The Great Rabbit Revenge Plan (9 page)

‘Because …?'

‘Because our weeds will start growing next door too. Man!' says Fridz. ‘Forget the stupid garden. Look here!'

Oh, right. On the patio there's a wooden trolley just big enough to fit the Flemish Giant box on. And that's what is going to happen.

There's no going back now, thinks Konrad.

Fridz gives a signal, and together they lift the box onto the trolley.

‘Now we need to go out on the road,' says Fridz. ‘You pull. And I'll watch out.'

Konrad pulls. The wheels of the little wooden trolley squeak horribly. But he hardly hears it. What is he like! he's thinking. A fairly large boy pulling a squeaking trolley with a big red box on it. Not to mention the big yellow bow.

Now they're on the road. Did the flowery net curtains of number 27b move? Lena and Lisa! Or Lara and Lana? Not that it matters. Konrad has the extremely unpleasant sensation that he is making a total fool of himself.

‘Watch where you're going!' says Fridz. ‘Head up! Veer right a bit. And get a move on!'

When they arrive at a point where they could be seen from number 17a, Konrad wishes he could disappear into thin air, but luckily no one is looking. In fact, the whole Dransfeld is like a morgue.

After a fairly strenuous half hour, they finally arrive at the supermarket by the junction.

Return to Sender

There is a yellow notice above the entrance to the supermarket indicating that there's a sub-post office here.

That's handy, thinks Konrad. That's not his own opinion though. It's just that the sentence ‘That's handy' is regularly uttered by all the Bantelmanns' neighbours in The Dransfeld when mention is made of the sub-post office in the supermarket. Probably specially for the new Dransfelders. So that they don't have to travel all the way into town to the main post office with their letters and parcels, but instead can do their postal business, very handily, in the supermarket before or after shopping.

But now it's not so handy. On the contrary; it's almost a catastrophe. Because it suddenly dawns on Konrad why The Dransfeld was so quiet this morning that they were able to get out of there completely unnoticed and unchallenged with the squeaky trolley and the ridiculous red Flemish Giant box. It's because the Dransfelders are all shopping.

And there will certainly be someone here whom Konrad Bantelmann from number 17a visited last week in order to complete his list of children. Even one would be enough to destroy him. Because of course the post office will refuse to transport a rabbit, and there will be a huge to-do and to make matters worse, all the Dransfelders will get to hear
about the unspeakable revenge story. Konrad Bantelmann is dispatching allergy-rabbits, they'll all be saying. And what's more, he dispatches them with girls. And then Konrad Bantelmann can go back to using his Dransfeld notebook as an exercise book again. Or at best as a complete list of the Dransfeld children with whom he will never play again, not for a single minute, because they will think him completely mad. They'll end by calling him Bunny Konni. The thought of it!

‘What's wrong?' says Fridz. ‘Legs turned to lead?'

If only that was all! Konrad wishes for a miracle. Please, please, he thinks. And then once more: please. Maybe the automatic doors of the supermarket will have some secret mechanism that makes them refuse to open when someone tries to smuggle in a giant rabbit in a box. For my sake, thinks Konrad.

Animals, after all, are not allowed in the supermarket. And rules like this have to be obeyed. Konrad Bantelmann has always had a fairly relaxed, one might even say friendly, relationship with rules. He doesn't like them much, no one does. But breaking them he likes even less. Never before has Konrad Bantelmann so desperately wished that a rule would be enforced.

‘Go on,' says Fridz.

Whoosh goes the automatic door, and of course it opens. A special miracle just for Konrad Bantelmann was never really on the cards.

Inside the supermarket nothing happens at first. The people go on shopping and the shop assistant at the
vegetable counter goes on arranging tomatoes in boxes. Nobody looks twice at the monster of a red box with the crooked yellow bow.

People are completely insensitive, thinks Konrad. Otherwise, he doesn't think about very much. He even tries to give up thinking altogether. He'd be quite happy to give up breathing and seeing too. But that wouldn't do. He has to be able to see where he is pulling the trolley so that he doesn't bang into the shelves. And you do have to breathe.

There is music playing in the supermarket. It helps people to shop, Dad said once. Music soothes you, and then you're not afraid any more that you might spend too much money. Konrad wishes now that the music would soothe him. But the opposite is the case. This music makes him feel as if he is in one of those TV police dramas that he is not allowed to watch. They always have music, especially when things are getting really dangerous.

‘This way,' says Fridz.

