Now, you sees, moustaches don't grow on trees, the old man said, as I polished his head with the pith of a Valencia Orange. If you come across a specimen, detach it immediately, before it flies away. He flapped his hands like a bird and laughed. You missed a spot, he added, and with a gouty finger indicated the bony protusion on his Crown. I applied the garlic paste with vigour.
He took me to the Square, a pair of binoculars dangling from his truss. Seconds later we spotted our prey, an Austrian gentleman with curlicued whiskers, brown loafers and epaulettes of dandruff.
We cat-crawled quietly behind him, striped stockings protecting both arms to the elbow. The Austrian was preoccupied talking to a girl in soiled white shoes. Gently, said the old man in my ear, gently. I reached out my quaking hand, my fingers sweating minty Vaseline. NOW, shouted the old man a moment too soon, and as I leapt the Austrian turned in alarm, my fingers clawing at his mottled face.
I fell to the gutter heavily. In my right hand was the Austrian's nose. It contained a modicum of hair but no moustache. With that my prey turned and ran, his whiskers flapping with great elan, phut-phuttering noisily until finally he took off and drew up his undercarriage. I attempted to pursue as he hovered above the ground in a sitting position but with a great Whoop he soared 100ft in the air and disappeared over the Palace wall.
We ran bow-legged back to camp, the snout still clutched in my right hand. Damn damn damn, said the old man. He handed me his catheter and in return took the Austrian's nose. But at least we have this, he added. He put it to his mouth and blew forcefully through both nostrils. I heard nothing. The old man licked his lips and tried again. Nothing. He cocked his ear and said, Listen, listen. And then the ground began to shake.
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