[Thursday, 25-1-2018 (Cancer): The tension is growing, and delays won't help your state of mind. Don't be aggressive if you can't control your impulses, for things might be out of control, but no person has the desire to harm you in the process.]
I'm getting nervous. There's no reason to get nervous. Nobody's going to harm me today. I'm walking on the top of a high mountain. We didn't even have to climb to get here; we came with the funicular. The weather is excellent. The view is spectacular. The grass is green. The air is pure. Shirley is the best company any spy can wish for. We're looking for the Hermit in the place the Tarot revealed, with the sun (stands for "gold") on the arm of the Maltese cross and the hands being formed by coins 1, coins 2, coins 3 and coins 4, everything indicating Goldeck (corner of gold), the mountain near Spittal. There's no reason to be nervous. But I can't avoid it. Perhaps it's my horoscope for today. Tension is growing. Delays won't help my state of mind. After visiting three mountain huts without finding anyone, especially not Kermit the Hermit, I'm more and more stressed. I need to relax. I can't afford my rage to take over. It's not rage. It's deception. Deception is the product of too many high expectations. After all the success we've had so far, four criminals in four days, we can't expect this to go on forever. The police have complete teams, working for months, to catch just one criminal. We have Tarot cards and a bit of luck. I shouldn't be disappointed that plate number five takes more than the normal time to digest; it's the main dish, and although it's Easy Meat, nobody said it would be easy. I can't control this situation. Control is impossible. The shots on this mission are called by the Higher Powers, and only Shirley can speak with them.
"Did you say your little prayer this morning?", I ask.
"Of course. I promised to help you, didn't I? Why? Is something bothering you? Did you have that nightmare again?"
My silence indicates my doubts. I'm nervous. Tense. I should relax. Nothing can go wrong today.
"You can tell me, my dear Watson. That's what friends are for. If you have doubts, you can share them with me. Shared sadness is half the sadness, while shared fun is twice as much fun."
The fourth mountain cabin is in sight. It doesn't look like the chapel from my nightmare, but still, it makes me feel nervous.
"Do dreams, nightmares, foreshadow our future?"
"No, there is no proof of that. Nightmares and dreams are tools from Mother Nature. They clean up our subconsciousness. Our mind needs time to digest emotions like doubt, fear, and sadness. They do it while we sleep. Also, when you have to take an important decision, it's always best to sleep one night over it and decide the next morning. But talking about your doubts with your friend is also a clever way to close the case and clear the clouds in your head. It's a beautiful day. The sun is shining. Look around: not one cloud to worry about."
In the sky not, but in my head, there are a few dark ones.
"Would you be capable of killing somebody else?", I ask.
"Is that what the nightmare was about? Was it the same nightmare you told me about the other day?"
"This time, I entered something that looked like a chapel. I faced a man who had no face. In one hand, he held a detonator, the sort that works like a hand grenade: if you open your hand, the bomb goes off. In his other hand, he held a gun, which he pointed at me…"
"And how did it end?"
"I woke up. But the dream hasn't disappeared. It keeps coming back. What would you do in such a situation?"
"You're a spy. You have a licence to kill. I don't. Under your belt, in the small of your back, you have a loaded Makarov with eight bullets. I don't. You have all the necessary skills to save the world. I don't."
"I do have a gun, and I know how to use it, but I've never killed anyone. So far, I always managed to save the day with my little aerosol pepper spray. But pepper spray is not an option when you're 10 metres away from a criminal who's pointing a loaded gun at your head. Shooting him isn't an option either, because his death will detonate the bomb."
