MISTER MYSTERY RESPONDS

The long convalescence that the recovery of the serious wounds that I pretended to have suffered had implied, gave me time to reflect on what my life had been until then. A life of boredom, leisure and vain occupations in which I was the only object of my thoughts. A wasted life. Providence had now put within my reach a means of amending me. And I wasn't going to miss it. I was going to devote my super powers to helping people, especially those who couldn't help themselves. Of course, I should get used to leading a double life. My public figure as a member of the high society with a samurai ancestor should be left out of my benefactor task. For this I needed a disguise with which I could not be recognized. Like a penguin disguise. Or a crow disguise. Or a pelican...! I don't know why I always wanted to have a beak. It seemed to me more elegant than that simple slit we call a mouth. After all, flying beings usually have a beak, and I now had the ability to fly. In addition, ...

It is already incontrovertible evidence: I possess super powers. Now, it is absolutely essential that my peers in Parisian high society do not know about it. The incident during the gala dinner at Mme Cambremer's mansion did not contribute precisely to keeping the secret. The news of my sudden blast-off crossing the mansion’s roof has spread like a wildfire across the Tout-Paris accompanied by all kinds of speculation: an anarchist attack with bomb, a possible heartburn ... Naturally, I kept in mind that by now everyone would consider me dead (no normal human being could have survived such an impact). But how could I pretend to be dead without raising suspicion every time I would go to a salon or a high society dinner? No, I couldn’t have died. The only alternative was to pose as seriously injured. So, equipped with a roll of cotton bandages, I slipped away in a room at the Hôtel-Dieu hospital. Before the perplexity of the other patients, I wrapped myself like a mummy and then got ...

Back in Paris, I resumed the old customs. Apparently, my unexpected participation in the Tour de France under a false name completely confused the spies that were following my steps since I left Karlsbad. The last time I saw them, they followed each other in the hope that someone of them would have found my trail again. If the vision of two spies following each other is already unfortunate, the vision of eight spies following each other makes one think of how pathetic human beings can become. And this reminds me of an incident that is too recent and painful, but that I must record here because, thanks to my pathetic performance, I made a surprising discovery. It happened just a week ago during a gala dinner offered by Madame de Cambremer in honor of the new ambassador of the United States of America in France. We were more than forty people, the crème de la crème of the high society of Paris. Mme de Cambremer had hired Maxim's chef especially for the occasion. Well, at some point, ...

The Swanns and me arrived at Montgeron, near Paris,  just in time for me to sign up for the race. I signed up under a false name because I didn't want to be identified by my acquaintances of Tout-Paris. At the Café Reveil-Matin, in front of the starting line, I was given a bicycle. It was the first time I had seen a bicycle up close. We were about seventy cyclists, some professionals, others (like me) amateurs. When the starter waved the flag, all of them rushed forward, except me. I cued the bike to run, but it didn't move. I thought it was broken. Then I noticed that on both sides there were pedals. Until that moment, I had thought that riding a bicycle wouldn't be very different from riding a horse. But there is no comparison. You don't need to pedal to ride a horse whereas, if you don't pedal when riding a bicycle, you fall with the bike and everything. So I started pedaling. I pedaled and pedaled and pedaled. But you know? It's tiring to pedal. I was about ...

Today I have had the certainty. Today I’ve noticed their stinky breath in my neck. Now I know for certain that spies from all over Europe are stepping on my toes to discover if a normal human being (within what can be considered normal to someone whose great-uncle had been granted the title of Samurai by the very Emperor of France) could become the latest thing in the arms race. I'm afraid that some of them witnessed my sudden takeoff yesterday and now I fear for my life. So I’ve said goodbye to Gilberte and her parents hastily, and I've made the first excuse that crossed my mind. And of all the things to stick in my mouth it had to be my foot! I knew that in those days the newspaper L'Auto-Vélo was sponsoring the first Tour de France cycling stage race. And, I don’t know why, that's exactly what came to my mind. “I must return to Paris because I’ve just won the Tour de France and I have to go pick up the trophy” I said as if stupefied. I know! I know! It was nonsense! ...

