Back in my room, we change into our daily uniforms. The urgency to find Mister Nikolai and the 100-million-worth suitcase is inferior to the pressing desire of the guests of the five-star Prestigio International Hotel to see their lunch served on time.
My wrinkles and Rostov's make-up disappear quickly, but they designed the mascara on his eyelashes for everlasting beauty. We try water and soap, we try shampoo, we try aftershave, we even try that strong-smelling duck-piss the chambermaids use to clean out the skid marks in the toilets, but nothing works.
My last hope is: "Sabina will know what to do."
I run to the reception: "Do you have something against black eyes? I mean, to get that black tar off someone's eyelashes? It's an emergency. Our shift begins at one o'clock and it's already a quarter past."
Sabina looks in her purse. She tosses me a small bottle and a naughty smile: "Have you and your cute boyfriend Mesut been playing with mummy's make-up?"
I have no time to explain. I mutter a "Thanks" and run back to my room. Two minutes later, we enter the kitchen to start with our shift. The chef looks at Mesut's red eyes and asks: "Have you been crying or is that because you cut onions for the soup? You're late. The guests are waiting."
I have respect for the chef and her staff. Working in a kitchen is extremely heavy. You have to do everything at once: you're preparing the toast with three different sorts of marmalade for room 123 and bang, there is a phone call from room 234 who wants tea, bread rolls and fresh peaches, but you haven't even put the kettle on when the chambermaid comes in to pick up the scrambled eggs, black coffee and Bulgarian yoghurt with muesli for room 345 and meanwhile the toast is burning because you forgot the sugar for the coffee and all the time a waiter walks behind you asking what happened with that bottle of yak milk that the lady of room 456 ordered because she has an allergy for all other sorts of dairy products. You have no idea how much brainwork it takes to work in the kitchen of a hotel.
The chef of this hotel reserves even more respect, because she does all her tasks as fast as possible with 40 kilos of bum that bumps against everything and everyone in her direct surroundings, and on top of that, she's responsible for two separate kitchens: the kitchen for mass production where five cooks prepare all the meals we serve in the large dining room, and the kitchen for individual desires where twenty-five cooks work day and night to prepare the never-ending demands of room service.
Thanks to all that pressure, the chef developed a habit to pick on everything and everybody: "Clean that plate before you put the rice upon it. Don't prick that steak, but move it and turn it. Look out, the milk is boiling. Wash your hands. That haddock is for room 123; room 234 ordered the catfish; no, that's red herring, the catfish is in that plastic bag over there, clean that floor, no mayonnaise on that salmon the sweet pies are burning the mashed potatoes the ice cream and where is that toast I asked for the salad the water the strawberries the coffee and didn't I tellyoutocleanthatplatebeforeyouputhericeuponit…"
We rush to the dining room with our cart full of plates and cutlery, but when we enter the room, we control our movements to the standards of well-trained hotel staff. Not all the guests of the hotel have booked the «full pension» (lunch and dinner included in the room's price), but the reputation of the hotel's kitchen is good enough to fill almost all the seats around the 35 tables in the majestic dining room. We take the orders for the drinks and serve them from the bar next to the entrance doors. On other days, this was the work for just one waiter, me, but with the help of Rostov, we set the tables and serve the drinks in half the time.
When we return to the kitchen, the chef gives her orders: "First plate: soup of fresh tomatoes and vegetables, or salad of fresh tomatoes, basil and mozzarella. Second plate: grilled salmon with Béarnaise sauce or spaghetti Bolognese, the sauce is made of fresh tomatoes. Dessert: hazelnut meringue or strawberry cheesecake."
I launch an appetiser: "I heard there was a special offer today on fresh tomatoes at the street market."
The chef bites: "You know what they say: they eat you poor and they drink you rich. The trick of good cooking is not buying the best steak; it's making the best plate out of healthy and cheap ingredients. The soup and the plates with the salad are ready to serve. Wait here and keep an eye on the spaghetti sauce and the fish in the oven. I'll have to make my round in the dining room to welcome some of the guests."
I give the chef a final piece of advice when she leaves the kitchen: "Give the Duchess of Alva two big kisses. The old tart was a bit grumpy that you skipped her table on your round before dinner last night. She appreciates the personal attention you give special guests like her."