"It's not about you. It's about doctor Evil, who has his finger on the detonator of the bomb that will burst and shatter all life on this planet. The way I look at it, there's only one solution: you'll have to outsmart him. Convince him to give it up. It's good to think about how to do that right now because, at the moment when you enter such a situation, you won't have time to think; you'll have to act, without doubts. That's why you need to think it over before. If you ask me, I would say that the key is… motivation. What does Doctor Evil want? Can you give him a better alternative? Your bullet won't stop him, but your words might…"
I visualise the situation. Doctor Evil is there, laughing loud, showing his superiority. He has the ultimate power, the power to destroy, not to create. That's where he makes the mistake. Every fool can find the power to destroy: it takes a Kalashnikov, or some C4 and a detonator, and it takes a lot of hate. The power to create is much harder to get: it takes dedication, studying, training, practice, effort, patience, perseverance, and lots of time, energy, creativity and knowledge. Power to destroy gets all the rewards one can dream of: with one violent attack, you're immediately breaking news to the entire world. Power to create gets no reward at all: nobody seems to be interested in the work of teachers, nurses, and construction workers, or the unpaid work of mothers, volunteers, and friends.
Shirley is a good friend. She tries to help me: "What makes Doctor Evil evil?"
"He's selfish. His ego is more important than anything else. He justifies his choices because he thinks he's better than the rest. Pride is his middle name…"
"Well done, my dear Watson. You've paid attention in Kindergarten. Imagine there's no detonator. You choose between killing and being killed, like in your first nightmare. What happens when you shoot and kill Doctor Evil?"
"It's a choice between one bad thing and another. Killing one person is a small price to pay for saving all the others."
"Lovely. Does killing bad boys make you a good person?"
"Hm. It makes me a person who harms somebody else. If the situation was different, every judge in the world would put me behind bars. Killing someone else is bad. I guess I'm not a good person when I decide to violate the «Thou Shalt Not Kill» commandment."
"You don't have to be religious to be a good person, my dear Watson. You just have to be intelligent. Our intelligence makes the difference between educated humans and primitive monkey behaviour. Our intelligence tells us we need each other. Doctor Evil would not survive if he was the only person left on this planet. Selfishness destroys. Social behaviour, based on human qualities, creates."
Shirley's wise words activate my brain. I'm intelligent. My horoscope for today advised me to control my anger, my doubts and my fears, to dominate my aggressive animal instincts with my intelligence. I try. But even if I can… Will it be enough to save the world?
Shirley continues: "Do you consider it Good to kill one person and save all the others? Your desired Happy Ending would justify your means, even if that includes doing something evil, like killing another person. What does Doctor Evil do? He makes the same kind of consideration: he sees a problem and acts the best way he can to solve that problem.
» It's interesting to look at the differences between you and him. Doctor Evil doesn't believe that humanity contributes in a positive way to the other life on this planet. Humanity is responsible for all the pollution, for the extinction of species, for global warming, for wasting natural resources like oil, for deforestation. If you look at the result of what humanity did to our planet, just by looking around and noticing there's no snow on this height in January, if you remember how it was when I was young and see how it is now, you have to confess: Doctor Evil has a point.
» And Doctor Evil isn't finished yet. He looks at what all this destructive human behaviour has done to humanity itself. War is just one issue. Look at the news. Talk to the nurses who work with alcoholics or drug addicts, the psychologists who work with victims of rape or domestic violence, the dietitians who work with people who are overweight, and the social workers who try to fight the hunger in the Third world. Don't forget the policemen who have their hands full with robberies, shootings, and car accidents. Humanity, according to Doctor Evil, is the dominant animal on this planet, but it's still nothing more than an animal.
» Doctor Evil is considered evil because he places himself on the chair of God, deciding over the fate of the world with destruction as his only option, but from his point of view, he's the good guy and you're the bad boy. For selfish reasons like greed, sloth, gluttony and wrath, Resident Evil is murdering the planet he loves. His only option is to kill one species, to save all the others. In his eyes, you're an agent of Resident Evil, sent on a mission to kill him. He does have a point."
Life used to be so easy before I knew this woman. She's like a master swordsman who defends every attack with ease because she already knows what's coming. You can hit high or swing low, a surprise from the right or an unexpected move from the left, you can stab with precision right at the heart, but the swordmaster just smiles and shows her skills by stepping away even before you make your move.
"You're totally right, Shirley. What would you do?"
"I would do what's written in the book I read every day. I would follow the wise advice of the one who showed me the path that I follow all my life. Don't treat others like you don't want them to treat you. I would shoot the detonator. That solves the problem."
