Hawkman
06-26-2012, 06:23 PM
There were two things Gervase blamed his parents for. The first, not unreasonably, was the fact that they had christened him Gervase. The other was his physique. He was tall and slim, with a longish sort of face equipped with a supercilious nose, which, due to his height, he was inevitably required to look down when regarding people. His eyes were slightly protuberant and perpetually half veiled by slightly bluish lids. Fully aware that these characteristics gave him the appearance of a soulful, and probably consumptive, Edwardian poet, he’d long since come to terms with his physiognomy, and, as there was nothing he could do about it, played up to the role, mischievously affecting a languid drawl and wearing broad brimmed hats.
It was a stratagem which had served him well at university, where he was much sought after to star in productions of Oscar Wild’s plays. Consequently he’d cultivated a fine crop of theatrical friends, which, by virtue of his being innately witty and amusing, he’d managed to keep. To outsiders though, he could be disconcerting. He had inherited a disquieting character trait from his father, which, in a linguistic sense, might be described as that which Edger Allan Poe referred to as, ‘The Imp of the Perverse’.
While Gervase’s imp didn’t prompt him to leap over cliffs, he was prone to making outrageously politically-incorrect statements and dropping them into a conversation like hand-grenades, just to watch the result. The more annoyingly self-righteous tended to take cover behind walls of dogma and ineffectually snipe at him, becoming progressively more infuriated at their failure to score a hit or penetrate his armour of savoir fair. Gervase remained secure in the innate conviction that he was a gentleman, and that a gentleman was never rude unintentionally.
As a result, his friends would invite him to dinner parties where at least one of the guests would be the latest darling of the social set, but who on cultivation had proved to be depressingly shallow, mediocre or just plain boring. Gervase would then be unleashed on the unsuspecting pundit while his hosts sat back and enjoyed the show. Gervase was completely cognisant of why he was being invited and was more than happy to oblige, especially if he was going to be the recipient of an excellent free meal.
It was on just such an occasion that Gervase was left sitting at his host’s table idly fingering his wineglass following the departure of a particularly sententious human-rights lawyer, who had furiously stormed out of the house to a waiting taxi and disappeared into the night.
“Oh dear,” he said, with a superciliously raised eyebrow and the ghost of a quirky smile twitching the corner of his mouth, “Was it something I said?”
Grinning, his host replied, “I think it might have been something to do with your suggestion that, and I quote; ‘Rather than waste money on witness protection programmes, known career criminals should be kidnapped, water-boarded and interrogated with scopolamine, before being summarily executed in a cellar,’ unquote.”
Gervase chuckled
“Do you think? I was going to add that the treatment should be extended to include professional politicians.”
“Well, you never know, she might have agreed with you there.”
“Ah… Probably just as well I didn’t mention it then, although I am firmly of the opinion that anyone who actively seeks public office is almost certainly the least appropriate person to be allowed to hold it. If I had my way, campaigning for election, on any platform, would be proscribed by law.”
Unwilling on this occasion to be subjected to Gervase’s monologue on the benefits of benign dictatorship, amusing though it invariably was, his host deftly changed the subject.
“So, Gervase, how’s the aged P. Still alive, is he?”
“Yes, thank you Peter. The last vestige of the Raj is indeed alive and well, mad as ever, and, if not actually kicking, then at least scuttling around in his wheelchair, like the eponymous Dr. Strangelove. I believe he’s working on another novel.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Peter
At this moment, Annabel, Peter’s wife, emerged from the kitchen with a laden cheeseboard. As she passed the sideboard she deftly added a full decanter of vintage port to her load, and smiling, placed them before her guest. Gervase beamed at her with appreciation, and not just of her hospitality.
“Annie, darling, you’re too kind, pandering to the proclivities of an unrepentant parasite,” he said, self-deprecatingly. He helped himself to Stilton and crackers then topped up his glass with delectable ruby liquid before passing it on.
