The Fantastical Adventures of Leutenlieb of the House of Munchausen Read online

  The Fantastical Adventures of Leutenlieb of the House of Munchausen, Great-Great-Great-Grandson of the Celebrated Baron Hieronymus of the House of Munchausen

  As Told by

  Shlomo Kalo

  © All Rights Reserved

  D.A.T. Publications Y

  POBox 27019, Jaffa 61270 Israel,

  [email protected]

  www.y-dat.co.il

  Hebrew original hardcover edition

  2017 English Kindle and Paperback editions

  English translation by Philip Simpson

  ISBN: 978-965-7028-68-1

  No part of this book, except for brief reviews, may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, digital or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Table of Contents

  Author's Note

  BOOK ONE

  ABOUT MYSELF

  A PRIVILEGED EDUCATION

  EXCHANGE OF PRISONERS

  THE WHISTLE

  WITCHCRAFT

  THE TRAIN

  IN THE WAKE OF THE TITANIC

  CHICAGO

  THE INDIAN OINTMENT

  ENCOUNTER IN MADRID

  THE FLYING DUTCHMAN

  THE ZIP

  MAHARISHI — CIRRUS-CLOUD

  IF THE RIVER DRIES — I’M A TAP

  BOOK TWO

  URGENT CALL TO THE COLORS

  SAVAGE BEASTS IN THE SERVICE OF "THE BITER"

  MUSIC FOR PICKPOCKETS

  SPRECHEN SIE DEUTSCH?

  BEFORE LIGHT OF DAY

  A WORK OF ART

  FATHER OF ALL NATIONS

  THE BIRD AND THE LASSO

  THE RED PROPHET

  THE BELLY OF THE WHALE

  DEPRESSION ISLAND, AND THE SULTAN NO-ALLAH-NO-HALLAH

  A LETHAL PINHEAD

  A NEW LAND

  INTRODUCTORY REMARKS (moved to the end)

  About the Author and his Book

  Author's Note

  This is the full story, told in all its quirks and details, of the celebrated Baron, Leutenlieb of the House of Munchausen, great-great-great grandson of the Baron Hieronymus of the House of Munchausen, whose renown has spread to all corners of the world, as he himself related it on one of those blessed occasions in the gardens of his farmstead on the island of "Paradise on Earth", which is not yet marked on official maps.

  The hope is that following publication of this story, founded as it is upon solid creative truth – the cartographers will gird up their loins, exert their brains, demand and inquire and survey, and mark the island of "Paradise on Earth" on their maps, and enterprising travel agents will include it in their brochures, and so a wonderful and once-in-a-lifetime opportunity will be given to all those of sincere goodwill, to visit Leutenlieb in his own home, and hear from his lips the final and authoritative corroboration of his wondrous tale. And if a travel agency is set up on the island itself, then all tourism to that place will be free of charge, because the island is utterly independent, and uses neither coins nor notes, and its inhabitants are not prepared, for any price in the world, to go back thousands of years to the dark age of banknote and coin, in which we, regrettably, are still embroiled.

  Wishing you a pleasant and productive read:

  Shlomo Kalo

  BOOK ONE

  ABOUT MYSELF

  I was born as is well known into a family of aristocrats descended from aristocrats, most ancient of all ancient families, its luster still undimmed. My great-great-great grandfather, the celebrated Baron Hieronymus, set out to prove in his renowned writings – offering unequivocal and incontrovertible proof – that our roots go back to the Biblical Bathsheba, wife of Uriah the Hittite, who inherited the famous sling from her second husband, none other than King David himself, the sling in which was concealed the smooth stone that felled Goliath in ancient times and paved the way towards the coronation of the most blessed of our illustrious patriarchs.