I don't know what to say. The swordmaster took my sword, forged the strong metal with her bare hands into a plough, and gave it back to me.
Shirley continues: "And if I'd have time for a second bullet, I would shoot Doctor Evil."
"You would shoot Doctor Evil?"
"Yes. But I wouldn't shoot to kill him. I would shoot him in the arm that holds the gun. My first bullet would go to the detonator because I consider saving humanity a higher value than saving my own life, but if I would have time left to save my own life too, I wouldn't hesitate and shoot Doctor Evil in the arm. I would not allow him to shoot me, but I wouldn't kill him. Wounds can be healed. Death can't. Death is the end. But I don't have the skills and I don't have the bullets to do this. If I was to do such a thing, it would be a little miracle. So I hope you're capable of such a stunt when that moment comes, although I have serious doubts here, my dear Watson. I doubt you're afraid of something that will never happen. Dreams and nightmares don't have a foreshadowing quality."
I'm not as sure as Shirley is. I've seen too many little miracles lately. Shirley overheard a man who talked about a bomb. He might have a detonator too. I don't know what to believe anymore. It makes me nervous. Tense. I have to relax, but I can't. Imagine that Doctor Evil sits there in that mountain shed, ready to destroy the world. All I can do is prepare, get closer without making a sound, storm through the door, gun first, ready for the worst, filled with adrenalin, licence to kill, shoot the bastard before it's too late…
The door is locked. It's a simple lock. I open it with a hairpin in less than five seconds, without a sound. I draw the Makarov and make a gesture to Shirley to stay away. This scene won't be appropriate for children under 18 and grandmothers with an unrealistic image of the world we live in.
click [the gun]
click [the lock]
"Freeze. Drop your…"
"I already dropped my trousers, and also did I drop all my other shit, young man. How dare you run into an outhouse where a decent lady tries to relax and relieve herself of all the tension of yesterday's dinner. This is not a public bathroom, you know; this is a privy. What's that in your hand? Are you pointing a gun at me? Are you out of your mind?"
I'm out faster than I was in. With my back against the closed door, I stumble: "I'm terribly sorry, ma'am. Someone played a dirty joke on me. Please, go on with what you were doing. I apologise for the inconvenience. If you allow me, I can offer you a Wiener Kaffee with Apfelstrudel, or lunch, or dinner, to make it up with you. It was not my intention to harm you. I truly apologise."
"You foreigners are crazy, with your aggression and your violence! Your values stink to high heaven, Sir. And about your offer to have dinner with me: do make an appointment at your own convenience. Piss off, you PIG!"
I'm out of text. I'm out of my mind. I'm out of control. And my horoscope did warn me this morning: Don't be aggressive if you can't control your impulses, for things might be out of control, but no person has the desire to harm you in the process.
"Are you laughing, Shirley?"
"Laughing? I piss myself! Ha, ha. Charade of a spy you are. When a door says «private», you want to know what's on the other side, scaring the shit out of an innocent lady, ha, ha. You're hot with a hairpin, you're fun with a handgun, and I would really like to read the report you're going to send your boss about this, ha, ha. He'll be proud of you, ha, ha. Another shipload of Luxembourg's tax money well spent. Do they train you for this? Hi, hi, hi. Do they tell you that the real world is scary like a nightmare? This is what happens when you act on imaginary fears: in no time, you're in deep shit. And you expect me not to laugh? Shall I keep it all on the inside? Ha, ha, ha. I have to sit down. My dear Watson, the specialist, the lady killer, the only hope left to save humanity, and all he does is piss in the wind. There's a lot of wind up here, ha, ha. You're nearly a laugh, almost a joker, but you're really a cry. James Bond will be proud of you, ha, ha."
"I thought you were my friend. You're making fun of me."
"I'm not making fun of you; you're making a fool out of yourself. The cards made a mistake today. We came here to find the Hermit, but we found the Fool, ha, ha, ha. We didn't even find the Fool. He came here with us, ha, ha."
I can't help it. I'm laughing too: "Imagine James Bond, doing a toilet scene like this in a film. «For Your Eyes Only», ha, ha."
