Short Stories

[afsane b]

One day, an old professor of the national School of
administration (ENA-France) was asked to give a training-course on
the effective economic planning of one's time to a group of about
fifteen leaders of big companies from North - America.
This course constituted one of 5 workshops of their day of
training. So, the old Prof. only had one hour to spend on this
subject
Standing in front of this group of elite who was ready
to note everything that the expert was going to teach, the old
Prof. looked at them one by one, slowly, then said to them:
"We are going to make an experiment".
From under the table which separated him from his pupils,
the old Prof. took out an immense jar Mason of a gallon
(glass jar of more than 4 liters) which he directly put in
front of him.
Then, he took out about a dozen pebbles roughly as big as
tennis balls and placed them delicately, one by one, in the
big jar. When the jar was filled up to the brim, and when it was
impossible to add anything to it, he raised slowly his eyes
towards the pupils, and asked them:
"Is this jar full?"
Everybody answered: "Yes".
He waited for a few seconds and added: "Really?"
Then, he bent again and took out from under the table a pot
filled with little stones. With accuracy, he poured these little
pebbles on the big stones, then moved softly the jar.
The fragments of little pebbles went between the stones
down to the bottom of the jar. The old Prof. raised his eyes again
towards his audience and asked:
"Is this jar full?".
This time, his brilliant pupils began to understand the whole
process. One of them answered:
"Probably not!"
"Well!" answered the old Prof..
He bent again and this time, took out from under the table a
bucket of sand. With attention, he poured the sand into the jar.
The sand went to fil the spaces between the big big stones and the
little pebbles. Once again, he asked:
"Is this jar full?". This time, without hesitation, and in a
choir, the brilliant pupils answered:
"No!".
"Well!" answered the old Prof. And, as expected by the
brilliant pupils, he took the jug of water which was on the table
and filled the jar up to the brim. Then, the old Prof. raised
his eyes towards his group and asked:
"Which big truth does this experiment show to us?" .
Being no fool, the most audacious of the pupils, thinking
about the topic of this course, answered:
"It shows that even when one believes that our diary is
completely filled, if one wants really wants it, one can add
more meetings to it, more things to be made".
The old Prof. answered. "It is not that".
"The big truth that this experiment shows to us is the following
one:
- "If one does not put the big stones first in the jar, one
will never be able to make all of them go in, then".
There was a profound silence, each becoming aware of the
evidence of these comments.
Then, the old Prof. Told them: "Which are the big stones
in your life?"
"Your health?"
"Your family?"
"Your friends?"
"To make your dreams come true?"
"Learning?"
"To do what you enjoy?"
"To relax?"
"To fight for a cause?"
"To take time for yourself?"
"Or any other thing?"
"What it is necessary to remember is the importance to put
one's BIG STONES in first in one's life, otherwise one encores
the risks not succeed in one's life.
If one gives priority to pecadilloes (the little pebbles, the
sand), one will fill one's life with pecadilloes and one will
have no more enough precious time to dedicate to the important
elements of one's life".
Then do not forget to ask to yourself this question:

"Which are the BIG STONES IN MY LIFE?

Then, put them in, first"

With a friendly gesture of the hand, the old professor

greeted his audience and slowly left the room.

What are the BIG STONES in your life, dear pals?

[afsane b]

