Mr. Nibs

by Sherman Smith

Part 1 appears
in this issue.

conclusion

A few days later Charles and Randy took a road trip to the coast and no matter which way the road turned their conversation turned back to the weird goings-on at the bottle shop and the mystical Mr. Nibs.

“I’m not buying it,” Randy said.

“I’ve been thinking and...” admitted Charles, “and I’m not sure what to believe.”

It was February and the rain did fall. The road back was not nearly as enticing as the road traveled. The car’s wipers squeaked as they repetitiously plowed the rain and the dark chocolate road spray from the windshield. Randy’s wife was having her book club over so he was in no hurry to get home. “It’s still early, let’s have dinner in Corvallis? Italian, Fusion Asian, Spanish Tapas, or French?”

Charles wasn’t exactly hungry; however, this was a road trip and an opportunity to savor food they could not get back home. “What do you recommend?”

“They’re all good,” Randy said as they pulled into a parking space. They looked at several menus that hung in the restaurants’ entryways. The Asian Fusion or Confusion Asian appeared to be mostly Chinese. Pass. The Italian was pasta overkill with more pasta on the side. Across the street was Le Bistro. “Let’s try this one,” said Charles. “One thing we don’t have in Eugene is a good French restaurant.”

The wine list showed mostly Pinot Noirs, which were of little interest. Charles spotted a Duckhorn Merlot. “How about this one? The price isn’t bad for a mead.”

“Don’t you wish?” Randy laughed.

The French wines were intriguing and they settled on a 1998 Château Beauséjour du Bonalgue, a medium-bodied French Merlot with a reasonable amount of Cabernet Franc, which when decanted clogged the decanter funnel with its rich red dregs. On first taste it had a deep concentration of red berry, leather, black cherry, smooth tannins. They ordered escargots and French onion soup.

That done, Charles excused himself to the restroom which was down a long hall through a door at the rear of the restaurant.

Refreshed, clean and tidy, Charles left the restroom, the aroma of butter and garlic heavy in the air. He reached the door to the restaurant. What’s this? The door was locked. He tried it again. Locked? He peered through a small window which gave the distant tables an Alice in Wonderland setting in need of a Mad Hatter who could open doors in mysterious ways.

He knocked, softly at first, then harder. Nothing. How on earth would anyone hear him? A waitress passed by without giving the narrow hallway the slightest glance. He gave the door a solid thump. Nothing.

The aroma of garlic butter hung in the air. The escargots beckoned.

The restroom was shared with a neighboring boutique hotel. No problem, he thought. I’ll just walk around. That was wishful thinking for that door was locked, the hotel on the other side closed or out of business.

“HELLLLO!” He screamed, knocked, thumped, then gave out another loud, useless “HELLLLLLO!” Nothing. He might as well have been on the moon. He returned to the Bistro’s door “Help! I’m locked out!” he cried in vain. “Mr. Nibs, get me out of here.”

He gave a short bitter laugh and shook his head with exasperation. Why did I say that? he thought, I’m really beginning to lose it. Not willing to surrender to his imprisonment he went to another door marked ‘EMPLOYEES ONLY.’ Signs be damned, he would storm the kitchen.

That door would not budge either. No meager knocking this time; after pounding uselessly, he raised the ante and at the top of his voice screamed ”FIRE!” No smoke. No flames, only the tantalizing aroma of the fine cuisine waiting on the other side. The cold grey cement walls closed in on him as he whispered his false charge. “Fire.”

One last shot. He looked down into the shadows of a musty ill-lit stairwell. No... not a chance. I wouldn’t go down there if the place was literally on fire. Best to wait by the door to Le Bistro until someone else hears the call to nature.

He looked at his watch and sighed. It was at that moment that he heard a door creak open somewhere in the murky shadows beyond the base of the stairs, footsteps that were quick, light, and rhythmic, followed by laughter he had heard before.

“Nibs?” He called out in surprise. It can’t be? Nonetheless, no one laughs like Nibs. The restaurant must have a wine cellar with a delivery door on the outside and a service door into the restaurant. Thank you, Nibs.

Nibs? Give me a break. Nibs is not a fairy... He’s a fairy-tale. He doesn’t exist. He hesitated for just a moment as he peered down into the dark. A light bulb nearby abruptly burned out, forcing his decision.

He felt the hair on the back of his neck tingle as he descended one step at a time. When he reached the base of the steps the last light at the top blinked out. That was enough to force him down a long murky corridor as he followed the not so reassuring sound of Nibs’ laughter.

