Rostov and I drag Miss Franklin into the lift. On the 25th floor, we carry her to suite 2539, where we lay her on the double bed. She is already snoring. Her male assistant suffers an upcoming panic attack. He tries to wake her up by calling her name, by slapping her on the cheeks, by throwing a glass of cold water into her face, but nothing works: Miss Franklin is K.O.. Worse. She's like a boxer who can't get in the ring.
"What do we do?", he asks me. You must be pretty desperate if you start asking a chamberboy for advice.
"First, we have to get her up. Give us a hand, Mister… What's your name?", I ask.
"Elwood. Jake Elwood. I'm from Chicago."
Rostov shakes hands: "Pleased to meet you. I'm Mesut Bellarabi, formerly known as Rostov. He's Julian, but his friends call him Lux. We fix things. Don't you worry about a thing, 'cause every little thing is gonna be all right."
"I've heard that before.", Jake says: "How can a chamberboy and a bellboy fix Miss Franklin, so she's able to rock the stage in… two and a half hours?"
I explain: "Things are not always what they seem. Before Rostov became a bellboy, he was a tycoon drowning in debt. Have you seen the James Bond film «The World Is Not Enough»? He owns the original BMW Z8 with remote control that James Bond used in that film."
Jake's doubts grow with the second: "How is that going to help us?"
I smile: "Before I became a chamberboy, I was a butcher, cutting up meat. Have you seen that film «Big Momma's House» where Martin Lawrence has a machine to make a rubber mask of the face of Big Momma? I have that machine. Help us lift Miss Franklin; I have to make the images the software needs to produce the mask."
Jake still doesn't understand: "Why? What for?"
Rostov understands. He knows this ain't over until the fat lady sings. He knows I don't sing and I don't dance. There's only one option left and, after his successful rehearsal for a bus full of live audience, he's looking forward to it. He grins at the snoring Miss Franklin: "Hey, you'll get me rocking."
* * *
Two and a half hours is not a lot of time to transform a 31-year-old Caucasian banker into a 70-year-old black female world-famous singer. It requires teamwork, dedication, quick thinking and accurate acting. We can't have any misfortune at all because the show must go on. Over 3.000 people will be waiting on the terrace near the lake for the moment of their life: Miss Aretha Franklin will step on the landing pier that has been turned into a podium, and she will stage a show like Geneva hasn't had since Deep Purple burnt down a studio and wrote «Smoke On The Water».
My first stop is my own room, 1407, to unpack my kit that produces rubber masks, to start my computer and the software for the design, to connect my spiPhone and feed the data, to get the whole circus running. That will take a while. My next stop is the reception, to get the 21 suitcases, bags and sacks Miss Franklin brought for a one-night stay and a one-hour show. A lady differs from other women because of the number of disasters she's always prepared to face and solve. A lady never goes anywhere without the proper outfit for every imaginable occasion. Miss Aretha Franklin is a lady, she's THE lady, the First Lady, the Queen of Soul. 21 suitcases, bags and sacks are what she calls «traveling light».
Also, a gentleman differs from other men because he behaves like a gentleman under every circumstance. Mister White and Mister Black are not real gentlemen. They look more like Mister Green and Mister Yellow when they enter the lobby of the hotel. Seven hours of continuous roller coaster have their effect on even the trained stomachs of trained special agents of the CIA. Mister Black disappears into the bathroom, answering the call of all the unnatural candyfloss, waffles with maple syrup and chocolate flavoured ice cream that people eat before they start shaking their intestines in the various attractions of a fair. Mister White wants to have a word with Sabina first. He looks angry when he asks her: "Who delivered that envelope with the message you gave us this morning?"
A beep of his phone distracts Mister White. He doesn't use voice recognition or fingerprint control or even a secret number to unlock it: just an old fashion check of the retina. I grab his face with the photo app of my spiPhone, sticking out of my breast pocket. If I'd take a picture of the moon with my spiPhone, I can enlarge it until I see Neil Armstrong's footprints. The photo quality of the eye of the spy is so high that also without the real guy with the tie, I can lie and have access to all his data in the sky, I mean, in the cloud. It's an idea.
Sabina looks as innocent as Snow White meeting President Snow in the White House: "That message was delivered anonymously, Sir. Privacy of our clients is paramount in this hotel, as you can imagine."
«Thanks for not bringing me into more trouble than I can handle, Sabina. I owe you another one», I think when picking up the luggage of Miss Franklin the doorman brought from the taxi to the lobby.