Shirley is double now: "Dr No Shit!"
"On Her Majesty's Secret Seat. With a Licence to Fill."
"That would give «Quantum of Solace» a whole new meaning."
Between the hiccups and the choking of laughter, we can only take one breath before the next fishy joke comes out: "Live and Let Die? Or Sit and Let Fly?"
"Moonraker? Or prunebaker? Ha, ha, ha."
And right at the moment when I think I've had enough, a deafening Skyfart falls in the outhouse, followed by the splash of the landing of a Thunderball. I can't believe this. We're so high on a mountain, but the level of this story is getting even lower than pulp fiction. This is ridiculous. We're on a mission.
"We have to stop, Shirley. My stomach hurts. My face hurts. If I take anything more, I'll laugh myself to death."
From the outhouse, a desperate female voice calls for help: "Well, die another day, man with the golden gun. I just found out there's no toilet paper. Some help would be welcome."
Shirley saves the day. She searches in her handbag and tosses me a roll of toilet paper: "Get your shit together, my dear Watson. Rescue a lady."
Without looking, I open the door at a crack and deliver the stationery to Miss Moneypenny, so she can finish the paperwork.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome, Miss. It's a pleasure to be at Your Majesty's Secret Service. You are, in fact, the one who occupies the throne, aren't you?"
Shirley grabs my ear and drags me down the path: "Come on, my dear Watson. We're going home."
"And what are we going to do with the Hermit?"
"The Hermit doesn't want to be found. He runs away from everything. He turns away from life. The hermit finds himself alone in the mountains of knowledge, the same mountains that can be found on the card of the Fool, where they represent the height of knowledge that the Fool has yet to climb to."
"And that Fool, that's me?"
"The Fool is a free spirit without worry. He chases a childish dream, my dear Watson. You worry too much to be the Fool."
Our little laugher therapy took away all my worries. To be the Fool or not to be the Fool is nothing to worry about now. We better get home before dark.
* * *
An hour later, we see the station of the funicular railway. I look at my watch: "We've just missed the 16:30 descend. We'll have to wait until 19:00 for the last one."
After all this hiking, I'm starving. It's almost dark. I'm cold. On our way up, I've seen a path that, according to a sign, leads to a little restaurant, Seraphina's Selection. Where was it? Over there. It's just a small climb. If we have to go down in the dark, we can follow the path with the light of the torch of my spiPhone.
Shirley seems to guess my thoughts: "Are you hungry? If you like, we can have dinner here. With this view as a side dish, all the lights of the valley below and the stars above…"
We take the path. The smells of cooking lead the way.
"I smell… Wiener schnitzel. Made of meat from mountain pigs.", Shirley smiles. She points at two pigs that are having a good time on the field next to the restaurant: "Food tastes better when the providing animals have had a better life. According to the life those two have, the Wiener schnitzel here must be outstanding."
"Hello, Miss Piggy. We're looking for your friend, Kermit the Hermit. Do you know where we can find him?"
The two pigs come running near to welcome us. Heidi has a pink ribbon around her neck and Peter has a light blue ribbon. Both have their name written on them in white embroidery. They put their snout in our pockets to see what we have to eat for them. I give them the bread that was left after our picnic lunch.
"Have you seen this, Shirley? Someone put lipstick on Heidi."
"Lovely. Maybe the pig wants to kiss you, my dear Watson."
"And maybe pigs can fly. I will give her a hand and throw her off a cliff if she puts her snout in my face."
Shirley takes a tin with energy drink (made in Austria) out of her purse and shows it to me: "Feed her this. They say it gives you wings. If that's true, pigs can fly. But I think it's just a tiny tin with caffeine and sugar, harmful for Heidi's health."
Heidi isn't interested in the drink. She wants to know if I have more bread for her.
I warn her: "Beware, Heidi. I'm the son of a butcher and pretty good with knives!"
Heidi and Peter back off immediately. Pigs are intelligent animals, even smarter than dogs. Some say that humanity doesn't descend from the monkey but from the pig. Does our plan of eating Heidi's grandpa make us cannibals?