At the end of the corridor his path was blocked by a large rusty door which from the looks of it had not been opened in many years. Instead of a knob it had a large metal wheel much the same as one might find on a ship’s hatch. The damp rust stained his hand as he strained to turn the wheel.

No wine cellar is going to be this far away, he thought as he called out one more time, “Nibs?” No answer. “Nibs?

“Wait a moment,” he thought aloud, “there’s no Nibs — no stupid fairies.” He turned to retrace his steps when suddenly the corridor between him and the stairwell went dark, followed by the crystalline tinkle of breaking glass.

He let the heavy door swing shut.

He was drawn forward by a glint of flickering yellow light, the sound of flowing water, but mostly by his fear of the dark that lay behind him. As his eyes adjusted to the light of flaming torches he found himself on a long narrow paved path that ran a few feet above a dark murky river of sewage. Poop, that was the polite word for it. There was no lying to the nose: he was in a huge sewer.

Hear no evil... see no evil, he thought as he took one timid step forward. The ancient brick walls curved up into a rounded ceiling twenty feet above his head. The sewage canal below was wide enough to carry a rowboat or an even larger craft.

What floated and bobbed on top would be enough to cause the ferryman on the River Styx to give up his day job. Pipes of every size ran this way and that into a maze of side tunnels. The path, slippery in spots, had no handrail to protect him should he suddenly do an ungainly swan dive into the foul muck below. The only light came from the torches which lit a raised path above the disgusting flow.

He heard Nibs call. “Come on, we haven’t got all day.” He quickened his steps as the torches he passed went out one by one and new ones sputtered to life on the path ahead. As he passed one dark side tunnel after another he glimpsed brass placards with street names in French. What the hell?

He stopped momentarily at a fork in the conduit. It was pitch black in front, black to his rear, and deep shit to his left. Rod Sterling... hello... If this is the Twilight Zone I want to change the channel. Right now! A side tunnel dead-ended twenty feet to his right. The only sounds came from sewage shifting and an annoying drip that pinged repetitiously in the dark.

No Nibs. Ping! Ping! No one laughed. No Nibs. He was alone. Ping! At the end of the tunnel a metal ladder bathed in a welcoming beam of light led up to an open manhole. PING!

He began to climb.

An alley cat hissed at him as he stuck his head up into the fresh air and a poorly lit alley, the imagined shapes in the shadows friendlier than the menacing dark that nipped at his feet as he clung to the ladder. He smelled garlic and a dozen other aromas far more pleasing than what he had endured below.

Thanks for nothing, Nibs. Jeez, where am I? He climbed out. As if on cue the light that lit the manhole went dark. The shadow shapes grew larger and closer as they sought refuge from a single bulb that swayed above an open door on the other side of the alley. He heard laughter and smelled tobacco smoke. A car honked nearby. A second. A woman sang.

Paris chéri, mon beau Paris,
C’est toujours toi que j’aime.
Paris chéri,
Ton chic naturel est resté le même.

In the distance he could see the Eiffel Tower and beyond that the grand vista of the city of Paris. The cars passing on the nearest street looked like they were something out of an old Al Capone movie. A poster pasted onto a brick wall near the door advertised a 1926 Bugatti Roadster. The poster was new as was a Bugatti that cruised by. He was stunned, what he was seeing could not be true. “Nibs?” This was not 2010?

He looked down the gapping manhole, the sewer below his only connection to the present, future, the real world he had come from and he was seriously tempted to climb back down and hope for the best.

A man dressed in dark pants and a white shirt stepped out of the doorway and beckoned him. “Monsieur, vous êtes attendu.”

“Excuse me?” Charles said, not understanding a word of French.

“Monsieur Nibs is waiting for you inside.” The man said in heavily accented English. “This way please.” He gestured. “Madame Baker has started.”

Paris a l’air de me dire...
J’étais à toi à chaque seconde.
Lorsque l’on dit :
Loin des yeux, loin du cœur...

Mr. Nibs, his diminutive size and flamboyant red beard drawing little attention in the crowded room, raised his glass as Charles approached. “Paris,” he said softly to Charles so as not to disturb the performance, “‘Paris has another Paris under herself; a Paris of sewers, which has its streets, its crossings, its squares, its blind alleys, its arteries, and its circulation, which is slime, minus the human form’.

“I thought you would appreciate a quote from Victor Hugo, and I arranged for a brief tour of Paris underground. I hope you didn’t mind?”

Mind? Of course I don’t mind. I always follow red-haired goblins — fairies — whatever — into sewers and other swell places. He slid onto a seat across from Nibs.

