The Insane Journey

Chapter 5

 “Yes, yes. You must understand, Maxwell, that here in Cape City, we treasure family values and decency. I guess it’s not the same as in Flanders, but we aren’t ashamed to have values, you see,” said the mayor.

 Yes, thought Maxwell. He could sense Phinny’s hand in this.

 “That raving Reverend Phinny Forge has put you up to this, hasn’t he?” Maxwell demanded.

 “Who? What? Good Lord, no!” lied the Mayor. “We are quite capable of looking after our own morals here.”

 “Wendy!” Maxwell shouted, looking for and spotting his friend in a nearby seat. “Bring me a revolver. This man must be shot. At once!”

 With this hint of serious violence, the audience gasped. Would there be a shooting, they collectively wondered? About half were hoping in favour and half against.

 When Wendy got up and waddled up the to stage, there was another gasp and several guards pulled their guns out of their holsters; but Wendy simply took Maxwell’s hand in her wing and walked him off the stage.

 “This is not worth dying over,” she said to Maxwell as they walked away from the podium. The audience and security guards relaxed. The mayor started babbling again.

 “I think it is,” said Maxwell.

 “What?! You would die because some small-minded human put clothes on your sculpture?”

 “Don’t be silly,” said Maxwell. “It’s certainly not worth my dying. But the mayor’s dying would be very worthwhile. And the...What was it? Fancy Loonies Foundation?”

 “Family Values Association,” corrected Wendy.

 “Whatever. They could readily die. All of them,” said Maxwell. “I would gladly help them to do so.”

 Wendy led Maxwell to the bar.

 “Look, they’ve got Valpolicella. Have a glass – but go easy on it. We’ve got a long drive tomorrow,” she said, pointing to a several bottles and many filled glasses.

 Maxwell smiled. He had led an unstable life that resulted in making and losing many friends in many countries on Mars, Earth and other planets over the years, but somehow, this particular Tuscany wine had always remained a reliable friend and curative for troubled times.

 “Pour me a generous glass, lad,” Maxwell said to the young man behind the bar. “My soul has been savagely bruised today and only red wine will save it.”

 “Yes, sir,” the bartender said. “For what it’s worth, I think it is shit what they’ve done to your sculpture.”

 “You’ve summed it up remarkably well,” said Maxwell, taking the generous glass of Valpolicella and drinking deeply from it.

 “And will you have some wine, madam?” the young man asked Wendy.

 “We penguins don’t drink alcohol, thank you, but some sparkling water would be nice.” Then she said to Maxwell, “remember to take it easy on the wine.”

 Of course, she knew Maxwell better than to expect him actually to heed her advice, but every now and again he surprised her, and she hoped that with some gentle reminders, he would surprise her this evening.

 Meanwhile, the mayor hastily wrapped up the ceremony and the crowd slowly made its way to the open bar.

 The young man behind the bar handed Maxwell the remainder of the bottle of Valpolicella. “I think you could use this, sir,” he said.

 “You will go to Heaven,” said Maxwell. “Thank you.”

 “But you don’t believe in Heaven,” scolded Wendy.

 “It’s just an expression,” said Maxwell. “Don’t get hung up on it.”

 “That was just appalling. I am so sorry it had to happen to you,” said a brunette of about 40 who clearly took her approaching middle age with a disdain that was more than a little sexy. She wore a flowing, low-cut beige dress that showed off her shoulders and revealed just the right amount of cleavage to be interesting, but not enough to be inappropriate.

 But her best feature was her smile, highlighted by a twinkle in her left eye, and gentle crinkling under both. She held a half-full glass of red wine, which Maxwell topped up.

 “Thank you,” said Maxwell. “I’ve never experienced anything like that before. Aesthetically challenged nincompoops seldom commission sculptures – and as a result never mangle unveilings like that.”

 “I think you handled it well. I’m sure I would have strangled that idiot mayor if I were you,” she said.

 “I generally prefer to use weapons to extract revenge. They’re more reliable,” said Maxwell. “Especially when doing in such a big, round person.”

 The two of them chatted for a while. However, people began coming up to Maxwell, each wanting to share a word or seven with him. Some wanted to tell him how appalled they were by the dressing of his sculptures. Others suggested he sculpt other things such as cute animals or people with clothes on. Still others wished to demonstrate their self-presumed moral superiority by agreeing with the clothing, albeit not necessarily the chosen clothes.

 Indeed, one older woman representing a major clothing brand suggested that there might be opportunities for sponsorship in this situation. But when Maxwell accidentally spilled his wine down the front of her elegant dress, she promptly disappeared. He felt badly about the waste of wine, but it was flung in a good cause, he reassured himself.

 Amid the commotion, and much to Maxwell’s disappointment, the brunette somehow disappeared. He had rather enjoyed talking with her, even though he had already not only forgotten her name, but also forgotten whether or not she had actually introduced herself. Nevertheless, he was determined to seek her out later.