They get through the automatic barrier with some difficulty, then it's on past the vegetable counter and the fruit stand. Just around the corner is the yellow post-office counter with a couple of yellow shelves behind it and a big weighing-scales beside it. They go up to it, and plonk the bright red box on the scales. The pointer bends way over to the left.

‘Well, well,' says someone. ‘I wonder who's going to get such a heavy present.'

This someone is the man behind the post office counter. Konrad knows this, even though he is not looking up, but
is instead looking with great interest at the floor.

‘It's written on it,' says Fridz.

Great, thinks Konrad. This girl has put him in one of the most embarrassing positions that he has ever been in in his whole life. All the same, he has to admire her. What a smart answer! ‘It's written on it.' Just like that. Konrad couldn't even answer if someone asked him his name, or how much two and two is.

‘Well, let's see then,' says the voice of the post office. ‘What a wonderful box! Wouldn't I love to know what's in it!'

The voice is loud. And when he looks up briefly, Konrad sees that two women are breaking off from their work to take a look at the box.

‘I'd bet … I'd bet … gold bars!' says the loud voice of the post office.

Gold
– gold, of all things! A word that everyone finds interesting. Including the people in the supermarket. At least a dozen of them are now crowding round the post office counter and staring. Konrad pretends he needs to tie his shoelace.

‘Or maybe,' says the voice of the post office, ‘precious stones and diamonds.'

Konrad can see nothing but legs as he goes on tying his shoelace. Female legs, male legs, even a few children's legs. He goes on doggedly tying his shoelace.

Above him, pens are being scratched on paper, something is being torn, and there's a hollow knocking sound. ‘Eighteen euro eighty,' says the voice of the post office and
then money jingles on the counter. Could it be that the whole thing is going to go off all right? Konrad, the eternal lace-tier, hardly dares to hope. He gets up very slowly.

Then something goes ‘Wump!' And again: ‘Wumpety-bump!'

At the same time, the bright red box bounces a bit to the right on the scales, making the pointer sway frantically from right to left.

‘Well, well, well!' says the man to whom the voice of the post office belongs. ‘What the hell is in here?'

Fate, take your course, thinks Konrad. That's what Mum always says when she pours drinking chocolate for Peter and everyone is quite sure that it will get knocked over today as usual.

‘Something fragile,' says Fridz. ‘That's written on it too.' She taps her finger on the
Fragile
label.

Brave, thinks Konrad. But probably useless.

How right he is!

‘Tell me,' the post-office man starts carefully, but also rather sternly, ‘is the fragile something in this box also a living something?'

Is Fridz going to deny that a Flemish Giant is a living thing? He wouldn't put it past her. But no, she doesn't.

‘It's a rabbit,' she says loudly. ‘But never fear, Mr Post Director, it'll keep quiet.'

‘I
see,'
says the postman. ‘However, it isn't really a question of whether or not your rabbit will stay quiet. We at the post office are not allowed to transport living animals in boxes. It's not good for the animals, and it's not good for
the post office either. The animals might die of thirst. Or they might smother. Or they might escape and damage the sorting machines.'

‘Oh, really?' says Fridz pretty snippily. ‘You learn something new every day.'

‘You certainly do,' says the post-office man. He gives her back the money and makes a fat slash with a felt pen across the address label on the box.

Konrad has also learnt something new. Something very important, in fact. He has learnt that being right and being proved right are not necessarily all that fantastic. Because he has been proved right: the post office certainly does not dispatch live rabbits. But what good is that to him?

For after Fridz has taken back her money, she looks at him as if it was all his fault. He, the sane Konrad, and not her, the mad Friederike, or the post office man or the very sane post office. She doesn't say, ‘Oh dear, I should have listened to my new friend, to the sane Konrad Bantelmann.' Oh, no. She glowers at him, as if he had brought her, on purpose and out of sheer spite, to such a pretty pass with the post office.

‘Well, get hold of it,' she says venomously. And after they have put the box back on the trolley, she biffs him one so hard that he almost falls over.

If only that was all! A venomous Friederike Konrad might be able to put up with. But as they pull the trolley out of the supermarket, people are crowding around on all sides, customers with their shopping bags, staff in their white shop coats. The supermarket music is playing a particularly cheerful
piece, and they are all gawking, their eyes out on sticks. All Konrad needs now is for them to clap. Applause for the two daftest children in the whole Dransfeld.

Konrad looks intently at the ground again, even though he knows it doesn't help. So, it's happened, he thinks. Sure as eggs is eggs, someone will have recognised him. In the space of a quarter of an hour he will be the laughing stock of The Dransfeld. No one will ever play with him again. Not even if his dad owned seven toy shops.