We have five minutes of our own, not much, but enough to court-martial our list of suspects.
I start with a summary: "We've paid a visit to every one of the guests of last night's dinner and I'm convinced that not one of them is behind the… unexpected discoveries of this morning. Our Russian friends seem innocent and our American friends are out of the way, so the only suspects we have left are the former owners of this little electronic tracking device, fabricated in the Far East. Too bad we can't use it to find its owners." I hold the small iron Orient-made object in the palm of my hand.
Rostov worries: "Have you switched it off? Aren't you afraid that they will use it against us?"
"There was no need for that, Rostov. It's from the Far East. That stuff always stops working when you need it. The battery died at the moment we found it."
Rostov grabs the tracker out of my hand: "Have you seen that? It looks like there's something written on it. Usually, all those Far East factories leave their fingerprints, like «made in Taiwan» or «made in Hong Kong»… These look like… Japanese signs, no, they look… I can't see it clearly. Perhaps with a little more light…"
With his eyes fixed on the little thingamajig, Rostov walks over to the large steel table next to the stove.
"Watch out for that—"
Too late. Rostov doesn't notice the metal bucket on the floor, stumbles over it, loses his balance, saves himself by gripping the stove with both hands and burns them on the flames: "Aiaiaiaiaiai." He opens the tap and cools his burnt hands under the cold water.
"Where is the tracking device, Rostov?"
"What?"
"You had the tracking device in your hands. You don't have it anymore. Where is it?"
Rostov looks back, with his hands still under the tap: "I must have dropped it. Check the floor."
I check the floor but can't even find a drop of fresh tomato sauce: "It's not there. And it's not on the stove either. That was our only clue, Rostov. What do we do now?"
Rostov closes the tap: "I don't know. You tell me. In movies, there is always someone who knows what to do. I'm not that someone, so it must be you. You've learnt how intelligence works. You've studied spyology, so you should have a solution for hopeless dead-end situations like this. What's your plan?"
"This is not a film, Rostov, and most of the books I studied were fiction, spy novels. There is not really a manual for the University of Spies, you know."
Rostov's grins: "Books of fiction are better than movies. What would Ian Fleming do? What would John le Carré do? What would Robert Ludlum tell Jason Bourne?"
Rostov's stupid ideas are not always pointless. «When all the logical options didn't work, and all the illogical options failed too, it's time to try something really stupid.», said… Thomas Edison? Niels Bohr? Or was it Groucho Marx?
I look at the soup of fresh tomatoes and vegetables, I look at the spaghetti with Bolognese sauce of fresh tomatoes, I look at Rostov and I suggest: "Raymond Chandler said: «if you're stuck, throw in a man with a gun.» It sounds like a plan."
"It sounds like a plan. Do we have a gun?"
I move my hand behind my back and show Rostov's Makarov: "I wouldn't dare to walk around without one. This hotel has killers behind every door."
"Do we have a man too?"
"That depends. After your appearance as wordless walk-on Mesut, after your stunning performance as Rostov in the blockbuster «Fooling the KGB», followed by your spectacular interpretation of Steven in «Out of Africa» and your amazing Sister Mary Colourful act, all your fans want to know if you're ready for your first headline appearance as a leading character before a live audience. Are you?"
I take Rostov's stupid grin for a «yes».
"One last thing, Rostov: this is not a film. We can't do it again if you mess up. All we have is one shot."
Rostov likes movies: "You've got me doing something I thought I'd never do. One more shot is all I need. Hall of Fame, Oscar and immortality: I'm on my way…"
"Immortality? We need to be deadly serious…"
* * *
When I make my round with the soup and the salad, I can't avoid smiling. Raymond Chandler is brilliant. Throw in a man with a gun. Everybody will run away in panic, except a policeman, who will run towards him, or a secret agent, with trained reflexes for bravery and sacrifice. Of course, Rostov wanted to run away in panic when I explained that part of the plan. He whined: "You want me to walk in with a gun in my hand and wait for a reaction from the secret agents in the audience? And what if they shoot first and ask questions later?"
I tried to put him at ease: "That's KGB-style, and we've already made sure they're somewhere else."