  As was told by the affable Hieronymus, who always adhered to the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth – this queen, with diligence and pedantry worthy of the royal blood flowing in her veins, passed on the precious gift to her sons, and they – to her grandsons – until it finally came into the hands of my great-great-great-grandfather Hieronymus, the knight of worldwide renown. And he, hard-pressed by the exigencies of time and circumstance, in order to save his own life, when a mission of incomparable and crucial importance for the destiny of mankind had been laid upon his shoulders – used the famous sling as a halter for his drowning, runaway horse, thus salvaging the mission, the horse and himself, but much to his regret and the justified regret of the generations that followed him – not the royal sling, most precious of all artifacts.

  A tiny scrap of leather is all that remains of it, and to this very day it is kept, in a case of steel and bullet-proof glass, on the eastern wall of my domicile. I have willed it to the British Museum, so that if I ever take my leave of this amusing world, all of humanity will be enabled to feast longing eyes upon it. And ever since the matter of my bequest became known to the energetic trustees of that museum, they have never ceased sending me adulatory letters containing dried flowers, and enchanting views of rural landscapes, and polite expressions of gratitude, and all of this with a single object in mind – to check whether I am still among the living, whether I have not been struck down by misfortune, falling at my post like a vanquished corpse or like one of the heroes of ancient times. And this in spite of my persistent attempts to convince them that my friend, the red-bearded Irish prophet who is my neighbor and who like me makes a living from the cultivation of superior fruits and vegetables, will impart the cheerful news to them at once, the moment that there is a solid foundation for it. And if fate is unkind to him and for whatever reason he is prevented from fulfilling his sacred duty – this will be done by one of the upstanding, white-robed inhabitants of "Paradise on Earth", among whom for a thousand years not a single death has been recorded…

  No one listens or pays attention, and the distinguished management of the highly esteemed British Museum continues to send me its colorful epistles month by month. I don’t go to the trouble of opening them. I have at my disposal a stack of picture-postcards, the handwork of a local artist, and on each one is printing the single, eye-catching letter "A", representing "ALIVE". And these are sent out automatically through the local branch of the post office, where they also prepare original vegetarian salads, for distribution to those of refined taste.

  Whenever the English picture postcard, bearing the resplendent postmark of the British Museum, comes into the hands of the salad wizard, who is also the chief postmaster, manager, junior clerk and the island’s only postman – the latter pays us a visit, the red-bearded Irish prophet and myself, and bestows upon us one of his freshest salads in exchange for his loyal services. Such is the custom on the island of "Paradise on Earth", where the grateful one gives his services, and not the reverse.

  This genial individual in his white robe donates to us, month in and month out, a salad based on white cabbage, fresh when it is the season of white cabbage and almost fresh in the short intervals between one season and the next, known here as "sufficiency of fruit" – meaning that in the blessed climate of "Paradise on Earth" the season is almost unending.

  A PRIVILEGED EDUCATION

  My esteemed and illustrious father, far-sighted and generous of heart as he was, was appropriately concerned for my education, and he did everything in his power to impress upon my con
sciousness the truth that my blood was blue. And of no avail were the conclusive proofs provided by my nose, not a short one at all, when it encountered a sturdy wall or the solid trunk of an ancient cherry tree on our extensive farmstead. The blood from my nose was red, like the blood of the hunted wild boar or the blood of the deputy to the deputy chief stewardess of the farm who pricked her finger with a needle while darning socks, or the blood of the slaughtered chicken which I never consumed since I was born a vegetarian and have adhered to this rule all my life and shall continue to adhere to it, or the blood of the lamb or the cow.

  My esteemed father would smile, slap my shoulder and encourage me with his guttural, grating voice:

  "When you grow up – you’ll understand!"

  And it could be said that in terms of this understanding, I remained an infant; I never grew up and I never understood.

