacles – he had frozen where he stood on the bridge, legs apart, mouth open and the glass of French Pernod in his upraised hand. The freezing was so intense and so deep that all attempts to move him from his place were total failures. There was no alternative but to saw through the floor underneath him, drag him to his cabin and try to thaw him out somehow.

  So the captain was brought to his spacious cabin, like one of those toys with spread-eagled limbs nailed to a colored board, but all efforts to defrost him were unavailing. Having no other choice a large deputation of distinguished surgeons turned to me asking me, at least, to give advice or express an opinion.

  One glance at my unfortunate, paralyzed friend was enough to tell me just how complicated and dangerous his situation was. All the blood-vessels were completely frozen, the whole of the nervous system had frozen, to the very last nerve. The spinal column had congealed into a thick and brittle cord.

  I weighed up the data for myself and because time was precious, I hesitated no longer than was my wont, but drew out my famous penknife and dissected my frozen friend into his component cells. Each individual cell I washed in the lukewarm water that the surgeons had prepared for me in the meantime, and I thawed out every cell, every nerve-ending, ganglion, scrap of bone-tissue, and red or white blood corpuscle.

  Now there stood before me an impressive array of still living cells; and the dense crowd of spectators stared at me in alarm and amazement – disbelief too, and breathless, reverent silence, perhaps guilt as well and premature grief.

  I was always known as a dab hand at jigsaws, in fact at any game that has ever been invented or in still awaiting its turn to be invented, anywhere in the world. Put in front of me a dismantled puzzle the length of a central boulevard in some capital city – and within a few seconds the assembly will be complete, without any piece missing or the slightest of errors. At my disposal I have intuition, acute eyesight and manual dexterity, all of them working at a speed exceeding the speed of light and thought.

  And here I was given the marvelous opportunity to prove my rare talent before an audience and at the same time – to save the precious life of an honored friend, the mild-mannered skipper of the ship.

  And indeed, being endowed with a capacity for instantaneous decision that can only be envied, never emulated – I set to work at once and within a few seconds – I put together the defrosted skipper, in all his details and features, down to the last bristle of his beard, which for some reason had not been shaved that awesome morning.

  The stunned crowd of onlookers which for a moment had been frozen to the spot, utterly at a loss and showing no signs of life at all – suddenly burst into an orgy of hand-clapping such as had never been heard since mankind invented applause. The thunderous sound perforated the ear-drums of two renowned physicians and a disabled nurse, who later sued the shipping company over her disability and won full compensation. The assumption was that these injuries were the result of the diminutive stature of the victims – the physicians were barely more than midgets and the nurse was in a wheelchair. Sound waves, apparently, are especially strong at low levels, and for this reason musicians of genius are usually short of stature.

  Meanwhile, my friend stood on his feet, alive and invigorated, healthy and whole, and the first words he uttered were: "Where’s my glass of Pernod?"

  When this was given to him – he immediately drank a toast to all of us, and hurriedly cleared himself a path to the bridge. From here he gave his orders with exceptional lucidity, uncharacteristic of him, and in a clear voice the like of which had never been heard – reliable testimony to the expertise of the job that I had done, expertise superior even to that of nature itself.

  There and then the surgeons, who had not yet recovered entirely from their profound bemusement, declared me the honorary president of their international society and a solemn document inscribed on ancient parchment, and a gold medallion in the shape of a frozen cell – were presented to me before the eyes of all the passengers on our splendid ship to the sound of prolonged applause, coming from the heart and boosting the spirit. And among the passengers there were some whose relatives had perished on the original Titanic, and when they came to me to express their personal gratitude for the saving of their lives, they raised the eminently logical conjecture that if I had been present on the Titanic, the disaster would not have happened. And here my friend the skipper, looking at least twenty years younger than before, intervened, observing affably that it was impossible for a man to be in all places at once and it was fortunate that our ship had benefited from my presence, and as for the disaster that had been averted – he refused even to think about it.