Sabina quickly distracts Mister White from the subject. She gives him her special smile, the one that she reserves for the best guests, hands Mister White two white pills in a transparent wrapping and asks: "I'm sorry for the inconvenience, Sir. You might want to try one of these: they do miracles when your stomach is disturbed. Can I make you happy with two reserved V.I.P.-seats in front of the stage for tonight's concert? Miss Aretha Franklin will perform. I thought that you and Mister Black, as Americans, might like Aretha."
Mister White can't resist Sabina's smile: "Everybody likes Aretha. I'm her biggest fan. I didn't know she would be singing tonight. Thank you. I very much appreciate it. At what time does the show start?"
Sabina searches in her paperwork and takes out two slips of coloured paper: "The show starts at 8 o'clock on the terrace at the back of the hotel. These are for you. Your seats are on the table with the Duchess of Alva, Mister Kofi Anan, and Mister Gary Lineker. Like you said: everybody loves Aretha. I wish you a very pleasant evening, Mister White."
«I owe you two, Sabina.», I think. «I owe you three.» when she gives me a wink and a little smile of understanding after Mister Black and Mister White entered the lift. I'll take the next one, covered with luggage like a mule.
Back in suite 2539, Rostov is getting in shape: Jake and he managed to get the eiderdown quilt from under the sleeping Miss Franklin, cut holes so Rostov can wear it like a jacket, cut off the superfluous fabric at the bottom, and sewed it like arms to complete the figure. The belt of the hotel's bathrobe keeps the quilt in place and gives shoulders, waist and hips to Rostov's new body. When I enter with the luggage, Jake knows where to find a bra that creates the illusion of breasts, white gloves that hide Rostov's male hands, and high heels that make sure nobody notices his ugly painted feet. The best part is the long black dress, decorated with little silver clovers, which covers the white artificial skin completely: it's closed around the neck, it has long sleeves and it's just long enough to hang almost to the ground.
One trip later, I return with the mask. The shape is not bad, but the skin colour is terribly wrong. It takes us precious time to make it darker and plain. A few pounds of make-up and one of Miss Franklin's three wigs do the final trick. Rostov looks in the mirror, on which we taped one of the autographed photos that every star has to give to her fans. He can't believe that he's looking at himself: "Look at me!"
I correct him immediately: "Don't speak with your own voice, Rostov. From now on you have to BE the character: speak like Aretha, act like Aretha, smile and sing like Aretha, even think like Aretha. She's a woman, a diva, a star. Forget about that ugly banker under her skin. BE her. You better think…"
Rostov closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, flips a switch in his head and says to me, with a high and female voice: "Don't you dare to talk to me like that, young man. I've been a singer for more than 50 years and I don't need anyone to tell me how I should behave. Did you speak with the orchestra to tell them which songs I will perform tonight? I think «Think», to start with, followed by «Respect». So you better start to think for yourself, young man, and show me the respect I deserve."
Jake is flabbergasted. He sits down on the edge of the bed and whispers: "Wow…"
I give my final instructions: "Listen carefully, Miss Franklin. In the first row, you'll see a table with two handsome men. They are CIA. We need you to seduce the black man, make him forget about everything so I can get access to the phone in the pocket of his jacket. Can you do that?"
Aretha gives me a naughty look: "A black man? A handsome black man? Of course, I can. Everybody loves Aretha."
I get the uncertain feeling that this will go wrong: "Don't seduce him like you're some kind of cheap trick. You're Miss Aretha Franklin. You can seduce any man with a wink and a smile. Don't show him your tits!"
Miss Rostov Franklin is really insulted: "Show him my tits? What do you think of me, young man? I can seduce any man with just a wink of my eye and a smile. Don't worry. Every little thing gonna be all right."
She smiles at her sleeping twin sister and says: "You make me feel like a natural woman."
A knock on the door is followed by the announcement that the show will start in five minutes and the question if Miss Franklin would be so kind to come down. Are we ready?
Rostov, correction, Aretha is ready.
I'm ready too.
Even Jake Elwood is ready. He gives Aretha a high-five and says: "Break a leg."
Rostov! I started to feel confident, but now Jake makes me worry again: "Don't say that, Jake. You don't know Rostov. You don't know what he's capable of. Don't give him the wrong ideas."
