Victor Határ
The Magic of Money
or
The Treasure of the Celts
Short story
[...]
A strange visitor paid him a call, a young sixfooter, a gentle Irish giant, correspondent of the Transatlantic Bi-Monthly of Denver, Colorado. Drank like a fish and his kneecap seemed to fill half of the room.
"Look, Willie, old fellow, the question is not whether you toe the line or not. We don't appeal to your conscience. America …"
"What has America got to do with my conscience, Mr ... Mr What-shall-I-call-you?" (He didn't know that in the States everybody who is anybody uses first names.)
"Robin O'Hara" - the young giant said informally, "call me Rob". "Glad to meet you," interrupted old Willie coolly. (Nice of him not to call me old cock). O'Hara continued: "My paper is published in Denver, but my ranch is in Oklahoma. I know a nice stretch of woods for sale. Frisco … a few hours away, no distance at all, I have it all here, it only needs your signature. Everything will be at your disposal, from the airport on. Look Big Daddy, don't be such a booby. We have an Indian story about a Cherokee chieftain who kicked his luck in the belly. It's America knocking on your door, the Opportunity of a Lifetime and the Land of. I don't like this dirty work, but there are some whom you have to knock on the head make them unload. You are naive enough to believe about America … you must know, that America …"
Even so, old Willie didn't want Denver, nor Oklahoma, America neither as the Land of the Opportunity of a Lifetime, nor as Depository of the Anglo-Saxon Race's Future, nor as a Museum of the Old Country. Did not want the $3,000,000 on offer, himself relocated, family and all, not a care in the world. The Federal Museum in Frisco would own the treasure of the Celts; in the glass cases inscribed on tasteful little plastic plates: The Buckler of Cuchulainn the Great (From the Collection of Mr William Whimster). He still wanted the treasure of the Celts - in Pounds Sterling.
"You are crazy enough to be locked up, Big Daddy. Not only shortsighted and naive, but also stubborn and as dumb as a jackass". (Sleight of hand with his lighter: endless somersaults; hypnotic smile on gleaming wire-rims). "A jackass is what you are, Big Daddy, can't you get it into your noodle, that America is Big. That you may find in America some desperate freebooters, who for a few grand would easily surround and shoot up your measly bungalow. Before you even had an idea of what's happening, the treasure of the Celts would be on our motorcruiser and you may whistle after its wake. Confound it, Big Daddy, I have a mind to show you, just so, for a bet. Make them lay siege and when it's already ours, we won't take it after all. Leave it for you. Only to show you. This is no threat I'd carry out in case you won't sign of your own free will. Collect your wits, America wants the best for you, don't play the fool, Willie-Billie, sign it, shall I let your family loose on you?"
Even so, the masterfisher pushed away the pen and signed nothing. "I thank you Mr O'Hara, I'm not interested".
[...]
Translated by H. P. Pragai
Victor Határ
is a poet, novelist, playwright, essayist, critic, and broadcaster living in England since 1956.
