Schlemiel, Schlemazel...

In Yiddish, a "schlemiel" is defined as someone who spills the plate of tomato sauce. He's a likeable bungler. I've certainly had my innings as the schlemiel in life. But a "schlemazel" is defined as the person upon whom the tomato sauce gets spilled. And I've more often been in that position. In fact, I might have reason to claim the prize for being the Grand Schlemazel. I was the victim of a cosmic dumping.

It happened at the Tower of London. Our tour group seemed to arrive there on the busiest day of the year. A line of people snaked around and outside the Tower gates, waiting to get in to see the Crown Jewels. It was a misty day and I had started to feel quite misty and drippy myself, a prelude to what would develop into some full-blown viral attack.

I'm not sure if a lecture about the Tower ravens is regularly included in the tour, or if we were specially treated in order to distract us from the long wait on that particular day. But in any event, a Beefeater who identified himself as the "Raven Master" came forward and gave us a lecture about the magnificent birds roaming the compound. I briefly forgot about the gathering storm within and without, listening to the fascinating lore.

The English have been very solicitous of the ravens because of the legend that said if the ravens should ever leave the Tower, the British Empire would fall. Now, since the Empire has already largely fallen, that legend has been amended into a somewhat contracted version. It's said that if the ravens should ever leave that landmark, the more limited area of the English Isle itself will fall. It might be drowned by the surrounding waters or have some other dire fate befall it.

Actually, there are several species that protect the English from such calamity. I had earlier heard about the care the English lavish on the "Barbary apes" on Gibraltar. It's said that if those animals (actually macaque monkeys) were ever to leave the rocky coasts of Gibraltar, the English Empire/Isle would collapse. A humorous movie starring Terry-Thomas (Operation Snatch) featured the problems faced by a hapless cadre of very under-Secretary British officials sent to that outpost to insure the monkeys' health, happiness, and longevity.

But this was the first I was hearing about the ravens' role in protecting England's dominion. The Raven Master told us how the ravens had their wings slightly clipped so they couldn't fly too high. Occasionally though one or the other of them would manage to make it out of the Tower yards. One had recently been retrieved again from its hangout by the door of a local pub. All the ravens are named and their individual preferences are catered to as far as diet and diversion goes. The Raven Master is charged, not only with feeding the birds, but with ensuring that they get adequate mental stimulation. So this Beefeater also has to serve as a sort of shipboard social director, organizing games and challenges for the birds.

He is also strictly accountable for insuring that none of the ravens meet with any premature demise. With the care given them, several were managing to last happily into their forties. When one does die, it is given a proper funeral. Its service to the Empire is acknowledged and it often has its name carved on a tombstone set up in the raven cemetery, a special plot kept sacrosanct off to one side of the Tower complex.

This lecture turned out to be one of the highlights of my trip to London. It revealed so much about the English people's quirky devotion to history and tradition - and to animals. I was fascinated by the sight of the ravens themselves. I'd never been in the presence of a live raven before. My main contact with any representative of their species had been the ink drawings that accompany most reprints of Edgar Allen's Poe's poem. I was surprised by their size and strut. I thought how they are indeed suitable birds to be dubbed guardians of the Realm.

For a moment I soared in my imagination with their majesty. But I was soon enough brought back down to earth. The Raven Master had finished his talk and the line started moving. Our group was within eye-shot of the Tower entrance. Just as I was craning toward the warmth and protection from the elements that the door offered - whap! I was hit in the head by something. I reached up and put my hand in a huge glob of green goop on my forehead. There was a lot more dripping down my face, covering my hair, oozing down the back of my neck.

Had a raven gotten airborne and relieved itself directly over my head? No, even as big as those birds are, one alone couldn't produce this much offal. Maybe a phalanx of ravens?  That seemed unlikely. A whole flock of pigeons who relieved themselves in perfect synchrony like the Rockettes? The quantity of the stuff was inexplicable.

I groped for a handkerchief, a Kleenex. I had nothing. Besides, it was even hard to grope, my hands were kept so pressed to my sides by the surrounding crowd of sightseers. I asked my traveling companion next in line if she could reach anything I could use to wipe myself off. She turned, and saw the green slime snailing its way down me on all sides. She shook her head and edged away as much as she could from my shocking dilemma.

Just at that moment, another Beefeater peremptorily called, "Forward! Move Forward. Your turn. Keep the line moving!" I considered dropping out of line to find a washroom somewhere. But then I'd miss the Crown Jewels, a highlight of our tour. So, looking like a victim being engulfed by "The Blob" in the Steve McQueen movie, there was nothing I could do but move along. I proceeded apace with the others in line as we were ushered downstairs into the "Jewel House" where the crown jewels were kept during those years.

I soon found myself in a room with very dim lighting. I could hardly pick my way along the ramp that circled the large glass dome shining at the center of this vaulted stone space. Under the dome was the full collection of crown jewels available for viewing. I passed by rubies, emeralds, necklaces, tiaras - all gleaming seductively from the dark velour settings on which they rested. The conspiratorial twinkle in the eyes of these stones invited a person to mischief - and murder.

Finally we came to the crown of the Crown Jewels - the headpiece that contained the famed Koh-i-noor diamond, the diamond with the most dangerous, dazzling history. It had been passed or stolen among maharajas and sheiks before being claimed by the English Royal Family. There I stood before it, in stark contrast. The diamond, a shimmering purity, looked out at me. And I - bird dung dripping down into my eyes, rolling into my ears, sliding down onto my shoulders - looked back at it. From the sublime to the ridiculous. From the Star of Royalty to the Ultimate Schlemazel.