"Who do you love, Bugs?"
Doc is still impressed by the speech of the young Polish woman.
"I love my parents and my grandparents. I love my friends. I love people who love other people."
"Isn't there one special woman, or a man perhaps, who's waiting for you to hear how your day was?"
"No, there's no special woman. Sometimes I feel a little sad inside for not having a life that can be shared with somebody to love, but that's the price of being a spy. You and me, we're travelling every day, saving the world or saving patients's lives. In our suitcases, there's no space for someone special. Or am I mistaken? Is there a Mrs Doc waiting for you somewhere?"
Doc knows what I'm talking about: "They say that everybody needs somebody, someone to love, a sugar to kiss and a sweetheart to miss, but men like you and me, we have to sacrifice other pleasures to do what we have to do. Perhaps in a next life."
"That Polish girl was quite clear about it: she reminded her Minister that love is more important than Economy. We don't live to work. We work to live."
Long before we reach room 472, we hear the hammers of the demolishers who started making room for rebuilding and renovation. At 21:00? In a broom closet?
I open the door and see Gregor, in pain, in need, insane, indeed. When Doc's injection stopped working, Gregor woke up with one desire: Angel Dust. Being tied to a chair inside a broom closet didn't bother him at all. The drug convinced him of the urgency to fight his way out, and Gregor answered with everything he had. So now he had a headache, he had bleeding wounds on his face, shoulders and wrists, and he had the proof that the door of the broom closet was a lot stronger than his addiction. I feel sorry for all the witches of Brest: Gregor's rage broke every broom in the closet, so if they have plans to go out tonight, they'll have to find alternative transport.
I push Doc and Gregor inside Doc's office, close the door behind us, and start cleaning and bandaging Gregor's wounds: "What do we do now, Doc? We can't leave him like this. We have to go in an hour."
Doc asks me to remove the duct tape from Gregor's mouth, to hear if he has something to say, but he only shouts: "I WANT MY ANGEL!" until I put the tape back. There's nothing sensible coming out of him.
"Perhaps we should give him what he wants. Do you still have the Angel Dust he gave you?", I suggest.
Doc shakes his head: "It's not a matter of what to give him. It's a moral dilemma we should solve here. As a doctor, I swore an oath to cure my patients and save their lives. We have three options. The first is that we do nothing. As you can see, it will result in Gregor hurting himself. I don't consider that as an option, more as the disease I have to cure. The second option is to give him the drugs he wants…"
Gregor is listening, even calms down a bit after hearing Doc's words. He nods ferociously. He wants his Angel.
Doc goes on: "The third option is to give him Prepoleptyl. He will be on speaking terms, without pain and without the desire to take Angel Dust. He'll be perfectly alright. We also know the problems of option three. Is Prepoleptyl a solution, or does it make everything worse? By experience, I know that option two makes the problem worse. Before Gregor started taking Angel Dust, he didn't need our help. When options one and two fail, it's tempting to pick option three, but there's a risk: we still don't know if Prepoleptyl shuts off his emotions temporally or permanently. All we know is that Prepoleptyl will give us a reasonable Gregor, someone we can talk with."
I'm not sure what Doc tries to say: "And the moral dilemma is?"
"The moral dilemma is: should the doctor cure the patient against his will, or should the doctor treat the patient according to his will? This is not something to think lightly about. The seventh floor of this hospital is full of patients who have no reasonable expectations of being cured. The doctors there follow the wish of the patients and medicate morphine, against their oath to do everything they can to save the lives of those patients."
I try to help Doc: "Those patients are reasonably thinking people. They suffer an incurable disease, which has no solution, but they also have an internal conflict. Their instinctive, emotional desire to live forever fights their reasonable mind, telling them it's time for the voyage to the next life. They are terribly sick, but their capacity to think and decide is perfectly healthy: they can decide for themselves. In their case, the doctor respects the wish of hor patient and accepts Mother Nature's Law: we're all mortal.
» But Gregor is a different situation. This patient has no reason. He runs on emotions, and those emotions tell him to destroy himself. Such a patient must rely on the judgement of the doctor, who can turn off his emotions and decide on reasonable facts and chances. How big is the chance that Gregor survives when you give him Angel Dust? How big is the chance he will become a healthy person when you give him Prepoleptyl? What would be the consequences if you'd put him back to sleep again as you did before the break? Did you think of all the alternatives? It's not a moral decision, Doc. It's a reasonable decision. When the patient has lost control, should the doctor give his patient what he asks for, or should he give his patient what he needs?"