Ghazali, the renowned Muslim scholar, was born in Tus, a small village near Mashhad. He lived in the fifth century hijrah. In those days, students wishing to acquire higher knowledge of Islam travelled to Nishapur, which boasted several centres of learning and many teachers of repute. Ghazall, after completing his preliminary education at home, arrived in Nishapur to pursue further studies. He was brilliant and was soon acclaimed by his tutors as the most studious and painstaking student. In order not to forget any finer points of erudition, he formed the habit of noting down all that he heard and learnt from his teachers. And then he meticulously rewrote them under various headings and chapters. He treasured these notes as dearly as his life, or perhaps more. Years later, he decided to return to his village. He tied all his prepared notes into a neat bundle and set forth in the company of a caravan. On the way, they were held up by a gang of highway thieves who robbed each traveller of all his valuables. And then it was Ghazali's turn. They searched him thoroughly, snatching away all that they wanted, and then laid hands on the tied bundle of notes. ©& "Take all that you want, but please do not touch this bundle," Ghazali pleaded. And the waylayers thought that there must be something very precious hidden in the bundle which Ghazali was trying to save. So they untied the bundle and ransacked the pages. What did they find? Nothing but a few written papers. They asked: "What are these? Of what use are they?" "Well, they may be of no use to you, but they are of great use to me," Ghazali answered. "But of what use are they?" the robbers insisted. "These are the fruits of my labour. If you destroy them, I am also ruinously destroyed. All the years of my attainment go down the drain," Ghazali replied. "So whatever you know is in here, isn't it?" one of them said. "Yes," Ghazali replied. "Well, knowledge confined in a few papers, vulnerable to theft, is no knowledge at all. Go and think about it and about yourself" This casual but pungent remark by a commoner shook Ghazali to the core. He realised that he had studied as a parrot, jotted down all that he learned and crammed in into his mind. He found that he knew more, but he thought less. If he wanted to be a true student and a good scholar, he had to assimilate knowledge, think, ponder, deduce and then form his own judgement. He set out seriously to learn the way he should, and became one of the greatest ulema in Islam. But in his advanced age, when he summarised his achievements, he said: "The best counsel and admonition which changed my thinking, came to me from a highway robber."

[afsane b]

During the time of the Prophet of Islam, there was a poor man who was lazy in work. His wife said to him once, "Go to the Prophet and ask him for help." The man went to the Prophet. Before he could say anything, the Prophet said, "Whoever asks us for help, we shall help him, but if he does not ask us for anything and instead goes after work then Allah will help him and make his earning a blessing." The man didn't ask for anything from the Holy Prophet, returned to his house and told the story to his wife. The next day because of poverty and needs again he went to the Prophet. Before he could say anything, the Holy Prophet repeated his previous saying.
The man, again, didn't say anything and left. However, on the third day when he heard the same thing from the Prophet, he went to a friend's house. He borrowed an axe from him and went to the jungle. He worked all night long, chopped some wood, and returned to the city. He sold the wood and with the money bought some food to take home. The next day he worked a little harder. Everyday he would chop more wood than the previous day. Finally, he could provide for his family and save a little money on the side. Little by little, he bought some camels and other necessary things he needed for his job. After a short time he discovered how to earn his living.
One day he went to visit the Prophet and explained his whole story from beginning to end. The Holy Prophet said, "I told you! Whoever asks us for help, we shall help him, but if he doesn't ask for anything and goes after work then Allah will help him and make his earning a blessing."

[zaqaqi]

A blind boy sat on the steps of a building with a hat by his feet. He held up a sign which said: "I am blind, please help." There were only a few coins in the hat.

A man was walking by. He took a few coins from his pocket and dropped them into the hat. He then took the sign, turned it around, and wrote some words. He put the sign back so that everyone who walked by would see the new words.

Soon the hat began to fill up. A lot more people were giving money to the blind boy. That afternoon the man who had changed the sign came to see how things were. The boy recognized his footsteps and asked, "Were u the one who changed my sign this morning? What did u write?"

The man said, "I only wrote the truth. I said what u said but in a different way."
What he had written was: "Today is a beautiful day & I cannot see it."

Do u think the first sign & the second sign were saying the same thing? Of course both signs told people the boy was blind. But the first sign simply said the boy was blind. The second sign told people they were so lucky that they were not blind. Should we be surprised that the second sign was more effective?

Moral of the Story:

Be thankful for what you have.

[zaqaqi]

My Dad used to ask me: "What is the most important part of the body?"


Through the years I would take a guess at what I thought was the correct answer. When I was younger, I thought sound was very important to us as humans, so I said, "My ears, Dad."
Dad said, "No Many people r deaf. But u keep thinking about it & I’ll ask u again soon."
Several years passed before he asked me again. Since making my 1st attempt, I had contemplated the correct answer. So this time I told him, "Dad, it must be our eyes."
Dad looked at me & told me, "U r learning fast, but the answer isn’t correct bcoz there r many people who r blind."


Stumped again, I continued my quest for knowledge. Over the years, Dad asked me the same thing & always his answer was, "No, but u r getting smarter every year."


