The Fantastical Adventures of Leutenlieb of the House of Munchausen

by Shlomo Kalo

  In spite of this they greeted us with enthusiasm, with brief and courteous speeches. Incidentally – their patois constituted a faithful translation of the subdued barking of dogs, supplemented by thin and hoarse whining.

  They were very excited by the modest gift, the barrel of herrings, which was handed over to them with due formality. And much to our surprise and contrary to expectations, despite their permanent hunger, they didn’t attack the food in blind frenzy, pushing one another aside; rather, they gathered together in exemplary order, seated according to age and status round the table. The table itself was just a flat expanse of solid rock, sculpted into an oblong shape, surrounded by a comfortable seating channel, likewise a sculpted work of art. The table was protected from the attentions of the birds of prey by a low and flat roof all constructed of bones joined together, a mathematical and artistic achievement in its own right, well worth considering, studying and teaching, and preserving for unruly times.

  With self-evident respect the first fish was presented to the most distinguished of the elders, sitting at the end of the table, whose other eye the predatory birds had not yet succeeded in plucking out, and as to the eye that was gauged, the dignified old man said in a voice hoarse with weakness – the assailant had paid with its life.

  The elder of the tribe took the herring and passed to his deputy, and he to his deputy and so on and on, until it was placed in the small hands of the youngest child capable of sitting with the adults around the long and solid table. The child asked for and received permission from the elder of the tribe, given, incidentally, with a wave of the hand, and began devouring the herring with relish. And then the second herring was handed to the second youngest child, a little older than the youngest, who had already polished off his herring. He too, like his predecessor, asked for permission and received it and quietly sated his hunger. The ceremonial meal lasted several hours until all had broken their fast and the elder of the tribe too was finally served with the final herring of that meal, and ate it. The barrel was still full, but the members of the tribe didn’t touch it again that day, leaving it for the days to come.

  I felt a great deal of sympathy for them and I was firmly resolved to help them, to assist, whatever might befall, these unfortunate people, defending the honor of the human race in this remote corner of the world with admirable fortitude, risking their own lives in the process.

  With a penetrating glance I examined the weapons at the disposal of the Bigdogians and soon discovered something which could bring them relief and salvation. I took one of their arrows and bent it into the shape of a letter C – thus the straight arrow became curved, closely resembling the Australian boomerang. And then I went out of the hospitality hut accompanied by the elders of the tribe. I took one of their bows in my hand and when one of those insolent birds dived towards me – impaled it with an arrow.

  My spectators observed my movements with repressed scepticism and a secret smile, the bitter and supposedly understanding smile born of long experience, and all this on account of the law of hospitality prevailing in these places, according to which it is absolutely forbidden to offend the guest in any way whatsoever, even the kind of offence that is unspoken, to say nothing of an open smile. In the end, my bemused hosts almost swallowed their tongues in bewilderment and were left staring with mouths and eyes wide open, seeing the astonishing performance of my boomerang-arrow, which hit the bird but instead of allowing it to flee from the scene and fall into the sea several kilometers from the shore, providing a lavish meal for greedy sharks – it described a perfect circuit, something apparently impossible, and deposited the shot bird directly in my hand…

  I pulled out the arrow and without hesitation, using the same arrow, repeated the process, and soon an impressive pile of fresh bird-meat grew at my feet.

  The elder of the tribe was the first to recover from the paralyzing shock, and with a few brief words he commanded the women to set to work at once, preparing the birds for an immediate supplementary meal.

  There was much rejoicing and the party that was organized spontaneously, there and then, was one of the warmest parties I ever enjoyed in my life, all in my honor and in honor of my modest invention – the boomerang-arrow.

