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Melchior Á La Carte

A Collection of Short Stories by Ib Melchior

Ib Melchior

Contents

COCKTAILS

A Foreword by Brian Garfield

APPETIZER

Author’s Aperitif

ENTREES

The Soul of Balafa Malia

Nicole

Fraulein Hannelore

A Christmas To Remember

Incident on an Iraqui Road.

The Winner and New —

The Racer

The Story of a Loaf

Sleeper Agent

Leif The Lucky

Here's Sport Indeed’

Parable Without Purpose

The Vidiot

The Case of the Gestapo Dog

DESSERTS

The Short Short Story

RECIPES

The Inspirations and Origins of the Stories

CORDIAL

About the Author

To Marilee and Al Zdenek.

and to my wife, Cleo,

who urged me to put this

collection together —

Now see what you've done!

Foreword

Ib Melchior's collection of short stories is as varied and engrossing, as intriguing and surprising as the home he shares with his wife, the designer Cleo Baldon.

Ib is a collector. His home is a veritable display case for exquisite collections of memorabilia. They are built into dioramas with antique Military Miniatures depicting historic events, set into a full wall of mirrors, they straddle rafters, hang from ceilings and walls; they adorn shelves and tables. There is no clutter. Everything is neat, organized, a splendid exhibition of some of the fascinations of two fascinating lives. The collections serve to illustrate statements, to intrigue visitors, to exhibit history, and give a glimpse into the Melchior story mind.

This present volume of stories enhances those collections. In his Inspirations at the back of the book, Ib discusses the real-life experiences that inspired him to write the stories collected here. Most of the experiences are his own, a few were related to him. As he reveals them, some of these sources provoke as much satisfaction as the stories do. But it's a different sort of satisfaction — a peek behind the scenes into the writer's mind. The experiences themselves might have occurred in the life of anyone, or at least anyone who managed to lead a life as spectacular is Ib's, but it has taken a story teller's imagination to make tales of them.

Ib is a story teller of the old school — a beginning, middle, and end, and often the stunning last line, which comes as a total surprise. The tales of this volume were composed over six decades, but none of them is dated. These are stories from a fresh viewpoint, giving us new angles of view, and any of them could have been written yesterday, or tomorrow.

The story The Vidiot, written in the 1950s gives us Ib's firsthand behind-the-lines view of live television production — he directed such shows himself — but it also presages by a half century a device that was only being developed in 2005-2006 the cloaking of light rays by curving waves past an object, as if it weren't, there, like water flowing around a stone in a stream. Such cloaking devices have not yet been perfected at the time of this book's publication, so one would be hard put to dispute Ib's prescience Indeed, he may be best known as author and director of science fiction movies and television series. But his imagination in no way is limited to that or any other category. As the reader will find out, only a couple of the tales borders on SF or fantasy.

Both Nicole and Fraulein Hannelore, for example, explore the awakening (sometime romantic disillusionment) of young people in the wreckage of postwar Europe, a milieu all too familiar to the author, who served there during and after World War II as an American Counter Intelligence officer. Sleeper Agent is fact-based fiction that follows the track of Ib's intelligence investigations from Europe back to America.

Leif the Lucky gives us adventure and history in a saga of the Viking exploration of North America — a history in which Ib is steeped and in which his ancestors participated (A current mammoth Melchior project is a history-biography of The Real Hamlet, the legendary Prince Amieth, whose exploits were chronicled in ca. 1190 centuries before Shakespeare) — in fact, many of Ib's friends call him the Viking, some are quite convinced he's the incarnation of a Norse Hero. He certainly looks the part.

In Here's Sport Indeed, Ib distills his own experience in decrypting secret writings, along with the mountains of historical research, into a short and wonderfully clever demolition of all the who wrote Shakespeare arguments, and shows by the way that Shakespeare was no mean cryptographer. (My own opinion is that Shakespeare didn't write Shakespeare. It was some other guy name Shakespeare.)

In both The Racer, even though it was written decades ago and later filmed as Death Race 2000, and in The Winner and New —, we see all-too-current trends carried stunningly to their not unlikely catastrophic conclusions.

Incident on an Iraqi Road is an ingeniously plotted up-to-the-minute story of people in peril, while The Story of a Loaf takes us back to the flavor and charm on one of Ib's idols, Hans Christian Andersen. A Christmas to Remember is virtually the only story in the collection that could properly be called a fantasy, although it takes place in a very contemporary New Jersey; while The Case of the Gestapo Dog is clever and dramatic with the true-to-life feel of an extraordinary story that actually happened. And finally, the baker's half dozen short-short stories show that the craftsman's skills are undiminished in abbreviation.

In short, Melchior a la Carte is a fine entre for new fans, and a fine reminder for returning ones. It serves up the many flavors of Melchior in a wonderful and marvelous way.

Brian Garfield.

Award-winning author, Brian Garfield, past president of both The Western Writers of America and the Mystery Writers of America, has published numerous short stories and over 60 books, of which about 20 have been produced as motion pictures. More than 20 million copies of his books have been published worldwide. His latest novel and a movie based on another of his books were released in 2007.

