“Yes, but I am not a catamite.”
“You don’t have the guts?”
“Of course I’ve got the guts. But field work is your province, not mine.”
“Who said so?”
“I can’t cope with a man, Yasmin, you know that.”
“This isn’t a man. It’s a fairy.”
“For God’s sake!” I cried. “I’ll be damned if I’ll let that little sod come near me! I’ll have you know that even an enema gives me the shakes for a week!”
Yasmin burst into shrieks of laughter. “I suppose you’re going to tell me next,” she said, “that you have a small sphincter.”
“Yes and I’m not having Mr. Proust enlarge it, thanks very much,” I said.
“You’re a coward, Oswald,” she said.
It was an impasse. I sulked. Yasmin got up and poured herself a drink. I did the same. We sat there drinking in silence. It was early evening.
“Where shall we have dinner tonight?” I said.
“I don’t care,” she said. “I think we ought to try to solve this Proust thing first. I’d hate to see this little bugger get away.”
“Do you have any ideas?”
“I’m thinking,” she said.
I finished my drink and got myself another. “You want one?” I said to her.
“No,” she said. I left her to go on thinking. After a while she said, “Well now, I wonder if that will work.”
“What?”
“I’ve just had a tiny little idea.”
“Tell me.”
Yasmin didn’t answer. She stood up and walked over to the window and leaned out. She stayed leaning out of that window for fully five minutes, immobile, deep in thought, and I watched her but kept my mouth shut. Then all of a sudden I saw her reach behind her with her right hand, and the hand started snatching at the air as though she were catching flies. She didn’t look round as she did this. She just went on hanging out of the window and snatching away at those invisible non-existent flies behind her.
“What the hell’s going on?” I said.
She turned round and faced me, and now there was a big smile on her face. “It’s great!” she cried. “I love it! I am a clever little girl!”
“Out with it then.”
“It’s going to be tricky,” she said, “and I’m going to have to be very quick but I’m good at catching. Come to think of it, I was better than my brother at catching cricket balls.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I said.
“It would mean disguising me as a man.”
“Easy,” I said. “No problem.”
“A beautiful young man.”
“Will you give him the Beetle?”
“A double dose,” she said.
“Isn’t that a bit risky? Don’t forget what it did to old Woresley.”
“That’s just how I want him,” she said. “I want him out of his mind.”
“Would you please tell me exactly what you propose to do?” I asked her.
“Don’t ask so many questions, Oswald. Just leave that side of it to me. I regard Monsieur Proust as fair game. He’s in the joker class and I shall treat him as a joker.”
“Actually he’s not,” I said. “He’s another genius. But take the hatpin by all means. The royal hatpin. The one that’s been two inches into the King of Spain’s bum.”
“I’d feel happier with a carving-knife,” she said.
We spent the next few days dressing Yasmin up as a boy. We told the couturier and the wigmaker and the shoe people that we were rigging her up for a very grand fancy-dress party, and they rallied round with enthusiasm. It is amazing what a good wig can do to a face. From the moment the wig was on and the make-up was off, Yasmin became a male. We chose slightly effeminate pale grey trousers, a blue shirt, a silk stock tie, a flowered silk waistcoat, and a fawn jacket. The shoes were brogues, white and brown. The hat was a soft felt trilby the colour of snuff, with a large brim. We took the curves out of her noble bosom by strapping it with a wide crepe bandage. I taught her to speak in a soft whispering voice to disguise the pitch, and I rehearsed her diligently in what she was to say, first to Céleste when the door was opened, and then to Monsieur Proust when she was shown into his presence.
Within a week, we were ready to go. Yasmin had still not told me how she intended to save herself from being inverted in true Proustian fashion and I did not press her any further about this. I was happy enough that she had agreed to take the man on.
We decided that she should arrive at his house at seven p.m. By then our victim would have been up and about for a good three hours. In her bedroom at the Ritz, I helped Yasmin to dress. The wig was a beauty. It gave her a head of hair that was golden-bronze in colour, slightly curly, and a bit on the long side. The grey trousers, the flowered waistcoat, and the fawn jacket turned her into an effeminate but ravishingly beautiful young man.