My Uncle Oswald(49)

“‘We go on till I give the order,’ he said.

“‘Don’t be like that,’ I said. ‘Come on, pack it in.’

“‘Nobody gives orders here except me,’ he said.

“Oh well, I thought. I suppose it’ll have to be the hatpin.”

“Did you use it? Did you actually stick him?” I asked.

“You’re damn right I did,” she said. “It went in about two inches!”

“What happened?”

“He nearly hit the ceiling. He gave a piercing yell and bounced off onto the floor. ‘You stuck me!’ he shrieked, clutching his backside. I was up in a flash and starting to put my clothes on and he was jumping up and down stark naked and shrieking, ‘You stuck me! You stuck me! How dare you do that to me!’”

“Terrific,” I said to Yasmin. “Marvellous. Wonderful. I wish I’d seen it. Did he bleed?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care, but I was really fed up with him by then and I got a bit ratty and I said, ‘Listen to me, you, and listen carefully. Our mutual friend would have you by the balls if he ever heard about this. You raped me--you do realize that, don’t you?’ That shut him up. ‘What on earth came over you?’ I said. I was getting dressed as fast as I could and stalling for time. ‘Whatever made you do a thing like that to me?’ I shouted. I had to shout because the damn sofa was still rattling away behind me.

“‘I don’t know,’ he said. Suddenly he had become all meek and mild. When I was ready to go, I went up to him and kissed him on the cheek and said, ‘Let’s just forget it ever happened, shall we?’ At the same time, I quickly removed the sticky rubbery thing from his royal knob and marched grandly out of the room.”

“Did anyone try to stop you?” I asked.

“Not a soul.”

“Full marks,” I said. “You did a great job. You better give me that notepaper.” She gave me the sheet of palace notepaper with the signature on it and I filed it carefully away. “Now go pack your bags,” I said. “We’re leaving town on the next train.”





15





WITHIN HALF AN HOUR we had packed our bags and checked out of the hotel and were heading for the railway station. Paris next stop.

And so it was. We went to Paris on the night sleeper and arrived there on a sparkling June morning. We got rooms at the Ritz. “Wherever you are,” my father used to say, “when in doubt, stay at the Ritz.” Wise words. Yasmin came into my room to discuss strategy over an early lunch--a cold lobster for each of us and a bottle of Chablis. I had the list of priority candidates in front of me on the table.

“Whatever happens, Renoir and Monet come first,” I said. “In that order.”

“Where do we find them?” Yasmin asked.

It is never difficult to discover the whereabouts of famous men. “Renoir is at Essoyes,” I said. “That’s a small town about one hundred and twenty miles south-east of Paris, between Champagne and Burgundy. He is now seventyeight, and I’m told he’s in a wheel-chair.”

“Jesus Christ, Oswald, I’m not going to feed Blister Beetle to some poor old bastard in a wheel-chair!” Yasmin said.

“He’ll love it,” I told her. “There’s nothing wrong with him except a bit of arthritis. He’s still painting. He is easily the most celebrated painter alive today, and I’ll tell you another thing. No living painter in the history of art has ever received such high prices for his pictures during his lifetime as Renoir. He’s a giant. In ten years’ time we’ll be selling his straws for a fortune.”

“Where’s his wife?”

“Dead. He’s a lonely old man. You’ll cheer him up no end. When he sees you, he’ll probably want to paint you in the nude on the spot.”

“I’d like that.”

“On the other hand, he has a model called Dedée he’s absolutely mad about.”

“I’ll soon fix her,” Yasmin said.

“Play your cards right and he might even give you a picture.”

“Hey, I’d like that, too.”

“Work on it,” I said.

“What about Monet?” she asked.

“He is also a lonely old man. He’s seventy-nine, a year older than Renoir, and he’s living the life of a recluse at Giverny. That’s not far from here. Just outside Paris. Very few people visit him now. Clemenceau drops in occasionally, so I’m told, but almost no one else. You’ll be a little sunbeam in his life. And another canvas perhaps? A Monet landscape? Those things are going to be worth hundreds of thousands later on. They’re worth thousands already.”