Flashman and the Tiger: And Other Extracts from the Flashman Papers. George Fraser MacDonald
Nor had I any great desire to ‘do’ Berlin; it may have the finest palaces in Germany, and the broadest streets, which is capital if you enjoy miles of ornamented stucco and don’t mind tumbling into drains which are mostly uncovered, but it also has the disadvantage of being full of Germans, most of ’em military. They say there’s a garrison of 20,000 (in a town no bigger than Glasgow) and it seemed to me the whole kit-boodle of ’em were on Unter den Linden – sentries presenting arms at every door and the pavements infested by swaggering Junkers with plumed helmets and clanking medals, still full of Prussian bounce because they’d licked the Frogs eight years before, as though that mattered.
The Congress was to begin on the 13th, and it was on the evening of the 12th that I left my modest hotel on the Tauben Strasse and walked the short distance to the discreet, pleasant little court off the Jager Strasse where Mamselle had her apartment – both of us quietly tucked away (trust Blowitz) but convenient for Unter den Linden, and the Wilhelmstrasse where the Congress was to sit. Blowitz had fixed the time, and primed her; his note awaiting me at my hotel had hinted delicately that she knew I wasn’t a puritan, exactly, and would expect to be paid in kind for my services, so I was in excellent fettle as I knocked at her door. My one doubt was that, being used to coupling for her country (or, in this case presumably, for The Times), she might be a dutiful icicle with one eye on the clock and her mind elsewhere, in which case I’d just have to jolly the sparkle into her eyes.
I needn’t have fretted; it was there from the first in the mouth-watering vision who opened the door determined to practise her art on Flashy. Like all good actresses, she’d decided exactly how to play her part, and dressed according in a déshabillé of frothy black lace clinging to a petite hourglass shape which recalled the Maharani Jeendan of intoxicating memory. Without her turban, her hair showed light auburn, cut in a fetching schoolgirl fringe above a lovely impudent face whose smile of invitation would have melted Torquemada. For an instant it faded on ‘Herr … Jansen?’ only to return as I made my gallant bow.
‘Oh, pardon!’ she exclaimed. ‘I was expecting someone … much older!’
‘Mamselle,’ says I, saluting her dainty fingertips, ‘you and I will get along famously! May I return the compliment by saying that your photograph don’t do you justice?’
‘Ah, that photograph!’ She made a pretty moue and rolled her eyes. ‘How I blushed to see it outside the theatre … but now, it has its uses, non?’ She didn’t wink, but her voice did, and her smile, as she closed the door and looked me up and down, was pure sauce. ‘Stefan tells me it brought you to Berlin … oui?’
‘Stefan has a reputation for accuracy, oui,’ says I, and now that the courtesies had been observed, and she was French anyway, I slipped my hands under her delectable stern, hoisted her up, and kissed her soundly. She gave a muffled squeak for form’s sake before thrusting her tongue between my lips, but just as I was casting about for a convenient settee she disengaged, giggling, and said I must put her down, and we should have an aperitif, and then I must explain something to her.
‘No explanation necessary,’ growls I, but she wriggled clear, rolling her rump, and checking my pursuit with a shaken finger – and if you’d seen that bouncy little bundle, pouting mischievous reproof and absolutely crying, ‘Non-non-la-la!’ like the maid in a French farce, you’d have been torn between bulling her on the spot and brushing away a sentimental tear. I did neither; I enjoy a good performance as well as the next licentious rascal, and never mind playing wait-a-bit with a coquette who knows her business. So I sat on the couch while she filled two glasses, pledged me with a flashing smile, and then sauntered artlessly into the sunlight from the window to give me the benefit of her transparent négligée. There followed as eccentric a conversation as I can recall – and I’ve been tête-à-tête with Mangas Colorado Apache, remember, and the lunatic leader of the Taiping Rebellion.
Mamselle (solicitous): You are comfortable? Eh bien, you must rest quietly a moment, and be courtois … what you call proper, correct … until you have explained what I wish to know.
Flashy (slavering with restraint): Good as gold. Fire away.
M (handing him an illustrated journal): So tell me, then, what is so très amusant about that?
F: Good God, it’s Punch! One of last month’s.
M (ever so serious): If I am to be perfect in English, I must understand your humour, n’est-ce pas? So, instruct me, if you please.
F: What, this cartoon here? Ah, let’s see … two English grooms in Paris, and one is saying there ain’t no letter ‘W’ in French, and t’other says: ‘Then ’ow d’yer spell “wee”?’ Just so … well, the joke is that the second chap doesn’t know how to spell ‘oui’, you see …
M: And one is to laugh at that?
F: Well, I can’t say I did myself, but –
M: Pouf! And this other, then? (Sits by F, taps page with dainty scarlet nail, regards him wide-eyed)
F (aware that only a wisp of gauze lies between him and the delightful meat): Eh? Oh, ah, yes! Well, here’s a stout party complaining that the fish she bought yesterday was ‘off’, and the fishmonger retorting that it’s her own fault for not buying it earlier in the week …
M (bee-stung lips breathing perfume): What then?
F: Gad, that’s sweet! … Ah, well, I guess that the joke is that he’s blaming her, don’t you know, when in fact he’s been selling the stuff after it’s started to stink.
M (bewildered, nestling chin on F’s shoulder): So le poissonnier is a thief. That amuses, does it?
F: See here, I don’t write the damned jokes … (Attempts to fondle her starboard tit)
M (parrying deftly): Good as gold, méchant! Now, this page here, the lady in harlequin costume … ah, très chic, her hat and veil trop fripon, and her figure exquisite, mais voluptueuse! (sits bolt upright, inspired to imitation)
F: God love us!
M (swaying out of reach) … but her expression is severe, and she carries a baton – to chastise? She is perhaps a flagellatrice? Formidable! But this also is humorous?
F: Certainly not. This picture is intended to be ogled by lewd men. Speaking as one myself …
M: No, no, be still, you promised! What is ogled?
F: What people did at your Folies photograph, as well you know! Enjoyed posing for it, didn’t you? – dammit, you’re enjoying this!
M (wickedly): Mais certainement! (nestles again, nibbling F’s ear) Et vous aussi? No-no-no-wait! One last question … ah, but only one … these words, above this article … what do they mean?
F (reading): ‘Hankey Pankey’ … (as she bursts out laughing) I knew it, bigod! You understand Punch’s beastly jokes as well as I do, don’t you? Well, just for that, young woman, I shan’t tell you what Hankey-Pankey means … I’ll show you! (Demonstrates, avec élan et espièglerie and lustful roarings, to delighted squeals and sobs from Mamselle. Ecstatic collapse of both parties)6
Afterwards, as I lay blissfully tuckered, with that splendid young body astride of me, moist and golden in the fading sunlight, her eyes closed in a satisfied smirk, I found myself wondering idly if the French secret service ran an École de Galop to train their female agents in the gentle art of houghmagandie, as Elspeth calls it – and if so, were there any vacancies for visiting professors? Anyway, Mamselle Caprice must have been the Messalina Prizewoman of her year; no demi-mondaine perhaps, according to Blowitz, but as expert an amateur as I’d ever struck, with the priceless gift of fairly revelling in her sex, and using it with joyous abandon … and considerable calculation, as I was about to learn.
She stretched across to the nearby table for a gilt-tipped cigarette, lighting it from a tiny spirit lamp, and