Authors Aperitif

Melchior Á La Carte is meant to be a literary Epicurean's smorgasbord where you may select from this collection of fiction short stories whatever at the moment makes your mind water.

Fiction writing is, of course, a fraud. Only a small portion of what is written by those of us who are fiction writers is actually fiction. Primarily a fiction writer is a sponge, soaking up surroundings, experiences and impressions and wringing them out over a computer keyboard, or if old-fashioned enough, a typewriter.

We are bombarded daily by events and concepts reported and discussed in our reading material and our dealings with others that provide us with a wealth of story ideas. We are observers. At every gathering we attend, there will be at least one person whose behavior, whose personality or whose actions are memorable in some way. Later, we conjure up those traits and those mannerisms we have observed and endow our fictitious characters with them The closer those characters are to reality, the truer and more convincing they will be. The more interesting.

Every once in a while during our lifetime we are taught an unforgettable lesson which greatly influences us and shapes both our personal lives and how we deal with problems confronting us, both in reality, and in the case of an author in his creative work, so when he frees the people who live in his computer, he will be able to help them solve their dilemmas.

I believe, that when we think back, every one of us will recall a happening, however insignificant in the scheme of things which touched us in a special way, and became part of what we are. And for an author that will permeate his work. When he is creating a problem, setting up a difficult situation for one of his characters, he will make use of those lessons.

When I was a boy, attending boarding school in Denmark, where I was born and educated, I had a teacher named Mr. Faring, who taught me a lesson I have never forgotten.

It was a custom in school to hold weekly tests to gage the progress of the students. We would sit in our classroom, and on the desk before us would be a sheet of paper, face down; it contained a series of questions for us to answer. These were not true-or-false, but questions that required answers with detailed information, so it was necessary to apply oneself to the task.

At one such test Mr. Faring had just given the signal to turn the papers over and begin the test, when he strode to the back of the classroom. We began the test, but suddenly, from the rear of the room, our teacher let out a lusty cock's crow. Startled, the entire class turned to look at him. And there he was, hopping around, flapping his arms and alternating crowing and clucking.

Spellbound we watched him Soon he turned from a cackling, scratching hen into a quacking, waddling duck; then a braying donkey, an oinking pig and a whinnying horse. A whole parade of barnyard animals was trotted out before us Only a few of us had any time to concern ourselves with the test at hand.

Suddenly Mr. Faring stopped his antics, he looked at his watch and said: Time's up!

Unceremoniously he collected the mostly empty test papers, and as he stood in front of the class with the sheaf of papers in his hand, he announced. "You will, of course, be graded on these papers Lesson for today: when you have something important to do, let nothing distract you!"

It is a lesson I have never forgotten. I left Denmark as a young man and came to this country, knowing that in order adequately to function in my new home, I had to master its language. I remembered Mr. Faring's admonition and concentrated on my goal. I feel that my erstwhile English teacher would have approved of the fact that I have had seventeen novels and non-fiction books published, all written in English.

Perhaps the lesson that most formed my own way of life was a short story which I read as a boy in school as part of my language studies, in this case Swedish, one of the several languages we learned in school.

The story was about a little Laplander boy named Svante. He is on his way home, driving a one-horse sleigh loaded with a large, heavy cask which is empty. Through the winter woods goes the ride, over fine, white snow, when Svante suddenly finds himself pursued by a pack of wolves Urging his horse to its greatest speed, Svante tries to outrun the pack, but it soon becomes apparent that the wolves are gaining on him steadily. What to do? Svante has two choices. He can try to outrun the wolves — or he can stay and fight them. In either case he will lose. It is an either — or situation with no solution.

But, as the title of the little story says. There is Always a Third Way Out

Svante cuts loose the horse, who without having to pull the heavy sleigh can easily outrun the pursuing wolves and reach home. Svante stays behind, up-ends the heavy cask and crawls under it, unreachable to the wolves. And when the horse arrives home alone, a search party is sent out to rescue Svante.

The lesson I learned from this story is, that when you are confronted with an either-or situation, where both possibilities are unacceptable — look for that Third Way Out. In my life and in my work I have done so since Svante taught me. During my years as a director, in television, directing The Perry Como Show and later in Hollywood, directing feature motion pictures, the third way out often saved me from falling flat on my face.

Before that, I spent nearly four years as a US Counter Intelligence Agent, during World War II, two of them in Europe. I was often confronted with having to look for that third way out It was always there. That third way is important, but nowhere is it more important to find it, than in writing short fiction, where space is of the essence.

A fiction story in order to be effective must first of all be believable. To make his story believable the writer must be thoroughly familiar with his subject matter, the background in which the story is set, as well as with the characters he creates.

Authors and writers are forever being asked, Where do you get your ideas? What made you write that story? What inspired you?

In one instance, in my case, it was an obscure little news item I saw in a London Newspaper.