Then last year, my grandpa died. Everybody was hurt. Even my Dad cried. I remember, Bcoz it was only the 2nd time I saw him cry. My Mom looked at me when it was our turn to say our final good-bye to Grandpa. Dad asked me, "Do you know the most important body part yet, my dear?"


I was shocked when he asked me this now. Dad saw the confusion on my face & told me, "This question is very important. It shows that u have really lived in ur life. For every body part u gave me in the past, I have told u was wrong & I have given u an example why. But today is the day u need to learn this important lesson."


Dad looked down at me, & said, "My dear, the most important body part is ur shoulder."
"It is Bcoz it can hold the head of a loved one when they cry. Everybody needs a shoulder to cry on sometime in life, my dear. I only hope that u have enough love & friends that u will always have a shoulder to cry on when u need it."


Now I knew the shoulders are not a selfish one. It is sympathetic to the pain of others. People will forget what u said... People will forget what u did.... But people will NEVER forget how u made them feel. Be blessed. Be a blessing. Get ur shoulder ready...

[دل تنگم]

by Louis Becke

I once heard a man who for nearly six years had been a martyr to rheumatism say he would give a thousand pounds to have a cure effected.

"I wish, then, that we were in Australia or New Zealand during the shore whaling season," remarked a friend of the writer; "I should feel pretty certain of annexing that thousand pounds." And then he described the whale cure.

The "cure" is not fiction. It is a fact, so the whalemen assert, and there are many people at the township of Eden, Twofold Bay, New South Wales, who, it is vouched, can tell of several cases of chronic rheumatism that have been absolutely perfectly cured by the treatment herewith briefly described. How it came to be discovered I do not know, but it has been known to American whalemen for years.

When a whale is killed and towed ashore (it does not matter whether it is a "right," humpback, finback, or sperm whale) and while the interior of the carcase still retains a little warmth, a hole is out through one side of the body sufficiently large to admit the patient, the lower part of whose body from the feet to the waist should sink in the whale's intestines, leaving the head, of course, outside the aperture. The latter is closed up as closely as possible, otherwise the patient would not be able to breathe through the volume of ammoniacal gases which would escape from every opening left uncovered. It is these gases, which are of an overpowering and atrocious odour, that bring about the cure, so the whalemen say. Sometimes the patient cannot stand this horrible bath for more than an hour, and has to be lifted out in a fainting condition, to undergo a second, third, or perhaps fourth course on that or the following day. Twenty or thirty hours, it is said, will effect a radical cure in the most severe cases, provided there is no malformation or distortion of the joints, and even in such cases the treatment causes very great relief. One man who was put in up to his neck in the carcass of a small "humpback" stood it for sixteen hours, being taken out at two-hour intervals. He went off declaring himself to be cured. ہ year later he had a return of the complaint and underwent the treatment a second time.

All the "shore" whalemen whom the writer has met thoroughly believe in the efficacy of the remedy, and by way of practical proof assert that no man who works at cutting-in and trying out a whale ever suffers from rheumatism. Furthermore, however, some of them maintain that the "deader" the whale is, the better the remedy. "More gas in him," they say. And any one who has been within a mile of a week-dead whale will believe that.

Anyway, if there is any person, rheumatic or otherwise, who wants to emulate Jonah's adventure in a safe manner (with a dead whale), let him write to the Davidson Brothers, Ben Boyd Point, Twofold Bay, N.S.W., or to the Messrs. Christian, Norfolk Island, and I am sure those valorous whalemen would help him to achieve his desire.

[دل تنگم]

by T.S. Arthur

"What troubles you, William?" said Mrs. Aiken, speaking in a tone of kind concern to her husband, who sat silent and moody, with his eyes now fixed upon the floor, and now following the forms of his plainly-clad children as they sported, full of health and spirits, about the room.

It was evening, and Mr. Aiken, a man who earned his bread by the sweat of his brow, had, a little while before, returned from his daily labour.

No answer was made to the wife's question. A few minutes went by, and then she spoke again:

"Is any thing wrong with you, William?"

"Nothing more than usual," was replied. "There's always something wrong. The fact is, I'm out of heart."

"William!"

Mrs. Aiken came and stood beside her husband, and laid her hand gently upon his shoulder.

The evil spirit of envy and discontent was in the poor man's heart,--this his wife understood right well. She had often before seen him in this frame of mind.

"I'm as good as Freeman; am I not?"