* * *
"Ladyyyyyyyys and Gentlemen. Tonight is a special night. You're here to witness one of the most remembered concerts in the history of Geneva. It ain't over until the Fat Lady sings and the Fat Lady is here, tonight, especially for you. We present you, all the way from Chicago, Illinois: the Queen of Soul, Missssssss Aretha Franklin!"
The spotlights focus on the stage, but Aretha's voice, clear, crisp and gloriously powerful, comes from behind, from the double doors between the lobby of the hotel and the terrace on the shore of the Lake of Geneva.
"You better think…"
From my place next to the stage, I see the Queen of Soul, making her entrance, singing and swinging, taking her time to pay a little attention left and right to some guests while she finds her way between the tables and chairs to the stage, the landing pier that has been pimped with a purple carpet and a scaffolding with spotlights. I can't see Rostov anywhere; even my subconscious tells me that this lady with the microphone is Miss Aretha Franklin. She blows a kiss to the leader of the little orchestra, she kisses the hand of the surprised-but-pleased Duchess of Alva, and she fills the stage with her presence: "You better think (think), think about what you're trying to do to me…"
The audience doesn't think. The audience has no idea what Aretha is trying to do with them. The audience lies at her feet, well, in fact, it's the other way around because the stage is the lowest point of the terrace, that goes up to the level where the hotel stands, making it look like an ancient Roman amphitheatre with a spectacular backstage of the stars, the water and the lights on the other side of the Lake of Geneva. The magic of the night is everywhere. Miss Franklin, Aretha, feels its inspiration and uses it to inspire the 3.000 guests that fill every chair and available space on the terrace. Millionaire businessmen with their ladies, Counts and Duchesses, waiters and sound crew, everybody claps while Aretha's voice goes over the top, telling everybody to think.
I have to concentrate and think about the Central Intelligence in the first row. I have to think, but Aretha doesn't allow me; she doesn't allow anyone to think, just be amazed and enjoy this special moment, turning this evening into one of the most remembered concerts ever in the history of Geneva.
Aretha is a star. She knows this song takes only 3:06 in the film, but at a concert, you have to do a better job. She repeats the chorus, gives all the attention to the red-haired woman with the saxophone when she plays her solo, starts a sing-a-long game with the audience, having them sing the background vocals on the «Think (think)»-part and then returns to the three girls who think (think) that all you have to move is your mouth when you do the backing vocals: wrong. Aretha takes the Duchess of Alva by the hand (they're about the same age, perhaps even know each other from Royal Highness School where little Duchesses and future Queens of Soul go to) and puts her between the singers, showing how the steps should be done. The old tart has the night of her life (life is there to enjoy, so enjoy it as long as you can, Duchess) when she shows those youngsters the miracles that dancing does for your health, at any age. Her singing makes a penguin shiver, but she picks up the steps and claps faster than her three semi-professional colleagues. The crowd goes bananas.
But all good songs come to an end, and so does this one. Aretha is moved by the standing ovation. She bows and smiles, blows a few kisses to her fans, and pinks away a tiny tear of joy. Then she calms down the audience and, with more authority in her voice than most presidents are capable of, she speaks a few words into the microphone: "Today's news showed a lot of problems, again, like every day. Women suffer domestic violence. Poor black people fight with the police who swore to serve and protect them. Rich, white countries bomb the houses of poor aliens. Millionaire presidents build walls to keep poverty out of sight… The world is going crazy, and the cure for this disease is just one word: RESPECT. I will show you some respect tonight, and I hope you'll change your attitude and treat others with respect from now on… But first, I'll need the help of one SEXY man…"
All the rich businessmen, all the High Societies, all the waiters and the entire sound crew shout in their sexiest body language: "TAKE ME! I'M SEXY!"
Aretha looks around, amused, a finger of doubt at the corner of her mouth until she's made her choice: the only man in the audience who wants to stay in the shadows, but who sits already so close to the stage that the spotlights catch him even before Miss Franklin puts her gentle hand on his sexy head. The public cheers, jealous as hell, but accepting that this man, Mister White, is indeed the sexiest man available; the Duchess of Alva at his side animates him with a few punches of her elbow to stand up, only… Mister White himself shakes his head and his right index finger, smiles an apology and stays glued to his seat.
Miss Franklin looks for support from her audience: "Do you see what I mean? This is not a show, Mister. This is a message, a message from one black woman to the rest of the world, a message of only one word: Respect. Ar-Ee-Es-Pee-Ee-Cee-Tee. Respect. You should not stay where you are, Mister, high and dry on your fancy seat with your fancy clothes. No, Sir. You should stand up. You should move. You should treat others, and especially me, here, tonight, with RESPECT. Does everyone agree with me?"
