The Fantastical Adventures of Leutenlieb of the House of Munchausen

by Shlomo Kalo

  And sure enough, the young man heeded my advice and accepted all my suggestions, implementing them in the spirit and in the letter.

  A few days later the prince married his heart’s beloved in a regal wedding ceremony attended by all the people, formerly known as Depressives and now as Achievers, who shared in the prince’s happiness over a whole week of festivities.

  The highly impressive coronation took place immediately after the wedding, in an ornate sanctuary dating from the days of the founding fathers of the island in the heart of the capital, its name now changed from Gotitallrong-Llah to Cheerup-Llah. An ancient crown was presented, made of a single ingot of gleaming gold studded with precious stones of unusual size, color and beauty. The crown was handed to me, as presiding officer, and the young prince knelt before me with his sweetheart at his side, and during the recitation of an ancient blessing I laid the crown on the head of the new Sultan, who had given up wearing tarbushes and turbans of all colors of the rainbow, preferring to release his black hair and let it blow free in the wind when riding his gallant horse.

  With the conclusion of these events in which my friend, the red-bearded prophet, also had his part to play – and he did not forget to remind me that his prophecies had come true and the former Sultan had forfeited his power having failed to heed the warning voice – a general amnesty was declared for all prisoners. The emptied jails were razed to the foundations and in their place public parks were laid out, with sport and recreation grounds for children and young people. The penalties imposed on convicts were all commuted, to working, for a nominal salary, in the service of poor farmers. Even the former Sultan, No-Allah-No-Hallah, sentenced to twenty-five years of imprisonment with hard labor, was released from detention and transferred to a village in the south-eastern corner of the new kingdom, to serve as assistant and handyman to a poor farmer whose fields were failing to bear the kind of yields that had been hoped for because, as it turned out, he wasn’t capable of working it properly as a one-man operation; an extra pair of hands was a real boon to this poor farmer, who responded with a thousand blessings and an interminable speech of gratitude.

  The time came to bid farewell to the new Sultan and his consort and set out on our travels again. The young couple, wearing their most resplendent attire in our honor accompanied us to the cove. The whale rose to the surface and at the pre-arranged signal he too saluted the Sultan and the Sultana and their entourage, sending up a mighty jet of water. Enchanted, the royals clapped their hands and waved to him, showering him with compliments and benedictions.

  In turn we embraced the young Sultan and kissed the delicate hand of the Sultana, radiant as she was in the full flush of her youthful beauty, said our goodbyes to our escorts and leapt into the wide-open maw of our living ship, which immediately cast off from the quay and set a course for the open sea.

  Years passed. One day we happened to come ashore at one of the many jetties of Achievement Island, now a fertile and prosperous place. It soon became clear to us that we were treading the ground of that village to which the former ruler No-Allah-No-Hallah had been sent, assigned to one of the poorer farmers to work out the 25 years of his sentence.

  We were curious, my friend the red-bearded prophet and I. Without further ado we started looking, and soon we found that farmer and asked him about No-Allah-No-Hallah. At first he gave us a strange look, as if pondering something, racked his brains in the manner typical of agricultural workers, while pursing his lips and rolling his eyes – and the silence lengthened. Finally, he scratched his chin, smiled and said:

  "No-Allah-No-Hallah – as was! About a year ago he asked permission to change his name and today he’s known as No-Work-No-Wisdom. He’s working at the eastern end of the vegetable garden, and by all means – talk to him and if he asks, tell him he’s entitled to take a break, and rest and talk to you for as long as he likes. I won’t forget you my friends!" – the farmer broadened his scarred lips into a smile that was all innocence and light – "And thanks to this gentleman," he pointed to me, "our enlightened leader was saved from death and since then we have lived in prosperity and peace and we give thanks for this three times a day, and it seems, for joy such as ours, even this it too little! Go, my lords, go and talk to him until the morning light if that is what you want!"

