by Kage Baker
“And then, quite suddenly, he had to go abroad to avoid a scandal. And, bam! He was killed in a tragic accident when his coal-black stallion, startled by a pie wagon, threw him from its back and trampled him under its hooves.
“Being an honest man, I of course began searching for his next of kin, as soon as I heard the news of his demise. And you would think, wouldn’t you, that he’d have a next of kin? The way those lustful fellows carry on with all their wives and concubines? But it was revealed that the late Ali Pasha had had an equally tragic accident in his youth, when he’d attracted the attention of the Grand Turk because of his sweet singing voice, and, well...he was enabled to keep that lovely soprano until the time of his completely unexpected death.
“So no wives, no children, a yawning void of interested posterity.
“And this meant, you see, that the millions that lay in our vault would, after the expiration of a certain date, become the property of the Ottoman Empire.
“What could I do? The more I reflected on the tyranny under which our great nation suffered for so long, the more my patriotic blood began to boil. I determined on a daring course of action.
“I consulted with my colleagues in the international banking community, and obtained the name of an investor who was known far and wide for his integrity. He was a Prussian, as it happened, with a handsome personal fortune. I contacted him, apologized for my presumption, explained the facts of the case, and laid before him a proposition. If he were willing to pose as the brother of the late Ali Pasha, I could facilitate his claim to the millions sitting there on deposit. He would receive forty per cent for his part in the ruse; the remaining sixty per cent I would, of course, donate to the Church.
“To make a long story short, he agreed to the plan. Indeed, he went so far as to express his enthusiastic and principled support for Romanian self-rule.
“Of course, it was a complicated matter. We had to bribe the law clerks and several petty officials, in order that they might vouch for Smedlitz (the Prussian) being a long-lost brother of Ali Pasha, his mother having been kidnapped by Barbary Coast pirates with her infant child and sold into a harem, though fortunately there had been a birthmark by which the unfortunate Ali Pasha could be posthumously identified by his sorrowing relation.
“And Smedlitz was obliged to provide a substantial deposit in order to open an account in a bank in Switzerland, into which the funds could be transferred once we had obtained their release. But he agreed to the expenditure readily—too readily, as I ought to have seen!” Golescu shook his head, drank again, wiped his moustache with the back of his hand and continued:
“How I trusted that Prussian! Alas, you stars, look down and see how an honest and credulous soul is victimized.”
He drank again and went on:
“The fortune was transferred, and when I went to claim the agreed-upon sixty per cent for charity—imagine my horror on discovering that Smedlitz had withdrawn the entire amount, closed the account, and absconded! As I sought him, it soon became apparent that Smedlitz was more than a thief—he was an impostor, a lackey of the international banking community, who now closed ranks against me.
“To make matters worse, who should step forward but a new claimant! It developed that Ali Pasha had, in fact, a real brother who had only just learned of his death, having been rescued from a remote island where he had been stranded for seven years, a victim of shipwreck.
“My ruin was complete. I was obliged to flee by night, shaming my illustrious family, doomed to the life of an unjustly persecuted fugitive.” Golescu wiped tears from his face and had another long drink. “Never again to sit behind a polished desk, like a gentleman! Never again to flourish my walking-stick over the heads of my clerks! And what has become of its diamond, that shone like the moon?” He sobbed for breath. “Adversity makes a man wise, not rich, as the saying goes; and wisdom is all I own now. Sometimes I think of self-destruction; but I have not yet sunk so low.”
He drank again, belched, and said, in a completely altered voice:
“Ah, now it’s beginning to boil! Fetch a long stick and give it a stir, Emil darling.”
Golescu woke in broad daylight, grimacing as he lifted his face from the depths of his hat. Emil was still sitting where he had been when Golescu had drifted off to sleep, after some hours of hazily remembered conversation. The empty jug sat where Golescu had left it; but the hundred and forty-four little glass bottles were now full.
“What’d you...” Golescu sat up, staring at them. He couldn’t recall filling the bottles with concentrated yellow dye, but there they were, all tidily sealed.