Well, guess what. That young scientist whom we met in Karlsbad (I think his name was Ernstein or Einstin or Einstein) was not a nut after all. As he had predicted, the inside of my body is filled with a radiation of unpredictable consequences! Now it is a question of discovering the scope of those consequences without hurting oneself. The most spectacular of all, I discovered by pure chance. I had just climbed the rock and drunk from the spring when suddenly I felt like expelling the solid waste from my body, to put it elegantly. I hid behind a thicket and started making superhuman efforts to achieve my goal. And, suddenly, a blast sounded just below me and, believe it or not, I took off at high speed on an upward trajectory. While desperately trying to pull up my pants, I didn’t stop ascending and ascending … until Karlsbad became a multicolored spot in the middle of a vast green jungle. Little by little, the gravitational force was slowing my ascent until, for a moment, I remained su...

Today a surprising thing happened. It's not like to be proud of it, of course, but the fact is that whereas Jesus Christ could restore sight to the blind, it turns out that I am capable of performing the reverse miracle. But, let us start at the beginning. This morning, Dr. Hoenstrich’s two gorillas of assistants have shown up in my room without an appointment and have required me to accompany them to the doctor's laboratory for a routine checkup. I replicated that this was no way to ask for things, and they immediately got the message and slapped me until I was semi unconscious. Then they dragged me to a subterranean room paradoxically located on the attic. There Dr. Hoenstrich was waiting for me in the company of two high-ranking Austro-Hungarian officers who were caressing each other’s mustache. Dr. Hoenstrich asked me rudely to take off my clothes from the waist up. Bent on inculcating a little of good manners in those brutes, I refused categorically unless I was asked prop...

Today Gilberte has saved a young man from a lynching. He had been prescribed baths in hot mineral water, so he came to Karlsbad. But he didn’t know that there were pools dedicated to that purpose. He was queuing at the Sprudel's pond and, when his turn has arrived, he has undressed in a flash and got into the fountain from which people were waiting to drink. The ladies showed their repulsion by screaming and fainting, while the gentlemen rushed on the trouble maker, who jumped out of the fountain and ran stark naked, chased by a furious crowd. They circled the fountain several times, until nobody knew who the persecuted and the persecutor was. Gilberte took advantage of the confusion to hide the fugitive behind her parasol. And so, the two have moved away from the fuss by walking backwards. The young man has been so grateful that he has insisted on inviting us to lunch. His name is Albert Einstein and he is a recently graduated scientist. During the meal, Gilberte has shown him the...

Last night another piano jumped off the balcony, this time with pianist and everything. Luckily, this time there were no victims to mourn since the pianist had notions of gliding. The hotel detective, who I've been talking to this morning, considers that the detail of the pianist could be a key piece to solve the enigma of suicidal pianos. In fact, he does not think it's suicide. It should be noted that the Grandhotel has introduced recently a new service consisting of including with each suite's grand piano a professional pianist, whose mission is to provide guests with continuous environmental music fit for accompany each specific situation that takes place in the suite. Complaints have already been received from some guests who do not appreciate the zeal with which these pianists fulfill their mission. And it's not outside the realm of possibility that throwing the piano off the balcony would be a way of expressing discontent. This hypothesis, however, couldn’t be co...

Today I skipped the first, the second and the third climbs of the day to go to a synagogue and meet with a rabbi. It has been a very useful interview. Now I know how Moses managed to keep his sandals from getting wet when he crossed the Red Sea. Now I know what God had in mind when he ordered Abraham to sacrifice his only son. (In any case, it was fortunate that Abraham was a man of slow movements.) Now I understand why God became so angry with his servant Job. (If he had not added that little pig bone to the broth...). Now I understand why Jacob chose a stone as a pillow instead of a cushion of feathers. (Well, the truth is that I do not quite understand it, but I know it's understandable.) Now I know why our ancestors had to walk forty years in the desert. (There is nothing so healthy as walking in the desert twelve hours a day for forty years in a row.) Now I understand why God is bothered by apostasy and why men are bothered by God's botheration. Now I understand so many th...