Everyone agrees, of course. Everybody loves Aretha. Even Mister White loves Aretha.
Suddenly I realise why he doesn't want to stand up and join Aretha on stage: he has a gun hidden under his jacket. He's CIA. He's American. Americans are the biggest cowards in the world. They don't go anywhere without their guns. They still live in the Dark Ages when physical power was the only word people understood, in a country that's founded on only one law: the one who shoots first is always right. Mister White is afraid someone will see his gun. There's a solution, but I have to be fast.
I leave my place in the dark at the side of the stage and swiftly walk over to the table of Mister White and Mister Black. I move behind Mister White's chair, put my hands on his shoulders and whisper in his ear: "Don't worry, Sir. It's just a show. Let me take your jacket and your… defence tool. Nobody will see it. I will take care of it personally. Please. You don't want this crowd to start a worldwide revolution, do you?"
Without waiting for an answer, I move the top of the jacket (and the leather holster that my fingers feel under it) over Mister White's shoulders and, like a big weight falls off of him, he stands up while he leaves the dropping jacket and gun holster safely in my hands. The audience appreciates his change of mind with welcoming applause, but Miss Franklin keeps up the authority and, when the music starts to play, sings: "What you want, Baby, I got it. What you need, Do you know I got it. All I'm asking, is for a little respect…"
Mister White wants what Aretha has, and she has a lot, shaking it and showing it, but keeping it at a safe distance of Mister White like she wants to say: «You can watch, but you can't touch.» I leave the happy loving couple with their performance because my fingers have found Mister White's phone in his inner pocket and I have to present my spiPhone with the photo of his eye to his camera for a few seconds. I'm lucky. The software accepts my little trick. With one touch, I open the Internet browser, wait for three seconds until it's activated, type «www.lsd.lu/ispy#cia», hit
The necktie goes first. Mister White shows his teeth, as white as his name. The audience has fun too. Aretha, with one hand, having the microphone in the other and singing how much respect she likes to have, starts with the buttons of Mister White's white shirt and reveals more and more of his black torso on her way down. After the last button, she grabs the back of the collar of the shirt and with one quick movement down she shows her public that she did make the right choice when she told them she wanted the sexiest man on stage. Will she go on? Will she take his trousers off too? The Duchess of Alva hangs over the table and shouts: "Take his trousers off. Take his trousers off.", but Aretha sings no, just a little respect. She herself is not showing her breasts, and she doesn't allow Mister White to touch her either (but she does move her hand over his muscular arms and chest while she stands behind him, singing: «just a little bit»).
Aretha is now tired of touching Mister White's perfect torso. She dances over to the left side of the podium, unties a piece of thick rope, dances back to Mister White and ties up his right arm.
"A little respect."
Then she dances over to the right side of the stage, unties a similar piece of thick rope there, dances back to Mister White and ties up his left arm with it.
"A little respect."
The audience loves to see how Miss Franklin shows this handsome man his place. Mister White likes it too: with all his energy he plays his part, tearing the ropes to show how helpless he is, falling on his knees to undergo Miss Franklin's dressing-down: "A little respect."
Something is changing.
The shadow of death drops over the illuminated stage.
It's not the shadow of death.
It's worse.
Those thick ropes Miss Franklin used to tie up her victim, they were there for a reason: they supported the aluminium scaffolding that holds all the spotlights, left, right and above the stage. Without the support of those ropes and with Mister White tearing them, the whole construction starts to move, to fall backwards, moving the focus of those spotlights, from the stars on the stage to the stars in the sky.
I can't look at this. I never understood why people watch disaster films and now, when the disaster takes place right in front of me, I don't want to see it either. Firmly, I close my eyes, and I close them even tighter when the noise of breaking glass and the fireworks of electric devices announce the touchdown of the light show behind the waterline of the landing pier: the end of one of the most remembered concerts ever in the history of Geneva.
When I open my eyes, it's still dark. For a second I fear that I'm struck with blindness for helping cause such a disaster, but when I look up and see the stars, I realise that the broken lamps in the water triggered a short circuit that apparently was not limited to the terrace or even the hotel, but included the complete city and part of the surrounding territories too.
I don't know how you do it, Rostov, but you've managed to get Modern Geneva back to the Dark Ages again, all by yourself.
Well done, Rostov.
You got me rocking.