"Yes, and a great deal better, I hope," replied Mrs. Aiken.


"And yet he is rolling in wealth, while I, though compelled to toil early and late, can scarcely keep soul and body together."

"Hush, William! Don't talk so. It does you no good. We have a comfortable home, with food and raiment,--let us therewith be contented and thankful."

"Thankful for this mean hut! Thankful for hard labour, poor fare, and coarse clothing!"

"None are so happy as those who labour; none enjoy better health than they who have only the plainest food. Do you ever go hungry to bed, William?"

"No, of course not."

"Do you or your children shiver in the cold of winter for lack of warm clothing?"
"No; but"----

"William! Do not look past your real comforts in envy of the blessings God has given to others. Depend upon it, we receive all of this world's goods the kind Father above sees best for us to have. With more, we might not be so happy as we are."

"I'll take all that risk," said Mr. Aiken. "Give me plenty of money, and I'll find a way to largely increase the bounds of enjoyment."

"The largest amount of happiness, I believe, is ever to be found in that condition wherein God had placed us."

"Then every poor man should willingly remain poor!"

"I did not say that, William: I think every man should seek earnestly to improve his worldly affairs--yet, be contented with his lot at all times; for, only in contentment is there happiness, and this is a blessing the poor may share equally with the rich. Indeed, I believe the poor have this blessing in larger store. You, for instance, are a happier man than Mr. Freeman."

"I'm not so sure of that."

"I am, then. Look at his face. Doesn't that tell the story? Would you exchange with him in every respect?"

"No, not in every respect. I would like to have his money."

"Ah, William! William!" Mrs. Aiken shook her head. "You are giving place in your heart for the entrance of bad spirits. Try to enjoy, fully, what you have, and you will be a far happier man than Mr. Freeman. Your sleep is sound at night."

"I know. A man who labours as hard as I do, can't help sleeping soundly."

"Then labour is a blessing, if for nothing else. I took home, to-day, a couple of aprons made for Mrs. Freeman. She looked pale and troubled, and I asked her if she were not well."

"'Not very,' she replied. 'I've lost so much rest of late, that I'm almost worn out.'

"I did not ask why this was; but, after remaining silent for a few moments, she said--
"'Mr. Freeman has got himself so excited about business, that he sleeps scarcely three hours in the twenty-four. He cares neither for eating nor drinking; and, if I did not watch him, would scarcely appear abroad in decent apparel. Hardly a day passes that something does not go wrong. Workmen fail in their contracts, prices fall below what he expected them to be, and agents prove unfaithful; in fact, a hundred things occur to interfere with his expectations, and to cloud his mind with disappointment. We were far happier when we were poor, Mrs. Aiken. There was a time when we enjoyed this life. Bright days!--how well are they remembered! Mr. Freeman's income was twelve dollars a week; we lived in two rooms, and I did all our own work. I had fewer wants then than I have ever had since, and was far happier than I ever expect to be again on this side of the grave.'"

Just then a cry was heard in the street.

"Hark!" exclaimed Mr. Aiken.

"Fire! Fire! Fire!" The startling sound rose clear and shrill upon the air.

Mr. Aiken sprang to the window and threw it open.

"Mr. Freeman's new building, as I live!"

Mr. Aiken dropped the window, and catching up his hat, hurriedly left the house.

It was an hour ere he returned. Meanwhile the fire raged furiously, and from her window, where she was safe from harm, Mrs. Aiken saw the large new factory, which the rich man had just erected, entirely consumed by the fierce, devouring element. All in vain was it that the intrepid firemen wrought almost miracles of daring, in their efforts to save the building. Story after story were successively wrapped in flames, until, at length, over fifty thousand dollars worth of property lay a heap of black and smouldering ruins.

Wet to the skin, and covered with cinders, was Mr. Aiken when he returned to his humble abode, after having worked manfully, in his unselfish efforts to rescue a portion of his neighbour's property from destruction.

"Poor Freeman! I pity him from my very heart!" was his generous, sympathising exclamation, as soon as he met his wife.

"He is insured, is he not?" inquired Mrs. Aiken.

"Partially. But even a full insurance would be a poor compensation for such a loss. In less than two weeks, this new factory, with all its perfect and beautiful machinery, would have been in operation. The price of goods is now high, and Mr. Freeman would have cleared a handsome sum of money on the first season's product of his mill. It is a terrible disappointment for him. I never saw a man so much disturbed."

