The Fourth Bear полностью

“Well,” he said, “infidelity, Mr. Sprat? That doesn’t sound like you at all.”

“It’s not me. And it’s none of your business. And it’s two t’s in Spratt, not one.”

“But it is my business,” retorted Punch. “I’m your neighbor, and we PDRs have to stick together.”

“Huzzah!” said Caliban in enthusiastic agreement.

“You’re a Person of Dubious Reality?” asked Jack of the little ape. “From where?”

“The Tempest,” replied Caliban with a twinge of pride, adding,

“You know, Shakespeare?” when Jack didn’t seem to understand.

“Oh,” he said, “right.”

“Your problem is our problem,” said Punch kindly.

But Jack was still angry.

“What makes you think Punch and Judy—of all people—are qualified to give advice on marriage?” sneered Jack.

“Nothing really,” explained Punch in a calm and patient voice,

“but we’ve been married three hundred and twenty-eight years next Wednesday, and not a single day goes by without us arguing and fighting. But despite all that, we find it in our hearts to forgive, because the bottom line is that we love each other dearly, and it is that love which binds our relationship together, regardless of the violence and the quarreling.”

Jack sat on the garden wall. He ran a hand through his hair. His head was tender where Madeleine had hit him and was starting to come up in a bump. He looked at Punch and Caliban, who were staring at him with quiet concern.

“Madeleine found out I was a nursery-rhyme character,” said Jack at last, sighing deeply.

“You never told her?” asked Punch. “How can you keep that a secret from her?”

Jack shook his head. “I don’t know. I didn’t want to lose her. Perhaps it was because I want to be a real person.”

“I’m told it’s overrated,” replied Punch. “Think you could do what you do and help the people you help if you were real? You’d never have found out who killed Humpty Dumpty, and Bluebeard would still be killing his brides. And what about Red Riding-Hood and her gran?”

“Yeah—what about them?” Jack retorted.

“Okay,” Punch conceded, “that was a bad example. But you see what I mean. You’re good at this weird NCD shit precisely because you’re not real. Besides, what’s so great about ‘real’ these days anyway?”

“It’s all right for you,” said Jack after a pause. “At least you’ve got a long, performance-based traditional backing to your existence.”

“More of a curse than a blessing,” replied Punch with a sigh.

“We’d love to retire back home to Italy, but they keep on updating the act and dragging us out again. We bought a house in Tuscany a few years ago, when we thought political correctness would end the show, but it didn’t. The Punchinistas think they’re doing us a favor, restoring the tradition, but they’re not.”

“Tuscany,” mused Jack, who had never been out of Berkshire in his life, “that could be nice.”

“Yes,” replied Mr. Punch dreamily. “Judy and I were going to spend our twilight years beating each other senseless under the the warm Mediterranean sun. We’d sip Chianti through broken teeth and grapple at one another’s throats as the orange orb of the sun set on another perfect day. Then, after a truly excellent spaghetti alle vongole, I would jam my thumb in her eye and she would kick me hard in the gonads—and we would go to bed, tired, but happy.”

They all fell wistfully silent for a while until Jack said, “Yes, but that doesn’t help me right now.”

“Perhaps not,” replied Punch, “but we can probably do something. Who was this woman you slept with?”

“I didn’t,” insisted Jack. “Briggs’s wife has had her eye on me since a fling about twenty-five years ago.”

“Agatha Diesel?” asked Punch.

“You know her?”

He didn’t answer and instead knocked on the back door. It was opened by Prometheus.

“Hello, Punchy,” said the Titan cheerfully. “How’s it cooking?”

“Madeleine needs to come out and speak to Jack.”

Prometheus looked at Jack and then back to Punch. “I don’t think she really wants to.”

“Please? It’s important.”

The door closed, and Punch winked at Jack while dialing a number on his cell phone.

“Who’s your phone provider?” he asked Jack. “I get a hundred free min—Agatha? It’s Punch…. I know your next appointment isn’t until Tuesday, but I’ve just heard about the regrettable incident with Mr. Spratt.”

There was a pause as Punch listened to a tearful babble of Agatha’s woes.

“I disagree,” he said as soon as he could get a word in. “The whole situation is a long way from irredeemable. You’re to tell your husband everything when he gets home, but for now I need you to talk to Mrs. Spratt and tell her precisely what happened—or didn’t happen—between you and Jack.”

There was another pause.

“It’s the right thing to do, Agatha. You’ll feel a lot better for it…. Here she is.”

Madeleine had appeared at the door and glared at Jack. She reluctantly took the proffered phone and went back inside.

“Now what?” asked Jack.

“Agatha will sort it out—unless you really did screw her, in which case you’re in such deep shit even I can’t help you.”

“I didn’t. How do you know Agatha?”