together they plotted its recovery, with the salvage operation they mounted a week later on a dark and moonless night being carried out in great secrecy - after first dispossessing the sleeping octopus. The reason for their caution was the diving master's sighting on its discovery of a small plate attached to the instrument's front panel, the inscription on which was perfectly legible.
"Not to be removed", it declared in elegantly engraved lettering, "from the Officer's Wardroom of HMS Trepan".
As a result, the first thing the pair did after stowing it in the school's lockup shed and returning the hired crane, transport gear and marine salvage equipment, was to remove the plate which so clearly identified the instrument's origins. Neither was keen on exposing himself to any salvage-rights issues vis-a-vis items lost from a Royal Navy man-o'-war, no matter how long ago, certainly given the possibility that the Golden Thread of British Law might even now extend to as far as them, both in distance and time.
That done and disguised, the pair revealed their prize to the country's sole pandemonium expert, the person who once a year had so reliably tuned and fumigated their old cedar and mahogany-clad instrument. There followed a brief period of unfeigned astonishment, following which the fellow began examining its workings.
Generally speaking, he said on reappearing a little while later, it was in remarkably good condition, due mainly to the fact that the whole thing - cabinet, keyboard, frame, di-epicyclic hammer action mechanism and rotating dampers - had all been fabricated from virgin brass, much like one he'd read about somewhere, reported as being thrown overboard in an act of desperation by a British man-o'-war's crew during colonial times. A good clean up and polish, he added brightly, a new set of strings, feathers and felts, the reciprocating toggle-cam's timing elements recalibrated and the thing would be as good as new.
And in due course these matters were attended to, though for my money the tone and timbre of the lower octaves lacked body and mellowness, while the upper registers sounded thin.
Mrs Periwinkle was to stay on at St Cuspidors after all this, a sort of hands-off music teacher. And it was only by virtue of her patient determination and the leg irons she'd attached to the mainframe that led to my becoming known in international circles as one of the most accomplished pandemonium players ever to grace the world stage - certainly until that terrible incident at Carnegie Hall.
It was during the fourth week of my sensational sell-out concert there, I remember, when the volatile operatic prima donna, Miss Helgizee Rhinedraagen, arrived in town to perform the lead role in Mostogrosso's production of Wagner's Ring Cycle. Arrangements had been put in place for her to make a number of promotional appearances as guest artist at my own concert but, on her first night, part way through the second item, she took exception to what she believed was a misplayed note (but which was, in fact, the C sharp 3 string breaking), whereupon she threw, firstly me, then the pandemonium, bodily, into the orchestra pit, after which? But you'll remember all this from the highly sensationalized reports that appeared in the media, of course, so there's no point in my dredging through the whole sordid business again.
Probably the greatest part of this tragedy was the discovery in the pandemonium's wreckage of evidence proving it to be the only one ever made by Antonio Stradivari. The existence of such an instrument is well documented in letters written to his sister, now held in the archival collections of The British Museum. In one he laments the difficulty of obtaining a particular type and quality of Lignum Vitae, the only wood dense enough and strong enough to withstand the terrible stresses posed by the strings being drawn to their proper pitch - this due to the unreliability of shipments from the South American continent.
In another he comments that, "?upon its completion and for the foreseeable future I fully intend to stick at making instruments of more manageable proportions and, to this end, am awaiting a consignment of material in that I might have a go at making a banjo." Whether he did or not is not known, however, as no record of his doing so exists. Nor has a Stradivarius banjo ever come to light.
You will understand, of course, how because of this unfortunate and embarrassing incident I was never to play the pandemonium again - though at first I was reluctant to accept the fact and kept working toward a broadly heralded, triumphal return. I simply believed my career as the world's leading virtuoso pandemon?ist had, during a moment of critical acclaim, suffered a temporary setback. Certainly I was confident of my ultimate return to the world stage.
None of this was meant to be, however, for as time went by it became apparent, even to me, that without any fingers on my right hand my technique was no longer up to that which the more discerning and critical cognoscenti had come to expect.
Around this time, as it happened, because of my well known and highly respected pal?ntological and other qualifications, I was invited to join Sir Cambrian ffellows as principal consultant to his Expedition of Discovery into the Mongolian Hinterland. Following much deliberation I accepted the position, but only after a good deal of anguish and soul-searching was I finally and reluctantly able to accept the bitter truth about my musical career.
There was of course that ugly business of Miss Rhinedraagen claiming I was harassing and victimising her, and that I'd been doing so ever since our brief affair and my subsequent plunge into the woodwind section. And I should just like to state here, how it is well known to many people, including the likes of Sir Cambrian ffellows RSVP, that at the time in question I was in the Gobi Desert collecting dinosaur eggs - so it couldn't have been moi, regardless of what she might say.
And besides, who was she to talk, after setting her bloody rottweiler onto me. That is to say, the way she was carrying on she probably would have had I been there. Which I wasn't. Which information was relayed to me by my solicitor. By letter. The scars on my leg being occasioned by nothing more than an irate, small Mongolian horse. In Mongolia.
Eventually I moved to Central Australia and, to maintain an element of anonymity, shaved my head and grew a luxuriant beard. And here I still live in my own quiet fashion, well away from the sight of those who might think to gain by announcing my discovery to the world.
And I must say, that when I read recently of how the greatly acclaimed Diva, Miss Helgizee Rhinedraagen, had married the Sultan of Flambashistan I breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief.
I was free at last of her mad obsession! Free at last to contact Se?or Dua Vanillamolto at his modest little workshop in the mountain village of San Gelatin, the only person in the world still able to make these most complex of instruments. Until now Miss Rhinedraagen's agents would have been stationed there, watching and waiting for me night and day.
And in my heart I feel certain, that for moi, The Maestro, the Prince of the Pandemissioforte, he will grant the inestimable boon of designing and building the one thing that will again render my life complete.
Yes; a left handed pandemonium.
And in closing, dear friend of my uncle's nephew, let me just say Eau reservoir, as the French do - until we meet again.
Trues Yourly,
Yasdlin Nesnnohaj
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