Read Online Mrs Midnight and Other Stories by Reggie Oliver - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Reggie Oliver
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insisted on carrying a bag of mine in spite of the embarrassing fact that she only had one arm. She did not speak, but she smiled hard all the way.
The interior of the St Germain Palace, by contrast with its exterior is neo-Baroque as opposed to neo-Gothic. Ceilings are decorated with plaster scrollwork and dingy but innocuous mythological cloudscapes. On the walls are framed photographs, nearly all of which feature a bald, owlish-looking man in round spectacles. I asked Trude who this was. She seemed surprised to be asked.
‘This is Mike who heads up our I.P.H. world-wide movement.’ (The words ‘of course’ were implied.)
‘Mike who?’
‘Dr Mike Bachman! We hope you will meet with Mike.’
There was something about Trude’s manner which did not invite further conversation. The room she showed me was pleasant enough, with a balcony overlooking the lake and a small bathroom attached. She told me that I was expected for supper in the dining room at six and that a bell would ring five minutes before the hour to summon me there, then she left. It was a relief to be rid of her company. My eyes could not be kept from straying to the stump of her amputated arm which she swung with unembarrassed pride.
My room was plain, and there was nothing in it to indicate the presence of the I.P.H. apart from a book on my bedside table. It was a bright blue shiny paperback with THE DYNAMICS OF SPIRITUAL PROGRESS by Dr Mike Bachman in austere white lettering on the front cover . On the back the now familiar image of Dr Bachman stared directly at me through round spectacles .
Having time on my hands, I thought I had better acquaint myself with the philosophy of the I.P.H., so I opened the blue book. A cursory glance through chapter headings—‘Get to know yourself!’ ‘Obey the Absolutes!’ ‘Work for Community!’ etc.—and some of their contents revealed, apart from an addiction to the exclamatory (always, in my view, an indicator of dullness), a fairly routine recital of the commonplaces to be found in self-help manuals. The very few facts that Dr Mike let fall about himself revealed that he was an American of Swiss ancestry, which, to my prejudiced mind, is an uncongenial combination. When the supper bell roused me from my reading I found myself little better informed about the activities of I.P.H. The only impression I carried with me to the dining room was of a subtle but crushing bias towards uniformity and authoritarianism. On my way I stopped before one of the photographic portraits of Dr Bachman. That owlish countenance which had seemed, at first sight, to be mild and unassuming now began to look a little threatening. The thin lips had a hard, downward curve to them; the nose was the determined beak of a bird of prey, the eyes behind the round spectacles were watchful, almost saurian in their fierce detachment.
In the vast, echoing dining room lit by panoramic picture-window vistas of mountain, I found table thirty-six and was introduced to King Kyril. Apart from the King and myself there were three others at the table: two very large middle-aged German males in suits and a little, emaciated, bright-eyed old woman with iron-grey hair. She wore a grey knitted woollen dress that reminded one of chain mail and some handmade jewellery of beaten copper. It made her look like a barbaric warrior queen, or possibly a superannuated Valkyrie. The two men, whom I later christened Fafner and Fasolt after the Wagnerian giants, appeared to have appointed themselves (or to have been appointed) as guardians to the King. The woman, who claimed to be one of the I.P.H.’s earliest devotees, introduced herself as the Contessa di Bartori.
King Kyril was a tall, imposing man in his early seventies who might have been reckoned handsome if his face had not been so marked by sadness and disappointment. I have learned not to read too much into physiognomy, but this was an exception to the rule. The history of his life was etched onto him
The interior of the St Germain Palace, by contrast with its exterior is neo-Baroque as opposed to neo-Gothic. Ceilings are decorated with plaster scrollwork and dingy but innocuous mythological cloudscapes. On the walls are framed photographs, nearly all of which feature a bald, owlish-looking man in round spectacles. I asked Trude who this was. She seemed surprised to be asked.
‘This is Mike who heads up our I.P.H. world-wide movement.’ (The words ‘of course’ were implied.)
‘Mike who?’
‘Dr Mike Bachman! We hope you will meet with Mike.’
There was something about Trude’s manner which did not invite further conversation. The room she showed me was pleasant enough, with a balcony overlooking the lake and a small bathroom attached. She told me that I was expected for supper in the dining room at six and that a bell would ring five minutes before the hour to summon me there, then she left. It was a relief to be rid of her company. My eyes could not be kept from straying to the stump of her amputated arm which she swung with unembarrassed pride.
My room was plain, and there was nothing in it to indicate the presence of the I.P.H. apart from a book on my bedside table. It was a bright blue shiny paperback with THE DYNAMICS OF SPIRITUAL PROGRESS by Dr Mike Bachman in austere white lettering on the front cover . On the back the now familiar image of Dr Bachman stared directly at me through round spectacles .
Having time on my hands, I thought I had better acquaint myself with the philosophy of the I.P.H., so I opened the blue book. A cursory glance through chapter headings—‘Get to know yourself!’ ‘Obey the Absolutes!’ ‘Work for Community!’ etc.—and some of their contents revealed, apart from an addiction to the exclamatory (always, in my view, an indicator of dullness), a fairly routine recital of the commonplaces to be found in self-help manuals. The very few facts that Dr Mike let fall about himself revealed that he was an American of Swiss ancestry, which, to my prejudiced mind, is an uncongenial combination. When the supper bell roused me from my reading I found myself little better informed about the activities of I.P.H. The only impression I carried with me to the dining room was of a subtle but crushing bias towards uniformity and authoritarianism. On my way I stopped before one of the photographic portraits of Dr Bachman. That owlish countenance which had seemed, at first sight, to be mild and unassuming now began to look a little threatening. The thin lips had a hard, downward curve to them; the nose was the determined beak of a bird of prey, the eyes behind the round spectacles were watchful, almost saurian in their fierce detachment.
In the vast, echoing dining room lit by panoramic picture-window vistas of mountain, I found table thirty-six and was introduced to King Kyril. Apart from the King and myself there were three others at the table: two very large middle-aged German males in suits and a little, emaciated, bright-eyed old woman with iron-grey hair. She wore a grey knitted woollen dress that reminded one of chain mail and some handmade jewellery of beaten copper. It made her look like a barbaric warrior queen, or possibly a superannuated Valkyrie. The two men, whom I later christened Fafner and Fasolt after the Wagnerian giants, appeared to have appointed themselves (or to have been appointed) as guardians to the King. The woman, who claimed to be one of the I.P.H.’s earliest devotees, introduced herself as the Contessa di Bartori.
King Kyril was a tall, imposing man in his early seventies who might have been reckoned handsome if his face had not been so marked by sadness and disappointment. I have learned not to read too much into physiognomy, but this was an exception to the rule. The history of his life was etched onto him
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