When we go inside, we see a middle-aged woman, wiping the floor. She welcomes us warmly and tells us her name is Seraphina. We get a table next to the fireplace and she serves us our drinks.
"We have Wiener schnitzel with Pommes Frites, with baked potatoes, with cooked potatoes, with mashed potatoes and with rice. A salad plate is served with every meal.", she explains.
We order the baked potatoes, which are just like the baked potatoes we get everywhere, but the meat… My parents are butchers. I thought I knew a bit about meat, but this Wiener schnitzel is by far the best I've ever had. And it's coming close to being the largest too; the plate is bigger than normal, but still, the schnitzel falls off on both sides. I can't stop eating. I'm so hungry and it's so delicious that I've already finished my plate when Shirley isn't even halfway.
"If you like it so much, you can have a piece of mine. For being a senior, my appetite is not as big as yours.", she says and moves the rest of her meat to my plate.
"Have you ever eaten such a delicious Wiener schnitzel?", I ask her.
"Oh, I've baked a few myself in the years when I worked in the kitchen of the Villacher hospital. The outside isn't very crunchy. I think she's mixed some old bread with the crumbs or something."
Seraphina hears her comment, stops wiping the floor, and shakes her head: "No old bread. I only use fresh ingredients, and the meat is baked in Swiss butter. It's impossible you've eaten a better Wiener schnitzel than mine."
I ask her if the meat is so good because it's made of mountain pigs. She smiles mysteriously: "Are you two working for the police?"
"Why do you think that? My parents are butchers. I know about meat, but I'm sure I don't know this meat."
Seraphina comes near, bends over to our table and whispers: "It's a secret. Do you promise not to tell anyone? The truth is… this isn't pig meat. You've never eaten anything like it because… it's meat from mountain dwarves. That's why I asked if you were police officers. It's illegal to kill and butcher mountain dwarves, but their meat is soooo gooood. I can't resist catching one now and then. Did you have enough? Or would you like some more?"
"If I could, I would eat more, but I'm full. I can't even move my hand from my plate to my mouth anymore. It was delicious. Thank you."
"Would you like anything for dessert?"
"I have no more room for dessert. Just coffee, please.", I say.
Seraphina removes the plates and retires to the kitchen to make our coffee. Shirley stares at me, in a strange way. Finally, she asks: "Do you feel alright, my dear Watson?"
"Alright? I'm more than alright. Wasn't it you, who said something about the satisfaction of eating well? Well, I'm satisfied. I can't even move a finger anymore, after eating so much, but I feel fantastic. Why?"
Shirley takes her handbag and gets her tin of energy drink out of it. She opens it and drinks it all in one gulp.
I say: "What are you doing? In a restaurant, you can't drink anything you brought from home."
Shirley gets another tin out of her handbag, puts it in front of me on the table and says: "I can, but you can't. Try if you can drink this…"
She's right. I can't. I can't move. I'm tense as the string of a violin. My muscles don't respond anymore. I start having problems with breathing too. My tongue gets thick. I have problems with speech: "What's happening to me?"
Shirley opens the tin and feeds me the drink. Then she opens another one, tells me to keep quiet, she knows what she's doing, and lets me drink that one too. When we hear Seraphina coming out of the kitchen, Shirley whispers to me: "Don't move. You're paralysed by something in the food. I think, by the taste and the effect, that it was carfentanyl. The caffeine in the drinks will work as an antidote, but it needs time to start working. We'll need to buy that time. By the way, adrenalin works as an antidote too; you better start worrying. Fast!"
Seraphina is all smiles, no need to worry at all: "We ran out of coffee. I'm sorry. I've made you a cup of tea. Or would you rather drink a little Schnapps, für die Verdauerung?"
"I can't lift even a little Schnapps. I've eaten too much. Gluttony is a wonderful sin, telling us when enough is enough. I can't even lift my finger to ask for the check. How will we return to the funicular?"
"Don't worry. You won't return."
