Friday, January the 7th, 2005

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When I Was Interrogated

I don't remember much about my interrogation, but under the new Freedom of Information Act I managed to get hold of a cassette tape. For the best part of half an hour it's a mishmash of hisses, squeaks, mufflement and what sounds like a water vole gnawing on a wet twig. One part of my interrogation has survived, however, and I have taken the trouble to transcribe it for you, so you may study it with care.

Q—When was the last time you stood in the middle of a suspension bridge in a high wind, emptying your lungs and belting out the Uruguayan national anthem at the top of your voice?

A—Last Thursday.

Q—Were you accompanied on piccolo by Von Straubenzee and on cor anglais by Tack?

A—I was.

Q—Are you aware that Tack is wanted by the police of four continents for doing weird things with the pips of citrus fruits?

A—I am not.

Q—Or that Von Straubenzee is not Von Straubenzee's real name?

A—I was not aware of that.

Q—Do not be curt.

A—I am not being curt.

Q—We shall be the judges of your curtness. What is that noise in your pocket?

A—That is my water vole gnawing a wet twig it eked from the riverbank just before I was placed under arrest.

Q—Did Constable Fang tell you you could bring a water vole to the top secret interrogation centre?

A—He didn't say one way or the other.

Q—That will be all. We will call you back after several ukases have been issued.

I kept a close eye on the papers for the next few days, waiting for the ukases to be issued, but they never were, nor was I ever dragged back to the top secret interrogation centre. Tack vanished without trace, but a month or so later I ran into Von Straubenzee outside the Palace of Churns. I asked him if it was true that his real name was not Von Straubenzee.

“Van,” he said, “Van”.

He was of a delicate constitution, so I didn't press him further. Many years later, his sister told me that it was very important to him that his surname and his blood group were “in alignment”, as she put it. He was a great piccolo player, and so was his sister. But my singing voice is not what it was, and I no longer sing. I just stand on the windswept suspension bridge and remember, with a lump in my throat, and another water vole in my pocket, gnawing on another wet twig.