No Part in Your Death by Nicolas Freeling

Author:Nicolas Freeling
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2023-03-15T00:00:00+00:00

Part Three

‘I have killed Ourselves’

The telephone kept ringing and Castang kept not answering. It was not making a disturbance; more a mouselike squeak in the kitchen next door but it disturbed Vera, who had to exercise her self-control. Like most wives she had much: she did not fidget but a small frown appeared. He was meticulous and she was conscientious. These two qualities can bring about disharmony and even lead to discord. She worried lest the telephone should have urgencies to announce. If, said Castang, people have anything of importance to say they will ring again later. When I am working, and listening to music is work, I will not run after bells; I am not the footman.

There is also the automatic replier, nasty invention to disconcert the caller by bidding him state his business quick before getting cut off. This only increases slavery because of ‘Bloggs here: call me back.’ Who is Bloggs? Why the hell should we call him back? Now or ever?

The music was Carlos Kleiber’s ‘Tristan,’ and he had given it to Vera as a Christmas present, resisting the temptation to give her a new lavatory brush in pearly iridescent pink plastic. He had nearly resisted this temptation too, having no love for Wagner, but she desired it with insane longing, so he bought it because he loved her. Carlos could make even the Star-Spangled Banner appear as though the world heard it for the very first time, and the orchestra is that of Dresden …

“Outrageous,” said Castang after one hearing. “East Germans. Communists. Stalinists. They aren’t allowed to do anything at all but weight-lifting, or maybe a bit of waterpolo. The President of the United States must be told at once: he’ll put a stop to this.” The magic went on. Decidedly Carlos is the Head Zauberer.

The phone rang again at half past ten, and was again disregarded. The strength of this magic is such that the Pentagon, and the Palace of the Elysée, and Number Ten Downing Street, have all sunk deep beneath the wave; lower than Lyonesse.

At one minute to twelve Castang answered the phone. It was still by a fraction the twenty-eighth of December and the feast of the Holy Innocents.

“Geoffrey Dawson,” said a voice. “From Dorset. Perhaps you recall.”

“In Dawset. Well. Fancy that. Happy New Year.”

“Where have you been all night then?”

“Sitting on the lavatory,” answered Castang.

“Oy. If you want me to drop dead or anything, just say the word.”

“Not in the least. I was attempting an ill-judged pleasantry.”

“I do understand. The Trève des Confiseurs.” Phrase for the pause between Christmas and the New Year when the French refuse to do anything but overeat. “What would that be—the Pastrycooks’ Truce? Can you bear it for just one minute and then I’ll take the nasty castor-oil bottle away?”

“No no, I’m fine, just I was far far away and only this second got back … Do stop apologising, Geoffrey, but is this just an offer of your left-over pudding?—I’m terribly sleepy.”

“Only that I

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