Far Far Away (26 page)

“Can I do it later?”

She gave her head a slow shake. “You think I’m going to trust you to decide which one looks best? You’re the guy recently seen in toucan blue.”

“I thought you called it phosphorescent blue,” he said, and she said, “Whatever.”

Whatever?
What, as a reply, can this possibly mean?

Jeremy slipped on the first shirt, which was a restrained shade of blue.

“Okay, that’s a ten,” Ginger declared, and eventually this was the shirt they chose, though she insisted he try on the other two, followed by a reprise of the first.

“Yep, that’s the one,” Ginger said. “That’s the shirt that’s going to turn you into a teenage heartthrob.” She snapped her cinnamon gum and grinned. “What time’s that big black car coming?”

“Seven a.m.”

“Okay, then,” Ginger said. “Don’t let it leave the station without me.”

“Just relax.”

This was what the peppy female employee of the television company had just told Jeremy. “You have three or four minutes before you go on, so just relax.”

Jeremy closed his eyes. He took deep breaths. He did not look relaxed.

I, on the other hand, was less apprehensive than excited. I am embarrassed to admit it, but I was looking very much forward to answering questions about myself.

To this point, everything had gone as planned. The television company’s long black car was waiting for Jeremy at the bookstore well before seven. With very little crowding, Jeremy, his father, Jenny Applegarth, and Ginger were able to sit comfortably in the facing seats in the back. Jeremy was wearing his new blue shirt, and I must say, he looked quite handsome. When Conk Crinklaw happened by the bookstore in his red truck, Jeremy was clearly surprised.

“Just wanted to see you off,” he said to Jeremy, and then, even more surprising, he said, “Hope you do good.” Well, the grammar was poor, but the sentiment was kind. He offered his hand and Jeremy shook it. Then Conk had stood back, looked Jeremy over, and said, “At least they didn’t dress you up as a fairy prince or some damned thing.”

Suddenly, the peppy employee popped her head into the room. “Okay,” she said. “It’s showtime.”

Jeremy was led to a dimly lighted stage with the curtains drawn closed. In the middle of the stage was a small room made of glass panels, though the front panel had been temporarily lowered. This was “the climate-controlled, soundproof booth.” Inside the
booth was a podium composed of clear glass. The woman positioned Jeremy behind the glass podium and instructed him to fold his hands on top of it so “you’ll look calm”—a smile—“even if you aren’t.”

Jeremy did as he was told, and the woman gave him a nice smile. “You’re going to do great, Jeremy,” she said, “and have I mentioned that that shirt is to die for?”

An odd, nervous laugh escaped from Jeremy.

A moment later, overhead lights came bursting down with great intensity, and the curtains were pulled away. We saw nothing but could sense people breathing and murmuring in the darkness until, as if on cue, they fell completely silent.

“Thirty seconds,” a voice within the booth said. “Stage lights.”

The lights on the stage clicked abruptly off.

Jeremy, rigid in the darkness, touched his hand to his temple.

Everything is satisfactory
, I said.
We are perfectly fine
.

“We are totally screwed,” he whispered.

At once, the voice within the booth shushed Jeremy and said, “Mike on, Jeremy! Mike on!” Then the voice said, “Five, four, three, two, one,” and suddenly our booth blazed with light and a different voice, full and mellifluent, said, “Greetings, America! Today on
Uncommon Knowledge from the Common Man
we present the youngest contestant ever to appear on this stage, a boy just fifteen years of age with uncommon knowledge of the lives and tales of the Brothers Grimm. But first”—and now the whole stage was lighted and the voice climbed in register—“here is your host, Mis-ter Mi-lo Cast-le!”