  Of course, I did not eat of the roasted fowl myself. As is well known, I am a vegetarian, sparing the lives of all living things. This being the case, I sat down and quickly calculated that one bird would provide each resident with a nourishing daily portion, and in exchange for the arrows that I prepared, I extracted from them a solemn and explicit promise, backed up by oaths, that they would not exceed the quota. They agreed at once and swore on around a dozen gods of the sea and a further two dozen demigods, and it seemed they understood my intention and did not mean to infringe it. In this hastily improvised way I reckoned I could preserve at least a modicum of pure idealism while limiting the proliferation of slaughter. Except that - as it turned out in retrospect – these efforts of mine proved quite unnecessary.

  Following a strange incident involving a wrecked ship which ran aground on the smooth shores of this island, among those on board being an Arab sheikh, saved by a miracle from the jaws of the sharks, and with him a team of American oil-drilling experts, saved by the same miracle and by the efforts of the impoverished islanders – Bigdog and the surrounding area were found to be the site of the richest oil deposits anywhere in the world. And within two days, the destitute inhabitants of the island became the most prestigious shareholders in the universe, building themselves floating palaces and no longer using my invention, the boomerang-arrow, except for sporting contests staged in particular on the occasion of public festivals, shooting at plastic discs thrown into the air, to varying altitudes. The hunting of birds had ended completely, and this was good news indeed. Some time later I was informed that the birds themselves had abandoned the place, and this was blamed on the oil-fumes. I hope they stopped pecking out the eyes of people or of other creatures, learned the lesson of the arrow-boomerang, became tent-dwellers and veritable pursuers of peace, i.e., living in nests in the eternal forests with which the not so distant regions are blessed, and their diet, like the diet of all civilised winged creatures – nuts and berries and fruits, which are not in short supply in this wonderful world of ours, the incomparably gifted author of fascinating comedies and their avowed advocate.

  As for the sharks – they became first rate entertainment animals, drawing in thousands of tourists from all corners of the world. They surround the island as before in a dense cordon and enjoy exposing their teeth before the cameras of tourists as a response to the colored films of meaty treats displayed before their tiny, sharp-sighted eyes. Eventually they will die of starvation or abandon the island, seeing that no real food has passed their lips since the drilling for oil began.

  DEPRESSION ISLAND, AND THE SULTAN NO-ALLAH-NO-HALLAH

  We rose early, as we clearly sensed the unique form of delight which typically affects the whale when an impressive vista is revealed to him, a response which finds its tangible expression in the vibration of all his bodily organs, and as a result of this, in our case, the kitchen utensils were set dancing on their shelves before eventually falling, quite noisily, on the soft floor.

  "We are approaching Depression Island!" my friend called out to me, clearing himself a path amid the still-quivering jumble of saucepans, frying-pans, graters, sieves and casserole dishes, and starting the process of brewing tea, a task conducted with all due solemnity and careful adherence to ritual. This particular method, he told me, he learned from an aged Chinese who claimed to be a scion of the glorious Yang dynasty, and asserted that the art of brewing tea was the one skill learned by the sons of emperors and passed on secretly from father to son. And so he learned to brew tea according to the imperial tradition, and since he was childless and had adopted my friend as his son (even the red-bearded prophet was a young man once), he saw it as his sacred duty to pass on to him a number of ancient secrets, including the primeval art of brewi
ng tea.

  The rest of the secrets my friend refused to reveal to me because – so he insisted with some force – they would do me no good, but on the contrary, could do me positive harm, as they had harmed him. At least, he saw fit to clarify, they had caused him utter confusion and long-lasting perplexity in all things relating to the precepts of the illustrious Lao-Tse and the no less illustrious Kung-Fu-Tse. Both of them, as is well known, left behind them secret recipes, tried and tested techniques for the attainment of eternal youth, although one denied it and the other derided it, and finally, one after the other, they shuffled off this mortal coil, old and exhausted.

  I was content enough with the artistic preparation of tea, and didn’t press my friend to reveal any more secrets from the Chinese royal court. In fact a number of times, on different occasions and when the circumstances seemed appropriate, my friend tried on his own initiative to hint broadly at his willingness to bless me with those closely-guarded secrets, he too being childless and reckoning that "a close friend is as good as a son" – according to the corrupt version of the Chinese proverb.