  In spite of this, since my father was a humble and modest man, like me and like all scions of the celebrated dynasty of Munchausen, and he could not rely on his own pedagogic talents, he used from time to time to hire superior educators for my benefit. Such as the technician of genius, who from any scrap or lump of wood could construct a machine, and mechanize all human needs. At home we had a combing-machine, a dressing-machine, a combined tooth-and-shoe brush, a page-turner, a drying-machine, a maggot-training facility and a machine capable of composing poetry, proverbs and official permits; there was a machine for stimulating appetite and a good. manners machine, and many other devices that there is not the space to mention here, and for all the noble-hearted humility in which I was schooled I cannot overlook the fact that I was an active participant in their invention and construction, in operating them and improving them, in dismantling them and storing them in the ornate portico of the granary, cleared of its sacks of corn to make room for the machines – all 17,328 of them, according to the meticulous survey carried out by the family’s accountant.

  And then there was the lost, toothless cowboy whom my father found whimpering at the roadside, after the circus with which he had roamed from one remote township to another still more remote fell out with him, no longer recognized his artistry as an asset, dispensed with his services and finally evicted him from his tent.

  The man was an expert in lassoing and smoking. From any dry leaf he made tobacco, and from any scrap of paper he rolled himself a cigarette. And if he had no match or lighter to hand he would ignite it with the rays of the sun, needing no recourse to a magnifying glass, or vigorous rubbing of occasional sticks or flint-stones, to say nothing of fungal tinder.

  As for the art of the lasso – there had been no man to rival him since the lasso was created and bequeathed to mankind. From any thin string, piece of rope, conventional sewing thread or hank of hair, irrespective of length – he made himself a sophisticated lasso. Even from thick hawsers, the kind used by sailors to tie big ships to mooring-posts on the shore, he was capable of fashioning a lasso. Incidentally, it was down to him that they took to drying the laundry on the roof, spreading it out on the ancient tiles, as there were no clothes-lines – or any other cords for that matter – that the man did not turn into lassoes and use with astonishing dexterity in providing for his personal needs. Even a slice of bread and butter he did not take with his hands but snared from a considerable distance with one of the lassoes that crammed the many pockets of his trousers, his broad-sleeved shirt and speckled waistcoat, hanging down from them in every conceivable direction. The man’s head resembled a lasso that hadn’t yet been opened and the same could be said of his ears and eyes, mouth and nose and limbs, and clothing too. His shoes were made from old lassoes, which in time of need could be quickly restored to their original shape… to such an extent that the man transformed himself into a lasso.

  With him I experienced fine moments of artistic perception, of everything destined to be perceived, and the pure joy of youth. He caught butterflies for me with a lasso, as well as cherries from the neighbor’s tree, and from the tight-lipped mouth of the retired teacher from the nearby village – her false teeth. When we began smoking together (for a short time – he extolled the joys of smoking to me in such glowing terms that I gave in to him), if there weren’t any cigarettes around – he used to swipe exclusive cigarettes for me from the mouths of the mayor and his three deputies, sitting outside the town hall to bask in the sunshine and enjoy a smoke – with the aid of a thin lasso, made from transparent fibers that he wove himself. These unfortunate victims did not see the lasso and ran panic-stricken to their homes, telling nightmare stories of the ghostly spirits that assailed them in broad daylight. Anyway, the local priest dropped them a broad hint, suggesting they were being punished for their dishonest dealings and they, to be sure, began mending their ways, visiting the priest’s church in a spirit of penitence and contributing generously to the upkeep of the building.

  Perhaps it was for this reason that my mentor stopped supplying me with luxury cigarettes, but he went on bringing me cigarettes of average quality to "taste", courtesy of wayfarers who happened to be passing by in the vicinity of the palace with cigarettes in their mouths. It should be pointed out that I was born in a real palace and grew up there, coming of age in its broad and lofty halls, built of antique stone and solid wood.

  Also among my educators was the well-connected lady whom my father came across in one of the old alleyways of London, wallowing in the mire in silent protest at the inequality between male and female human beings. My father took her with him and brought her to our court beyond the confines of the British Isles, without her uttering a single word, only greenish puke, in token of that aristocratic protest. Her name – Lady MacBeatemall, which the renowned English poet, enamored with one of her illustrious forbears, shortened to "Macbeth", but this was to no avail. She praised that distinguished poet with the very highest of compliments and crowned him with all possible crowns, political and social, and tried to teach me the essence of his language, in pure English of course. I remember a surfeit of episodes involving kings and quarrelsome courtiers, gleaming weapons, solemn oaths, venomous curses and ancient blessings, translated into monotonous speech, hideously versified.

