Cynical Gentlemen / CYGE

The pragmatists amongst you will be dubious about the notion of luck. You will most likely say that luck is the invention of the failure, the destitute. A successful man never attributes his winnings to luck! He says instead: “I earned them”. And so he did, but as I shall prove right now, he did so luckily. The man in question I shall call P, for like all writers, I must be cautious and keep at a distance the prospect of any ruinous law suits. F was from a fairly wealthy family, wealthy enough to be proud and confident, but not wealthy enough to afford a trace of humility.

The ancients had a concept that luck was contagious. This is difficult to accept for a society that has split nature’s tiniest particle in two and even managed to put it back together again. But all of F’s close associates and school friends – and even his enemies – experienced magnificent success. From what I can gather from the archives, over which I have tirelessly pored in order to bring you this story, every single person that F ever met achieved success beyond their wildest dreams.

It ill-becomes a man to begrudge the success of another. One associate of mine lost the remaining strands of his hair and bedecked his body with a pox for the sake of unwarranted jealousy. However, I must tell you, jealousy is almost acceptable when one considers the great advances made by F. He and his associates were, in the main, utter buffoons. They bred fantastical notions and absurdities in the name of commerce that were completely lacking in logic and doomed to failure. But they never did fail.

As it turned out, the group was slowly dismantled. Or to put it another way, its members drifted apart. Tired now of celebrating together, they bought secluded mansions in elite regions of non-adjacent countries. They swore blind that they would stay in touch, but of course they did not. Some years later, F began to lose his money. Accounts vary as to how this happened but it seems most likely that he turned to the bottle. As loss was a new experience for him, he was ill-equipped to deal with it. Rather than seek a pragmatic solution to his sorrows he berated his young team of staff. To cut costs he ceased to paint the walls of his mansion and prohibited his wife from painting her nails.

Rumour reached his old friends; they were startled to hear of his losses but were only strengthened in the conviction that their successes continued because they worked harder and were more astute. But as time went on they found that their endeavours came to nothing. They lost more and more money in their investments and their savings dwindled. In the newspapers they read about a great increase in the national wealth and this angered them greatly. Slowly they got in touch with one another and formulated a plan of attack. F had been the first of them to falter, and like a virus his disastrous luck was spreading through their network.

“We have to put an end to his malignant influence,” suggested C. The other men agreed. They resolved to meet a week later at the airport that was nearest to F’s dwellings. The only question that remained to be discussed was how they would kill him. It may seem like a minor detail, but each man was resolute that it would not be him; contact with the body would risk further contagion.

Still undecided as to the manner of the murder, they went to the pre-arranged meeting place. They sat in one of those cafés which litter airports these days like so many fruit machines. At a neighbouring table sat a Gentleman in pilot’s uniform. He had adopted a majestic pose, reminiscent of King Arthur, and his hat sat upon his head with a perfection which suggested it had jumped there of its own free will. His jacket was covered with medals and commendations; indeed, he gave the impression that he could happily fly without the need of a plane.

The airport was hot. The air-conditioning had broken and there were only a few ineffectual fans. However, surrounding the Gentleman was the coolness and shade of a Nordic pine forest. He had little choice but to listen in on the squabble that ensued amongst the men. But after a few moments in his company they fell silent, ashamed of their pettiness. And despite their collective lack of moral fibre they each felt a desire to smother his perfectly placed right boot in supplicating kisses.

“Listen here,” he began, at once calming them with those two powerful words, “I am a pilot and will settle your matter as a service to you.”

“How do you propose to do that?” asked M.

The Gentleman looked at the shabby figures around him. An ordinary person would feel no sympathy for such scoundrels, only repulsion. But the Gentleman was in no way ordinary. He looked at the men fondly, with great understanding, as though these meddlers in the well-being of the planet were his own children.

He didn’t speak, but merely gestured. Before long they were all sitting behind him in his plane. Normally a pilot requests permission to depart. On this occasion the men marvelled as the Gentleman taxied his craft between the queue of waiting aeroplanes and flew up into the air. The pilots of those planes merely waved their caps at him and carried on as normal.

Once in the air, M and the rest of the men fell asleep. C, however, stayed awake. During take-off, the men – with the exception of C – had spent the time jabbing at rectangular pieces of technology. C had been looking out of the window, perhaps marvelling at the scenery, reflecting on things. And now, as he chewed on a bread roll, he seemed to be cogitating. However, when finally he spoke, his words were well chosen.

“Why are we flying away from F?” he asked. “Where are we going?” The Gentleman-pilot said nothing. C observed that he wore no headphones or microphone and was not touching the controls; he was staring out of the window admiring the view. Who was flying the plane? The Gentleman, with a charisma-force that could conquer the inanimate, was steering the aircraft by means of pure will-power.

Then C noticed an enormous looping turn which made him feel dizzy. At first he felt reassured that they were going back to the airport, but when he realised that they were both descending and gaining speed he uttered a prayer for the first time since he had been put in a cell as a young man.

There are many ill-doers in the world, as numerous as pebbles on the beach. The Gentleman sought to speed up the exit of a few of them. It was a modest but generous gesture. He hummed a pretty little tune as the plane hurtled towards F’s mansion.