“Don’t be silly, Gerry, you’re always good value for money,” replied Annabel indulgently, retaking her seat at the table.
“For money?” mused Gervase with a quizzically raised eyebrow, “Wouldn’t it be marvellous if people would actually pay one, just for being oneself.”
“You seem to have got pretty close to it,” said Peter with a chuckle.
“Friend Peter, you wound me, you cut me to the quick,” said Gervase with a theatrical display of woe, then winked at Annabel.
“So, Gerry, how goes the eternal search?” she asked.
“And what search might that be?” replied her guest, resuming his habitual demeanour of languid indifference.
“Why, the quest to find the perfect woman of course,” said Peter.
“Oh, that eternal search. Well, I seek but I do not find.”
“Come on, Gerry, you were never short of a stunning companion when you wanted one at university. Why have you never settled down?” asked Annabel.
“It’s quite simple, really. I have never been able to keep one.”
“Yes, but why?”
“My requirements are quite specific, you see, I want a nice Jewish girl of good family, possessed of an indulgent attitude towards dependent indolence. The clever ones, and they‘re the ones I would rather have, see through me, and even if they don’t, their parents do, and consequently go out of their way to break us up.”
“But you’re not Jewish, why are you so set on a Jewish wife?” asked Peter.
“I don’t know really, perhaps because I know how much it would infuriate the madman in the attic. And that brings me up against another obstacle to the achievement of my dream.”
“And what might that be?” asked Annabel, who’d never met Gervase’s father.
“Well, can you imagine introducing a nice girl, Jewish or otherwise, to a father who has a copy of Mein Kampf prominently displayed on his bookshelf amid a preponderance of literature appertaining to the Third Reich.
“It’s a bit disconcerting I know,” said Peter, “but he isn’t actually a Nazi though, is he?”
“No,” conceded Gervase, “At least I don’t think so, although he does rather like Wagner, named the cat, Herman, and when I was learning German at school, gave me the lyrics of the Horst Wessel Lied to translate.”
“It seems to me that he just has a keen interest in that seminal period of twentieth century history through which he lived, and is possessed of a savagely satirical sense of humour,” said Annabel, who now had a much better idea of where Gervase had acquired his.
“Perhaps you’re right,” he said, thoughtfully. “One can but hope.”
It was a stratagem which had served him well at university, where he was much sought after to star in productions of Oscar Wild’s plays. Consequently he’d cultivated a fine crop of theatrical friends, which, by virtue of his being innately witty and amusing, he’d managed to keep. To outsiders though, he could be disconcerting. He had inherited a disquieting character trait from his father, which, in a linguistic sense, might be described as that which Edger Allan Poe referred to as, ‘The Imp of the Perverse’.
While Gervase’s imp didn’t prompt him to leap over cliffs, he was prone to making outrageously politically-incorrect statements and dropping them into a conversation like hand-grenades, just to watch the result. The more annoyingly self-righteous tended to take cover behind walls of dogma and ineffectually snipe at him, becoming progressively more infuriated at their failure to score a hit or penetrate his armour of savoir fair. Gervase remained secure in the innate conviction that he was a gentleman, and that a gentleman was never rude unintentionally.
As a result, his friends would invite him to dinner parties where at least one of the guests would be the latest darling of the social set, but who on cultivation had proved to be depressingly shallow, mediocre or just plain boring. Gervase would then be unleashed on the unsuspecting pundit while his hosts sat back and enjoyed the show. Gervase was completely cognisant of why he was being invited and was more than happy to oblige, especially if he was going to be the recipient of an excellent free meal.
It was on just such an occasion that Gervase was left sitting at his host’s table idly fingering his wineglass following the departure of a particularly sententious human-rights lawyer, who had furiously stormed out of the house to a waiting taxi and disappeared into the night.
“Oh dear,” he said, with a superciliously raised eyebrow and the ghost of a quirky smile twitching the corner of his mouth, “Was it something I said?”