“The medicine is ready,” said Emil.
Golescu rose unsteadily. The empty copper gleamed, clean as though it were new.
“No wonder she keeps you around,” he remarked. “You must be part kitchen fairy, eh? Poke up the fire, then, and we’ll boil you another potato. Maybe a parsnip too, since you’ve been such a good boy. And then, we’ll have an adventure.”
He picked up the sack and trudged off to attend to his toilet.
Two hours later they were making their way slowly along a country lane, heading for a barred gate Golescu had spotted. He was sweating in the heat, dressed in the finest ensemble the rag shop had had to offer: a rusty black swallowtail coat, striped trousers, a black silk hat with a strong odor of corpse. On his left breast he had assembled an impressive-looking array of medals, mostly religious ones dressed up with bits of colored ribbon, and a couple of foil stickers off a packet of Genoa biscuits. In one hand he carried a heavy-looking satchel.
Emil wore his duster, goggles and hat, and was having to be led by the hand because he couldn’t see very well.
When they came within a hundred yards of the gate, two immense dogs charged and collided with it, barking at them through the bars.
“Take the bag,” said Golescu, handing it off to Emil
“It’s heavy,” Emil complained.
“Shut up. Good morning to you, my dear sir!” He raised his voice to address the farmer who came out to investigate the commotion.
“I’m too hot.”
“Shut up, I said. May I have a moment of your time, sir?”
“Who the hell are you?” asked the farmer, seizing the dogs by their collars.
Golescu tipped his hat and bowed. “Dr. Milon Cretulescu, Assistant Minister of Agriculture to Prince Alexandru, may all the holy saints and angels grant him long life. And you are?”
“Buzdugan, Iuliu,” muttered the farmer.
“Charmed. You no doubt have heard of the new edict?”
“Of course I have,” said Farmer Buzdugan, looking slightly uneasy. “Which one?”
Golescu smiled at him. “Why, the one about increasing poultry production on the farms in this region. His highness is very concerned that our nation become one of the foremost chicken-raising centers of the world! Perhaps you ought to chain up your dogs, dear sir.”
When the dogs had been confined and the gate unbarred, Golescu strode through, summoning Emil after him with a surreptitious shove as he passed. Emil paced forward blindly, with tiny careful steps, dragging the satchel. Golescu ignored him, putting a friendly hand on Buzdugan’s shoulder.
“First, I’ll need to inspect your poultry yard. I’m certain you passed the last inspection without any difficulties, but, you know, standards are being raised nowadays.”
“To be sure,” agreed Buzdugan, sweating slightly. In fact, there had never been any inspection of which he was aware. But he led Golescu back to the bare open poultry yard, an acre fenced around by high palings, visible through a wire-screen grate.
It was not a place that invited lingering. Poultry yards seldom are. The sun beat down on it mercilessly, so that Golescu felt the hard-packed earth burning through the thin soles of his shoes. A hundred chickens stood about listlessly, quite unbothered by the reek of their defecation or the smell of the predators impaled on the higher spikes of the fence: two foxes and something so shrunken
and sun-dried its species was impossible to identify.
“Hmmm,” said Golescu, and drew from his pocket a small book and a pencil stub. He pretended to make notes, shaking his head.
“What’s the matter?” asked Buzdugan.
“Well, I don’t want to discourage you too much,” said Golescu, looking up with a comradely wink. “Good pest control, I’ll say that much for you. Make an example of them, eh? That’s the only way foxes will ever learn. But, my friend! How spiritless your birds are! Not exactly fighting cocks, are they? Why aren’t they strutting about and crowing? Clearly they are enervated and weak, the victims of diet.”
“They get nothing but the best feed!” protested Buzdugan. Smiling, Golescu waved a finger under his nose.
“I’m certain they do, but is that enough? Undernourished fowl produce inferior eggs, which produce feeble offspring. Not only that, vapid and tasteless eggs can ruin your reputation as a first-class market supplier. No, no; inattention to proper poultry nutrition has been your downfall.”
“But—”
“Fortunately, I can help you,” said Golescu, tucking away the book and pencil stub.
