by Shlomo Kalo
So, all I had to do was reach out, and the end of the rope was in my hand. Cautiously, I pulled it towards me and soon had the rope coiled into loops at my feet. With speed and skill such as only hands like mine are capable of, I tied a knot in the end of the rope, a slip-knot, and I was close to the implementation of my spectacular idea, which in the nature of things, depended entirely upon prodigious talent, bold initiative, commitment to the objective, dexterity of mind and hand, and a wealth of experience. And who else, other than me, had been trained from an early age in the throwing of lassos? As was pointed out at the beginning of this narrative, from the age of ten upwards I had a teacher, a cowboy who had been scalped by Red Indians and consequently wore a raccoon-skin on his damaged pate, giving himself a distinctly close-cropped look; not content with scalping him the Indians knocked out his teeth too, something which impaired his diction considerably and made it impossible to figure out which language he was speaking. It wasn’t even known which languages he was familiar with. He certainly spoke the patois of the Indians with some fluency, but this was a language understood by none of the residents in our castle, and for this reason everything was forgiven him. Lassoing was something he knew all about – tying and throwing. This expertise landed him a respectable job in a traveling circus which, you may remember, eventually dismissed him and dispensed with his services for reasons that were never explained, and my father found him weeping by the roadside and took pity on him, and in exchange for a few coppers, clothing, bed and board hired him for life, to complete the education of his beloved son, Leutenlieb. At first my father, an avowed seeker of adventure but, unlike other members of his family, one who would rather hear about adventures than have them, imagined that this scalped and toothless cowboy, with the trimmed fur of a raccoon for hair and a permanent look of gloom and dejection – would be a rich source of bizarre and fascinating anecdotes. And then the afore-mentioned speech impediment came to light, and my father washed his hands of the whole business, his hopes dashed. But he was loath to throw the old man into the street, so his contractual appointment officially became a lifetime arrangement.
Anyway, he it was who taught me the art of tying and throwing lassos, and as previously noted I excelled in my studies to such an extent that sometimes, when he was out walking, I used to cast the rope at him, catch him and proceed to pinion his hands, arms, chest and neck, trussing him like a parcel, before wrestling him to the ground and eliciting from his throat vague sounds of approval accompanied by a good-natured smile, acknowledging the achievement of his star pupil.
So, I took the knotted rope in my hand and stood up in the cockpit, which provoked the wrath of the formidable condor many times over, supposedly projecting on the moving screen of his consciousness an image of aggressiveness on the part of the victim (and if this was indeed the image that occurred to him, his reaction was understandable). The bird tensed, a cold flash in his eyes, and he was ready to pounce on me but I was too quick for him: with a lightning-fast movement, unrivalled throughout the history of movement, I threw the improvised lasso at the exact instant that the giant bird lifted his leg, about to rip my flesh with all three of his curved Turkish scimitars, on account of that provocative action of mine (i.e. standing up) – whereby I had dealt a mortal blow to his aquiline honor.
The smooth lasso spread out and for a thousandth of a second the loop opened and stopped, broad and confident, under that foot which according to my calculations would need to be flexed to a certain degree – enough at any rate to slip into the noose awaiting it. Needless to say, all stages of the operation had to be timed to take place within a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of a second since otherwise – I would be in mortal peril… and indeed, my good fortune did not betray me and everything transpired as foreseen and as expected: in his rage, the predatory bird stretched out his awesome foot and was caught in the loop of the lasso which tightened at once, above the curved Turkish scimitars.
