The Imposter

Bequia has seen its share scammers, con-men and crooks who arrive with talk of riches they don’t possess and expansion plans they have no intention of fulfilling. Today we simply “google” such characters and, if they aren’t who they profess to be, they can be challenged accordingly. However, before the introduction of the internet Bequians had to learn the old-fashioned way, and it often took quite some time before an imposter was “sussed out”.

One day a short man professing to be a Baron from Austria arrived claiming he had come to buy Petit Nevis, a small island that had been used for the butchering of whales. His name was Baron Von Habsburg (so he said), and it wasn’t long before he was jokingly referred to as “The Baron of Bullshit”. The fellow strutted about in an important manner, and it became painfully obvious that he had little respect for the people of Bequia or the island’s local customs. He was an incredibly rude little man, and took “licks” on more than one occasion for his outrageous behaviour at the Frangi Bar.

The “Baron of Bullshit” was a master of manipulation, he seemed to know exactly which buttons to push to get a reaction, and my husband Nik openly laughed at his antics one night at the Frangi bar. The Baron pounced on Nik for his mockery, demanding that he detail his lineage and, on discovering that Nik’s mother’s maiden name was “Shoenberg”, began the button-pushing routine with a dismissive wave of his hand;

“Ha! Shoenbergs have always been serfs, your people were the servants of my people”.

Nik didn’t give a hoot what the “Baron” thought of him and, to the indignation of the arrogant little man, he just laughed. Knowing that Nik was a sea captain, he began to make disparaging remarks about his profession, and that only made Nik laugh harder. The fact that Nik stood almost two feet taller than the pathetic little pea-cock made this attempted mockery look and sound ridiculous, and the man turned red with anger as others around the bar laughed at him.

Not everyone saw through the “Baron of Bullsit”, my friend Ermina was convinced that he was a rich man who could afford to buy Petit Nevis. Von Habsburg moved into her house, and used her local knowledge to his advantage time and time again and, I’m afraid, used her money as well. I cautioned Ermina about the “Baron” but she defended him, at least for a little while, and I hoped my friend wasn’t making a mistake she would live to regret.

Curious about him, and quite frankly because he had pushed my OWN buttons about my cooking abilities (or lack thereof), I invited the Baron for dinner to prove that I really DID know how to make real German schnitzel. The evening started out in a civilized manner, the table had been beautifully set and the menu carefully planned. When I look back on that evening, I wonder why on EARTH I had invited the pompous ass for dinner, I guess it was because he had insinuated that I didn’t know how to cook, that’s how scammers operate. When I set the seafood appetizer in front of our guest he immediately asked for a fish fork, something I had never owned and, feeling like a fool, I quickly gave the man a dessert fork instead. The Baron of Bullshit ate well that night, but had managed to make his hostess feel quite stupid by requesting a fish fork, a piece of cutlery he instinctively seemed to know I didn’t possess. The man was uncannily smart that way.

One night, the newly-appointed Minister of Tourism came to Bequia to attend one of my tourism meetings, and I was pleased by his interest   in our hard-working committee. We had dinner at the Pizzeria, after which the minister said he wanted to experience some Bequia night-life. Knowing that a band was playing at the Bakery that evening we walked up the road, and managed to secure a table at the crowded establishment. We were happily watching the entertainment when I noticed a commotion, and saw that the “Baron” was trying in vain to find a seat. Spotting Nik and me, the Austrian made a beeline for our table and asked if he could join us. I was a little apprehensive as I made introductions, but when the man behaved in a civilized manner I began to relax. I should have KNOWN better than to let the man sit at our table! Waiting until the band took a break, the “Baron” leaned over to the Minister of Tourism and, speaking in a loud voice, said;

“So, tell me Minister, what are all you niggers going to do when the white people get tired of paying for everything and leave?”.

I wanted to crawl under the table I was so embarrassed! The Minister didn’t even blink at the offensive question, he simply smiled gently and replied;

“I guess we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?”

The odious “Baron of Bullshit” disappeared one day and was never seen again, his promises of riches obviously as empty as his pockets. My friend Ermina probably never recovered what he owed her, Petit Nevis is still for sale, and other scammers and con-men continue to arrive and depart. Good riddance!