"Poor man! His sleep will not be so sound as yours, to-night, William."

"Indeed it will not."

"Nor, rich as he is, will he be as happy as you, to-morrow."

"If I were as rich as he is," said Mr. Aiken, "I would not fret myself to death for this loss. I would, rather, be thankful for the wealth still left in my possession."

Mrs. Aiken shook her head.

"No, William, the same spirit that makes you restless and discontented now, would be with you, no matter how greatly improved might be your external condition. Mr. Freeman was once as poor as you are. Do you think him happier for his riches? Does he enjoy life more? Has wealth brought a greater freedom from care? Has it made his sleep sweeter? Far, very far from it. Riches have but increased the sources of discontent."

"This is not a necessary consequence. If Mr. Freeman turn a blessing into a curse, that is a defect in his particular case."

"And few, in this fallen and evil world, are free from this same defect, William. If wealth were sought for unselfish ends, then it would make its possessor happy. But how few so seek riches! It is here, believe me, that the evil lies."

Mrs. Aiken spoke earnestly, and something of the truth that was in her mind, shed its beams upon the mind of her husband.

"You remember," said she smiling, "the anecdote of the rich man of New York, who asked a person who gave utterance to words of envy towards himself--'Would you,' said he, 'take all the care and anxiety attendant upon the management of my large estates and extensive business operations, merely for your victuals and clothes?' 'No, indeed, I would not,' was the quick answer. 'I get no more,' said the rich man, gravely. And it was the truth, William. They who get rich in this world, pass up through incessant toil and anxiety; and, while they seem to enjoy all the good things of life, in reality enjoy but little. They get only their victuals and clothes. I have worked for many rich ladies, and I do not remember one who appeared to be happier than I am. And I am mistaken if your experience is not very much like my own."

One evening, a few days after this time, Aiken came home from his work. As he entered the room where his wife and children sat, the former looked up to him with a cheerful smile of welcome, and the latter gathered around him, filling his ears with the music of their happy voices. The father drew an arm around one and another, and, as he sat in their midst, his heart swelled in his bosom, and warmed with a glow of happiness.

Soon the evening meal was served--served by the hands of his wife--the good angel of his humble home. William Aiken, as he looked around upon his smiling children, and their true-hearted, even-tempered, cheerful mother, felt that he had many blessings for which he should be thankful.

"I saw something, a little while ago, that I shall not soon forget," said he, when alone with his wife.

"What was that, William?"

"I had occasion to call at the house of Mr. Elder, on some business, as I came home this evening. Mr. Elder is rich, and I have often envied him; but I shall do so no more. I found him in his sitting-room, alone, walking the floor with a troubled look on his face. He glanced at me with an impatient expression as I entered. I mentioned my business, when he said abruptly and rudely--

"'I've no time to think of that now.'

"As I was turning away, a door of the room opened, and Mrs. Elder and two children entered.

"'I wish you would send those children up to the nursery,' he exclaimed, in a fretful half-angry voice. 'I'm in no humour to be troubled with them now.'

"The look cast upon their father by those two innocent little children, as their mother pushed them from the room, I shall not soon forget. I remembered, as I left the house, that there had been a large failure in Market street, and that Mr. Elder was said to be the loser by some ten thousand dollars--less than a twentieth part of what he is worth. I am happier than he is to-night, Mary."

"And happier you may ever be, William," returned his wife, "if you but stoop to the humble flowers that spring up along your pathway, and, like the bee, take the honey they contain. God knows what, in external things, is best for us; and he will make either poverty or riches, whichsoever comes, a blessing, if we are humble, patient and contented."