“How much will I have to pay?” asked Buzdugan, sagging.
“Sir! Are you implying that a representative of his highness the prince can be bribed? That may have been how things were done in the past, but we’re in a new age, after all! I was referring to Science,” Golescu admonished.
“Science?”
“Boy!” Golescu waved peremptorily at Emil, who had just caught up with them. “This loyal subject requires a bottle of Golden Formula Q.”
Emil did nothing, so Golescu grabbed the satchel from him. Opening it, he drew forth a bottle of the yellow dye. He held it up, cradling it between his two hands.
“This, dear sir, is a diet supplement produced by the Ministry of Agriculture. Our prince appointed none but university-trained men, ordering them to set their minds to the problem of improving poultry health. Utilizing the latest scientific discoveries, they have created a tonic of amazing efficacy! Golden Formula Q. Used regularly, it produces astonishing results.”
Buzdugan peered at the bottle. “What does it do?”
“Do? Why, it provides the missing nourishment your birds so desperately crave,” said Golescu. “Come, let me give you a demonstration. Have you a platter or dish?”
When a tin pan had been produced, Golescu adroitly let himself into the chicken yard, closely followed by Buzdugan. Within the yard it was, if possible, even hotter. “Now, observe the behavior of your birds, sir,” said Golescu, uncorking the bottle and pouring its contents into the pan. “The poor things perceive instantly the restorative nature of Golden Formula Q. They hunger for it! Behold.”
He set the pan down on the blistering earth. The nearest chicken to notice turned its head. Within its tiny brain flashed the concept: THIRST. It ran at once to the pan and drank greedily. One by one, other chickens had the same revelation, and came scrambling to partake of lukewarm yellow dye as though it were chilled champagne.
“You see?” said Golescu, shifting from one foot to the other. “Poor starved creatures. Within hours, you will begin to see the difference. No longer will your egg yolks be pallid and unwholesome, but rich and golden! All thanks to Golden Formula Q. Only two marks a bottle.”
“They are drinking it up,” said Buzdugan, watching in some surprise. “I suppose I could try a couple of bottles.”
“Ah! Well, my friend, I regret to say that Golden Formula Q is in such limited supply, and in such extreme demand, that I must limit you to one bottle only,” said Golescu.
“What? But you’ve got a whole satchel full,” said Buzdugan. “I saw, when you opened it.”
“That’s true, but we must give your competitors a chance, after all,” said Golescu. “It wouldn’t be fair if you were the only man in the region with prize-winning birds, would it?”
The farmer looked at him with narrowed eyes. “Two marks a bottle? I’ll give you twenty-five marks for the whole satchel full, what do you say to that?”
“Twenty-five marks?” Golescu stepped back, looking shocked. “But what will the other poultry producers do?”
Buzdugan told him what the other poultry producers could do, as he dug a greasy bag of coin from his waistband.
They trudged homeward that evening, having distributed several satchels’ worth of Golden Formula Q across the valley. Golescu had a pleasant sense of self-satisfaction and pockets heavy with wildly assorted currency.
“You see, dear little friend?” he said to Emil. “This is the way to make something of yourself. Human nature flows along like a river, never changes; a wise man builds his mill on the banks of that river, lets foibles and vanities drive his wheel. Fear, greed and envy have never failed me.”
Emil, panting with exhaustion, made what might have been a noise of agreement.
“Yes, and hasn’t it been a red-letter day for you? You’ve braved the sunlight at last, and it’s not so bad, is it? Mind the path,” Golescu added, as Emil walked into a tree. He collared Emil and set his feet back on the trail. “Not far now. Yes, Emil, how lucky it was for you that I came into your life. We will continue our journey of discovery tomorrow, will we not?”
And so they did, ranging over to the other side of the valley, where a strong ammoniac breeze suggested the presence of more chicken farms. They had just turned from the road down a short drive, and the furious assault of a mastiff on the carved gate had just drawn the attention of a scowling farmer, when Emil murmured: “Horse.”