  In a few sentences of outstanding clarity, I reminded him of his solemn warnings of the harm liable to be done with the exposure of these secrets on the one hand and the total absence of benefit on the other, and forced him to reconsider his motives, leaving him somewhat embarrassed and at a loss.

  "The people of Depression Island are ruled today by my dear and devoted friend, the Sultan No-Allah-No-Hallah," the prophet informed me and went on to say: "He is grateful to me, and fears me in the positive sense of the expression, and owes me appreciation and goodwill, and all this on account of some prophecies I made to him some time ago, all of which, to the last and least significant among them, have been fulfilled in the spirit and in the letter… And if his name seems strange to you, it is not a exceptional name among the Depressives, and he was given it by his parents who were blessed, so it seems, with at least a modicum of prophetic talent, to the extent that inhabitants of these islands are capable of possessing it" – the red-bearded one commented with disguised off-handedness and clear emphasis: "He, the Sultan, my friend that is, came to power not long ago. Before that, he served in an honorable capacity in the Depressives’ army…" – he cast a probing look at me, resumed his tea-making and went on to say: "He was a sergeant-major… a proficient sergeant-major with eyes in his head and a brain in his skull and strength in his loins…the retainers of the former Sultan Allah-Yes-Hallah-No, his relatives, supporters and admirers, were put to the sword… admittedly, there is still talk of another blood-relation of Allah-Yes-Hallah-No who survived, a young man who took refuge in a dense forest in the middle of the island, which incidentally is about the same size as the British Isles… and densely populated, since the inhabitants are industrious and the land fertile… that ancient dynasty had begun to deteriorate recently, and matters of state were neglected to the point where the prisons were almost entirely empty following a spate of pardons and remissions, and criminals of all kinds and all ranks began walking freely in broad daylight in the streets of towns and villages, and in the broad plazas of the majestic city of Gotitallrong-Llah, the capital, and striking fear into the hearts of the peaceable, law-abiding citizens… Of course, since my friend came to power, the picture has changed fundamentally. Criminals of all kinds and ranks not only don’t show their ugly faces in the sun-drenched boulevards of Gotitallrong-Llah, they don’t even dare commit crimes at night unless their faces are masked… and the prisons are bursting at the seams and every year a new prison is built, bigger and better than its predecessor and equipped with all kinds of advanced facilities for neutralizing the destructive tendencies of potential law-breakers…"

  Our wonder-whale swallowed up the distances and brought us to the shores of Depression Island.

  We made landfall in a small cove set aside for private yachts and sailing-dinghies, but our whale made stately and unhindered progress to the end of the jetty, spewed us up there, and returned to the open sea, to come back in a week and collect us, as agreed.

  News of our arrival on the shore of Depression Island spread rapidly and all the grandees of the ruling class, assorted generals and viziers and senators and ministers and councilors and secret agents, assembled to greet us, joined by the bosses of the big factories which processed the fine produce of the island, and bank managers, and various free-lancers who held massive cameras, apparently borrowed from the national museum, and they clicked away in our faces incessantly, to give at least the impression of a dignified official reception.

  Finally – the Sultan No-Allah-No-Hallah appeared in person. A man in his early forties, his fleshy face tanned, his moustache stiffened by liberal applications of lacquer, his little shark-eyes smiling with malicious cunning that would melt any heart with the force of the feeling that such a look arouses. Stuffed under his broad red belt were three large-caliber automatic pistols and inlaid on the green turban towering above his head – a pair of curved daggers.

  He held out a heavy, podgy hand to my friend the prophet, and when I was introduced to him with all due decorum, and the names of my illustrious forebears were recited to him – the ruler scanned me with a suspicious look, from top to toe, and shook my hand in a manner which seemed to say: I know your kind of people! I’m not impressed!