Grinning, his host replied, “I think it might have been something to do with your suggestion that, and I quote; ‘Rather than waste money on witness protection programmes, known career criminals should be kidnapped, water-boarded and interrogated with scopolamine, before being summarily executed in a cellar,’ unquote.”
Gervase chuckled
“Do you think? I was going to add that the treatment should be extended to include professional politicians.”
“Well, you never know, she might have agreed with you there.”
“Ah… Probably just as well I didn’t mention it then, although I am firmly of the opinion that anyone who actively seeks public office is almost certainly the least appropriate person to be allowed to hold it. If I had my way, campaigning for election, on any platform, would be proscribed by law.”
Unwilling on this occasion to be subjected to Gervase’s monologue on the benefits of benign dictatorship, amusing though it invariably was, his host deftly changed the subject.
“So, Gervase, how’s the aged P. Still alive, is he?”
“Yes, thank you Peter. The last vestige of the Raj is indeed alive and well, mad as ever, and, if not actually kicking, then at least scuttling around in his wheelchair, like the eponymous Dr. Strangelove. I believe he’s working on another novel.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Peter
At this moment, Annabel, Peter’s wife, emerged from the kitchen with a laden cheeseboard. As she passed the sideboard she deftly added a full decanter of vintage port to her load, and smiling, placed them before her guest. Gervase beamed at her with appreciation, and not just of her hospitality.
“Annie, darling, you’re too kind, pandering to the proclivities of an unrepentant parasite,” he said, self-deprecatingly. He helped himself to Stilton and crackers then topped up his glass with delectable ruby liquid before passing it on.
“Don’t be silly, Gerry, you’re always good value for money,” replied Annabel indulgently, retaking her seat at the table.
“For money?” mused Gervase with a quizzically raised eyebrow, “Wouldn’t it be marvellous if people would actually pay one, just for being oneself.”
“You seem to have got pretty close to it,” said Peter with a chuckle.
“Friend Peter, you wound me, you cut me to the quick,” said Gervase with a theatrical display of woe, then winked at Annabel.
“So, Gerry, how goes the eternal search?” she asked.
“And what search might that be?” replied her guest, resuming his habitual demeanour of languid indifference.
“Why, the quest to find the perfect woman of course,” said Peter.
“Oh, that eternal search. Well, I seek but I do not find.”
“Come on, Gerry, you were never short of a stunning companion when you wanted one at university. Why have you never settled down?” asked Annabel.
“It’s quite simple, really. I have never been able to keep one.”
“Yes, but why?”
“My requirements are quite specific, you see, I want a nice Jewish girl of good family, possessed of an indulgent attitude towards dependent indolence. The clever ones, and they‘re the ones I would rather have, see through me, and even if they don’t, their parents do, and consequently go out of their way to break us up.”
“But you’re not Jewish, why are you so set on a Jewish wife?” asked Peter.
“I don’t know really, perhaps because I know how much it would infuriate the madman in the attic. And that brings me up against another obstacle to the achievement of my dream.”
“And what might that be?” asked Annabel, who’d never met Gervase’s father.
“Well, can you imagine introducing a nice girl, Jewish or otherwise, to a father who has a copy of Mein Kampf prominently displayed on his bookshelf amid a preponderance of literature appertaining to the Third Reich.
“It’s a bit disconcerting I know,” said Peter, “but he isn’t actually a Nazi though, is he?”
“No,” conceded Gervase, “At least I don’t think so, although he does rather like Wagner, named the cat, Herman, and when I was learning German at school, gave me the lyrics of the Horst Wessel Lied to translate.”
“It seems to me that he just has a keen interest in that seminal period of twentieth century history through which he lived, and is possessed of a savagely satirical sense of humour,” said Annabel, who now had a much better idea of where Gervase had acquired his.
“Perhaps you’re right,” he said, thoughtfully. “One can but hope.”