“No, it’s just a big dog,” said Golescu, raising his hat to the farmer. “Good morning, dear sir! Allow me to introduce—”
That was when he heard the hoofbeats. He began to sweat, but merely smiled more widely and went on: “—myself. Dr. Milon Cretulescu, of the Ministry of Agriculture, and I—”
The hoofbeats came galloping up the road and past the drive, but just as Golescu’s heart had resumed its normal rhythm, they clattered to a halt and started back.
“—have been sent at the express wish of Prince Alexandru himself to—”
“Hey!”
“Excuse me a moment, won’t you?” said Golescu, turning to face the road. He beheld Farmer Buzdugan urging his horse forward, under the drooping branches that cast the drive into gloom.
“Dr. Cretulescu!” he said. “Do you have any more of that stuff?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You know, the—” Buzdugan glanced over at the other farmer, lowered his voice. “That stuff that makes the golden eggs!”
“Ah!” Golescu half-turned, so the other farmer could see him, and raised his voice. “You mean, Golden Formula Q? The miracle elixir developed by his highness’s own Ministry of Agriculture, to promote better poultry production?”
“Shush! Yes, that! Look, I’ll pay—”
“Golden eggs, you say?” Golescu cried.
“What’s that?” The other farmer leaned over his gate.
“None of your damn business!” said Buzdugan.
“But, dear sir, Golden Formula Q was intended to benefit everyone,” said Golescu, uncertain just what had happened but determined to play his card. “If this good gentleman wishes to take advantage of its astonishing qualities, I cannot deny him—”
“A hundred marks for what you’ve got in that bag!” shouted Buzdugan.
“What’s he got in the bag?” demanded the other farmer, opening his gate and stepping through.
“Golden Formula Q!” said Golescu, grabbing the satchel from Emil’s nerveless hand and opening it. He drew out a bottle and thrust it up into the morning light. “Behold!”
“What was that about golden eggs?” said the other farmer, advancing on them.
“Nothing!” Buzdugan said. “Two hundred, Doctor. I’m not joking. Please.”
“The worthy sir was merely indulging in hyperbole,” said Golescu to the other farmer. “Golden eggs? Why, I would never make that claim for Golden For
mula Q. You would take me for a mountebank! But it is, quite simply, the most amazing dietary supplement for poultry you will ever use.”
“Then, I want a bottle,” said the other farmer.
Buzdugan gnashed his teeth. “I’ll buy the rest,” he said, dismounting.
“Not so fast!” said the other farmer. “This must be pretty good medicine, eh? If you want it all to yourself? Maybe I’ll just buy two bottles.”
“Now, gentlemen, there’s no need to quarrel,” said Golescu. “I have plenty of Golden Formula Q here. Pray, good Farmer Buzdugan, as a satisfied customer, would you say that you observed instant and spectacular results with Golden Formula Q?”
“Yes,” said Buzdugan, with reluctance. “Huge eggs, yellow as gold. And all the roosters who drank it went mad with lust, and this morning all the hens are sitting on clutches like little mountains of gold. Two hundred and fifty for the bag, Doctor, what do you say, now?”
Golescu carried the satchel on the way back to the clearing, for it weighed more than it had when they had set out that morning. Heavy as it was, he walked with an unaccustomed speed, fairly dragging Emil after him. When they got to the wagon, he thrust Emil inside, climbed in himself and closed the door after them. Immediately he began to undress, pausing only to look once into the satchel, as though to reassure himself. The fact that it was filled to the top with bright coin somehow failed to bring a smile to his face.
“What’s going on, eh?” he demanded, shrugging out of his swallowtail coat. “I sold that man bottles of yellow dye and water. Not a real miracle elixir!”
Emil just stood there, blank behind his goggles, until Golescu leaned over and yanked them off.
“I said, we sold him fake medicine!” he said. “Didn’t we?”
Emil blinked at him. “No,” he said. “Medicine to make giant chickens.”
“No, you silly ass, that’s only what we told them it was!” said Golescu, pulling off his striped trousers. He wadded them up with the coat and set them aside. “We were lying, don’t you understand?”