He sensed the unforeseen situation, something utterly new to him, and in his predatory mind, confusion and perplexity reigned. His eyes clouded, and in a desperate attempt to be freed from the knot growing tighter on his leg, a straightforward bid for liberation – he turned and tried to flee from the "bird" that had proved to be less docile towards him than he expected, evidently not counting it a signal honor to be consumed by him. I had been desperately hoping for this turn, and began pulling the rope cautiously this way and that, as if it were a horse harnessed at the other end, and the bird had no option but to obey the clear hints and turn in the direction required, flying at a speed many times greater than the velocity of sound, to whichever destination he was commanded to fly. I sat comfortably in my seat in the cockpit in cheerful mood and took time out to gaze down at the spectacular vista unfolding beneath my feet – broad expanses of sea stretching from horizon to horizon, with dense, foaming waves that looked from above like the unruly curls on the head of a forgotten Greek god. The air was clear and refreshing, the light limpid, and I couldn’t resist the temptation to break into song, with an anthem that I clearly remembered from my youth, telling of a charming spring morning and a snowy mountain smiling at the man who climbs it and inviting him to come hither and celebrate the feast of first fruits… all kinds of vanities that we learned in times gone by – delightful follies you could quite simply call them. And after the momentary intoxication that the free spaces, the fresh air and the pure light infused in my veins, I returned to considering, inwardly, the situation I was in and the destination I was heading for. After all, the compass had been ditched along with the engine and it wasn’t precisely clear to me where I was. The giant bird blocked out the sun and my efforts to peer through his massive wings and identify its approximate position in the sky, and estimate from this the time of day – proved fruitless.
Meanwhile, the flight slowed and it was clear that the bird had relaxed to some extent and seemed to be enjoying the scenery too, as well as the no longer disagreeable company of that "bird" which initially he had every intention of devouring as an appetizer. It may have been that the bird wasn’t particularly hungry, and perhaps it wasn’t just the scenery that influenced him but also – even especially – my ever buoyant and cheerful mood, not to mention my infectious, boundless optimism, which is renowned throughout the universe.
I exploited the situation and after a few delicate tugs on the sturdy Russian rope I managed to work things so that the biddable bird began wheeling in elegant broad circles, like an ancient Greek dance, in which every step is light and refined, pleasing to the spectator and the dancer alike.
Meanwhile the sun appeared. Sometimes to the left and sometimes to the right, according to the spectacular movements of the bird. I began making a rough estimate of the time of day and of my position, and reached the hypothetical conclusion – based on some fairly solid evidence – that this miraculous flight was taking me over the Pacific Ocean, the northerly side of it admittedly, and not, as I had previously supposed, over the Northern Sea… And this of course gave me food for thought: which way to turn with the bird for purposes of landing… not forgetting that in spite of everything the bird might yet feel the pangs of hunger, and he was liable to act in accordance with some healthy instincts and carry me to remote places, beyond the dark mountains, on the fringes of the world, where his strange food is supposedly to be found…
I did some quick calculations and it seemed to me the nearest continent must be situated to the west. And so – I tugged at the rope in a friendly sort of way and the bird stopped cavorting for his own pleasure and mine, turned in a broad arc and when his eye, the size of a Bactrian camel, caught a glimpse of me, uttered a cry that had no hostility in it – rather it was happiness of a kind and fellowship voluntarily expressed… we were indeed becoming friends, and this put into my mind the brilliant idea of taking him to one of the great capital cities, in America or Europe, and causing a sensation worthy of the name, unbounded consternation and excitement and perhaps a little alarm as
well; the bottom line being – I should have some living proof of my story when coming to write it down, as I am doing now for your benefit. Even in those days they had sophisticated cameras and I could have been photographed sitting on him… but I couldn’t figure out the best way of riding him: on whatever part of his body I chose to sit – the tip of a single downy feather would have been enough to cover me completely… and taking this into account I rejected the idea. I was also mindful of the embarrassing and disagreeable predicament in which the bird himself would be caught up – surrounded by millions of curious enthusiasts, not to mention scientists eager to take measurements and conduct tests, and zoos that would try to buy him from me for hard cash, to keep him in captivity and cause him the kind of gloom and depression that would undoubtedly hasten his end…
We flew on at a moderate, enjoyable rate. No dry land appeared. The bird accelerated the pace of his flight.
