THE PENTAMERON; or, THE FIVE DAYS OF FIFTY STORIES, AS TOLD BY A GROUP OF FRIENDS ESCAPING THE COVID PANDEMIC
DAY TWO
by Mariah Ashe
THE PENTAMERON; or, THE FIVE DAYS OF FIFTY STORIES, AS TOLD BY A GROUP OF FRIENDS ESCAPING THE COVID PANDEMIC is a reworking of the 15th Century work “Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles.” First translated into English in 1899 by Robert Douglas, this collection is now, for the first time, elevated to the level of Boccaccio’s Decameron and the Heptameron of Marguerite de Navarre with a frame story fitting for it.
Story the Sixth
Often, a man says things for which he is sorry afterwards, and so it was with the man who I am to tell you about.
This man, whom we may call by his college nickname of Pickles, had both home and business in the town of Edmonds, and he enjoyed a wide circle of friends, whom he frequently entertained. At one such get-together, late into an evening that had banished both sleep and sobriety, Pickles got to telling of that nickname by which he used to be known, and as part of the stories that naturally resulted, he started telling of a friend from his time in college, a man who now lived in the town of Kingston, directly across the Sound.
“I tell you,” Pickles said, “there is no man more virile, insatiable, and well-endowed than my old friend Hammer. To him, performing four, five, or six times in one night cost no more effort than taking off his hat. Really, the man was a wonder, and I do not doubt that he remains the same today.”
All those present listened to this account of Hammer’s prowess, and many comments were made before the course of the evening directed conversation elsewhere. It so happened, however, that Pickles’ wife was eavesdropping on the party, and not being herself in the room, she was not sweep along with the change in topic, instead thinking deeply upon this Hammer—it need not be said what she thought of what she heard.
Well, not many days later, Pickle’s wife devised some cunning excuse for why she needed to make a trip to Kingston. To us, it is not important what particular form the woman put her misdirection into, but what we need note is that the husband found himself doubting her, though he could not see why. Thus, he merely smiled at her words, and he was all the more alarmed by the smile that he saw on her face as a result.
That evening, however, as the man thought more on the matter, its math was suddenly done in his head, now leaving him a simple and obvious proof that could neither be forgotten nor confounded. His wife, he realized, must have overheard his words on the prowess of his old friend, the only man whom he had ever known to best himself in that regard. Never before, considering his skills as a lover, had he been so much as concerned at his wife glancing another’s way, but now, by way of his own words of praise on a worthy, she was, it seemed, intent on testing that worth, interested whether it would prove so much as her husband had admitted.
One can guess at the amount of sleep that Pickles got that night, but as he lay in bed, hour after hour, his desperation, which felt all the deeper due to himself being its cause, forced from him a plan. By morning’s light, therefore, he knew what to do in order to stop the machinations of his wife, and he started early, finding excuse to leave the house when she was hardly up from bed.
Now, she, of course, was planning to make the trip on one of the day’s ferries, so he, concerned at any time being seen, decided to drive, going south all the way to Tacoma then north again, after crossing the Narrows Bridge, all the way to Kingston, from which, straight across the Sound, could be seen Edmonds. Obviously, his trip required much more time than hers, but as it happened, he ended up with more of it than he needed; for she, not realizing his suspicion, was in no hurry to make a particular ferry, and she spent some time shopping downtown before heading down to the dock.
“Hammer,” Pickles gasped upon finding his old friend.
“There is a name that I have not heard in quite some time,” the man in question laughed. “I will say, though, that I do not mind hearing it. What brings you over to this side of the Sound?
“Dear friend, let me admit to you that, a few days ago, I had a few friends over. You well know how these types of nights go, and in the course of it, I got to telling of my time back in college, when I was known as Pickles and, in my way, reigned on campus. Mainly, of course, I told all the same stories that I have always told, back since just after they happened.
“Now, it came about that I spoke so much of me that I mentioned you, and I told how we were the greatest of allies in friendship while the greatest of rivals in passion, our skills being so evenly matched and our successes being so evenly numbered. It was demanded of me that I explain the meaning behind your nickname, and I freely admit that, any feeling of competitiveness being long departed from me, I praised you more, perhaps, than even your praiseworthiness deserves.
“Well, as I later learned, my wife was eavesdropping on this reminiscing of mine, thusly hearing what had only been meant for friends. You should know that my love talents were a large reason for her settling for me, and I never—you believe me, I am sure—would have spoken a single word on another’s prowess, had I known her to be present. That is all in the past, though; for just yesterday, she invented a reason to take the ferry over here today, and it was all I could do to beat her to you.
