‘You still can. I won’t need you for the preparations. Just be back here by three o’clock.’
‘You’d better have bathed. Get at least a gallon of carbolic acid from the Cambodians.’
So a few hours later, Herbert Wolf Scramsfield and Sergei Voronoff arrived at the Hotel Concorde Sainte Lazare wearing white doctor’s coats, carrying brown doctor’s bags, and wheeling a trolley on which rested an enshrouded birdcage, like the agents of some sinister and incomprehensible room service delivery. After they told the concierge their cargo was primatal he tried to throw them out, but they insisted he telephone up to the room and enough of a fuss was made that he had no choice but to let them into the service lift.
The Norbs were staying in two bedrooms connected by a small drawing room. ‘Mordechai wants to see the monkey,’ said Elisalexa Norb as soon as they were through the door.
‘I’m afraid that’s out of the question.’
‘Why?’
Scramsfield thought for a moment. ‘Patient confidentiality,’ he ventured. This seemed to satisfy the Norbs. You could pump this suite full of coal tar until there was only an inch of air beneath the corniced ceiling, he thought, and it would still, on balance, be nicer than his own apartment.
‘Will you require us to undress before surgery?’ said Margaret Norb.
‘No,’ said Dr Voronoff before Scramsfield could reply.
‘But where will you put the glands?’
‘Zyroid,’ said Dr Voronoff, gesturing at his neck.
‘You will at least need to roll up your sleeves for the anaesthetic, however,’ said Scramsfield.
He took two needles out of his doctor’s bag and carried out the injections. Then he guided Margaret Norb to an armchair and Elisalexa Norb to a chaise longue. Within a few minutes they were both asleep, the latter with her tongue poking out of her mouth. Behind them, a folding Japanese screen of painted cedar wood showed a bearded man lifting a turtle into a fishing boat.
‘Why did you tell them not to undress?’ Scramsfield asked Loeser.
‘I’ve sunk pretty low in my time, but I am not yet at the stage where I will pose as a doctor to molest unconscious women. Not quite yet.’
‘Who said anything about molesting them?’
‘You would definitely have molested them.’
‘I wouldn’t, but in any case we’d better get a move on. I didn’t give them much of this nembutal stuff so I don’t know when they’ll wake up.’ If only Weitz were here, thought Scramsfield. He took a small brown paper parcel out of his doctor’s bag and emptied its contents on to the shiny top of the Boulle writing desk.
‘What are those?’ said Loeser.
‘What do they look like?’
‘Armoured raspberries.’
‘Haven’t you ever seen a lychee before?’
‘No.’
‘Good. Let’s hope the Norbs haven’t either. They’re delicious, by the way. The Cambodians go crazy for them. Surprisingly good in a martini, too.’ Scramsfield tossed one to Loeser. ‘Peel that.’
With some difficulty, Loeser did so. Scramsfield peeled a second.
‘Perfect,’ said Scramsfield. ‘One hundred per cent convincing raw monkey balls.’
He returned to his doctor’s bag and took out a small tube of glue.
‘That’s your plan?’ said Loeser incredulously. ‘Glue these things to their necks?’
‘What else are we going to do? We’re not surgeons. We could have glued them somewhere more discreet if you hadn’t interfered.’
He was about to get to work when out of the corner of his eye he saw Mordechai sitting on the mantelpiece next to the clock.
‘Loeser,’ he hissed.
‘What?’
‘The lizard.’
‘What about it?’
‘It’s watching.’
‘So?’
‘What if it tells the girl what we did?’
‘How would it do that? It doesn’t talk.’
‘I think they have some sort of … some sort of
Loeser made a grab for the iguana, but it leaped from the mantelpiece and fled through the doorway into Elisalexa Norb’s bedroom. That was enough to put it out of sight, so Scramsfield began the operation. ‘
Within an hour, the Norbs had begun to stir. Margaret was lagging behind so Elisalexa kept pinching her aunt’s calf until she woke up properly. Both then tottered over to the mirror to examine their ripe gemmeous xeno- transplants.
‘They do rather stick out,’ said Margaret Norb. ‘The glands.’
‘Yes,’ said Scramsfield, ‘but they’ll soon be absorbed into your body.’
‘Can I touch it?’
‘If you like.’
She hesitantly brought an index finger up to the little moist bulb, then stiffened in shock. ‘It’s so sensitive.’
Elisalexa Norb did the same, then licked her finger. ‘It tastes sweet,’ she said.
‘Please don’t do that, dear, it’s disgusting,’ said Margaret Norb. She turned to Voronoff. ‘This is wonderful, Doctor. Mr Scramsfield, perhaps you’d be so good as to telephone down for a bottle of champagne.’
A few minutes later an olive-skinned boy arrived with a bottle of Veuve Cliquot and four glasses. He looked at Margaret Norb, then he looked at Elisalexa Norb, then he squinted in puzzlement and raised his hand to his own neck as if he were about to point out a minor oversight in the guests’ toilette — but of course he thought better of it. On his way out, Margaret Norb gave him fifty francs, which he nodded at philosophically as if somehow it explained everything.
Margaret Norb led a toast to Dr Voronoff. ‘How is the health of our donor?’ she said after her first sip of champagne. Scramsfield couldn’t work out what she meant until she nodded at the birdcage on the trolley under its black sheet.
‘Still under sedation,’ he said. ‘But stable.’
‘They lead comfortable lives, do they? After their … sacrifice?’
‘Luxurious, yes,’ said Scramsfield.
Elisalexa Norb gave a small burp. Scramsfield looked over and saw that she had already drained her glass.
‘Purhayps zay lady should not bay dvinkink so soon aftur hur anayzaytic,’ said Dr Voronoff with genuine concern. But his warning was too late, because Elisalexa Norb almost immediately staggered backwards and bumped against the writing desk.
‘Oh dear,’ said her aunt. ‘Elisalexa, you must be put straight to bed to recuperate.’ She stepped forward with the intention of carrying this out, but was almost as unsteady herself. Dr Voronoff caught her arm as several ounces of champagne hopped from her glass to the carpet. ‘Or — goodness — well — Mr Scramsfield, might you be kind enough to…’
‘Certainly, Miss Norb,’ said Scramsfield. He guided a giggly Elisalexa into her bedroom. She was quite pliant, but as they went through the doorway she grabbed for the brass knob so that the door swung most of the way shut. This didn’t worry Scramsfield until he was helping her down on to her bed and he realised she was pulling him down with her by the lapels of his doctor’s coat. He lost his balance.
‘Miss Norb!’ was all he had a chance to say before her mouth was on his. Somehow she got his tongue between her lips and began to suck it down like a steamed mussel that wouldn’t slip out of its shell. With one hand she was unbuttoning her dress and with the other she was bullying his crotch. Her whole body was quivering like a