The day was turning towards evening. The sun, red and enormous, kissed the faraway horizon. I didn’t know what to think and I had no idea how and when the situation that I was in would be resolved. And then I noticed what seemed to be light clouds shaped like mushrooms, growing bigger underneath me and sometimes around me. It soon become clear to that I was under bombardment and when I leaned over to identify the source – I picked out the narrow silhouette of a destroyer of the most modern and sophisticated type, apparently turning the full force of its lethal rapid-fire gunnery against us. Hastily and with appropriate decisiveness I tugged on the rope and the bird soared to a great height, although as it turned out, not great enough and not fast enough, and one of the shells caught us and injured his leg, the leg to which my rope was attached.
Without hesitation, I took the Russian first-aid tin, found on all Russian military aircraft, and climbed up the tight rope connecting the engine-less plane to the injured leg of the bird.
I always knew that a talent for funambulism was instilled in my blood, but as yet I’d had no suitable opportunity to demonstrate this, in practice as opposed to theory, to myself and to all those who would not have believed me. And here I was, doing precisely this – high above the Pacific Ocean on a thick rope that stretched to the limit, walking not slowly but like a veteran circus performer, taking vigorous steps forward, as time was pressing and the situation serious.
At the very moment I reached the bird’s injured leg and was about to treat the wound, one of the shells hit the plane behind me and blew it to smithereens.
I held on to the leg of the bird which as previously mentioned resembled a tall and sheer palm-tree. My predicament was not particularly dire, but it was obvious to me that I couldn’t hold on here indefinitely. In the meantime I opened the tin box, smeared on some antiseptic ornaments and bandaged the bleeding wound, which although not deep was extensive and no doubt painful for the strange creature that had somehow contrived to befriend me. After the bandaging I reckoned that the pain had eased, even disappeared altogether; I found evidence for this in a relaxing of tension in the injured leg, and immediately after this, in the affectionate cry that the bird uttered, a cry of hope, satisfaction and gratitude. But from down below they kept up the barrage. I didn’t know to which nation they belonged and why they were firing at me. And because it was reasonable to assume that this was a case of mistake and miscalculation and in the end my assailants would prove to be my firm friends – I decided to try my luck and introduce myself to them. Especially since, as mentioned before, I could not stay for much longer in this uncomfortable position, perched on the solid, bandaged "palm-tree". So I touched the leg of my savior and wondrous mode of transport with a light touch of farewell, and stretched out the Russian flying jacket, the valuable gift of that bashful Russian youth, and leapt from my awkward perch – straight into the airy void above that warship, its guns still thundering away without a moment’s respite.
I used the jacket as a parachute, a parachute of the type which at that time had yet to be invented, which could be steered in the direction chosen by the parachutist. In fact, on board that destroyer which, much to my disappointment, proved to be Chinese, there was a prisoner-of-war, an American engineer, who watched me in action and immediately grasped the significance of my revolutionary contribution to aeronautical science, committed the details to memory and in time, when he was exchanged for a Chinese battalion taken prisoner in Korea and returned to his homeland, took out a patent on the invention and become one of the wealthiest men on earth.
Meanwhile the Chinese had stopped firing, since they were very keen to take me alive, interrogate me and extract from me all the secrets of my unique style of flying, finding out precisely what that bird was, the like of which their eyes had never seen, despite their subtle slant. And perhaps the thought had occurred to them that this was not a real bird, but the facsimile of a bird which some clever spy was using as camouflage for his dark designs… Indeed, this supposition on the part of the Chinese was uppermost in my mind, and it was a horrifying prospect, since Chinese interrogation methods at that time still included removing the living skin of the victim strip by strip, a technique which Chinese pirates, skippers of the famous "junks" of the previous century, made virtually their exclusive prerogative; it had an ancient pedigree – the Greek sun-god Apollo inflicted this punishment on his rival in instrumental music, Marsias.