  We found him controlling the flow of water, by alternately opening and closing the irrigation channels between the beds of cucumbers, gourds and red peppers that had not yet germinated. He had changed completely, and slimmed beyond recognition, but his eyes were bright and had lost their look of malice and arrogant suspicion. Instead of this, something else was shining from their depths, something childlike and innocent, utterly astonishing and indefinable.

  "Aha, yes, yes, I certainly remember you, remember you well! The red-bearded prophet and his friend with the bullet-proof body! The memory of you has repeatedly stirred up unquenchable wrath in my heart!" – the former No-Allah-No-Hallah grinned without pausing from his work which he was doing with skill, with measured movements, without any sign whatsoever of discontent and even – with a hint of enjoyment which for some reason he chose to repress or to hide.

  "Why wrath?" my friend queried, somewhat miffed and with brow wrinkling.

  "Because you were so late coming to us!" – our interlocutor broke into loud and limpid laughter, something utterly foreign to his former nature. "You let me go on sinning for ten whole years! Since I was a sergeant-major in the army of the Depressives, since my forcible seizure of power, my reign as Sultan to the shame of the world… the most empty and contemptible of men, smitten by malignant blindness and incomparable stupidity… you were late arriving! But all the same, it’s good that you came! And I tell you this – my eyes have been opened and these are the best days I have ever known in my life, the happiest! Working, that is – being in control of this clumsy machine" – he pointed to his body – "which has a tendency to put on fat and drag its owner down in the cess-pit of pretended comfort and degenerate sloth… when I understood this, many more things became clear in my mind!"

  He began walking away from us as he worked, since his work required constant movement.

  "The farmer has given you permission to rest and sit with us until the light of morning," my friend was quick to inform him.

  "The farmer permits it, but I don’t! You see this ground," – his polished spade seemed to be caressing the black clods of earth – "and with what joyful thirst it drinks the ration of water that I allocate to it! To stop means, to leave it thirsty… and for what, to what end? Just to exchange redundant words!"

  "And what if they’re not redundant?" my friend persisted, showing signs of irritation and chagrin.

  "There are no words that aren’t redundant!" – No-Work-No-Wisdom declared without looking at us, and wielded his spade to clear the earth from the path of the water which began at once to moisten the channel which had been opened, flowing smoothly with its level rising steadily.

  "Work" – he declaimed in a vigorous tone, without turning to us, "is the one magic word and it expresses an unequivocal truth in comparison with which all other words are redundant, obsolete and utterly superfluous – unless they are spoken in the innermost recesses of the heart, in time of need! Work erases everything that is not truth – pride, lust, cruelty, hatred, jealousy, sloth, exploitation, complacency… it is truth itself, it is love! He who is capable of working, is capable of loving. He is the lover and he is the loved!"

  Having no other choice, we trailed along behind him. A light westerly breeze blew in his face, scorched by the sun but expressing health, unfeigned integrity, wisdom and joy. The breeze fanned our faces too, bringing with it soul-restoring refreshment. "In fact," the former Sultan No-Allah-No-Hallah now the simple civilian No-Work-No-Wisdom stopped suddenly, spade in hand – "all the troubles of mankind are caused by idleness! Any person who wants happiness needs to conquer idleness, to work until his last day and if possible – until the last moment of his life. To die while
working is to die a free man! In other words, your soul is purified by work, and will thus fly directly into the bosom of God… who is in fact the consummate and exemplary worker, who created the universe as He created it and created this flesh to pave the way to Him, to spurn idleness and by means of work which is pleasure – to reach Him, reach God… Whoever discovers work which is the absolute opposite of death and gloom – has been born anew! You know," he turned to us for a moment, leaning forward slightly, "sometimes ideas arise… building machines etc., capable of doing more work in less time… but I reject them out of hand. It is the Tempter who is putting these vain ideas into my mind. The moment that the race with time begins – work is no longer work, there is no joy, no rebirth. Idleness celebrates behind the mask of ‘leisure creation’ And you, be sure to tell this to the new Sultan, your friend, and warn him with the utmost seriousness not to bring machines into this place and not submit to the idleness which demands ‘leisure’, and he should educate his people to treat machinery with contempt and not forgo the true joy of manual labor, which is the ultimate leisure, bringing man closer to God! And something else," he added, speaking with strange intensity, healthy and unwavering, "there were all kinds of disreputable types here, disguised as gentle sheep and lambs… from the old regime which I, to my shame, used to lead, and they put proposals to me… proposals which might appear tempting to some… to return to power, in other words – to return to idleness, to the life of depression… with their help and the help of elements in the army which is still teeming with supporters of the barbarous former regime, who have not yet grasped the message of the new era, and idleness still bewitches them… and how do you think I responded?"