“I am not sure how long we have before she arrives here herself, intent on trying whether my words were true. I have thought much on the matter, and what you must do, I believe, is play along with her and agree to whatever she proposes; for if not, she will know that I have got to you. Then, whatever rendezvous is made, I will take your place, and my plan is to perform so poorly that she altogether forsakes the idea of there being one better than me. This, I think, is best.”
Hammer listened patiently to his old friend’s plight, and sympathy could be seen on his face. Then, before replying, he spent several moments in deep thought.
“Dear friend,” he eventually said, “what you plan is best, considering the bad situation. There is, however, one issue that I must take with your scheme, and it is this: I cannot consent to your poor performance in my name. You see, if you deceive your wife as you say, she, being so disappointed, is bound to tell others about this paper champ of a sheet master. I have, as you say, a reputation that I very much like—as do you—and it must be upheld in order to not fall flat. It is a reputation that has cost me much time and effort, and I consider it to be one of my most returning of investments, considering what it brings me. You must, therefore, if taking my place, still perform as if me.”
“Very well,” Pickles agreed. “I understand your concern, and I will do as you say. My wife, so far as I see it, may have her illusion of a passionate night with Hammer, so long as it is actually Pickles. In any event, do not think to deceive me and enjoy your own position; for I have come to you in the full spirit of our former camaraderie.”
“Pickles, this is Hammer you speak to. You have no need to worry on that account.”
Soon after, Pickles departed, ready to return whenever he should see his wife come and go, and not long after, she did so, arriving and enticing Hammer within the same minute. It is in our interest to pass over these particulars, and we need not hear of how the pair came to schedule a rendezvous for that very evening, only that it happened, he selecting the place while she determined the time.
“The arrangement is made,” Hammer said to Pickles upon the wife’s departure. “She is to meet me tonight, and we have a perfect understanding as to what will happen. Things are, therefore, prepared for your intervention, and be sure to not poorly use my name.”
To keep our story short, let us now jump forward to some days later, to a time when Pickles and his wife happen to be sitting alone in their living room. They have, of course, not discussed any of that fateful day, and neither does, therefore, yet know what the other thinks of it, she still believing he knows nothing while he still believing she enjoyed that which she desired. It is not important what minor issue set off the argument, and all we need do, therefore, is note that, in the course of some disagreement, Pickles brought to light what he thought the truth to be.
“So,” his wife said, “you tricked me. There is, however, one thing that you got wrong in your summation of my events, and it is this: I found Hammer, as you portrayed him, to be quite the opposite as advertised, and my night with him—the one you took part in—was for me a disappointment, not a triumph. Indeed, I am surprised to find out that it could have been you, considering how poorly that encounter went.”
Well, considering the promise that he made his friend, Pickles was more upset by these words than his wife anticipated, and it was not long before he demanded of her whether she had told any of her friends about her bad experience.
“Of course,” she answered, “only a few, though. I tell them about everything, especially when it is something as interesting as a man’s far-famed prowess being tested and found false. I thought Hammer to hardly be nail, so, naturally, I told of it.”
Pickles did not bother asking any more; for he knew that the news, bad as false as it was, was now out. Indeed, though it took some time, word eventually reached Hammer about this new rumor of his poor performance. The man investigated, of course, and when he realized the source of the incorrect information, his friendship with Pickles was greatly damaged, though to what extent, we must guess for ourselves.
Daisy: Here, then, is a true tragedy in the area of love, the wife being denied both her curiosity and the cognizance of the fact and the husband, meanwhile, being robbed both his belief and his friend.
Phil: The friend was the real loser in the whole thing.
Chase: He was the only innocent actor. One can say that much, I think.
Neil: The most innocent, perhaps, since he knew about the plan and consented to it. It is hard to blame a man for trying to help a friend, though.
Pierce: I would call both he and the husband innocent.
Daisy: I would put forward that the wife’s curiosity was only natural, considering what she had heard.
Chase: I agree with that. One cannot blame her at all.
Neil: Do we, then, have a bad ending with no one to blame?
Pierce: Well, from the sound of it, the husband’s poor performance, when everything was on the line, might be to blame.
Daisy: Very true.
Phil: He could have been not eavesdropped on, too.
Neil: Very true.
Chase: Well, since we have found our impasse, how about I tell our next story? My first was not well received, but I came with a second, after all, and this, I think, will be agreed on as representing the greatest of misfortunes in love.
Daisy: We shall see.
Phil: Let us hear it, Chase.
