The air was full of that miserable fine rain that seems to go underneath a shield regardless of how it is held above the head. It was still an early dark winter’s morning as Sir Fynwy walked from the inn he had stayed at in Frankfurt to the hauptbahnhof to catch the first of the steel horses to Stuttgart. The main steel horse stable in Frankfurt, in common with many other German cities it seems, is very close to the red light district, but this was early.
As he negotiated his way through the detritus of the previous night, he didn’t notice the girl half-hidden in the doorway puffing on a smoking tube until she grabbed his arm. Her German was fast, animated, and way beyond Sir Fynwy’s understanding. He racked his brain for the right words as a simple “nein” was clearly not going to work this time.
Now Sir Fynwy travels a lot in his Quests – often to countries where English is not generally understood (like the American colonies). He does his best to get by and, to be fair, he speaks a good menu in most European languages. For a while he was even having one-to-one German lessons from Elfriede, who was a very patient instructor. She had helped him advance his knowledge of the Teutonic tongue beyond the menu and into the wine list as well.
At last he had it. “Nein danke. Heute, habe ich schon sex gehabt”. The girl let go of his arm and laughed. Sir Fynwy was filled with a warm glow. This was probably the first time in his life he had spoken a grammatically correct German sentence with all the words in the right order. He couldn’t wait to tell Elfriede.
It was not always Sir Fynwy who found using the correct grammar sometimes challenging. Later that year he was on a Quest in Barcelona. He had taken his Spanish patron out to dine to celebrate the conclusion of the Quest. One of his entourage, a maiden in her early 20s, had quite a smoking habit. As soon as they had finished the starter, she lit a smoking tube as they waited for the main dish to arrive. Sir Fynwy hates smoking, especially in taverns, and asked politely if she would mind waiting. “Oh, sorry”, she said stubbing it out just as Sir Fynwy raised his glass to his lips, “but I always enjoy inter-course smoking”. It took some time for Sir Fynwy to regain the use of his lungs.
At least Sir Fynwy was trying to embrace the language during his travels by then. A few years earlier, working on a Quest in Florence, he had asked for the services of a translator at the outset. His patron, The Duke of Sesto Fiorentino, detailed his secretary to provide that service for Sir Fynwy and his fellow knight. She proved to be both very helpful and very friendly and Sir Fynwy could see what an asset she must have been to the Duke.
In those days the streets around the Palazzo Ricasoli, at least late at night, were often the haunt of street walkers. Sir Fynwy and his colleague were well aware of this as they made their way back along Lungarno Corsini towards the inn where they would spend the night. As they crossed the square they noticed two girls exit a tavern about 200 yards away. Both were dressed in the classic street walker garb of fishnets, short skirts and low cut tops a size too small (one yellow, one red). The girl with the yellow top noticed Sir Fynwy and his colleague watching them. She nudged her partner and they started to walk towards the men. “Let’s wait here and see what they say”, said Sir Fynwy’s colleague.
The girls were about 50 yards away when red top stopped suddenly and grabbed her friend’s arm. It was too late. Sir Fynwy had recognized the Duke’s secretary and she had recognized him. What to do next? Sir Fynwy raised his arm and waved, in what he hoped would be interpreted as a general, friendly, non-judgmental and certainly non-purchasing manner. The Duke’s secretary had no choice but to carry on walking until she reached the men.
The subsequent conversation was interesting. It was very clear that yellow top spoke no English and had no idea that Sir Fynwy and his colleague should be considered as off-limits. She slipped her arm into Sir Fynwy’s colleague’s arm and smiled coquettishly.
Sir Fynwy racked his brains again for the right thing to say, “Um, glorious evening isn’t it?” The Duke’s secretary paused, looking quite worried, “Um, yes, it is. Um, where are you going”? “Just back to the inn, um, over there”. Sir Fynwy pointed at the inn about 300 yards away. The Duke’s secretary looked puzzled, clearly trying to work something out. Suddenly she smiled, having concluded that Sir Fynwy was, in fact, a valid target client for the evening. “I’ll take you to your inn, my carriage is over there”. Sir Fynwy turned to his colleague and found he had vanished – so had yellow top.
Sir Fynwy and the Duke’s secretary started to walk towards her carriage, which turned out to be twice as far away as the inn and in the opposite direction. Sir Fynwy knew he couldn’t let this go any farther. “Look, this is very kind of you, but I have to start very early in the morning and I know you’ll have trouble parking your carriage close to the inn. I really must let you go”. She started to protest that it was no trouble at all and she enjoyed speaking English with Sir Fynwy, and that she was looking forward to practicing her oral skills further that evening. In good old tabloid tradition, Sir Fynwy made his excuses and left.
Unfortunately the Duke’s secretary contracted an unknown ailment later that evening and was not at court the next day. Indeed, she didn’t return to the Duke’s court for some days, in fact until Sir Fynwy and his colleague had left.
Sir Fynwy sent her a get well card. He thought it was the least he could do. She really had been very friendly.