Is it possible that the late M. Latour was right when he defined the quiet spa resort as a nest of spies? Is it possible that Gilberte's father occupies himself with throwing pianos from the balconies? Is it possible that I am the victim of an international conspiracy? But what would the countries present at the Hague Conference win with my poisoning? In any case, they would not have much to lose either. Maybe they need another scapegoat. But they already have Dreyfus. Maybe one is not enough for them. Lately, the world is a little short of scapegoats, and I am a prototypical one. But wait a moment. Dreyfuss is a Jew. And Karlsbad is a resort frequented by Jews from all over Europe. Swann is also a Jew. And, come to think of it, my mother is a Jew too, what makes me a Jew myself! Which reminds me that I have not celebrated the Jewish Easter for many years. I don’t even remember when it was the last time I entered a synagogue. Yahve must not remember me either! Tomorrow I must go wi...

While Gilberte and I were having lunch on the Grandhotel's outdoor terrace, she has told me that yesterday night she had missed the grand piano that used to be in his room. Immediately I have connected the dots, but I have not dared to tell Gilberte that yesterday her piano jumped across the balcony landing on the head of an Austro-Hungarian General. However, I must confess that I myself begin to have doubts about whether the piano jumped on its own initiative or someone pushed it. When Gilberte has gone to the bathroom, one of the guys who follow me everywhere has addressed me. He was a compatriot, a Frenchman named Julien Latour, a spy by profession. He has  confessed to me that M. Swann is also a spy at the service of France and that it was he who threw the piano on the Austro-Hungarian general, but that I mustn’t take it into account. He added that Karlsbad is currently an international nest of spies and that I should be careful because I am in the spotlight of all of them beca...

Today, M. Swann, Gilberte’s father, has suddenly left the queue of the second water intake and has gone “for a walk", which has caused a commotion among the disciplined clients of the spa, who have interpreted this act of free will as a bad omen: a signal that an insurrection is looming or, God forbid, a war. After the second climb of the day, I went to see Gilberte who was queuing in front of the Sprudel geyser and she has pointed out to me that seven or eight individuals follow me everywhere. I wanted to play a joke on her and replied that she was being followed by eighty-six individuals, referring to those who followed her in the queue. But she didn't find it all that funny and she has sent me packing. Willing to check if Gilberte's statement was true, I turned suddenly. Indeed, a lot of people queued behind me. I don’t understand what their purpose may be. I am not a source of healing like hot mineral waters, as far as I know. Maybe I have become, without intending to,...

Due to the fact that our respective spa treatments don’t match, Gilberte and I have barely time to see each other. That's why I’ve invited her to accompany me to one of my continuous rock-climbings. The idea has excited her since it allows her to leave the monotony of the long queues in front of the geysher. First I have instructed her conveniently about the most effective procedure for climbing a rock wall, which is basically to scale. Any other system of displacement, such as creeping, walking, swimming, jumping, crawling ... is useless for perching on top of a rock wall. (Incidentally, this information can also be useful to the reader). However, she has found a novel procedure consisting of putting all her weight on the back of someone who is the one who scales. With this original climbing method, I have reached the top of the rock breathless. It has taken me some time for the pupils of my eyes to stop orbiting and for my brain to coordinate ideas again, time that has been used ...

If the life of a member of the privileged class who does not need to work for a living was already boring in Paris, here in the spa, boredom reaches cosmic proportions. I doubt much that in Neptune or Pluton, (to name two planets with a degree of evolution similar to that of Earth, according to the latest discoveries of the Charenton lunatic asylum’s observatory), people get bored as much as we get bored here. Being subjected to rigid schedules determined by the frequent intake of water, constricts your life to the point that one completely lacks freedom of choice if it is not for things like the underpants that you are going to put on today. And taking into account that it is strictly forbidden to accumulate the water necessary for the intake of the whole day but it is necessary to go to the spring on each of the six daily occasions in which this intake is stipulated, you don’t even have time to relieve yourself. In short, you spend most of your time queuing up at one of the many ther...