Whoosh
, goes the automatic door again, luckily, and the two of them are out in the supermarket car park with their squeaky trolley.

Fridz utters a single word – such a dreadful word that Konrad decides immediately to take absolutely no notice of it.

‘I told you so,' he says. Which does not make things better.

‘Yeah, yeah,' says Fridz. And then she repeats the dreadful word.

Too bad, thinks Konrad. He can't let it go. ‘They don't carry living animals.'

‘Oh, stop gloating, Mr Know-it-all.' Fridz kicks the trolley. ‘Pull, would you! I want to go home.'

And so the two of them make their way back to The Dransfeld. It's much the same as it was on the way to the post office. The bright red box with the crooked bow sits on the trolley, the trolley squeaks, Konrad pulls and Fridz goes alongside and watches out. And once again, nothing is said.

But there are also differences. On the way, nothing was
said because Konrad was not feeling comfortable. Nothing is said this time, because Friederike Frenke is cross. And because Konrad Bantelmann is offended; so offended that when they get to number 17a, he hands the trolley over to Fridz, says goodbye, rings the doorbell and runs up the steps past his astonished mother. Whereupon Fridz calls out ‘Pffff!' and then she says something else very quietly and goes on alone.

In his room, Konrad gets his mouse Mattchoo from under the duvet and tells him for a whole quarter of an hour what sort of a terrible person this Fridz is. And in the end, he even tells him what a dreadful word she said.

Mattchoo muggers his disgust.

The Double Forest Snake

What a day! Konrad spends the rest of the morning and the whole afternoon being offended. It's not much fun, but he can't do anything else. Shortly before supper, his mood improves a little.

But then, unfortunately, there's a performance with the drinking chocolate. Peter not only knocks over his mug, but this time, for a change, it falls from a height of about twenty centimetres onto the china plate that holds the cheese and the cold meats, and the gouda and the slices of parma ham are completely soaked. Konrad tries to save the day. Too bad! Because although he does succeed in fishing Peter's cup out of the sea of chocolate, it slips out of his fingers and cracks against the china plate, and the chocolate overflows and quickly spreads itself all over the whole table.

It's the same as usual, only worse. Dad rants, Mum runs into the kitchen, both of them shouting ‘Don't touch anything!' and ‘Stay where you are!' as well as other, considerably uglier things about children who are incapable of drinking their chocolate without flooding whole half-duplexes.

In the end, Konrad counts how many absorbent kitchen towels are used to mop up the contents of a mug of chocolate. Twenty-three. That could be a record. Peter cries all the time, exceptionally loudly. He is still of an age to think that
unusually loud crying is a protection against being scolded. That is, however, a misapprehension. It's just that if you cry loud enough, you don't hear the scolding. It would be much better just to pull a face and to look at the ground with a concerned expression. Dad has demonstrated this a couple of times and Konrad can do it, but unfortunately Peter can't do it yet. His nerves are bad, he said once.

When the chocolate is finally mopped up, they try to dry off the gouda and the slices of parma ham, using yet more kitchen towels. It goes quite well at first, but then lots of little fluffy bits from the paper towels begin to stick to the cheese and the ham and in the effort to scrub the fluffy bits off, the cheese and the ham are so badly damaged that you can't really tell them apart any more. Whereupon Mum finally says that there will be three days of cheese and ham bake, because that way it doesn't really matter much if you can't distinguish the cheese from the ham. And it doesn't matter either if there are still a few bits of paper towel fluff sticking to the food.

That's rough, and not just because of the fluffy bits. Konrad is no fan of cheese and ham bake. It tastes basically quite good, but you can't tell what it is that you're eating. When Konrad prises the cheesy top off, he gets a faceful of steam, and he also gets the idea that Mum could easily have smuggled other things, apart from potatoes, ham and cheese, into the bake – stuff he would not eat if he could see what it was. Mum is quite capable of doing this kind of thing.

But it gets worse because when the table is dry again, Dad says that as a punishment for this record-breaking messing,
he's not going to tell the next instalment of the story of the forest snake and the mysterious crystal.

Ka-boom! Not tell any more of the story? This is really harsh. No story is the most extreme punishment that there is in the Bantelmann house. It only exists for the most unimaginably appalling crimes against the rules of human co-existence, Dad says.

There is one remaining hope, however. Because always in the Bantelmann house, when punishments are handed down, Konrad and Peter are allowed to bring forward so-called mitigating circumstances. These are reasons which so reduce the guilt of the guilty that the punishment is either lessened or indeed completely revoked.