Seraphina shows what's on her tray between the tea, the cups, and the Schnapps: a long sharp knife, like my father uses at work. I'm getting afraid now, but it's welcome. The adrenalin works as an antidote. Too bad, it doesn't work fast enough. After such a huge dose of the drugs, I can't move one finger. I can't even panic. We need to buy time. Why doesn't Shirley do anything? She just sits there, as paralysed as me. Did the effect of the drugs hit her somewhat later? When she fed me the caffeine drinks, she looked rather tense and stiff. Would two cans be enough antidote? I have to say something now. I need to buy time. But I can't think of anything. What can distract a notorious killer? What does she love more than putting her knife on my throat? Shall I tell her a fairy tale? Which one? The tale about the witch in the gingerbread cottage that keeps her guests in cages to fatten them up? Real-life isn't a fairy tale. According to that knife, we're fat enough already.
Seraphina grins: "Did you like my little fairy tale about the grilled mountain dwarves? Dwarves don't exist."
I need to buy time: "I could have known that meat wasn't pork. Nobody would kill and eat an animal she gave a name first. We don't eat our cats and dogs either."
Seraphina is convinced we are dead meat already. She doesn't mind sharing her secrets with us: "Human meat is so much better than pork. Why do you think I'm so fat? An authentic Wiener schnitzel should be 100% meat from a Vienna-born man, like they should make hamburgers and frankfurters from real Germans. But it's been a poor season; those fat bastards don't walk all the way up here, not even for the best food in the world, so I had hardly any victims so far. By the way, of all mammals, the pig is closest related to the humans. You'll see why: you'll smell like a pig when you shit your pants with fear, you'll scream like a pig when I cut your throat, and you'll bleed like a pig until you die. You'll make a delicious Wiener schnitzel."
Shirley knows something about cooking too: "Are you letting me go? I'm too old for schnitzel. I'm fifty kilos of old, raw-boned skin with hardly any meat and no fat at all."
"I'll make chicken soup of you, and I'll feed you to the English tourists. They eat everything."
Shirley's out of text. Seraphina doesn't want to talk anymore. And for me, there's only time for my last words: "I won't make a good schnitzel either. I'm too sweet. You'll have to spice me up. With a bit of PEPPER!"
Shirley's words distracted Seraphina just enough to let me slip my arm off the table, into my pocket, where I have my canister with pepper spray. The adrenalin of looking Death in the eye, the mortal memories of the Ace of Spades, the blockbuster film of my life, spinning before my eyes (one day, when I have more time, I'll have to sit down for it and have a better look), it all gives me the willpower and muscle power to lift my arm and press the button.
Seraphina is in pain. Hot tears from the pepper spray run down her cheeks, but she'd also lifted her tray and emptied the pot with boiling tea in her decolletage. She dances to the kitchen, wanting warm water for her burning face and cold water to cool her chest and the rest.
"Are you okay?", I ask Shirley.
"Still a bit stiff. I can use some exercise. This afternoon, I missed aerobics hour in the Twilight Zone."
I try to get up. I have to get up. She'll be back. I have to stop her. With difficulty, I stand up and step away from the table. I take the Makarov from under my shirt and point it at the door of the kitchen.
Seraphina comes through the door. Her eyes are red. Sweat drips from her temples. A hiss blows from her lips. The white knuckles of her stubby fingers clench the butcher knife. She won't surrender without a fight.
"I have a gun."
"I have a knife."
"I'll use it."
"I use it all the time."
"I'll kill you."
"You're not a killer. I am."
This is ridiculous. I can't fight this woman. If she were a man, I'd already stepped in, grabbing her knife-hand, breaking her wrist on my knee, slamming my elbow into her face, breaking her nose and a handful of teeth… I can't do anything like that to a woman, not even after she'd tried to poison and butcher me.
Behind me, Shirley asks: "Do you want me to take her? I can step in, grab her knife-hand, break her wrist, her nose, her teeth…"
Without taking my eyes off Seraphina, I say: "That won't be necessary. She will put the knife down, NOW!, or we'll kill little Heidi and Peter."
Terror paints her face grey: "You wouldn't dare."
"I was a butcher once."