  All the other subjects studied in primary schools, from mathematics to singing, according to my father’s practical advice and his personal example – I studied alone. Especially as the slogan inscribed in gold letters on the family coat of arms reads: "If you do not learn by yourself – another will teach you." This saying served as an incomparable spur for a long line of Munchausen offspring, from the time of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob to these days of ours, urging them to disdain the teaching of "another" and take pains to study alone. For this reason you won’t find among members of the Munchausen family a single one whose IQ is less than 2007. My own IQ currently stands at 20016, and there may be more yet to come.

  As for the glorious educators I have just mentioned – I have not the slightest doubt that their equal will never be found. Neither Pestalozzi nor Socrates, neither Aristotle nor Plato could even touch their ankles. Results speak for themselves.

  Needless to say, when I came of age I was sent to the academy for officers of aristocratic birth. I completed the course with distinction and was appointed immediately to the rank of captain, with the way to rapid promotion wide open before me. And then came the outbreak of the First World War. I was called to the colors with the rank of major, artillery officer and commander of one of the elite units.

  EXCHANGE OF PRISONERS

  During the early stages of the First World War I was stationed with my unit, the elite artillery section of the Seventh Army, beside a narrow bridge made from the gigantic trunk of a tree cut into two coarse panels of equal length. The panels had been laid side by side by one of the warring factions across a deep river about thirty meters in width, with the aim of crossing the river and routing the enemy forces stationed on the opposite bank. A simple enough plan which was never put into effect. The battle conducted from either end of the gigantic tree trunk was essential
ly an artillery duel, with both sides guarding the bridge, intending to exploit it when the time came – i.e. when the enemy forces were so worn down by the relentless artillery barrage that the raging river could be crossed without incurring excessive casualties. As it was, the degree of "attrition" and the numbers of those who survived it on both sides of the bridge remained in balance, and the decisive step, despite promptings from faraway staff headquarters, no doubt located in bunkers in faraway capitals, had not yet been taken. The divisional commanders knew how to answer the generals quartered safely in the rear, and the latter fell silent, confident that some strategy was being devised on the spot and their experienced commanders would exploit the right moment, attack, cross over, conquer, destroy… and enable them, finally, to move the colored flags on their massive sandpit-maps.

  So the soldiers of the two warring nations were mustered at either end of the tree-trunk bridge, and it was no longer possible to tell them apart according to their uniforms since all were smeared with mud and mire and their faces too, from a distance or at close quarters, looked black as masks from the dirt ingrained in them.

  As is the nature of things, both armies took prisoners – five from each side – and they made them stand at opposite ends of the bridge and threatened them for some reason with summary execution, an arbitrary step but acceptable in time of war – unless General "X" of the army posted on the eastern bank, and General "Y" of the western bank, were to come at once and initiate official negotiations over an exchange of prisoners. These could be conducted seated, standing, or at a distance, using signal flags.

  The message was passed to the two generals, waging the war with great energy from their palatial command-posts in the suburbs of the capital cities of the combatant nations, buildings with heavy and impressive plaques attached to their steel gates: "Armed Forces General Staff", and both insisted, insisted for the sake of the honor of western civilization, they would not come forward and engage in any negotiations with the "enemy", on any topic whatsoever – least of all the topic of exchange of prisoners. "Anyone who is cowardly enough to be taken captive – must bear the consequences!" Such was the message sent in coded telegrams, the key to which had been lost somewhere along the line, in the secretariat of prestigious security services, and finally the contents of the telegrams had to be conveyed by telephone, despite the risk that the enemy might eavesdrop and uncover vital military secrets.