The Legend of le Tuff: (8) The depth of his insight, and an entomological observation

"Wilson," le Tuff said to me after a little time (it now being about eleven), "let me show you something you won't soon forget." Needless to say, the prospect thrilled and enthralled me.

At this he methodically removed his paper turban and artfully flung it on a rusty hook, donned an Argyle cardigan over his yellow raincoat, then almost theatrically removed the cardigan, all in a series of moves as though choreographed by Diaghilev himself. It troubles me not at all to concede that le Tuff's intellectual acuity far outshines my own, and that I was, quite frankly, baffled by this brilliant ballet.

"You have no idea what that means, do you Robertson?" he said, no doubt punning on the middle name of one of my uncles.

"None whatever, I'm afraid le Tuff," I confessed with a nervous laugh. He sighed just ever so cacophoniously.

"So I have to show you again. Watch this time, for God's sake, man, or I'll tell the press about ... your little secret!"

I gave a due smile of admiration. Trust le Tuff to plunge into a man's heart and soul with such perspicacity! I watched closely, as closely as one might in a large room frugally lit by a small fluorescent camping lamp painted in psychedelic patterns with flaking acrylic paint.

Again, like a clever magician, Indian fakir or showman of the stage, he adroitly removed his cardigan and then replaced it on his fine, slightly lopsided torso. He lay down again, this time on the Ford Fairlaine seat by the refrigerator.

"Mean nothing to you, eh?" le Tuff said, then he quickly rose up, fell back onto the seat, rose again and walked purposefully if a little unsteadily (his war wound, I suppose) to the window, pulled back the Flinstones curtain, hawked very loudly, and vigorously expectorated as only a man of tremendous thoracic strength might do.

"Crippen!" he called to his loyal manservant and ward, "you left the window closed all day!"

What could the donning of the cardigan mean? Although his eyes never met mine (for he had commenced to groom his toenails, as only a man with extraordinary eyesight would dare to do in such poor light and with such cutlery), he somehow intuited that I did not comprehend.

"Bees," he said.

"Bees, le Tuff?"

"Yes, bees, idiot. That was how I discovered the principle of how bees moderate the temperature of their hives."

"Oh, splendid!" I cried. "That has been such a boon to the apicultural industry. Well done, old bean!"

His inscrutible reply was meant for my edification, I'll be bound.

"What on earth are you talking about, you stupid, boring little man," were his only words, but words to encourage me, I felt certain on that pleasant evening, and so I believe to this very day.

"The bees, le Tuff. And the cardigan. That is fantastically wonderful!"

Le Tuff moved close to me and took both my shoulders in his differently appendaged hands. He drew his rheumy eyes to within an inch or two of mine, and, although we were new friends, whispered softly as though we had been firm pals for many, many years:

"Williams, you are out of your fucking, fucking mind."

To be continued ...