"And if that unknown secret service is Bulgarian, or Belarusian, or perhaps even Serbian? They also shoot first and ask questions later. The KGB trained them, remember?"
I cut it off: "Come on, Rostov. We have to shoot a film first. You can ask questions later. You change into a rich businessman who has discovered champagne for the first time in his life and I go to the dining room to serve the soup and the salad."
Rostov shouldn't worry so much. If he just does what I tell him, he'll be perfectly safe.
"Would you prefer the soup or the salad, Duchess?"
"Hello, dear. The soup, please. The chef just came over, especially for me, and she suggested I should try the soup. It's made with fresh tomatoes and vegetables from the hotel's private garden. She promised to give my aide the recipe."
"I tried it myself, Duchess, and the chef was right with her suggestion: you've never tasted a creamy flavour like this, and fresh tomatoes perform miracles if you want a smooth and firm cutis. Enjoy."
"Thank you, dear."
These guests believe everything you tell them. The hotel's private garden? And where did they see that garden? On the roof, perhaps? Nice, fresh vegetables, grown in the smog of Geneva traffic? But the soup and the chef's suggestion do their job: almost everyone follows the good example of the Duchess.
"Rostov!"
I freeze.
I know that voice.
The problem is: that voice knows me.
I turn around, a friendly smile prepared. The voice, belonging to Mister Jumping Jack Parker, repeats the swear word: "Rostov! This soup is the best tomato soup I've tasted in my life."
I keep up my role as a waiter and say: "Thank you for the compliment, Sir. We always do our best to give the best service to our guests. Swiss hospitality is famous all over the world."
Mister Parker is as happy as anyone can be with a plate of soup. I've visited England. I've seen Liverpool. I ate in the restaurants there. I understand.
"Please, be so kind to give my compliments to the director and tell hor that next time I visit this beautiful city, I will be delighted to stay in hor hotel again. Rostov! This soup is excellent."
"Rostov? Hor hotel?", I ask.
Mister Parker is in a good mood. He explains: "Of course. I'm sorry. You're not a native English speaker. Those are Modern English terms. When we are not sure if the person we refer to is male or female, it's polite to say «she», «hor» and «horself». And «Rostov» is an educated exclamation, used to express surprise and various other moods. It's not a swear word that might offend religious people, it's not referring to excrement or diseases or intimate procreation acts, and the strong sounds of the starting R and the two O's make it a fine word to express your feelings in an intense and vigorous way. I phoned my colleague, who works at a bank in Rostov, by the way, and he assured me he doesn't feel insulted at all, more flattered for others to refer to his native city as such a fierce institution."
"Well, thank you very much, Sir, for this interesting information. I'm always glad to meet friendly people like you and I always look forward to learning new things. Enjoy your soup, Sir. If you like the fresh tomatoes, I can recommend the spaghetti Bolognese as the main dish. The sauce is made from fresh tomatoes too."
I've almost reached the far end of the dining room and I've almost run out of soup. I look at the entrance doors. Where's Rostov? I said five minutes. I check my watch. Twenty-two, almost twenty-three minutes since I left the kitchen. What's he doing?
"I would like to have the soup, please.", Jacky Chan says.
"For me too. It smells delicious.", Lucy Liu smiles.
The problem with those film stars and rich people is that they have all the money but not the taste that should go with it. Look at these two, for instance. Lucy wears a gorgeous ballroom dress and Jacky is dressed in a smoking jacket. «No Smoking», it says on the entrance door of the dining room, in seven different languages, but Mister Chan doesn't care. This is lunchtime and not Oscar night, Mister. A tuxedo would have been a far better choice.
I try to concentrate on my work. Miss Liu gets a nice spoonful of our chef's special recommendation, but for Mister Chan, I need to scratch the bottom to fill his plate. The rest of the guests will get the salad because I've run clear out of other options. Even my last hope, the man with the gun, did not catch the train of 13:42.
"OUCH! What's this?"
Mister Chan spits something hard into his hand: it's the tracker device that Rostov lost in the kitchen. Apparently, it ended up in the soup and Mister Chan has found it.
