“What hit you?”

“The Beetle, of course.”

“Now wait a minute . . .”

“I’d eaten the wrong goddamn chocolate, Oswald! I’d mixed them up! I’d given him the plain one and eaten the Beetle myself!”

“Jesus Christ, Yasmin!”

“I know. But by then I’d guessed what had happened and my first thought was, I’d better get the hell out of the palace before I make an even bigger ass out of myself than I already have.”

“And did you?”

“Well, that was a bit easier said than done. For the first time in my life I was finding out what it felt like to get the Beetle.”

“Strong stuff.”

“Terrifying. It freezes your mind. You can’t think straight. All you’ve got is this fierce throbbing sexy sensation pouring all over you. Sex is the only thing you can think about. It was all I could think about anyway, and I’m very much afraid, Oswald . . . I couldn’t stop myself, you understand—I simply couldn’t stop myself . . . so I . . . well, I leaped off the sofa and made a dive for the King’s trousers. . .”

“Oh, my God.”

“There’s more to come,” Yasmin said, taking another gulp of brandy.

“Don’t tell me. I can’t bear it.”

“All right, then, I won’t.”

“Yes,” I said. “Go on.”

“I was like a madwoman. I was all over him. I caught him off balance and pushed him down onto the sofa. But he’s an athletic kind of bird, that old King. He was very quick. He was up in a flash. He got behind his desk. I climbed over the desk. He kept shouting, ‘Stop, woman! What’s the matter with you! Get away from me!’ And then he really started yelling, yelling out loud I mean. ‘Help!’ he yelled. ‘Someone get this woman out of here!’ And then, my dear Oswald, the door opened and the Queen herself, little Queen Maud in all her glory, came sailing into the room holding a piece of needlework in her hand.”

“Bound to happen.”

“I know.”

“Where were you when she came in?”

“I was leaping over his big Chippendale desk to get at him. Chairs were flying all over the place and in she came, this tiny, quite pretty woman . . .”

“What did she say?”

“She said, ‘What are you doing, Haakon?’

“‘Get her out!’ yelled the King.

“‘I want him!’ I shouted. ‘And I’m going to have him!’

“‘Haakon!’ she said. ‘Stop this at once!’

“‘It’s not me, it’s her!’ he cried, running for his life round the room. But I had him cornered now and I was just about to fling myself at him good and proper when I was grabbed from behind by two guards. Soldiers they were. Lovely-looking Norwegian boys.

“‘Take her away,’ gasped the King.

“‘Where to, sire?’

“‘Just get her out of here quick! Dump her in the street!’

“So I was frog-marched out of the palace and all I remember is I kept saying awful dirty things to the young soldiers and making all sorts of sexy suggestions and they were hooting with laughter . . .”

“So they dumped you?”

“In the street,” Yasmin said. “Outside the palace gates.”

“You’re damned lucky it wasn’t the King of Bulgaria or somewhere like that,” I said. “You’d have been thrown into a dungeon.”

“I know.”

“So they dumped you in the street outside the palace?”

“Yes. I was dazed. I sat on a bench under some trees trying to pull myself together. I had one great advantage, you see, Oswald, over all my victims. I knew what was wrong with me. I knew it was the Beetle that was doing it to me. It must be simply awful feeling the way I felt and not knowing why. I think that would scare me to death. So I was able to fight it. I remember sitting there and saying to myself, what you need, Yasmin old girl, what you need to straighten you out is a few good digs in the backside with the hatpin. That made me giggle. And after that, but very slowly, this ghastly sexy feeling began to go away and I got a hold of myself and I stood up and walked along the street to the hotel and here I am. I’m sorry I messed it up, Oswald, I really am. It’s the first time ever.”

“We’d better get out of here,” I said. “I don’t think these people would ever do anything nasty to us but the King is bound to start asking a few questions.”

“I’m sure he is.”

“I think he’s going to guess my letter was a forgery,” I said. “I bet anything you like he’s checking it out with George the Fifth right this very minute.”

“I’ll bet he is, too,” Yasmin said.

“Hurry up and pack then,” I said. “We’ll slide out of here at once and drive back across the border into Sweden. We’re going to get lost.”

25

WE GOT BACK HOME via Sweden and Denmark around the middle of April and we had with us the sperm of eight kings—fifty straws each from seven of them and twenty from old Peter of Serbia. It was a pity about Norway. It spoiled our record, although I didn’t feel it was going to make much difference in the long run.

“Now I want my holiday,” Yasmin said. “A good one. Aren’t we about finished anyway?”

“America’s next,” I said.

“There aren’t many there.”

“No, but we have to get them. We’ll go over in style on the Mauretania.”

“I want a holiday first,” Yasmin said. “You promised me. I’m not going anywhere until I’ve had a nice long rest.”

“How long?”

“A month.”

We had driven straight to Cambridge after disembarking from the Danish boat at Harwich, and we were having a drink in the living-room at Dunroamin. A. R. Woresley came in rubbing his hands.

“Congratulations,” he said. “You’ve done a great job with those kings.”

“Yasmin wants a month’s holiday,” I said. “But personally I think we ought to bash on and get America done first.”

A. R. Woresley, puffing his disgusting pipe, looked at Yasmin through the smoke and said, “I agree with Cornelius. Get the job done first, take a holiday later.”

“No,” Yasmin said.

“Why not?” Woresley said.

“Because I don’t want to, that’s why.”

“Well, I suppose it’s up to you,” Woresley said.

“You bet your life it’s up to me,” Yasmin said.

“Aren’t you having a good time?” I said.

“The fun’s wearing off,” she said. “In the beginning it was a lark. Terrific joke. But now all of a sudden I seem to have had enough.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I’ve said it.”

“Hell.”

“What both of you seem to be forgetting,” she said, “is that every time we want the sperm of some bloody genius, I’m the one who has to go in and do the fighting. I’m the one who gets it in the neck.”

“Not in the neck,” I said.

“Stop trying to be funny, Oswald.” She sat there looking glum. A. R. Woresley said nothing.

“If you have a month’s holiday now,” I said, “will you come to America with me immediately after that?”

“Yes, all right.”

“You’re going to enjoy Rudolph Valentino.”

“I doubt it,” she said. “I think my romping days are over.”

“Never!” I cried. “You might as well be dead!”

“Romping isn’t everything.”

“Jesus, Yasmin. You’re talking like Bernard Shaw!”

“Maybe I’ll become a nun.”

“But you will come to America first?”

“I’ve already told you I would,” she said.

A. R. Woresley took his pipe out of his mouth and said, “We’ve got a remarkable collection, Cornelius, truly remarkable. When do we start selling?”

“We mustn’t hurry it,” I said. “My feeling is that we should not put any man’s sperm up for sale until after he’s dead.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Great men are more interesting dead than alive. They become legends when they’re dead.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Woresley said.

“We’ve got plenty of ancient ones on the list,” I said. Most of them aren’t going to last very long. I’ll bet you fifty per cent of the whole lot will be gone in five or ten years.”

“Who’s going to do the selling when the time comes?” Woresley asked.