Nibs grinned as a full glass of red wine appeared before him. An open bottle of 1896 Mouton Rothschild Pavillac, Premier Cru — First Growth — sat on the table.

My God, this exists? Charles thought as he raised the glass to his nose. Yes, it does. Wow! Over the top of the glass he could see that as in Alice in Wonderland he had indeed stepped into a different world. “Paris, some time in the late 1920’s? Nibs, please tell me that I’ll be able to get back to the real world?”

Nibs, a little man as big as life, smiled, his red mane aglow in the candle light. “I can assure you that this is all very real and the year is 1927, to be exact.” He put his fingers to his lips and whispered. “Josephine Baker, isn’t she marvelous?”

“The Josephine Baker?”

“You know of another?”

Charles listened intently as she sang.

Josephine was tall with coffee skin and ebony eyes. She moved like a cat, a snake, a wild exotic animal that had driven Paris to its knees. Her long legs followed a slight curve upwards, her thigh muscles powered her as her arms rotated through the air, as if the air was slightly buoyant like water. She danced the Charleston and the Black Bottom with improvisation and composition. She cat-walked in pointed shoes and tail feathers, her black bottom her signature and legend. She finished her first set and began to move slowly from table to table as she greeted her fans.

A waiter brought a menu labeled Chez Josephine written in both French and English. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Charles gasped. “This is 1927, at least that’s what I’m being told, and escargotss bourguignon are listed at twelve dollars. A steak at thirty bucks? What gives?”

“God made the food; the devil, the cook.” Nibs said. “Josephine is her own pot of gold.”

Charles jumped from his seat as a pig, smelling heavily of perfume, nudged his leg. “Damn it to hell what was that?” He cursed as he tried to wipe from his trouser leg some wine he had spilled while giving the pig a defensive kick.

“Albert, fiche la paix à nos clients. Viens ici.” A distinguished man appeared at the table. “Ahhh, it is you Monsieur Nibs. It has been too long, I must tell Josephine that you are here.” He eyed the red stain on Charles’ pants. “I am so sorry. I will have a second bottle sent to your table immediately.” Without waiting for an introduction the man scurried off to greet another regular customer.

“That,” Nibs said, “is Count Pepito de Albertino, Josephine’s husband and business manager. Albert, the pig, is one of her pets.”

Josephine Baker, three tables away, looked in their direction as the Count whispered in her ear. She would be there in moments. Charles looked at his clothes and felt an embarrassed flush come on. In the dim light it looked like he had peed on himself. “If you will excuse me...”

Nibs pointed towards a door near the stage. “Down the hall, second door on the right,” he said with a mischievous glint.

There were pictures hung in the hallway of Josephine in various costumes and state of undress. She was both beautiful and provocative. Charles opened the second door on the left and jumped backwards as a goat bleated at his intrusion. Startled, he slammed the door.

“No... no Monsieur, that is Josephine’s dressing room,” the Prince said with a laugh as he appeared from another door with a bottle of wine. “I hope Toutoute did not startle you. She is quite gentle. The door you want is on the right.”

The stain on his pants had set in and it would take more than a wet cloth to remove it. Oh well. He gave an incredulous laugh and thought about where he was. Wait until Randy hears about this. Yes, Dorothy, he chuckled, there are fairies... Clurichauns in the world.

He stepped out into the hallway to find to his great disappointment that he would miss meeting the great Josephine Baker; he was back in Corvallis. The door to the Bistro open, the light bulbs in the hallway bright and unbroken. You’re losing it, he thought as he steadied himself at the door. There are no Clurichauns. I was never in Paris. What was I thinking?

“What happened to you?” Randy asked as he returned to the table.

He looked down at the wine stain, his only souvenir. “It’s... ah... it’s a long story,” he answered. There are no Clurichauns? Rubbish!

“I’ll bet it is,” Randy scoffed as he held up his hands. “I’d best wash off a little surf and turf myself. Down the hall and to the left?”

“No, to the right, and watch the door. It sticks.” He sat back and marveled. To think that it had all started with a pee in Corvallis? No, it had been too weird, only a dream. What was with the goat? he thought as he sipped the wine and savored the first taste.

My God! It’s the 1898 Mouton Rothchild. Nibs, you rascal. At that moment he heard a woman laugh and as he turned towards the window he saw a statuesque woman walk by. She turned and for a brief moment gave him a knowing smile. Her companion, quite short, had the most amazing red hair.

[Author’s note] Mr. Nibs’ description of the sewer system is from Les Misérables V, 2, i.

To Challenge 424...