I take it from him and look at it: "I'm terribly sorry, Mister Chan. We were looking for that. The chef searched everywhere for her lost earring. She will be delighted that you've found it. Can I thank you with a salad, made with fresh tomatoes, basil and mozzarella cheese? The tomatoes are from the hotel's private garden…"
Mister Chan has no time to answer because right at this moment, the main dish is being served. It's Rostov, but… it's not Rostov. I told him to act like a drunk businessman. That role fits him like a glove compartment. But what is this?
"What is this?", Mister Chan whispers.
"Yeah, what is this?", Miss Liu wonders.
This is Rostov with his painted Pakistani head covered with bandages, bleeding wounds on his left arm and his right leg, a torn shirt, a worn jacket, an old pair of trousers, everything stained with tomato soup like he's the only survivor of a plane crash or a terrorist attack. At least half a pound of spaghetti Bolognese (with a sauce made of fresh tomatoes) is coming out of a giant wound in his belly like he wants to show his audience that he has guts.
Miss Liu is in pain and whispers: "That man is wounded."
Mister Chan is in horror and sighs: "That man is sick."
I am in serious doubt and think: «That man is crazy.»
Rostov doesn't agree with either one of us. He is determined to show all he's got. He shows his Makarov gun, stumbles, grumbles, growls, howls, staggers and swaggers like a drunken businessman who's just lost a fight with the 13:42 Express Train to Siberia.
Rostov is a poor actor. His version of a drunken businessman looks more like an insane Irish plumber who just escaped medieval torture. The idea is not bad: upper-class people like the guests in this hotel wouldn't look twice at a drunken businessman; they see them all the time around them. An Irish plumber with a Russian gun would be a better idea to scare the shit out of everybody. Problem is that nobody is scared.
Suddenly I understand what's happening here. I have very little time to think, this requires immediate action, and that action should come from me or everything will be lost, the delicious soup, the lunch of 124 hungry guests, the reputation of the Prestigio International Hotel, the city of Geneva, the Swiss Alps, Europe and finally the entire world: Rostov is a zombie. That's why he said he was going to be immortal. And I'm the only one who understands because I'm the only one who saw the trailer.
I have less than 1 second to decide. The solution is obvious: we'll need Brittany. Brittany is blond, 19 years old, American, boobs like pineapples, lips like rubber bathtub ducks, a bottom that makes the film unsuited for men over 65 with a high blood pressure and… she's female. The conflict is not «to save the world or not to save the world». The conflict is much more difficult to solve; it's an internal conflict: I'll have to show my feminine side… And I have to do it fast…
But I can't.
I feel ashamed.
I'm a man. I'm a spy. I'm a hard-boiled egg that eats bad guys for breakfast. Nobody will believe it when I show my sensitive, understanding, helpful side that's sexy and gorgeous and always there to listen and be patient, to put her hand through your hair and say you shouldn't worry, that in the end, it will all work out fine; you have this inner conflict, you're in doubt and you don't know what to do, you feel the urgency to act but on the other side you feel the shame and you don't want people to think wrong about you because you are, deep inside, a wonderful sensitive human being who only wants best for everyone, and it would hurt you so much when people just don't understand, when they draw conclusions about your inner self by just watching the outside that you've taken so much care of every day for hours and hours and hours, but you have to be strong, you need to stand up now, girl, and tell the world: "Well, this is me too.", and perhaps it will be a surprise to everyone, but that's their problem and not yours. Come on, Brittany. You can do it. Open your mouth, show your perfect toothpaste-white teeth and your exclusive light-red red-light-district lipstick, and let the world hear what you have to say… and say it with all the power that you have in you…
It helps. But it doesn't solve the problem that Brittany is dressed as a male hotel servant. But when disaster is near (Rostov is at the other end of the dining room, which is relatively near), salvation is close too (and salvation lies one step behind me). I step back, one step, and hide behind the curtain. That was all I needed. Now I feel confident enough to let Brittany out so she can save the world. I take a deep breath, open my mouth as wide as I can, turn off my male (logic) half of my brain and scream at the top of my voice: "iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii It's a zombie! We're all going to die! We have to run! But there's no place to run for! The monster stands before the only exit of this room! We're all lost! He's going to kill us all! There's nobody who can save us!"