  Amid all this commotion, the angry Irishman, the man with the fiery beard, had vanished. We searched frantically in all the remote corners of the ship, and found nothing that could tell us if he was still alive. We almost abandoned all hope and our hearts were heavy, because the man was likable and seemed to be an inseparable part of the unique and uplifting atmosphere of the ship. And there were those who saw him as a particularly fascinating element of the entertainment program, a living reminder of ancient times and sacred writings. In fact, the captain admitted to me, with a heavy and mournful sigh, it was for this very reason that he allowed the unfortunate Irishman to board his ship in the first place – original entertainment for his passengers. Someone took the initiative and said a few words about the Irishman who had disappeared, part funeral oration and part the expression of hope that he would surprise us yet – popping up suddenly in one of the entertainment zones and pouring fire and brimstone on the heads of the "frivolous", for whom "Hell is their final resting-place" and whom "the world is spewing out like poison from its belly" and so on and so on.

  And then we were called by a little boy – of five or six years old – to the prow of the ship.

  The boy pointed to a gigantic whale, opening its vast and intimidating mouth directly in front of us as if intending to swallow the vessel whole, along with its passengers and cargo.

  On the tip of the tongue of the great whale, looking remarkably composed, sat the (formerly) angry Irishman, all happiness and pure enthusiasm, enthusiasm of the divine, and called to us:

  "I am the one who saved you by jumping into the sea before it was too late, because the spirit of the Lord was angry with me for diverting from the path, and my destination was Nineveh the wicked!"

  "Nineveh no longer exists!" cried a Catholic priest who happened to be among the passengers.

  "It exists, it truly exists!" insisted the heavily bearded Irishman – "It burns in the heart of every man!" he declared in a tone to brook no disagreement, and lightly touched the sensitive palate of his monster, who closed his mouth, changed direction and quickly disappeared from our field of vision.

  CHICAGO

  In the United States of America a financial crisis raged such as the civilized world had never known, since it took on its shape and its name and invented mammon with its surfeit of paper money and coinage. Some saw in this the finger of God and the venting of His wrath upon the avowed seekers after profit, to rouse them from their shameful intoxication, and upon the murderers who had returned not so long ago from the killing fields of Europe, and instead of repenting, piled crime upon crime, and the lethal expertise acquired on those grim killing fields they transferred to the brick-built streets of the sprawling metropolises, springing up like mushrooms after rain, no less grim than those notorious battlefields. Public prayers organized by professional prayer-merchants, preachers of various kinds and religious leaders from all sects and denominations, were unavailing, and according to official statistics, which always erred on the side of caution, for fear of terminally depressing the spirits of inhabitants of the New World – every day 101,738.33 (recurring) inhabitants were losing everything they had, down to the last cent, and turning to the social services to avoid death from starvation. A subst
antial proportion of them, thirty two and one seventeenth percent, according to the same statistics, could not come to terms with their bitter lot and their bruised honor and took their own lives. 0.003% of the latter failed at the first attempt, and following intensive treatment by distinguished and experienced psychiatrists and psychologists, they repeated the same process – this time, with total success.

  This shameful situation brought prosperity to two professions in those days and enriched their practitioners above and beyond any logical and healthy human expectation: the profession of carpentry and in particular – the branch involving the assembly of coffins, and the profession of the undertaker. Many tried to train and gain at least a foothold in these noble professions, and some succeeded in this while others were a total failure, but one way or another – they were all accepted and, as has been said, made a fortune.

  The undertakers united in respected guilds in time-honored fashion, and never appeared in public except in black, elegant frock-coats and white gloves, accompanied by personal chauffeurs in glittering uniforms, and their heavy-busted wives supported by well-connected Russian nannies, refugees from the Bolshevik Revolution, and all the precious stones of the world, with their riot of enchanting colors – sparkling on their sausage-fingers.

  The carpenters on the other hand walked more modestly and never wore frock-coats and their wives needed no exiled Russian princesses to serve them as nannies; instead of this they built themselves mansions of a particular kind, constructed from ebony wood, proud works of artistic craftsmanship, which to this day still languish in faded grandeur in the agreeable corners of every American city worthy of the name. The carpenters also hired themselves tough bodyguards, incomparable experts in squeezing the trigger of the gleaming "Colt" that was then coming into fashion, and sending the lead bullets on their way to pierce any skull that happened to be passing – whether made of bone, stone, wood, concrete or metal.