Brno, to his superior’s infinite surprise, said, softly but firmly, “The Exceedingly August and High-born Lord Minister and Count must do no such thing.”
Hope was not yet to be thought of. But surprise alone checked the single tear which brimmed in one of Count Vladeck's eyes. “Then what must I do?” he whispered.
Said Brno: “You must consult Dr. Eszterhazy. ”
Engelbert Eszterhazy, Dr. Juris., Dr. Philos., Dr. Med., D. Litt., contemplated the cedar box before him. At length he opened it, extracted a panatela Caoba Granda, sniffed it, put it to his ear and (did things to it and listened. Next he cut an end off it with a small ivory-handled knife (a gift of the late Hajji Tippoo Tibb, of Zanzibar and Pemba). Next he put that end in his mouth and the other end in a small gas-flame. He took in a puff of smoke, did things with his mouth to it; at length allowed it to dribble slowly out; took another, longer puff and kept this one in for a longer time. Then he pursed his lips and, as though scarcely aware of what he was doing, blew a smoke ring. The ring floated through the air, and settled down over the single gloved finger which protruded from the hands clasped upon the gold-topped cane of his caller.
“This is a very good Habana,” he said. “This is a very difficult thing which you ask of me. You are in effect asking me to place an official imprimatur upon the rumors which even now already and for some years past have circulated among the more ignorant, videlicet, 'Eszterhazy trafficks with the Devil’. Why should I do so?”
Count Vladeck blinked and removed his gaze from a richly-colored porcelain phrenological head which gave the impression of floating in mid-air about five feet equidistant from floor and ceiling. “Patriotism,” he said, after a moment. And cleared his throat.
A faint movement which might have been a preliminary blink or an unfinished tic disturbed for a moment the corner of Dr. Eszterhazy’s left eye, and another thin film of cigar smoke ebbed from the left corner of his mouth. He said nothing.
“Not patriotism?” asked Count Vladeck.
“The most patriotic man I ever met,” Dr. Eszterhazy observed, “was Sergeant-Major Moomkotch, the mass-murderer. Remarkable head that man had. Remarkable. You remember
Moomkotch's head, of course.”
Perhaps a trifle nervously, perhaps a trifle crossly, Count Vladeck said, “No, I do not remember the head of Sergeant-Major Moomkotch!”
“Really?” his host said, with faint surprise. “Well, it is almost directly behind you, in a large vessel of formaldehyde.” Count Vladeck, issuing a sound perhaps reminiscent of a rather large bat during the rutting season, leaped from his chair and gave the impression of trying to move two ways at the same time. Then he sat down heavily, and cast a look of cold displeasure at the man who still calmly and with placid pleasure smoked the cigar given him. “Eszterhazy—”
“Yes, Vladeck?”
Their eyes met, locked.
After a moment: “Really,
Eszterhazy, you must not allow yourself to forget that you are addressing a Royal and Imperial Minister—”
“I do not for a moment forget it, nor do I expect that a Royal and Imperial Minister will find it unreasonable that when a man has been awarded seven doctorates he be addressed by at least one of them—”
But Count Vladeck could contain himself no further. With a sound no louder than an involunatry puff, he spun about in his chair. And exclaimed, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” “No, no, no. Monosh Moomkitch, Sergeant-Major, First Pannonian Hussars (Star of Valor, 5th Class, Carpathian Campaign, With Bar). Convicted of seventeen counts of Infamous Murder. Went to the block singing the National Anthem. The Protuberance of Patriotism is very strong ... as your Excellency can see—” He gestured with his cigar.
“Looks like a wart, to me.”
Dr. Eszterhazy looked at his own hands, then at the back of the neatly-barbered and crisply-collared neck of his guest, moved all of his fingers once or twice, giving the impression of a spider about to spring: then sighed, very, very faintly.
“That is a wart, Your Excellency,” he said. “The Protuberance of Patriotism is approximately four and one half centimetres to the left oblique.” He placed both his hands in his pockets, and, leaning back in his chair once more, cocked up the cigar and watched the smoke.
“Very good Habana. ...”
At length Count Vladeck turned. “Depressing sight,” he murmured. “Yes, yes: I am sure it is also educational. Well. Enough of all this . . . this . . He avoided his host’s eye, then he met it.
“Well, well. Doctor Eszterhazv. Well enough. You know the nature of the problem. Will you take the case?” Another ring of cigar-smoke. Another. And another.
“Will you name your . . . your honorarium Doctor Eszterhazy? Doctor Doctor Eszterhazy? Doctor Doctor Doctor Eszterhasy? Doctor Doctor Doctor Doctor Eszterhazy? Doc—”
But the host waved away any further repetition. “Those will do. The other three are honorary. ‘Honorarium’? Yes. Well—” He sat up. All boredom, all mockery, all indifference, was now gone. He leaned forward.
The market-place in Poposhki- Georgiou smelled like a barn—that is, assuming a barn to have born, in addition to the usual odors of hay and dung and animals, a strong scent of ripe fruit, cheap perfume, kerosene, hot grease, fried meat, and fresh-baked pastry.
A rather unlikely combination for a barn, it must be admitted. But there you are. And here we are. In the market-place of Poposhki-Georgiou. Tuesday, since time immemorial (that is, for the past seventeen or eighteen years), has been Little Market Day. Great Market Day is Friday. Little Market Day is largely reserved for trading in mules, oxen, and he-goats; only the men come to Little Market Day. Little Market Day really smells like a barn—that is, a bam in which someone has been spilling a great deal of beer and and a great deal of the cheapest quality of distilled spirit (known in the local dialect as Maiden’s Breath). Few cooked or baked goods are offered on Tuesday, the men bringing their own lunch: and ‘lunch,’ to the peasantry of Poposki-Georgiou traditionally consists of a hunk of goat sausage, a hunk of goat cheese, a hunk of bread (not exactly black, more like grey), and a bunch of dried, sour cherries. Sour cherries are believed to be good for the lower intestine. In Poposki- Georgiou the lower intestine is regarded as the seat of the deeper emotions. “When my best mule broke his left foreleg,” one might hear it said, “it felt like a Turkish knife in my lower intestine.”
Also, they tell this story:
First Peasant: Yesterday I came home and found my wife in bed with the goat-herd-boy.
Second Peasant: What did you do?
First Peasant: I ate some sour cherries.
On hearing this story, particularly after the first half of the second bottle of Maiden’s Breath, your Poposhki- Georgiou peasant will clutch at his embroidered vest with both hands, wet his knee-b reeches, fall into spasms, and roll into dung-heaps.
But on Friday there comes to town not only the peasant, but the peasant's wife, the peasant’s daughters, the peasant's mother, and the peasant's mother-in-law. So things are somewhat different. In addition to the goodies afore-mentioned, there is a considerable trade in ribbons, whistles, preserved gingerbread, milch- goats, religious artifacts in gold, in pure gold, and in real gold; as well as a brisk traffic in herbs, some for love potions, some for laxatives.
Up to the herbalist’s stall falters an aged bobba-bobba in sixteen petticoats and twenty-seven shawls, all rusty black.
The Herbalist: What way may I serve the High-born Lady?