The Prince
Next, I was scheduled to play against the Prince in the Equator Ping-Pong championships. I’d already made it to the third round, having beaten my two previous opponents with ease. To make sure, I rechecked the bulletin board. There it was – printed neatly on the roster with a black marker: Prince of Lichtenstein. I’d watched him play a few times and was sure I could beat him. We wouldn’t be on for another hour, so I passed the time shooting some clay pigeons, watching the other players slog it out, and squeezing in a practice game to warm up for the showdown.
It was really by chance that we ended up on the first class of the ocean liner taking us from Genoa to Durban, South Africa. At the time, back in the early seventies, there were many Italians immigrating to Australia. The tourist class was overcrowded with émigrés in search of a new and better life. After our stop in Brindisi where we picked up even more, Captain Sangulin himself approached my mother and asked whether we would mind moving up from tourist class to first class, thus making our cabin available for an immigrant family. Of course she obliged and from one moment to the next we were shifted into a world of luxury.
I was fourteen at the time and took it all in stride, not thinking too much why we were chosen over some Italian family. There were far fewer people in first class and soon we got to know them all, at least in passing. Apart from the Prince there were other illustrious personages, though who they all were and what they accomplished has, for the most part, slipped my mind (or had never registered in the first place). I do, however, remember the burly man with the scraggy terracotta moustache who’d gained fame by catching the biggest shark in the world. He showed me a photo of himself standing next to this enormous, lethal looking specimen, hoisted up beside him with a small crane. Then there was a reigning chess champion, hoping to compete in the upcoming world competition. There was also a small contingent of artists, writers and musicians on board, and I wonder, in retrospect, who they were. The common thread between them all was money. However, the man who showed me his serial number tattooed into his forearm – an awful memento from one of the concentration camps in Germany – did leave an indelible impression. I was curiously awed, and in the days that followed I often saw the pale, blue numbers peeking out from under his sleeve, or fully exposed while sunbathing in one of the deck chairs. What he must have seen and suffered?
It was time for the match. People were already gathering around the ping-pong table under the green canopy of the game deck, next to the swimming pool. The ship’s umpire was at the ready, dressed all in sparkling white. Anticipation was in the air. But the Prince was a no-show. I volunteered to get him – maybe he’d forgotten. Together with my friend Fred, who was returning to Tasmania, we sought out his cabin. It wasn’t really a cabin like the rest of us had. It was more of a penthouse – the best on board. We’d never been to this part of the Galileo-Galilei before. It was well secluded from all the other cabins.
We stood in front of the door, intimidated and nervous. Overcoming my fear I knocked. There was no immediate answer, and thinking that maybe he hadn’t heard me, I knocked again. We waited another minute before the door was opened by his much younger wife. I had the distinct feeling we were intruding. Politely I reminded her that the Prince was scheduled to play a ping-pong match with me – now! Frowning she asked us to wait. I took the opportunity to peek into the lavish cabin – spacious with large windows and a glass door that led out onto a private deck. My curious eyes couldn’t get enough of this royal world. She returned and gave a perfunctory apology, explaining that he was “feeling poorly.” As she spoke he appeared behind her like a tall, white-haired apparition. I thought he wanted to say something, but she firmly slid the door shut. I was convinced he really did want to play, but that she’d decided against it.
My next opponent thrashed me good and solid. Though putout by the loss, I felt slightly redeemed that he made it through to the finals and became the reigning ping-pong champion. No one could beat him.
A few nights later at dinner, the Prince of Lichtenstein came over to our table and addressed my mother. “You have very nice children, and I am very grateful to your son for advising us which hotel we should choose in Durban,” and he pointed to me, looking at me warmly. “I had it confirmed by the purser. I was especially grateful for the detailed description. It will do perfectly for us. Thank you, “and he retreated back to his table, which was adjacent to ours.
“Not fair,” my brother George retorted softly, but vehemently, once he’d left. “I was the one who told him. It’s not fair that Eric gets all the credit.” True, I didn’t know a thing about good hotels (Durban or anywhere), but I knew better: it was the Prince’s way of expressing regret for not having played ping-pong with me.
Eric G. Müller was born in Durban, South Africa, and studied literature and history at the University of Witwatersrand, Johannesburg. After a few years working at a variety of jobs, playing and performing music, and traveling around Europe, he attended Emerson College in Sussex, England and the Waldorf Institute in Witten-Annen, Germany, where he specialized in music education. Together with his family he moved to Eugene, Oregon, where he taught for eight years. Currently he is living in upstate New York, teaching music, drama, English literature and creative writing. His novel Rites of Rock (Adonis 2005) is a fast-moving and riveting saga that examines the phenomenon of rock music. In Coffee on the Piano for You Müller presents old and new poetry written mostly while traveling or drinking coffee. His second novel, Meet Me at the Met will appear in the summer of 2010 (Plain View Press). Articles, short stories and poetry have appeared in various journals and magazines. www.ericgmuller.com.