Milo Castle strode into the light as applause burst from the audience, which was also now illuminated. Hundreds of beaming faces smiled up at us from the packed auditorium, and—what
was this?—in the foremost row of chairs, Conk Crinklaw and his friends sat whistling and raucously carrying on! This was a pleasant surprise, for, otherwise, there were few representatives of the town. Ginger, Mr. Johnson, and Jenny Applegarth were there, of course, beaming with pride, and a few rows behind them sat Elbow Adkins, Sten Blix, and Mayor Crinklaw. There was one other pleasant surprise. Seated together toward the rear of the audience were Maddy and Marjory, whose presence, once discovered, would bring them certain punishment from their parents, yet here they were, smiling and clapping for Jeremy.

“Well, Jeremy Johnson Johnson,” Milo Castle said, waving an arm toward the audience, “looks like you have quite a fan base.”

Jeremy gave a stiff nod of the head. “It’s kind of a surprise,” he said softly.

“Speak right up, Jeremy,” Milo Castle said. “We’re all friends here.”

“It was supposed to be a secret,” Jeremy said, a little more forcefully.

“Tell your father that!” Mayor Crinklaw called from the audience, and clamorous laughter followed. But, if you will, a sad observation: If it was not a secret—and clearly it was not—then it was remarkable how much of the town had chosen to stay away, not that Milo Castle would want to say so.

He had some rectangular cards in his hands, and after looking at one, he said, “So, Jeremy, I understand you own a business called the Two-Book Bookstore. Does that mean you only sell two books?”

Jeremy nodded. “Actually, it’s kind of only one book, but it comes in two volumes. It’s my grandfather’s autobiography.”

“And what other businesses do you have there in that little
town of yours? Do you have the Two-Tire Tire Shop and the Two-Flower Flower Stand?”

These remarks were greeted with mild laughter from the audience, and Jeremy said, “No, sir.”

“Well, how’s business at the Two-Book Bookstore, Jeremy?”

“Not that great. That’s the reason I wanted to be on your show, so I could pay off a loan that’s due.”

Milo Castle nodded. “And it says here that you live in the back of the bookstore with your father. Does he help you with the store, too?”

“No, he works in a restaurant.”

Jeremy said this with such evident pride that Milo Castle asked a question without looking at his card. “Does your father run the restaurant?”

“Oh. No. He just does whatever Elbow Adkins asks him to do, like busing tables and stuff.”

This would have been an even more awkward moment, but Elbow himself yelled from the audience, “And he only does that so he can flirt with a particular waitress!”—which, while not an especially witty remark, distracted everyone from the pathos of Jeremy’s answer.

“Okay, Jeremy,” Milo Castle said. “Enough visiting. Let’s get down to business. You know how the game is played. In our studio in Boston, we have collected three internationally renowned experts on the Grimm Brothers and their tales”—here a vast screen to one side of the stage revealed two women and a man sitting in a book-lined study—“and they will be the final judges as to the correctness of your answers. Their green light means you’ve answered correctly and may go on; their red light means
your answer is incorrect and the game is over. With each new question, the amount of your earnings doubles, and the questions get more difficult as we go. After the fourth question, you will have the choice to retire with your winnings or risk your earnings and go on. Answer seven straight questions correctly, and you will take home over
one hundred thousand dollars
! So, Jeremy, are you ready to play?”

Jeremy nodded. I will be truthful: he seemed frightened almost beyond speech.

I said,
Listen, if you will. Can you hear me, Jeremy?

Again he nodded.

Milo Castle said rather theatrically, “Then we’ll seal off your climate-controlled, soundproof booth and … start the game!”

A window in front of us slid up and sealed the booth closed.

“Can you hear me now, Jeremy?” Milo Castle asked.

In a voice that seemed barely to get out, Jeremy said, “Yes.”

“Just speak up, then, Jeremy, and here we go.” With a flourish, he said, “Your first question, for one thousand dollars: In several of the tales collected by Wilhelm and Jacob Grimm, a kiss casts off an enchantment. But in what tale is a frog thrown against a wall, finding himself immediately thereafter restored to a prince?”