[محمد88]

The Frog in the Well

.There was a frog that lived in a shallow well

Look how well off I am here ! " he told a big turtle from the Eastern Ocean "
I can hop along the coping of the well when I go out, and rest by a crevice in the bricks on my return "
I can wallow to my heart's content with only my head above water, or stroll ankle deep through soft mud. No crabs
or tadpoles can compare with me. I am master of the water and lord of this
shallow well, What more can a fellow ask ? Why don't you come
" ? here more often to have a good time

Before the turtle from the Eastern Ocean could get his left foot into the well, however, he caught his
. right calw on something. So he halted and stepped back then began to describe the ocean to the frog

It's more than a thousand miles across and more than ten thousand feet deep. In ancient times there"
. were floods nine years out of ten yet the water in the ocean never increased
. And later there were droughts seven years out of eight yet the water in the ocean never grew less
" . It has remained quite constant throughtout the ages. That is why I like to live in the Eastern Ocean

. Then the frog in the shallow well was silent and felt a little abashed
.
.
.

[Antonio Andolini]

one day an ant was crossing in front of a very beautiful painting which was drawing by someone
he says:Jesus, look at that beautiful fingers which are drawing that painting
another ant comes and says: No,look at that strong wrists which is painting .. another one comes and says that look at that arms and hands .. they are painting! ... but the wiser ant comes and says:" look at that guy which is drawing that painting.his mind and brain is telling him/her how to paint.he is the creator!"... but another ant which was wiser comes and says that:no it's not because of his brain .. it's because of his heart that he is creating such a thing
but again another ant comes and says that: yea you are right but above of all of them there is his/her love.. the love has grabbed the lover's heart and the heart tells the brain what to do.
and every beauty correlates to another bigger beauty

Notice:I heard this story from one of the Dr.Hossein Elaheye Ghomshe'ee speeches and as I found it beautiful I decided to share it with you summarily
... and on that speech The Dr wanted to mention every beauty is from God,the source of every beauties

[گاندول]

"You don't have to be French to enjoy a decent red wine," Charles Jousselin de Gruse used to tell his foreign guests whenever he entertained them in Paris. "But you do have to be French to recognize one," he would add with a laugh.

After a lifetime in the French diplomatic corps, the Count de Gruse lived with his wife in an elegant townhouse on Quai Voltaire. He was a likeable man, cultivated of course, with a well deserved reputation as a generous host and an amusing raconteur.

This evening's guests were all European and all equally convinced that immigration was at the root of Europe's problems. Charles de Gruse said nothing. He had always concealed his contempt for such ideas. And, in any case, he had never much cared for these particular guests.

The first of the red Bordeaux was being served with the veal, and one of the guests turned to de Gruse.

"Come on, Charles, it's simple arithmetic. Nothing to do with race or colour. You must've had bags of experience of this sort of thing. What d'you say?"

"Yes, General. Bags!"

Without another word, de Gruse picked up his glass and introduced his bulbous, winey nose. After a moment he looked up with watery eyes.

"A truly full-bodied Bordeaux," he said warmly, "a wine among wines."

The four guests held their glasses to the light and studied their blood-red contents. They all agreed that it was the best wine they had ever tasted.

One by one the little white lights along the Seine were coming on, and from the first-floor windows you could see the brightly lit bateaux-mouches passing through the arches of the Pont du Carrousel. The party moved on to a dish of game served with a more vigorous claret.

"Can you imagine," asked de Gruse, as the claret was poured, "that there are people who actually serve wines they know nothing about?"

"Really?" said one of the guests, a German politician.

"Personally, before I uncork a bottle I like to know what's in it."

"But how? How can anyone be sure?"

"I like to hunt around the vineyards. Take this place I used to visit in Bordeaux. I got to know the winegrower there personally. That's the way to know what you're drinking."

"A matter of pedigree, Charles," said the other politician.

"This fellow," continued de Gruse as though the Dutchman had not spoken, "always gave you the story behind his wines. One of them was the most extraordinary story I ever heard. We were tasting, in his winery, and we came to a cask that made him frown. He asked if I agreed with him that red Bordeaux was the best wine in the world. Of course, I agreed. Then he made the strangest statement.

"'The wine in this cask,' he said, and there were tears in his eyes, 'is the best vintage in the world. But it started its life far from the country where it was grown.'"

De Gruse paused to check that his guests were being served.

"Well?" said the Dutchman.

De Gruse and his wife exchanged glances.

"Do tell them, mon chéri," she said.

De Gruse leaned forwards, took another sip of wine, and dabbed his lips with the corner of his napkin. This is the story he told them.