  "We don’t know!" my friend expressed his sincere bemusement, the palms of his hands, open at his sides, stressing with unequivocal emphasis his utter helplessness.

  "I laughed in their faces!" – the former Sultan, current and future gardener, answered him – "I told them they were fools and the sons of fools and regrettably, fools and the sons of fools they would remain. And instead of trying to obtain a little wisdom, a tiny mustard-seed of wisdom…" he added, waving his spade for greater emphasis, "they do everything to glorify their folly until the end of all generations!

  "They stared at me in astonishment, then with suspicion, then with awe. ‘What must we do to obtain this morsel of wisdom that you mentioned?’ they asked me finally. ‘Work!’ I told them. ‘Take up the spade, open up irrigation channels, plant a garden, and work all the days of your lives. This is your last hope!’ I don’t know if they fully understood me or thought I was mad… since time immemorial the truly wise have been considered mad by the feeble-minded… and now, I must ask you to leave this place, my masters! Otherwise I shall be falling behind with my work with these channels, and the spade is twitching in my hands, all eagerness to help, to love, to love the ground and pour water into it, in other words – to work!" and so saying he turned his broad back on us and started energetically opening up the next channel in the series, thirsty for the refreshing water that the loving spade was bestowing upon it.

  A LETHAL PINHEAD

  We were swallowed up into the guts of our steadfast beast and resumed our journey which this time did not last long. The whale showed clear signs of fatigue and we, my red-bearded friend and I, your obedient servant, sat down to consider the issue and having weighed the various options, decided to land on the shores of the nearby island of "Coconut Delights" and spend some time there, giving our miraculous vessel the opportunity to rest and regain his strength whereupon he could return to our service, refreshed and happy.

  No sooner resolved than done: we landed on that island whose ruler, the great chief Go-On-Give was an old friend of the red-bearded prophet.

  We were accorded an enthusiastic reception and one of the largest and most spacious huts on the island was placed at our disposal, a hut recently built from random trunks of coconut trees and from fresh coconut husks. Our modern accommodation, unlike the other huts, also featured an en-suite bathroom, located across the road and close to the central square.

  It became our habit to sit on the compacted earth of the courtyard, drying out gourds, a business in which, for sheer expertise, the residents of Coconut Delights have no rivals and which constitutes an important element of the gross national product, after the various industries associated with the coconut – from fertilizer manufactured from the husks and the trees to the condensed coconut milk which is renowned worldwide, competing successfully with Swiss condensed milk. One evening as I was sitting on the threshold of the hut and going about my usual business, the great chief Go-On-Give came into the unfenced yard, approached me, bent down and told me confidentially that another white-skinned man was at large on the island, but this was an individual of exceptional appearance, speaking in a weird manner bearing no resemblance to anything that would normally be considered speech; it would be as well if I looked him over, and if I specifically wanted to do so, that evening I would have a not-be-repeated opportunity, since the man was invited to the festive coconut supper which was the island’s national weekly celebration.

  I expressed my unreserved agreement and attended that supper quite willingly.

  I soon identified the man to whom Go-On-Give alluded – a man in his late thirties looking tormented, beaten and depressed. His eyes flashed as if his liver was being eaten by a malignant tropical fever, his clothes were worn and had been patched in a thoroughly amateurish way, his speech was garbled – spoken in English with a heavy American accent – and his words barely coherent.