Doc takes the two options out of the drawer of his desk. On the left side, there is a little plastic bag with Angel Dust. On the right side, there is a little flask with Prepoleptyl. In the middle lies the needle. Gregor nods to the Angel Dust. I nod to the Prepoleptyl. Doc takes the flask, takes the needle, carefully fills 20cc and injects it into Gregor's vein. We count the seconds. Ten seconds later, Gregor's eyes are back to normal. When we count fifteen, the strong tension in his muscles has disappeared, and he breathes relaxed. Doc checks his pulse: "Seventy and steady. It looks like we can remove the patient's right to remain silent."
"What did you just do?", are Gregor's first words.
"I want you to understand I did this without your permission. If you want to sue me for financial compensation, or if you want the Medical Court to forbid me to keep working as a medical doctor, you have the right to do so, and you will probably get your claims paid out. I injected you with a new and not properly tested medicine, Prepoleptyl. It turns off your feelings. We expect this is only a temporary effect, but it might be possible that it will last forever. I did this to have access to your reason, so you can decide without emotions if you want to continue with your Angel Dust addiction, or if you would prefer to follow a treatment to kick the habit."
Gregor takes a minute to think it over: "If I would take Angel Dust now, it would still give the same effect?"
"It would kill you if you take an overdose, but it will not give you any emotional effect, not the high and not the desire for more. You haven't smoked tobacco either for quite a while. Do you feel the need to smoke another cigarette now? Do you feel the devil of the nicotine telling the emotional centre of your brain it's time for another dose?"
Gregor wonders, but admits Doc is right: "You're right. This stuff really works. Why isn't it for sale? You can earn fortunes with it, even if you would only sell it as a tool to stop smoking."
"Because smoking or stopping is a matter of both emotions and reason to decide. When emotions come back and reason isn't strong enough to control it, the former behaviour will return like before. With depression and other addictions, it's the same. You need to follow a therapy. You need to learn how to control your emotions and experience that life is much better without the stuff you were addicted to. Treatment and training demand time and effort from the patient. The doctor helps, and the medicine relieves the pain, but it's you who has to decide."
Gregor is all ration and logic now: "I always wanted to kick the habit of taking drugs, but… Everybody needs somebody, you know, and I felt like life was too hard for me to make it on my own. My Angel always helped me."
I finish his thoughts: "Until your Angel turned out to be the biggest problem. You are right when you say that everybody needs somebody, but that somebody is personal. It's a person. In your case, it's various persons: your friends and your family. They can help you when you're in trouble. You have a team of Pillow Fighters here to help you, but they also need you to help them. With the drugs in your system, they'll be expelled from the Games. I offer you a deal: if you accept to follow the treatment, I will take your place on the team."
"Can you make us win the tournament?"
"No, I can not."
"Can you help us make it through the first round?"
"No, I can not."
"So… why do you do this?"
"Doc and I are hunting a dangerous drug lord. If we want to find out who's manipulating the results of the European Games, we have to become players, well, I have to become a player because Doc is in a wheelchair with a broken leg. If I can take your place in the Pillow Fight Tournament, we might have a chance to find the G.O.D.-father we're after."
Gregor understands. Gregor agrees. Gregor promises to stay close with Doc while I'm not around. He tells me what he knows about the Pillow Fight Tournament, his team, and the tactics they usually follow. I cut him loose from the chair and we all shake hands to confirm our little agreement. I go to the kitchen of the hospital and return with supper and drinks for the three of us. After that, it's time for Doc and me to go. In fifteen minutes starts Poetry In Motion, the European Championship for Poets and Songwriters. Gregor stays in room 472, to read books that help him with his therapy. With our patient in his sanatorium, we walk to the auditorium, of the biggest school in Brest, for the poetry contest.
* * *
"Ladies aaaaaaaaand gentlemen. Welcome to your first Poetry In Motion Contest. We're so glad to see so many of you lovely people here tonight, and we would especially like to welcome all the representatives of the French Tax Law Community who have chosen to join us here in the Brest High School Auditorium at this time, where art gets the tax-free attention it deserves. Our 50 competitors will have one hour to write a poem. This year's topic is… «Everybody Needs Somebody to Love».