I step aside and leave my hiding place to see what's happening. They say that at the moment of your unavoidable death, your life passes by like a film. It's not just any film; it's a blockbuster. Every guest in the dining room had at least 10.000 hours of training for situations like this: they watch American movies every night on TV or in the cinema; they know exactly what to do: PANIC! Women start screaming and ruin their expensive coiffure with their hands, men want to start running but have no idea where to run to so they hide under the table, under the dress of the women with the ruined hair, and all the others want to get out as fast as they can except… Jacky Chan and Lucy Liu, who take a small firearm out of a secret compartment of their outfit, stand up, look at the danger, look at themselves, look at each other, take a decision, nod, and Jacky says to Lucy: "This is a hopeless situation. We have to act. What do we do? Do you shoot me and I shoot you? Or do we both shoot ourselves?"
Lucy hits Jacky on the back of his head, her eyes spit fire and she says: "Are you a man? Go for it. Solve the situation while I eat my soup before it gets cold. And make sure that I get as my main dish the spaghetti with that sauce made of fresh tomatoes from the hotel's private garden."
This is all I wanted to hear. Before Jacky can act (and he's fast as a monkey), I run between the tables and the screaming guests towards Rostov, dive and hit him mid-ship like a professional scrum-half during the final of the Rugby World Cup, as the immortal Springbok Joost van der Westhuizen did with a broken rib in 1995 against Jonah Lomu. I don't have a broken rib, but I'm not sure about Rostov's ribs when we're both on the ground. I whisper in his ear: "I have a message for you, Rostov: you're an idiot and I'm going to kill you. Stand up and fight. And do it right. We only have one shot."
Rostov throws me away like I'm a rugby ball, stands up like a drunk businessman after a CEO meeting, wobbles around and growls like a wounded tiger.
I rise, covered with tomato blood, guts in my hair, lick my lips and shout: "I'm going to kill you and eat you for lunch."
Rostov waves his gun and grunts: "I'm already dead. I'm immortal."
Someone in the audience cries in horror: "Don't let him bite you. You'll get infected and we'll all end up dead."
Someone else cries in terror: "He's already infected. He tasted the zombie's blood."
I raise a hand to calm down the audience and say, without taking my eyes off of Rostov: "Don't worry, Duchess. First, I'll kill the zombie, and then I'll take his gun and kill myself. Your safety is more important to me than anything else."
Enough said. This is not an American horror movie. This is real life. We want action here.
Rostov is no match for my trained skills. All my hours in the gym and the dojo against all his hours playing Mortal Combat and Zombie Killer VI at his game console, it's like the whole army of the U.S. of A. attack a bunch of individuals with Kalashnikovs in Afghanistan. But the audience doesn't see that. The spectators see me, a 1,70 (well, almost, when I wear thick socks and high heels I come pretty close) fragile hotel servant against a ferocious 1,90 metre tall and 100 kilos heavy monster with a loaded gun in his hand. It's David against Goliath, and they think Goliath has a chance.
I can't make this a long scene: the soup is getting cold and we have to serve the main dish too. With my right fist, I punch Rostov in his spaghetti-guts. When he bends over in pain, I grab him by the band-aid hair with my left hand and kick him in the face with my right knee, grab his Makarov with my right hand in the same movement, slam him at the back of the neck with the heavy steel grip of the gun, tackle his legs so he drops to the ground, lift the Makarov high in the air so everybody can see that the cartridge with the bullets falls out on the ground, open my hand in a Hollywood style to drop the gun and bow to receive applause of the audience. Cinema is nothing. Theatre is the real thing. Not one film star gets rewarding applause like an actor on stage gets from his live audience.
Rostov doesn't understand that he's defeated. He touches his painful head, his hurting nose, his back and his neck, grabs the Makarov and the cartridge from the ground and scrambles up again.
This audience is great. They jump up and shout: "Watch out!" - "Behind you!" - "He's not dead yet." - "Kill and double kill, that's what they teach you in «Zombieland»…"
I lift my hands and lower them slowly to calm down the panic: "Relax, please. This is not real. It was just an act, meant as entertainment for our guests during lunchtime. As you all know, the Prestigio International Hotel is a five-star hotel with the finest reputation. This is why: we treat every guest like she is the Duchess of Alva in person. You've just watched a sneak preview of our entertainment program for tomorrow night, the play «Rise of the Walking Dead» that will start at 21:00 on the stage on the terrace alongside the lake. We all hoped you enjoyed our show and we hope to see you tomorrow night."