  Soon after this we were admitted to the palace which boasted a surface area of around one hundred hectares and was populated by statesmen, courtiers and in particular – a horde of women with veiled faces, and a pair of hefty eunuchs keeping a watchful eye on each one of them. Seeing my look of bemused innocence, my friend hastily whispered in my ear:

  "Every beautiful woman among the Depressives is the personal property of No-Allah-No-Hallah, and this property now amounts to around ¼ million souls! He once heard about King Solomon and his thousand wives, and he swore by everything he held holy to multiply this figure by two hundred and fifty. That was his oath, and he carried it through."

  When was this oath sworn?" I asked him in that lowered voice which resembles a conspiratorial whisper.

  "When he was still a sergeant-major in the army of the Depressives… and he carried it through, the way he carries everything through!" the red-bearded one stressed and added: "That’s exactly what I promised him in former times – that whatever he is minded to do, he will do! And that is why he respects me so highly!" my friend declared with an air of unassailable self-regard.

  We were invited to lunch, a meal due to take place in about another three hours, and in the meantime we were assigned attendants who escorted us to the sumptuous apartments set aside for us and asked if we wanted anything. When they heard that all we asked for was permission to stroll for a while around the palace and its grounds, they exchanged tolerant smiles and responded by saying we simply didn’t know Depression Island and its limitless possibilities, and by asking for what we had asked, we had missed out on a real opportunity… Anyway, our request was granted while the attendants, to our surprise, continued to accompany us, sometimes close at hand and sometimes further away, expressly ignoring all the hints that we dropped, all our attempts to persuade them that we could manage by ourselves and we didn’t need any human protection.

  The tour of the palace was boring because everything was built according to the bloated-square-western pattern, without any real plan or any aspiration towards the proper use of space, to say nothing of beauty or flair. We hurriedly decided to explore the streets of Gotitallrong-Llah, the capital, instead. And here we were confronted, literally confronted, by the intense agitation afflicting all the citizens of the capital, reflected in their tense, pale, not unattractive faces. Their looks expressed repressed anger, bitterness and most of all, deep and elemental despair. It soon became known to us that the last scion of the ancient dynasty of the previous Sultan, Allah-Yes-Hallah-No, had been arrested when he came to rescue his legally betrothed from the clutches of No-Allah-No-Hallah who had declared her his private property, since she was undeniably
beautiful and the law permitted him to act as he had.

  The youth had been summarily sentenced to death by firing-squad and now the crowds were streaming towards the central square where the sentence was to be carried out, to see and to fear. The prince’s betrothed, a princess in her own right, the tender and delicate flower of a lineage even more ancient than that of her fiancé, threatened to take her own life, to swallow poison that she had hidden in a place where no one could find it – if No-Allah-No-Hallah dared to touch a hair of the young prince’s head. As it turned out, this was not a threat which particularly impressed the corpulent Sultan. On the contrary, it only impelled him to bring the execution forward. It seems, the death of the princess was no less in his interests than the death of the prince, she too being seen as a threat to the security of his crown.

  "What shall we do?" I asked my friend the pertinent question, in my voice the firm resolve to take some action, any action.

  He recognized the tone of my voice and what lay behind it, stopped, considered for a moment, wrinkled his high forehead, shook his fiery beard and finally looked up at me and commanded:

  "Come on! We’ll find the Sultan and I’ll hit him with a prophecy of such force the walls of his palace will shake. We’ll try at least to commute the sentence into something like exile or a labor-camp or even – conditional discharge."

  None of these options seemed realistic to me. I had no doubt that murder was about to be committed in broad daylight, a crude perversion of justice and the licensing of brutality and of utter disregard for values such as truth and freedom, respect and mercy. But so far no idea had come into my head, no hint of a realistic rescue-strategy had flashed into my mind. So I had no choice but to agree with my friend, and we both turned around and set out at a brisk pace towards the tall gates of the palace.