» This event would never have been possible without the support of Bard Of Avon Publishing, where you can pre-order your copy of the exclusive pocket with all the fifty poems of tonight's competitors, for the special price of 49,95 euros, which isn't even one euro per poem. Everyone can afford it to have the best art of the year close at hand. Transfer now, to the bank account on your TV screen, or send an envelope with cash to Bard Of Avon Publishing, P.O. Box 1066, Guernsey.
» Of course, this event would be nothing without our professional jurors. We're proud to present you, from the United States, writer of award-winning mystery and detective novels about among others Matthew Scudder and Bernie Rhodenbarr, writer of several highly praised How To Write-books, and 1994's Grand Master of Mystery Writers of America, all the way from Buffalo, New York… Please give warm applause to Mr Lawrence Block!"
The fifty candidates in their much too small student chairs behind their much too small student tables clap as if their lives depend on it.
"On the other side of our jury table, from the United States, writer of award-winning science fiction novels, writer of several highly praised How To Write-books, and winner of 1991's Hugo and Nebula award for her novel «Beggars in Spain», all the way from Buffalo, New York… Please give warm applause to Mrs Nancy Kress!"
The fifty candidates not only applaud but also stamp their trainers on the sound-absorbing floor, all doing their utmost to impress the teacher and become the best student of the class.
"And finally, in the centre, a man who needs no introduction: he's born in Duluth, Minnesota. He was the voice of a generation in the 1960s with his songs like «Blowin' in the Wind» and «The Times They Are a-Changin'» which became anthems for the Civil Rights Movement and the anti-war movement, and in 2016, for «having created new poetic expressions within the great American song tradition», he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature. We're extremely proud to present you, the chairman of our jury: Mr Bob Dylan!"
Standing ovation. The only ones who don't stand up are Doc and Mister Dylan himself, who waves all the attention away. He's here to honour other poets, not to be honoured himself.
The contest starts now. Silence might indicate that the viewers at home are entertained with 60 minutes of commercials, but the opposite is true: there is a direct online connection with every one of the fifty tablet computers the writers use. Via the Internet, it's possible to pick your favourite writer and follow hor while she creates her text, including the writer's block, the corrections, the typing errors, the dictionaries and other tools she uses in the process. The viewers who follow the event on TV have to live with the choices of the program director for their country, who switches between the screens of writers of hor choice. No commercials. Not even one. But don't worry. Everyone has to pay to enter the website, while the TV channels have to pay per viewer, so nobody has to feel sad that the organization of the European Games won't make a fortune with this event.
One by one, each poet clicks the Print button. Their final version lands on the desk of the jurors, who study each text with attention. Then the time is up.
The speaker announces the final moment: "We sincerely hope you all enjoyed our show, and please remember, people, that no matter who you are, and whatever you do to live, thrive and survive, there are still two things that make us all the same: one day we'll all die, and until then, we all have to pay taxes. There's one exception: thanks to his work, each poet will be immortal, and thanks to offering his work for free to our sponsor, these poets don't pay taxes. That's why all these taxmen are here. They don't believe such a thing is possible, but now they can see it with their own eyes: love is the only thing you can receive, have, and give away, without paying taxes."
Now even Mister Dylan stands up and joins the standing ovation. The twenty taxmen bow their blushing heads and quickly retreat to their concrete cells in the basement of the Tax Office.
Mister Dylan takes the microphone to announce the winners: "How do you judge art? Is the gold medal for the writer who produced the most words per minute? Do we reward the poet who made the least errors in grammar and spelling? Do we honour the one who sold most copies? Art is a matter of taste. This jury can choose three poems to win this contest, but other readers would have picked other poems. It says nothing about the poems and everything about the jury. We're not that kind of jury. Our first selection values artistic quality. When we all three agreed that a certain poem has enough quality to win tonight, we put it on the right. When one of us, or all three, didn't like a certain poem, we put it on the left. Finally, we draw three random poems from the right pile and declare them the winners of the bronze, the silver and the gold medal."
A voice from the back row shouts: "That pile on the right, there's only one poem there. Does that mean it won all three medals?"
Mister Dylan explains: "The left and right pile, that's from our point of view, and not from the camera or the competitors' point of view. Point of view is, as any writer knows, an important issue. I'm glad you gave us the chance to explain our point of view."
The voice in the back row is not so glad: "So there's 1 loser and 49 winners?"