All the guests are reassured now. They smile at each other and mumble things like: "What a great show." - "I really enjoyed it." - "You must cancel your meeting, dear. I want to see that play." - "That little guy deserves an Oscar." - "That big guy was good too." - "I knew it all the time: they were acting." - "That zombie looks like Matt Damon." - "Don't do this at home, Johnny." - "Did you hear what your father said, Johnny? This is what happens when people take drugs."
Lucy Liu at the back shows she has not only the prettiest eyes of Hollywood but also eyes that are sharp as a pencil: "Show? That's a real gun your dead friend has there."
Rostov smiles at her and answers: "Don't worry, Miss. It's not loaded, and the safety is on. We wouldn't dare to risk your life."
And to prove his words, he waves the gun and pulls the trigger. The explosion of the gunshot, the bullet leaving the barrel for a deadly trip through the dining room, looking for a heart or a head to stop it, finally finds the diamond earring that hangs on the left earlobe of the Duchess of Alva, shatters it into a million pieces of glass and leaves through the open window while the Duchess faints and falls face forward into her plate of tomato soup, made with fresh tomatoes and vegetables from the hotel's private garden. Rostov apologises with a stupid grin while I hurry to her table to save the Duchess from drowning. She likes it when she gets a personal treatment. As soon as she's recovered, she uses her napkin to clean her face and gives me a warm smile to thank me for saving her life. That's the kind of taste and class and fine manners I was referring to, Mister Chan.
Mister Chan.
I'm back to earth again.
I push Rostov off the stage, out of the door, and back to the kitchen where I put on a clean T-shirt after I cleaned my face, hands and the red stains on my trousers. Rostov grins stupidly and says: "That went well, don't you think?"
"Rostov! You almost blew it all! I told you to be a drunken businessman. Was that too difficult for you?"
"I thought this was to scare people. A zombie looked like a better option. If I were a movie director, that's how I would do it. With my limited time and resources to prepare, my make-up was pretty convincing, wasn't it? We only had one shot, you know."
"The best would have been to shoot yourself before you became a zombie, Rostov. You've almost killed the Duchess of Alva."
"Sorry, Lux. I was so absorbed by the character that I forgot about the rest. You were right: BE the character. I did well, don't you think? Did you discover the secret agent we are after?"
"I'm not sure. I watched the reaction of every guest in the room after I screamed you were a zombie. All were afraid, really afraid. The only two who stood up to act were… those two actors in the corner near the window, Jacky Chan and Lucy Liu. But they are actors. They are used to acting."
"Lucy Liu? That woman isn't Lucy Liu. Lucy Liu has the prettiest eyes in Hollywood, she has a smile to die for and she can show at least 50 different emotions with the expression on her face. That woman isn't Lucy Liu. She just looks like Lucy Liu. You should watch more movies, Lux. She's our agent. And that handsome man next to her? That's not Jacky Chan. Did he make you laugh? Jacky Chan always makes me laugh. He's fantastic."
I take the broken tracker device out of my pocket and show it to Rostov: "He found the tracker. It was in his soup."
Rostov smiles the triumph of an Oscar winner: "No, the tracker found him. Mister Chan is our man, the man with the gun."
I think it over. Rostov might be right. Mister Chan did have a gun. I cut the knot (those spaghettis have suffered so much together that it will be impossible to separate them) and say: "You might be right, but I want to be sure. Clean up, take my spiPhone, give me your phone so you can call me in case of emergency. Go up to Mister Chan's room, use my master key to get in and take photos of everything you find there. I would prefer to do that myself, but someone has to watch Mister Chan and Miss Liu, and I have to serve the main dishes too, which is a job that I don't dare to leave to you. You need to investigate their rooms. Can you do that?"
Rostov grins: "A piece of cake. A piece of strawberry cheesecake, made with fresh strawberries from the hotel's private garden and the creamiest cheese you've ever tasted."