So I spared no effort in the attempt to drop as far as possible from the vicious destroyer, and the closer I came to the foaming water the more clearly I saw the confusion and commotion that had arisen on board, as well as the flag which was most definitely Chinese. Still, my efforts bore fruit and I succeeded in ditching some 15 nautical miles from the elongated vessel, a reasonable distance by any reckoning, which I had every intention of exploiting to the full. I was already planning to convert the sleeve of the jacket into a periscope so I could stay submerged, and I had started working on this project when directly in front of me, to be precise – some scores of meters from me – a yellow Chinese submarine surfaced, its gun trained on me and the skipper, evidently a former whale-hunter, standing on the conning tower with a harpoon in his hand, aimed at my heart, and with a murderous, cynical smile on his face. Needless to say, I wasn’t afraid of the gun because of the immunity given me by the Indians, but the harpoon posed a real threat… I had almost resigned myself to having my skin removed strip by strip when something drew my attention, mine and that of the skipper with the evil look and the harpoon: about half a meter under the surface a terrifying sea-monster suddenly appeared, the like of which had never been seen since the creation of the world to this day, and mouth wide open it rose in the water and swooped directly on me… I had a moment’s respite, just long enough to identify the creature as belonging to the order of cetaceans, and then I was swallowed whole and everything around me went black. I tried to remember the short prayer that I used to say when I was a child, before going to bed, said out of a sense of duty, although this time of course I intended to say it properly, for perhaps the first time in my life on the earth (or in the depths of the sea), praying truthfully and sincerely… and sure enough I remembered it, that is the two opening words which then, when I was a mischievous child – were also for me the two closing words; I had time to say "Our Father" and to close my eyes – only to open them again at once and wide open: I was still healthy and whole and the void in front of me was broad and illuminated and at the end of it a kind of human form was moving slowly towards me, with a strange face framed by a blazing red Irish beard and showing a smile which was scornful, but also friendly, bright and hospitable.
THE RED PROPHET
"I have saved you from the hands of the slant-eyed skin-strippers!" he declared with an air of deep satisfaction and winked at with his vivid, decidedly prophetic eye. It turned out that the business of the ‘junks’ of former times and the entertaining Chinese method of punishment (it did serve as entertainment too – entertainment for its own sake and for relief from boredom) was known to him. In other words – the red prophet wa
s an erudite man.
"All the blessings and thanks in the world – I lay at your feet!" I responded with appropriate enthusiasm, justified from any angle and any viewpoint whatsoever and I bowed a deep and suitably aristocratic bow before him. This gave him, apparently, great pleasure, satisfaction and reassurance, and he stroked his long beard with a calloused, slightly trembling hand.
"You look familiar to me!" he commented suddenly and his bulging eyes studied the lines of my face, faintly illuminated, as indeed was his, by rays of light emanating from the interior of the beast.
"If you will permit me," I addressed him with the utmost courtesy – "I shall refresh your memory", and at once I added: "We met some twenty years ago on the deck of that ship, twin-sister of the Titanic."
"I remember it well!" he cried and something unpleasant flashed in his eyes, "You saved those condemned sinners from the consignment to Hell that they so justly deserved… in fact – you only postponed the time of punishment! I have no doubt that most of them died horribly in the war that ended not so long ago!"
His voice was high and surprising, but I was even more astonished by the breadth of his knowledge.
"How is it that you’re so well-informed?" I asked in wonderment and added by way of illustration – "You’ve spent the last twenty years sitting in the sealed belly of this whale!"
He winked at me again conspiratorially:
"I exploited the warlike madness of savage men!" he explained and added: "From wrecked ships I helped myself to superior radio equipment, receivers and transmitters, and all kinds of useful gadgets… and their voice reaches me and my voice – reaches them!" and he went on to say, "I’m sure you’re curious to know what has become of those slant-eyed skin-strippers."