Mister Dylan confirms, while he puts the pile of winners into his hat for the lucky draw: "That's correct. The buyers of the collection of the contributing poems will indeed get value for their money. To save time, instead of reading aloud the names of the 49 potential winners, I will give the name of the loser: it's the poem with the title «Money», written by the poet from the Netherlands, Mr Ronaldo Siète."
Now the voice at the back gets really mad: "I'm sure that poem was the only one worth winning. What do a science fiction writer, a writer of detectives and a singer of fifty-year-old songs know about European poetry? You're a disgrace. You—"
Mister Dylan holds his hand up and interrupts the angry voice: "If there are doubts about this jury, we take away these doubts. I'll read out this poem aloud. Everybody here can stay quiet to share our opinion, or applaud the poem to support it and ask the judges to change their verdict. This is art. This is a democratic decision. If anyone claims cultural dictatorship, I will herewith declare hor a Grammar Nazi and expel hor from this contest.
» This year's topic is… «Everybody Needs Somebody to Love». The title of this poem is «Money». Judge for yourself:
» Money
one two three four,
money opens every door,
two three four five,
money dominates my life,
five six seven eight,
money makes me work so late,
six seven eight nine,
money makes me feel so fine."
The deadly silence unanimously confirms the choice of the jury. Mister Dylan explains: "It's clear this has absolutely nothing to do with the topics «Love» and «Everybody Needs Somebody». Obviously, nobody here likes this poem, and—"
The voice at the back interrupts at full volume: "That's because you sent away those tax inspectors. They would have loved this poem. You're a disgrace. Of course, this poem goes about love: we all LOVE money, we do everything to get it, we hold it dearly, in our wallet, as close to our heart as we can. I write to make money. We all write to make money. Even the New Joke Bestseller List is a list of the books that have made the most money. It's not fair!"
The poor, underestimated Dutch poet starts to lose his mind, or perhaps he already lost his mind before he even got here. He hits people, throws with chairs and tables, breaks expensive tablet computers on his knee and shouts louder and louder.
"Nobody buys poetry. We want novels. We want violence. We want money. La Mentirosa de Formosa wrote, and I quote: «Ronaldo Siète writes better plots than David Baldacci. Ronaldo Siète is the Number One New Joke Times bestseller». I deserve that gold medal. This is cultural censorship of commercial intellectual property. What do writers know about art? Publishers are the only ones with the right to decide what sells and what doesn't. They love money and they make lots of it, thanks to the creativity of people like me, real writers, novel writers. Poetry is a joke. Poetry In Motion? The only motion you see here is this table; it moves on top of the head of this lady here. And how about this chair? It flies, like my novels fly out the shops. We don't want poetry. All we want is violence and blood. Even you, Mister Dylan. Your biggest hit was about Hurricane, a violent boxer who was accused of killing people. Look at that bartender in a pool of blood. Three bodies lying there, but I didn't do it, I was only robbin' the register. I hope you understand, Mister Nobel Prize…"
There's no security. The organization of the European Games marked the Sumo Suit Wrestling as a high-risk event, but at this Poetry In Motion, in this educated environment, a school's auditorium full of peaceful poets, the doctor and his assistant would be sufficient. The doctor is not a big help here; his job is to fix people after they are injured. So it's the assistant, me, who should save the night, the event, the European Games, and perhaps even the world.
It's an unfair fight. In five steps, I'm behind the berated berserker, bereaved of his bestseller. I break one of my capsules of OC-V 340 Tumble Tornado under his nose (holding my breath to avoid inhaling the gas myself). When the poet falls asleep, I drag him outside and hand him over to the twenty taxmen, who promise a complete investigation on the man: his income, his possessions and his spending of the last fifty years. Tax evasion plus an act of terrorism against the united community of peaceful poets (with 750 million witnesses) guarantee Mr Siète a secure stay in the State Hotel for the next 3.000 years.
Just in case, I add: "It's obvious he's on drugs." That will make it 3.001 years.
I'm back in time for the draw of the winners.
"The bronze medal goes to the Czech Republic, for the poem «The Power of Love»:
Sometimes I feel, I feel a little blue inside
When my baby mistreats me, I never ever have a place to hide
I need you, yes, you
I need you, yes, you
I need you, yes, you in the morning
I need you, yes, you when my soul's on fire
» The silver medal goes to Malta, for the poem «The Dream»:
In the dream, she was right here with me
Right here with me in the bed
She said «Baby, come and kiss me.»
