Flying Dutch

“My best estimate,” Montalban said, “at the present time is that the symptoms manifest themselves on average for two one-month periods in each calendar year. But I should stress,” he said, ignoring the spaghetti jar, “that this is based on observation of a small nest of field-voles, two of which escaped, and the tests only cover a three-year period, which is by any standards…”

“Why?”

“My housekeeper,” Montalban admitted, “is terrified of mice. Green luminous mice especially. So I had to get rid of them. Since they were immortal and invulnerable…”

“That bit still works, does it?”

“Most certainly, yes,” said the Professor. “Since they were immortal and invulnerable and I couldn’t keep them around the house, they are now manning a small space-station in orbit three hundred thousand kilometres above the surface of Mars, providing invaluable data on…”

“I see,” Vanderdecker said. “Green luminous and noisy, and perhaps an extra arm or two. What happens with the arms, by the way?”

“The additional limbs,” said the Professor, “are also temporary.”

“You mean they fall off?”

“Yes.”

“Moult? Pine needles off a Christmas tree job? That sort of thing?”

“Roughly, yes.”

“I see,” Vanderdecker said. “So I’ll need a pair of trousers with a detachable third leg, will I? As opposed to spending the rest of history going around like a human Manx emblem. Well, let me tell you…”

Suddenly Vanderdecker fell silent and he lowered the spaghetti jar, spilling its contents. He furrowed his brows and then started to grin.

“Montalban,” he said at last, “that’s marvellous.”

“Is it?” Montalban raised an eyebrow. “Well, I’m delighted that…”

“Don’t you see?” Vanderdecker said, “Jane drank some too. A stiff double, approximately. Don’t you see, she’s going to live for ever too. She’s going to be one of us! Montalban—oh, look, just stay there, will you?”

He dumped the spaghetti jar in the sink and rushed through into the drawing room. There, Jane was sitting crouched on the edge of a settee, moaning slightly. With one movement Vanderdecker lifted her up in the air, kissed her noisily on the lips and said, “Guess what?”

“Ouch,” Jane replied.

“You’re going to go bright green and luminous, hum slightly, and grow an extra arm,” he said cheerfully. “What do you think of that?”

“I think I already did,” Jane replied. “Will you please put me down before my head falls off?”

“Sorry,” Vanderdecker said. “Now, listen to this. No, better still, have some of the Professor’s mercury soup and then listen.”

So Jane went, had some mercury soup, and listened. While Vanderdecker was explaining to her, and inducing Montalban with occasional prods from a rolling-pin to corroborate his narrative, he began to wonder whether Jane would in fact be pleased. He had no idea; all he knew was that he was pleased, very pleased indeed.

“So there you are,” he finished up. “What do you think?”

Oddly enough, the only thing that passed through Jane’s mind for several minutes was the phrase “Death is a tax holiday”, which she remembered from her tax-planning lectures.

“Jane? What do you think?”

“Death is a tax holiday,” she said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“For the year of death,” Jane said, “personal allowances against income tax are granted for the full year, regardless of the point in the tax year at which death occurs. There is no requirement to apportion unused allowances. Thus death can be said to be a tax holiday.”

“What?”

“Sorry,” Jane said. “I was miles away. So I’m going to live for ever, am I?”

“Yes.”

“Ah. Yes, I thought that was what you said. I…”

“Jane.” Vanderdecker grabbed her by the shoulders. “Would you like some advice?”

“Yes please.”

“Don’t think about it,” Vanderdecker said. “It’s not a good idea to think about it, believe you me.”

“Oh,” Jane said. “Right, okay then.”

“Secondly,” Vanderdecker said, and then he turned to the Professor. “Go away.”

“I’m sorry?” the Professor asked.

“I said go away. Vamos.”

“Certainly, my dear fellow, certainly.”

“Now then.” Vanderdecker put on a serious expression and looked Jane squarely in the eye. “Miss Doland,” he said, “since we are…”

“All in the same boat?” Jane suggested.

“Precisely,” Vanderdecker said. “Since we’ve both been accidentally lumbered with a common misfortune…Look, do you see what I’m getting at, because this is rather tricky to put into words.”

“Yes,” Jane said.

“Yes, you see what I’m getting at, or yes, you…?”

“Both,” Jane replied.

“And,” Jane continued, “some sort of through dining-room in a sort of light Wedgwood blue, with…”

“Jane.”

“Sorry.”

“That’s fine. Now…”

“And a dressing room,” Jane added quickly. “I’ve always wanted a separate dressing-room. In a sort of pinky…”

“Absolutely,” Vanderdecker said. “Can you play the harpsichord?”

“No.”

“Pity,” Vanderdecker said, “because it’s years since I learnt, and they’ve put extra pedals and things on now.”

“Couldn’t we have a stereo instead?”

“A harpsichord linked to the computer,” Vanderdecker explained. “To control the markets, whatever the hell they are.”