  "Where are you from, Sir?" I asked him politely. He recoiled as if he had been bitten by a snake, gave

  me a scared look, studied my own expression for a long moment, seemed somewhat reassured and by way of response to my question, suddenly barked out what sounded like a hoarse command:

  "Your permit!"

  "What do you mean by that?" I queried, dumbfounded and almost narrowing my eyes in my perplexity.

  "Show me your permit, Sir! Show it and don’t play the innocent with me!"

  "What permit?" – I was beginning to recover my wits.

  "The one that gives you the right and the authority to ask questions, to conduct interrogations!"

  "I’m not ashamed to admit," I retorted, speaking in a thoroughly pleasant and friendly voice, "that your words are still a riddle to me!"

  "Show me your service identity card!" the ragged man shrieked.

  "Which service are you talking about?" I raised my voice too, not wanting my attitude to be interpreted as uncouth indifference to his sincere efforts to express himself.

  "The FBI!" the man declared, his voice shaking.

  Aha!" I smiled a gentle and knowing smile and finally I could not resist the impulse to break into laughter, although not of inordinate volume – "How did you come to a conclusion so divorced from reality?" I cried, repressing my mirth – "Do I look to you, or to any human being with a shred of honest intelligence in his skull, like a heartless villain, a secret agent of that murderous organization?"

  The man scoured me again with his gleaming, morbid look, more thoroughly this time, from top to toe, aggressively and incisively. Following this precise inspection, a faint spark of surprise showed at the base of his feverish eyes.

  "Are you not that Baron…" he hesitated, lowering his eyes bashfully, "that the children admire so much? What was his name?" – he tried feverishly to awaken his memory and failing to do it, clicked his fingers once or twice.

  "Munchausen!" I reminded him with a light, aristocratic bow, with the dignified humility which is so characteristic of our family and it is more than likely that a faint smile of satisfaction, childish satisfaction perhaps, touched my face.

  "This is an honor for me!" his face lit up and the look in his eyes seemed altogether less strained, though the feverish spark was still there. And with a self-deprecating smile, he began telling his story.

  The story was long, incomparably fascinati
ng and definitely worth telling from beginning to end in all its most minute details, but since space is limited and time is pressing, I shall make do with the essentials.

  The man was an inventor, an inventor of genius as it transpired, in whose name (which he resolutely refused to divulge to me), one thousand nine hundred and twenty-four international patents had hitherto been registered, in various fields. Since coming of age, it seemed he had been turning out inventions at an average rate of two per week. The crowning glory of his inventions – according to his admirers although not in his own estimation – was an electrical device about the size of a pinhead and for this reason easily concealed and transported in all conditions and circumstances, emitting a special kind of ray, as yet insufficiently analyzed, capable of inducing an immediate outbreak of leukemia in any person exposed to it – sometimes other forms of cancer too. The operator of the device would himself be completely immune to the effects of his lethal ray.

  At first, the inventor did not fully appreciate the scale of the disaster inherent in his invention, and he was proud of his impressive scientific achievement. In retrospect, when the FBI pounced on the invention, the inventor realized what was in store for his unfortunate fellow human beings, subjected for better or worse – and it was usually worse – to the whims of all kinds of secret agents.

  The inventor tried to withdraw his invention and to retrieve all his original data but met with blank refusal. And when his attempts became persistent, he was plainly told that if he did not stop being a nuisance – he would be the first guinea-pig in the testing of his ingenious device. Then the man fell silent, withdrew from society and began planning ways of sabotaging the satanic machine with his own hands. According to him, this was a perfectly feasible objective and it was possible to neutralize the manufacture of the device for ever. "Incidentally," he told me, "it’s not a simple matter, producing the finished item. Although it’s only the size of a pinhead, a workforce of 1500 dedicated technicians is required for the project, over a period of at least two years! The device itself wears out within two years and is then completely beyond use."