The Devil’s Punchbowl
Your ill-timed, but much needed nap, lands you way past seven o’clock. In a tailspin, you take a lukewarm bath in a tub that looks like it doubles as a birdbath, and then climb back in to your clammy travel clothes. Upon request, Mrs. Pringle produces an old toothbrush and an almost-flat tube of toothpaste. It’s entirely possible that the toothbrush was last used to fight a battle against mildew in between the bathroom tiles, but beggars mustn’t be choosers. You exit the Sleeping Bee in a state of extreme mystery and haste…The least you can do is show up at the Devil’s Punchbowl and tell Basil that he’s made a mistake.
Tucked in behind Greyfriars Church, you move along the Old City Wall toward Grassmarket. The evening has settled; darkness hazing the city landscape and making the ancient Wall look like a giant, gaudy reptile, slithering its way in between stone houses and iron lampposts. If Mrs. Pringle’s directions are right, you should be about to come to a greengrocer. There’s the greengrocer. A statue of a man on horseback should be next. There he is-- standing right over you waving a flag. And, wow, that horse is most decidedly male. The Devil Punchbowl is there-- diagonally across the street. An easel chalkboard propped outside recommends the Curry Vindaloo and the Spotted Dick.
You wait for traffic to clear, crinkling the note in your hand as you rehearse what you’re going to say to Basil. The thought enters your mind like a dull dagger, that you have no idea what Basil looks like, and he apparently has never met you. You enter the tiny, dim pub. The stained-glass windows make them look like panes of hardened candy. You’re facing a serious of backs at the bar, most of them curled over a plate of Vindaloo. There’s a single man in the corner with a battered leather backpack at his feet, sitting in a pool of green light, spilling in through the window behind him. He drops the pastry he’s eating and looks up expectantly at you. You think of the crumb smudges all over the note and begin fanning yourself with it as innocuously as you can. The man stands suddenly, his napkin falling to the carpet. He waves you over, working his arm like the sail of a windmill.
“Margaret?” he states, reaching out to shake hands.
“Darby, I’m afraid,” you reply sheepishly.
Thoroughly confused, he points toward the note in your hand and insists, “No, you’re Margaret. You’re American, and you’re Margaret.”
Mild alarm is prickling your skin, and you back up slowly. “No, I found your note when I got into your room, but I’m not Margaret. I’m Darby. I just thought I’d better come and let you know that Margaret didn’t get your message. Darby did. And it sounded extremely urgent…and important…” You frown, fairly exhausted from delivering the bad news.
Basil, his mouth still hanging open like a leaf-top desk, finally sinks back onto the upholstered booth. “It is urgent. And important,” he mutters, looking dazed and wounded. “How am I ever going to manage this on my own?”
He looks up at you and for the first time you register his appearance: long, dark eyelashes surrounding light blue eyes, a white dress shirt with the cuffs rolled up sloppily. A rich, tweed jacket, reeking of intellectual superiority is balled up beside him, its suede elbow-pads stiff with indignation.
“You wouldn’t happen to be an archaeologist?” he asks hopefully.
“No,” you croak, feeling utterly useless. You look away, at the row of backs, still shoveling in curry and washing it down with lager, and wonder if everyone else is an archaeologist. “I’m just a painter,” you admit, with shame.
At the moment, you are frozen but fascinated. There's not a thing to do, not a move to make, until you re-animate in a few hours. Part V (The Proposal) will come tonight...
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