Yesterday we arrived at Karslbad M. Swann, Mme Swann, her daughter Gilberte and myself. We stayed in the Grandhotel Pupp, in separate rooms, and the first thing we did was to present ourselves to Dr. Hoenstrich so that he could examine us and prescribe to each one the type of water that suits us best. The Swanns have been prescribed the hot mineral water that flows from the main fountain of the resort, a geyser surrounded by a small circular pond called "der Sprudel", located in the center of the place. On the other hand, I have been prescribed water from a natural spring on top of a rock that has to be climbed. When I protested, the doctor showed me a gun that he keeps in a drawer. It's high season and the spa is overflowing with people. At each fountain there is a lot of patients waiting in line to drink a sip. However, no one queues before the rock at the top of which there is the spring whose water I must drink. I have informed myself surreptitiously and I have learne...

We did not hear from Rasputin until a few years later, when we learned that some Russian nobles had conspired against him, and although they finally managed to kill him, they had to employ the whole repertoire of murder methods, all of them in a single night. And even so, it seems that when they threw him into the cold waters of the Neva River, he was still alive and his death was caused by freezing. Of the "book fallen from the sky", we never knew anything else. Probably it has gone back to where it came from. Anyway, when I am under the open sky, I'm always looking up just in case. My physical constitution is not as robust as that of Papus, and I doubt that I survived the impact of such a voluminous book. And as for the rest of things, M. de Charlus has proposed himself to separate me from the tutelage of my Rosicrucian friends and to instruct me in his own wisdom, much more mundane and whose motto could be summarized in the word “Yippee!”. Although one day I trampled h...

I don't know if you have ever seen yourself in this circumstance, but I assure you that being in the company of three great Rosicrucian masters and not being able to find the way out of a neighborhood makes you feel quite depressed. In the first place, you begin to doubt the wisdom of your companions. In moments like this you are reminded, for example, of the episode in which Papus transformed the members of Mme Verdurin's salon into babies. And then it comes to your mind that right on the floor below Verdurin's home, there was a babies' nursery. And secondly, you start to doubt your own wisdom. (It's not that I have a reputation as a great Rosicrucian master, but in certain Parisian circles I'm considered "a guy not as dumb as he looks".) In short, in moments like this, you pose the great questions of human existence, such as... Well, nothing specific springs to my mind right now, but give me a reasonable time to reflect calmly (say a week), and I...

One day, the trusted men of Papus (or G é rard Encausse in case his wife does not hear us) were called to an urgent meeting at the headquarters of the Rosicrucian Order on the Rue des Chartres. When I arrived I found a painter standing on a staircase, replacing the sign above the door's  lintel. Apparently, the Order had recently changed its name. It was no longer called "The Rosicrucian Order of the Temple" but "The Templar Order of the Rosicrucian." The painter was saying nasty things about the board of directors concerning its compulsive tendency to change the name of the Order. I left the irate man and entered the ancient stone building. There I met the Marquis de Guaita and Josephin P é ladan (who, by means of a sprinkling can, was watering the “ clod ” on his head). After a while, Papus burst into the room in a state of great stress, as we deduced from his attitude of beating his head against the walls. When, as a result of the blows, he collapsed in a fa...

For a newcomer like me, one of the most disturbing phenomena of Parisian high society is the fashion of embalming. That famous expression of Thackeray: "a skeleton in every house", is literally true in the case of the families of "Le Tout-Paris". Only that instead of skeletons, we would talk about "embalmed corpses". If you want to inherit the family’s title of nobility, you have to strictly comply with everything decreed by the deceased in his will. And one of the most frequent testamentary stipulations is: "My heir will ensure that my death is not an impediment for me to continue going weekly to the salon of Mme. X". Which necessarily involves embalming the corpse. (Unless, of course, you have the very poor taste of attending an elegant salon accompanied by a corpse in decomposition.) The ill reputation of arrogance borne by some Parisian aristocrats, who don’t even deign to respond to your greeting when you meet them (you have to pay attention...