Thirty-six years after the Second World War fresh mystery has arisen over the fate of Eva Braun, Hitler's mistress and wife for one night. According to an eminent American scientist the body the Russians identified as that of Fraulein Braun was probably someone else.

The Times, London, July 3,1981

The questions immediately present themselves: Who was it that killed herself in the bunker? What happened to Eva? Fictional answers mixed with facts resulted, not in a short story, but in a full length novel. Eva, who made it to the best seller lists both here and abroad.

So what does inspire a story to be written? Where does the idea come from? I shall endeavor to answer these questions in an addendum hereto, The Story Inspirations, as they pertain to the short stories in this collection.

When my son was a little boy I used to tell him stories. He would listen raptly, and when the story was finished, he'd say;

Again!

So — Again! It is.

But — being a non-conformist, I shall start the collection with a short story not published before...

The Soul

of Balafa Malia

Her name was Balafa Malia, she had seventeen years of age in two days and she was big with child.

It was her second. The first one, a boy, had not lived. He had tried to enter the world the wrong way. He had failed. His cries had stopped even before the mkunga — midwife — had cut the cord that joined her son to her and spoken the traditional words, "You are now responsible for your life, as I am for mine . ."

Lopapite, her husband of two years, had not wanted to lose another son. He had heard that in the big city of Nairobi there were men who had wisdom greater than that of the village miozi and knew the ways of a woman bearing a child. Such a man was called a daktari. And his decision had been that Balafa Malia must go to the big city and see such a daktari to make certain that their next son would enter the world in the right way.

He had made the decision the day after he had seen the elephant lying dead in the bush, it tusks torn out. It was the work of the majangili — the poachers. He knew the story the elders told. When the tembo dies, the others in the herd will first try to revive him and get him back up on his legs. But when they are convinced that he is dead they will cover him with leaves and branches and walk away from him. After three months, when the flesh is gone, they will return to retrieve the tusks. They will break them into many small pieces and scatter them abroad. That is why you never see a dead elephant with its tusks. No one knows why this is done, but it is wakf — it is sacred. But the tusks of the elephant Lopapite had seen had not been removed in the tembo way, but by evil men, and he considered it a nuksi — a bad omen — that he should have seen such a sight at a time his son was about to enter the world.

He had walked with his wife from the enkang — the village — slowly and in silence to the road where the big noisy mabasi went by, spewing their foul smelling fumes into the air and raising large clouds of dust, and together they had waited in the sun for such a basi to arrive.

When it did, Lopapite had stood in the middle of the road and held up his spear, and the basi had stopped for him. Gravely he had bargained with the driver to take his wife to the big city. It had been much money, and there had not been enough for him to go with her, not if she had to have money to give to the daktari she would find there, and who would make certain that her son this time would leave her womb safely.

Lopapite had stood watching the basi drive away with his wife and his unborn son, he was certain it would be a son his wife would bear him. Had not the last one been? And he kept on watching as long as he could see the white dust raised by the basi as it drove away into the far distance.

Balafa Malia sat straight and silent as the basi bumped its way toward the big city. She had never been there. She had never been very far away from the enkang, and she was filled with fears. She tried to keep it from her face. She did not know if she succeeded. Wrapped in a piece of red cloth hidden in her garment was a slip of paper. It had on it the name and address of a man, a daktari, who would make everything go right. And money. As many shillings as were left even after Lopapite had paid the basi fare. She would give it to the daktari, keeping only enough to get back home. It was all they had, but Lopapite had not wanted to borrow any money. Debt, he'd said, is a bad enemy.

In her mind she worried the advice given her by her friend, Sangare, who once had been to the city and had much knowledge. It was said that a travelled person knew a great deal. It was true. Sangare had had much to tell. In Nairobi, she had said, all taboos are broken. It filled Balafa Malia with apprehension. And she had not been able to understand Sangare's description of the city, there were so many things not to be seen in her mind's eye. But, she thought, trying to calm her fears, when she did get to the city herself, she would know. Sangare had described it all with so much care. The huge buildings made of stone, the many, many mabasi and cars, and the many, many people. Some of them were called white, Sangare had told her, but they were really the color of a newborn calf's belly. Some of them called themselves tu-rists, and most of them wore strange drab Clothing without much color. That was strange, Balafa Malia thought, but they must prefer it that way or they would not do it. Did not the elders say that you cannot make an ostrich hate its feathers? Long ago, in the year called nineteen-hundred-and-sixty-three, the chief of chiefs, as Sangare had called him, Kenyatta, a kikuyu, had given the tribes and the people of Kenya independence. She was not quite sure what that meant, but she knew it was something to be desired. And ever since — for almost ten years now-more and more of the tu-rists had come to the land and had driven through the savannah and through the bush in their little mabasi She, herself, had seen such a tru-rists basi. Once. But it had been far, far away. She had not been able to see anyone. Sangare, who had seen the tu-rists in Nairobi, had told her about them. About the women who had much hair, sometimes the color of dead grass piled high on their heads like a kichuguu — like a termite mound. She had giggled, but Sangare