Mitigating circumstances in the matter of knocking over chocolate are many and varied. And they are also tried and tested. Some of them have proved themselves to be good, and some to be bad. This one, for example, is rather bad: ‘The cup was so slippery' or ‘It was so sticky.' It's amazing, really, because the cup often is either slippery or sticky, because someone has put their wet or honey-smeared fingers all over it. But the Bantelmann parents seem to think that one is responsible for the slipperiness or stickiness of one's own fingers, and therefore they do not allow this as a mitigating circumstance.

This, on the other hand, is a very good mitigating circumstance: ‘I am so tired.' This only works, of course, in the evening. And it is very important to yawn all over the spilt chocolate, not to eat any more and to really want to go to bed. If all these factors coalesce, then ‘I am so tired' is in
most cases accepted as a mitigating circumstance. Sometimes the parents don't even scold the chocolate-knocker-over any more, but simply reproach each other for not making sure that their children get enough sleep.

But today it does not look as if one of the old mitigating circumstances will do. The mess was far too record-breaking for that. All the same, Konrad gives it a go. Because firstly, something has to be done about reducing this punishment; secondly, Peter is crying much more loudly and more shrilly than usual; thirdly – well, thirdly, there is something that Konrad really wants to find out today. What it is, he's not entirely sure, but he knows that his best chance of finding it out is if the story of the forest snake is told. And so he produces his mitigating circumstance, one he himself considers the most absurd of all those they have ever tried, but nothing else occurs to him. He says, ‘We couldn't help it because … because …'

‘Because?' says Dad, as Mum takes the cheese carefully into the kitchen.

‘Because we are still so new here.' So there, it's out, the most ridiculous excuse.

‘New?' says Dad. ‘Here? Where here? At the dining table? In the world?'

‘In The Dransfeld,' says Konrad.

‘Oho!' goes Dad, as if he understands. ‘I see. And in The Dransfeld mugs weigh much more than elsewhere. Of course. They have a different specific weight here. How could I have forgotten?'

Of course, Dad doesn't see at all. He is just being ironic.
Being ironic means pretending to accept a ridiculous reason for knocking over chocolate in order to be able later to hand down the worst punishment after all. Then come noises from the kitchen. First comes ‘Clink!' And then ‘Crash!'

‘Huh!' says Mum.

Dad and Konrad run into the kitchen. Not Peter. He has to go on roaring.

Mum has let a plate fall. ‘It's true,' she says. ‘The plate was definitely heavier than usual. I couldn't hold it, and it just fell.' She looks at Dad.

‘Unheard of,' says Dad. ‘We'll have to get a team of scientists to come and investigate this phenomenon. Clearly, my sons are totally innocent.'

At which point Peter stops crying as suddenly as if someone had pulled out a plug.

‘By the way,' says Dad. ‘My first-born son was with his girlfriend again today. So, how did it go? Did you enjoy yourself?'

‘Konrad,' says Mum quickly. ‘Will you please get a new kitchen roll out of the cellar.'

Konrad goes. He goes very quickly and very gladly. But before he is out the door, he sees Mum making frantic signs at Dad.

Two hours later, Konrad and Peter are lying again on either side of Dad in Peter's bed, trying to kick him as little as possible in the stomach.

‘So, I'll continue,' begins Dad, ‘at the point where Franzkarl Findouter and his expedition team are considering the problem of how they can get the mysterious crystal out
of its hiding place in the middle of nowhere and into a research laboratory, so that its mysterious powers can be investigated. Because that's the only place they can do the experiments that will lead to their being awarded the Nobble Prize.'

‘Yes!' says Peter. It all sounds so delightful that he kicks Dad a bit in the stomach.

‘But this plan,' says Dad, ‘is a call to action to Anabasis the forest snake. Because its one task is to guard the crystal against being captured by aliens.'

‘But unfortunately,' says Konrad, ‘it can't do a thing about it.'

‘Excuse me?' say Dad and Peter.

‘It can't do a thing.'

‘And why not?' Why not! Who's telling this story anyway?

‘I don't know,' says Konrad. ‘But anyway, it can think of nothing. Maybe it is wounded somehow.'

‘Or cross,' suggests Peter.

‘Aha,' says Dad. ‘Right. Possibly something very peculiar and unsettling has happened that could have a not insignificant influence on the rest of our story. Hmm. What do you think it is?'

Of course, neither of them has a clue.

‘Well,' says Dad, ‘possibly something has happened that until now nobody has ever observed and of which there is not a single mention in all the scientific books.'

Dad pauses. For a moment, Konrad fears that not even Dad knows what this remarkable incident might be. But he's wrong there.