I was answering the question even before it was completed, so that Jeremy, almost without a second’s thought, could answer, “ ‘The Frog King,’ or ‘Iron Heinrich.’ ”

The panel of experts nodded, a large green light illuminated brightly, and Milo Castle said, “That is correct! Now, question two, for two thousand dollars: What was the original title of Grimm’s fairy tales, and for what audience was it intended?”

“Kinder und Hausmärchen,”
Jeremy said. “And it was meant for other scholars rather than children.”

“Kinder and what?” Milo Castle said, looking toward the screen where the panel of experts could be viewed. I was not surprised when they nodded and the green light again brightened. One of the experts said, “
Kinder und Hausmärchen
is the German for
Children’s and Household Tales
. So that is correct.”

“Well done!” Milo Castle said, which, I will admit it, I found pleasing, indeed.

And so the questions continued until, after our fourth correct answer, Jeremy was asked whether he would like to retire with his eight thousand dollars or continue.

People were shouting from the audience. Though we could not hear them, we knew from having watched the show that they were shouting for us to go on. Well, that is how it is. The audience always does this—I cannot tell you why.

Still, I had to agree. Jeremy had not yet earned enough money to pay Mayor Crinklaw and retire the loan.

Let us answer one more
, I said.

“One more question,” Jeremy said.

Milo Castle nodded and smiled. “Okay, Jeremy … for sixteen thousand dollars, tell us what important change in Rapunzel’s circumstances occurred in the first edition of the tales but was deleted in subsequent editions?”

Ach!
I could have laughed! It was too easy!

Jeremy touched his fingers to his temples, I answered the question, and he said, “The fact that Rapunzel had become pregnant.”

The experts smiled and nodded, the green light shone, and
Milo Castle said, “I guess those visits by the prince to the tower weren’t exactly G-rated!” This was some sort of joke, and though we could not hear the audience, we could see that they were laughing. After this, in a low, serious voice, Milo Castle said, “So, Jeremy, retire and keep your sixteen thousand dollars or risk your winnings and go on?”

Jeremy hesitated, but I reminded him that we did not yet have the sum needed to satisfy his debt.
One more
, I said.
It will not be difficult
.

“Go on,” Jeremy said, and we could see people in the audience, including Jeremy’s father, clapping and nodding.

“Okay, I ask you, fifteen-year-old Jeremy Johnson Johnson of the little town of Never Better, for thirty-two thousand dollars … which of the Grimm Brothers illustrated a number of the stories for the later editions of the
Household Tales
?”

Simple—laughably simple. And I was happy to have a light beamed upon my younger brother.

“Ludwig Emil Grimm,” Jeremy said.

The green light, the satisfying refrain of “That is correct,” the exuberant if unheard applause from the audience, and then Milo Castle said, “While Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm were far more famous, their younger brother, Ludwig, was a noted artist in his own right.”

Milo Castle rather dramatically took a long, deep breath. He looked at the audience and then at our glass booth. “Well, Jeremy, you have gone where no other fifteen-year-old contestant has ever gone before. Now, do you rest on your laurels or do you go on? Remember that the questions grow increasingly difficult.”

Yes, it was true that the amount of money already earned was
enough to take care of Jeremy’s immediate needs, but an additional sum would no doubt prove useful as well. Also, it must be said, this was all quite stimulating.

Let us answer one more
, I said. I really was enjoying myself.

Jeremy hesitated, so I said,
This will go toward your education, Jeremy
.

“We’ll go on,” Jeremy said, a decision animatedly received by the audience.

“Okay, Jeremy, for
sixty-four thousand dollars
 … a friend and collaborator of the Grimm Brothers wrote, ‘I’ve already heard one mother complaining that a story about a child who slaughters another child is in your collection.’ Your three-part question is: One, who was this correspondent? Two, about which story does he refer? And three, in what way did the Grimm Brothers respond?”

The first two answers were not difficult—I supplied them at once.

“Achim von Arnim was the letter writer,” Jeremy said, “and he was referring to a very short tale called ‘How Children Played Butcher with Each Other.’ ”