“If you say so. But to me it seems to be the only possible ending for the story,” he explained.
“Well, I’ve given it another one.”
“You mean you’ve written a variation on the story?” he said, raising his eyebrows.
“I certainly have. And here it is.”
And from a file I’d left in the backseat of the car I took out two pages covered with writing.
My friend burst out laughing.
“Aha! Now I understand. I thought there was something fishy going on when you started talking about the literary tastes of Boris Karloff and all that. One minute we were talking about lizards and what Ismael had got up to and suddenly, with no explanation, you’d gone and changed the subject. Of course! You just couldn’t wait to show me what you’d written. It’s true, isn’t it? You’ll never change!”
His last words were a reference to the reputation I had among my friends, who all agreed that I would do absolutely anything just to get a chance to read them my stories.
“Lord, pardon this your incorrigible servant!” I said raising my eyes to heaven.
“Oh, all right, but let’s go down to the square first. I’m only prepared to listen to your variation on the story with a beer in my hand,” said my friend.
“And I’ll have to pay for the beer, I suppose.”
“Of course.”
“A writer’s lot is a hard one. You even have to bribe people just to be able to work,” I exclaimed before getting out of the car.
In the square we saw that the musicians in the band had taken a break and that an accordionist had replaced them on the stage. The two or three bars available and the area around them were crammed with people shouting to each other and laughing.
It was almost harder getting the drinks than it had been determining what made a good story. At last we got them and — spotting some benches along the path near the cemetery — we fled the noisy bars.
We both felt happy. Our night was becoming more and more like the meetings held once a year in England by members of the Other Society. The only difference was that our meeting was not being held in a hotel in Piccadilly and our stories were not, at least in one sense, gothic.
And having reached this stop on the road, I will again pause to transcribe my variation on the story as I told it to my friend. The journey toward the last word will continue later.
Dayoub, the rich merchant’s servant
ONCE UPON A TIME, in the city of Baghdad, there lived a servant who worked for a rich merchant. One day, very early in the morning, the servant went to the market to do the shopping. But that morning was different from other mornings, for he saw Death in the marketplace and Death looked at him oddly.
Terrified, the servant returned to the merchant’s house.
“Master,” he said, “lend me your fastest horse. Tonight I want to be far from Baghdad. Tonight I want to be in the far city of Isfahan.”
“But why do you wish to flee?” asked the merchant.
“Because I saw Death in the marketplace and he gave me a threatening look.”
The merchant took pity on him and lent him the horse, and the servant left in the hope that he would be in Isfahan that night.
The horse was strong and swift, and, as he had hoped, the servant reached Isfahan just as the first stars were coming out. Once there, he went from house to house, begging for shelter.
To any who would listen he said: “I’m running away from Death and I need somewhere to hide.”
But the people were frightened at the mention of Death and they all shut their doors to him.
For three, four, five hours, the servant walked the streets of Isfahan in vain, knocking at every door and growing wearier by the minute. Shortly before dawn he reached the house of a man named Kalbum Dahabin.
“In the marketplace in Baghdad this morning Death gave me a threatening look and so I have fled the city to seek refuge here. Please, I beg you, give me shelter.”
“You can be sure of one thing, if Death gave you a threatening look in Baghdad,” said Kalbum Dahabin, “he won’t have stayed there. He’ll have followed you to Isfahan. He must be within our walls already for the night is nearly over.”
“Then I am lost!” cried the servant.
“Don’t despair yet,” replied Kalbum. “If you can stay alive until sunrise, you’ll be saved. If Death has decided to take you tonight and he fails, then he’ll never be able to carry you off. That is the law.”
“But what should I do?” asked the servant.
“We’ll go straight to my shop in the square,” ordered Kalbum, shutting the door of his house behind him.
Meanwhile Death was approaching the gates of the city of Isfahan. The sky was beginning to grow light.
“Dawn will be here at any moment,” he thought. “If I don’t hurry I’ll lose the servant.”
At last he entered Isfahan and sniffed the thousand smells of the city, searching out the servant who had fled Baghdad. He instantly discovered his hiding place: Kalbum Dahabin’s shop. He was off like a shot, running in that direction.
A light mist hung over the horizon. The sun was beginning to regain possession of the world.
Death reached Kalbum’s shop. He flung the door open and… he couldn’t believe his eyes. For in that shop he saw not just one servant, but five, seven, ten, all identical to the one he was looking for.
He gave a sideways glance at the window. The first rays of sun were already filtering through the white curtain. What was going on here? Why were there so many servants in the shop?
He had no time to find out. He grabbed one of the servants in the room and rushed out into the street. Light was flooding the whole sky now. That day the neighbor who lived opposite the shop in the square was cursing and furious.
“When I got out of bed this morning and looked out the window,” he said, “I saw a thief running off with a mirror under his arm. A thousand curses on the blackguard. A good man like Kalbum Dahabin, the maker of mirrors, deserves to be left in peace!”
Mr. Smith
SOMEONE WAS WAVING to us as he approached the bench where we were sitting. The cemetery path was half in darkness and we could not at first make out his face and — bearing in mind that we knew no one in that village — we simply assumed he was one of those enthusiastic types you get at all fiestas, the sort who feels happy and wants to be everybody’s friend. But, gradually, his silhouette grew clearer. We saw something white on his head.
“He’s very tall. He must be over six foot five,” I said to my friend.
“And he’s wearing a hat,” my friend said to me.
“And he’s got white hair and a beard.”
“Therefore…”
“It must be the old man from the highway café,” we concluded, both exploding in laughter at the same time. When he reached us, the old man leaned his back against the lamppost next to the bench.
“I know a much better story than that!” he exclaimed by way of greeting.
“He seems to be following us around almost the way Death followed the servant from Baghdad,” I whispered to my friend.
“No, it’s not that,” my friend replied. “It’s just that, like you, he’ll do anything in order to get to tell his story. There’s no doubt about it, he’s your natural soul mate.” Then to the old man he said, “Do come and join us.”
The old man came over to us but indicated with a gesture that he preferred to remain standing.
“Would you like some beer?” my friend asked.
He shook his head.
“I prefer whiskey,” he said.
“You say you know a better story. But better than what?” I asked him. I wanted to find out just how aware he was of what he was saying.