‘Imagine,' says Dad, ‘that in the night, Anabasis the forest snake has split in two. What do you think of that?'

What could they say? Split? The forest snake? And into what, if you please?

‘Into Ana the forest snake and Basis the forest snake.'

‘Oh,' says Peter.

‘Hmm,' goes Konrad.

‘Granted,' says Dad, ‘this is definitely a bit dodgy. So anyway, it turns out that Anabasis the forest snake has in fact, for unimaginable aeons, consisted of two snakes, which, astonishingly, are both capable of hanging on by their teeth to the other one's tail in such a way that there is a completely harmonious relationship between them. So that we are no longer looking at two but at a single forest snake. Effectively, a couple-snake.'

‘Or a cobble-snake,' says Peter.

‘Or a cobble-snake,' says Dad, although he doesn't find the word entirely suitable.

‘There's no such thing, is there?' says Konrad.

‘Of course there is!' Dad explains it again. ‘And don't forget,' he says, ‘that when they are coupled together, then Ana and Basis don't even know themselves that they are not one but two snakes.'

‘Hmm,' says Konrad. ‘And why would that be?'

‘Well,' says Dad. ‘It's a highly intelligent way to conserve energy. One thinks for two and two work as one.' Dad is dead proud of this explanation.

‘Hmm,' says Konrad again. ‘And which one is in front?'

‘It varies.'

‘But surely Ana must always be in front?'

‘Why?'

‘Because otherwise it would be Basisana.'

‘Basisana!' cries Peter. He likes this name.

‘Well,' says Dad. ‘I'll have to think about that one.' But he'd rather not do that for the moment. ‘What's happening right now,' he says, ‘is this: the forest snake has split in two in the night, but apparently the two individual snakes have not, as is usually the case, re-coupled after a bit of a chat. Instead, they have remained separate. You follow?'

‘Sure,' says Konrad. He has worked out that further technical questions would probably hamper the continuation of the story.

‘Well, then, let's go on,' says Dad. ‘Because the most important thing is coming up. The moment they separate, the two forest snakes start to quarrel about what they should do to prevent the abduction of the crystal.'

‘A quarrel?' says Konrad. Now, this is interesting.

‘Absolutely,' says Dad, ‘and a pretty bad quarrel it is. Quarrels are always bad, but when two people are squabbling who otherwise never squabble and live in perfect harmony, then of course it is much worse.'

‘True!' says Konrad. ‘But why?'

‘Well, in the first place, they are disappointed that they, of all people, are arguing, because they had thought that such a thing could never happen. And secondly … well, secondly, when people who like each other fight, then it hurts a lot.'

‘Ah,' says Konrad. ‘And why is that?'

‘Because they have no code of conflict.'

‘Code of conflict?'

‘Rules of warfare.'

As if there could be such a thing! Rules about fighting.

‘Oh yes,' says Dad. ‘For example, if you have a code of conflict, then you don't just run off and sulk after a fight. Instead, you sit down quietly and you think what you could do to settle the argument.'

‘Even if you are very angry?'

‘Even then,' says Dad.

‘Even if the fight was absolutely not your fault?'

‘Aha!' says Dad. ‘Here we have an excellent example of how a code of conflict works. If you have a code of conflict, then you know that there is never only one person who is to blame for the fight. And if you know that, then you can see past your own nose and – how shall I put it –,' Dad thinks, and then he laughs and says, ‘and offer the hand of friendship and reconciliation. Or something like that.'

For a few seconds, nobody says anything.

Then Peter says something. He says, ‘Forest snake!' But what he means is, Are you ever going to tell us any more of this story?

‘Okay,' says Dad. And then, even though it is nearly a quarter past eight, he tells in great detail about how the two forest snakes Ana and Basis fought about the best way of protecting the crystal against abduction.

It was a bad quarrel. The rather contrary Ana wants to bite all the members of the expedition before dawn with her left poison fang, which contains a sleeping potion that
puts people to sleep for two whole days.

‘Oh dear,' says Konrad.

The more peaceable Basis doesn't see the point of this. He'd rather just do nothing. After all, they have no idea why they are supposed to be guarding this crystal, so why not take this opportunity to find out at last what the whole business is about? Why not let the explorers explore away, and they could keep watch and only intervene when the state of scientific knowledge is showing a marked improvement?

‘Well …' says Konrad.

But this sounds far too sensible for the tempestuous Ana. Their task is to guard the crystal, and that's that. And because this whole thing has made her even more tempestuous than usual, now she suggests biting the explorers with her
right
fang, which contains something much worse – tickle poison.