I look at Rostov, open the refrigerator, look at the desserts and at the empty plate between them, and suddenly a prevision strikes me with the force of a déjà vu in a crystal ball: this cheesecake is poisoned…
I look at the door of the kitchen, expecting to see the ugly chef Blair Witch of the kitchen come in to see how my stomach will explode. I scan the room for eyes of a hired killer who hides behind the dishwasher. I look at the strawberry cheesecake again: the dark red of the fresh strawberry, my favourite fruit; the bright yellow cheese, the colour children's summer night dreams are made of; the light brown biscuit that carries all the responsibility of the fine taste on top of it. The smell of freshness starts a waterfall in my mouth. Poisoned? I never realised so strongly that I'm mortal, that every life has to end one day, and that my end might be on that plate before me. I decide that strawberry cheesecake is a far better end than bone cancer or bullets, and take a bite: it tastes even better than it smells. If this is the end, at least I know what heaven tastes like.
"Is it good?", Rostov asks.
"To die for."
"What's Mister Chan's room number?"
"I don't know, but don't worry: I'll find out on my way back to the dining room. I'm a spy, remember? I'm good at this game. You go up. I'll text you as soon as I know."
Rostov grins, gets into his Mesut-outfit, puts my spiPhone in his pocket and leaves for the lift. I take the cart for the empty plates, leave it next to the entrance doors of the dining room and make a quick detour to the reception: Sabina will help me out.
"Hi, Sabina. Have you seen the two famous guests we have? Mister Jacky Chan and Miss Lucy Liu. I wonder if you have their room number for me, so I can order a bottle of champagne for Mister Chan and a bouquet of roses for Miss Lu, and send it to their rooms, a small gift from a secret admirer and a big fan."
Sabina looks at me, surprised, then gives me that amazing smile and says: "You are silly, aren't you? These two are not famous Hollywood stars. They are Mr and Mrs Lee from South Korea… that is: they have a South-Korean passport, but a North-Korean credit card. Feel free to send them a bottle of champagne and a bouquet of roses if you like; their room number is 538."
538. A cheap room, only 250 Swiss francs per night. Jacky Chan and Lucy Liu would have booked a suite or better, 20th floor or higher. Rostov was right. North Korea is a poor country. They don't spend money on luxury for their people; they need every Won to build nuclear missiles, so they can inspire Hollywood to make better movies. Rostov was right. I send him the 538 text message.
Sabina interrupts my thoughts: "Don't forget to order a bouquet of roses for me too, and I like Swiss chocolate better than French champagne. If you're interested."
I have no time to react. I feel a heavy hand on my shoulder, a hand that's connected to authority, the hand of Mister Müller, the director of Prestigio International Hotel. Usually, he spends his working days in his office, coming out only when there is a problem. I recognise his voice when he says my name: "Mister Weidenfeller…"
I turn around: "Yes, Sir. Is there a problem, Sir?"
Rostov! He trapped me, flirting with the cute receptionist. He's going to send me to the basement to shine the shoes of the guests until the end of days. He's going to fire me, make me screw up my mission, make me lose my job as a spy. Rostov! I behaved like a fool, risking my job, my career and my life for a nuthead like Rostov. Worse: Mister Müller has heard about that little scene Rostov and I played in the dining room. Even worse: the Duchess filed a complaint. Worst of all: it's my own fault.
"I just got a message from the aide of the Duchess of Alba. She was delighted with your brave behaviour and she wanted to thank me for letting you save her life when that terrorist attacked her smooth cutis this afternoon. I wasn't aware there were terrorists in our hotel. Can you explain what happened?"
A sigh of relief escapes from the bottom of my heart: "It's nothing, Sir. She's an old lady, and she has probably seen one of the hotel's employees with Pakistani or Indonesian features, thinking she saw a terrorist. You know how these elder people worry too much about everything they see on TV. She is a lovely old lady, though, so if I may be direct and honest with you: pay little attention to her complaint, and pay a little personal attention to her as a guest. The Duchess likes it when the director in person comes to her table when she has lunch, to ask if everything is fine. She's at the second table on the left, waiting for me to come with her main dish."
Mister Müller looks at me from above, thinks for half a second, and replies: "Well, if that lovely old lady is waiting for her main dish… What are you waiting for? Go serve the old tart her fish."
"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."