At the age of twenty-one, Pierre - that was the name he gave the winegrower - had been sent by his father to spend some time with his uncle in Madagascar. Within two weeks he had fallen for a local girl called Faniry, or "Desire" in Malagasy. You could not blame him. At seventeen she was ravishing. In the Malagasy sunlight her skin was golden. Her black, waist-length hair, which hung straight beside her cheeks, framed large, fathomless eyes. It was a genuine coup de foudre, for both of them. Within five months they were married. Faniry had no family, but Pierre's parents came out from France for the wedding, even though they did not strictly approve of it, and for three years the young couple lived very happily on the island of Madagascar. Then, one day, a telegram came from France. Pierre's parents and his only brother had been killed in a car crash. Pierre took the next flight home to attend the funeral and manage the vineyard left by his father.

Faniry followed two weeks later. Pierre was grief-stricken, but with Faniry he settled down to running the vineyard. His family, and the lazy, idyllic days under a tropical sun, were gone forever. But he was very happily married, and he was very well-off. Perhaps, he reasoned, life in Bordeaux would not be so bad.

But he was wrong. It soon became obvious that Faniry was jealous. In Madagascar she had no match. In France she was jealous of everyone. Of the maids. Of the secretary. Even of the peasant girls who picked the grapes and giggled at her funny accent. She convinced herself that Pierre made love to each of them in turn.

She started with insinuations, simple, artless ones that Pierre hardly even recognized. Then she tried blunt accusation in the privacy of their bedroom. When he denied that, she resorted to violent, humiliating denouncements in the kitchens, the winery, the plantations. The angel that Pierre had married in Madagascar had become a termagant, blinded by jealousy. Nothing he did or said could help. Often, she would refuse to speak for a week or more, and when at last she spoke it would only be to scream yet more abuse or swear again her intention to leave him. By the third vine-harvest it was obvious to everyone that they loathed each other.

One Friday evening, Pierre was down in the winery, working on a new electric winepress. He was alone. The grape-pickers had left. Suddenly the door opened and Faniry entered, excessively made up. She walked straight up to Pierre, flung her arms around his neck, and pressed herself against him. Even above the fumes from the pressed grapes he could smell that she had been drinking.

"Darling," she sighed, "what shall we do?"

He badly wanted her, but all the past insults and humiliating scenes welled up inside him. He pushed her away.

"But, darling, I'm going to have a baby."

"Don't be absurd. Go to bed! You're drunk. And take that paint off. It makes you look like a tart."

Faniry's face blackened, and she threw herself at him with new accusations. He had never cared for her. He cared only about ---. He was obsessed with it. And with white women. But the women in France, the white women, they were the tarts, and he was welcome to them. She snatched a knife from the wall and lunged at him with it. She was in tears, but it took all his strength to keep the knife from his throat. Eventually he pushed her off, and she stumbled towards the winepress. Pierre stood, breathing heavily, as the screw of the press caught at her hair and dragged her in. She screamed, struggling to free herself. The screw bit slowly into her shoulder and she screamed again. Then she fainted, though whether from the pain or the fumes he was not sure. He looked away until a sickening sound told him it was over. Then he raised his arm and switched the current off.

The guests shuddered visibly and de Gruse paused in his story.

"Well, I won't go into the details at table," he said. "Pierre fed the rest of the body into the press and tidied up. Then he went up to the house, had a bath, ate a meal, and went to bed. The next day, he told everyone Faniry had finally left him and gone back to Madagascar. No-one was surprised."

He paused again. His guests sat motionless, their eyes turned towards him.

"Of course," he continued, "Sixty-five was a bad year for red Bordeaux. Except for Pierre's. That was the extraordinary thing. It won award after award, and nobody could understand why."

The general's wife cleared her throat.

"But, surely," she said, "you didn't taste it?"

"No, I didn't taste it, though Pierre did assure me his wife had lent the wine an incomparable aroma."

"And you didn't, er, buy any?" asked the general.

"How could I refuse? It isn't every day that one finds such a pedigree."

There was a long silence. The Dutchman shifted awkwardly in his seat, his glass poised midway between the table and his open lips. The other guests looked around uneasily at each other. They did not understand.

"But look here, Gruse," said the general at last, "you don't mean to tell me we're drinking this damned woman now, d'you?"

De Gruse gazed impassively at the Englishman.

"Heaven forbid, General," he said slowly. "Everyone knows that the best vintage should always come first."