«Never leave me!», was what she said
Then when I reached out to hold her
I woke up my wife instead…
» And the gold medal for Poetry In Motion goes to… Moldavia, for the poem «Lady Marmalade»:
Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?
Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?
Itchi bitchi ya ya na da
Itchi bitchi ya ya hey
Mocha-choco-late yaya
Creamy lady marmalade"
* * *
When we return to the hospital (Doc to sleep, I to start my night shift at the Emergency desk), I have one final loose end to solve.
"Do you trust me, Doc?"
"Of course. You're my friend. Why?"
"Because I need you to do something for me. You earned 3.000 euros with your bet with Tong Au during the Free Kick Goal Scoring, right?"
"I cashed my winning bet of 5.000 euros that same afternoon and paid Tong Au his 2.000 euros share."
"And you received € 3.000 after the Q&A Contest from the beer brand, for giving them extra publicity, right?"
"You were there when they paid me."
"Do you still have that money?"
"How could I spend it? You were with me every minute when I wasn't asleep. We've been working all the time."
"I want you to place a bet of 6.000 euros on Belarus, winning the final fight of the Pillow Fight Tournament in less than 20 seconds. That's a 1:100 rate. If you win, you'll get 600.000 euros. Tong Au is in trouble. I need half a million US dollars to buy him out, and I need them fast."
"You want me to become half a millionaire, and then give most of my fortune away? Are you crazy?"
"First, I want you to know I'm risking my life, being part of the Belarus Pillow Fight team. I need the motivation to be there, and I need even more motivation to keep us in the tournament as long as we can. If we lose the first match, there won't be any G.O.D.-father with an offer we can't refuse. Without motivation, I see Pillow Fighting as a stupid game, not worth fighting for. Without motivation, the first fight will be our final fight.
» Second, I want to help Tong Au. He's our friend. He'll need all the help he can get. Thanks to the owners of Bet To Win, the Gambino family, he's in deep financial shit. The Gambinos put Tong Au in hospital. And that's not all. I checked the quotations before the start of Poetry In Motion. The odds were 1:25 for every poet, except one. Moldavia paid out 1:2. Is it magic or manipulation that Bob Dylan pulled their preferred winning rabbit out of his hat? As Mister Dylan is between the most empathetic people on Earth, I bet that Bet To Win is cheating. I want them to pay. But I'm just one small man, against a gigantic operation. I can't do this alone. I need your help, your money, betting on a contest I'm part of."
"Can you guarantee you will win?"
"Unfortunately not. But it will make the sharks alert, and it might give us a chance to find G.O.D. when somebody makes a mistake."
Doc calculates. He doesn't like the odds. "The risk that I'll lose that money is…"
"If you don't make that bet, it's 100% sure you'll lose your friend, and you'll lose the only chance we have to find G.O.D. If you bet, we'll have a tiny chance to win, but at least we have a chance."
Doc's on Prepoleptyl. He doesn't have emotions. He calculates differently now: "When I started this adventure, I had no money. I found 3K here and got another 3K there. When I lose it again, betting on the wrong monkey, I will end as I started. From that point of view, I can never lose. But if I win, if you win the final in less than 20 seconds… How much is the exchange rate on the US dollar? How much is 600.000 euros minus half a million US dollars?"
I take my spiPhone, search the Internet, and answer: "Half a million US dollars is 420.000 euros. You'll make 180.000 euros profit. But the odds are low; this 1:100 is the highest quotation Bet To Win gave to any team at the entire European Games. They believe it's impossible for Belarus to win the Pillow Fight. We need your high bet. We need to come as far as possible, to draw the attention."
Doc is still not convinced. I put a final iron in the fire: "Did you know that Bet To Win paid Pjanovic to become last at the Free Kick Goal Scoring? They preferred to give him 30.000 euros, so they didn't have to pay 3 million to the only gambler who guessed the final five correct. That gambler was you, Doc. They cheated. This is your chance to get even. Perhaps it's a tiny chance, but it's a chance."
"A chance is a chance. Okay. I do it. I have the money in my room in the hospital, hidden between pages 205 and 206 of the book «The Secret Sex Life of the Bed Bugs». Nobody will be interested in reading that book. Let's go and get it. The betting office is open until 23:55. If you run, we'll be still on time."
And I'll be late for my night shift.
Again…