My memory has never served me very well, but I do remember the time you carved my face beautifully into a pear. We had recently been to visit Michelangelo’s David and were both of the opinion that the bicep vein was superb, but the hair was a little rushed.
It was a surprise to see my face carved into a pear, but then again, it was also strange to be alive. If you can’t be fascinated at waking up every morning, why on earth would you be so bowled over by a marble man? It’s a fair question, although one that my dentist refuses to answer.
I’ll never forget the time he told me that it would be necessary to remove my wisdom teeth. This concerned me. I didn’t like pain and I was suspicious of the fact he reminded me of a Scottish trout farmer. In fact, it often kept me up at night.
As I found myself reclined in his chair I felt that something was amiss. Why was his dentist chair in his garage and why was his horse resting by the fireplace? He seemed to have little regard for hygiene and seemed adamant that Paris was a quaint Scottish village.
I tried to make small talk but he wasn’t the talking type and I couldn’t remember how I had ended up in his chair. Something to do with David. As the clock struck the ninth, he put a mask over my face and counted down from ten.
Next thing I knew I was awake.
“Look in that mirror,” he said, in that proud sort of way that made you want to ignore him yet wonder how a Scottish nationalist had acquired a thick Dutch accent and a lovely pair of clogs.
I went to stand up, but nothing seemed to happen.
“What’s going on here, Desmond? Something doesn’t feel right,” I remarked.
Desmond laughed, as did his horse. Also, a crowd of men in salmon suits were staring in through the garage window. I found this disconcerting.
“What’s going on?” I asked again, concern tainting my dulcet tones.
“Fine. Stay there,” he said.
He brought a mirror over and held it above me.
I had to do a double take, then I gasped.
“Good god.”
He had turned me into a pear. And not just any old pear. I was a really furry pear with a bite taken out of the side. I felt an urge to cry. I felt an urge to return to Florence. I felt an urge to live. I felt an urge to eat a really good tiramisu.
That’s when my Godfather rushed in. He was a fat man with an athletic spirit.
“Put him back now, Frances!” He shouted.
The horse stood up and let out a sigh.
Desmond looked at my Godfather with contempt and spoke directly; “My name isn’t Frances.”
“You can say that again,” said Frances (the horse), who was now trotting on the spot (not unlike Nijinsky).
Soon I was back to normal, but it didn’t feel the same. That’s how I became Ernest Hemingway and I’ll never forget the day I won the Grand National on a salmon called Trotsky.