"You're bluffing."
"Then why are you so afraid? Heidi pork chops. Peter sausages. Heidi hamburgers. Peter schnitzel…"
"STOP!"
The attack comes as I expected, fast and low, knife forward, aiming for my gut, where it hurts most and it takes longer to die. I grab her wrist when I twist and step aside, turning her arm on her back, pushing hard until she drops the knife and falls on her knees, crying with pain. With my free left hand, I struggle to get hold of her left arm, but she's strong, shakes loose, and rolls aside, making me lose my grip. I kick the knife away just before she can lay her hands on it. She doesn't give up. She sprints to the front door and grabs the knife. With her back to the door, she defends her loved ones. She holds the knife with one hand, and with the other hand, she invites me to come nearer: "Come on. I've had three like you for breakfast."
I take one step forward to show I'm not afraid, but I stay out of her reach: "Give it up. We won't harm you."
"Never. Come and get me. You'll regret it for the rest of your life, the whole three seconds of it."
"I'll shoot you."
Seraphina laughs out loud: "You talk too much. People who talk, don't act. You could have pulled that trigger before. You won't. You're afraid."
To show me she isn't afraid, she opens her arms wide, giving me a clear shot at her heart or her head. She's right. I can't shoot her. This is killing in cold blood. I can't do this.
Tsjak. Tsjak. Two steak knives through the fabric of her sleeves pin Seraphina's arms to the door.
Tsjak. Another steak knife goes through the dress between her knees.
Tsjak. Tsjak. Two more, on both outsides of her knees.
Tsjak. The sixth knife is a thriller above her shoulder.
Tsjak, a seventh next to her ear.
Tsjak, an eighth just above her head.
Tsjak. Tsjak. Tsjak.
"Do you want me to go on? Would you like the next one in your eye?", Shirley says from behind me.
Seraphina tries to rip her dress.
Tsjak.
"Give it up."
Tsjak.
I look over my shoulder. Shirley stands next to the kitchen door with a handful of cutlery: "Where did you learn to throw knives like that?"
"I didn't. With every throw, I aim at her heart, but so far, she's lucky."
That does it. Seraphina surrenders: "Please. No more. I give up."
When I put the handcuffs on Seraphina's wrists, Shirley asks her: "You're a Scorpio, aren't you? I should have known. Scorpios are loners. Determined. Cruel and revengeful like no other. In the Chinese Zodiac, Scorpio stands for the pig. I guess your motive was revenge. Am I right?"
Seraphina doesn't say a word, but her tears give Shirley enough clues to continue her investigation: "Somebody did something terrible to you, and you decided that the best payback would be to do something terrible to others. Did it work? Did it bring back the one you lost? Did it undo the damage they did to you? Buddha taught us that revenge is like throwing a hot piece of coal to someone else; the first one you burn is yourself. Did your revenge hurt the ones who hurt you? Or did you just lose your mind and made everything worse? You can tell me. I won't harm you."
I protest: "You won't harm her? She's a serial killer. Who knows how many years she's killed who knows how many people."
"You're not helping here, my dear Watson. How about making some coffee for us? Make yourself useful. We can use some extra caffeine to get rid of the stiffness of the drugs. I don't believe her lie about running out of coffee. Meanwhile, Seraphina and I will have time for some tears."
In the kitchen, I find everything I need to make a big pot of strong coffee. When I return, Shirley takes Seraphina's handcuffs off, so she can drink a cup too. When I raise an eyebrow, Shirley nods. It's okay. She has it covered.
She says: "You live here like a hermit, Seraphina, isolated from the rest of the world. You can't go on like this. Every morning, you wake up and you wipe the floor. In the afternoon, you wipe the floor. In the evening, you wipe the floor. And at night, you don't sleep, wondering where all that water comes from. It would be better to close the tap, but you can't find that tap. Look in the mirror. There is no tap. That water is your own tears. Stop crying…"
Shirley's words turn Seraphina's tap wide open. Shirley puts her hand on Seraphina's and whispers: "Tears were given to us to wash our pain away. Sadness needs time to heal. But you'll need others to help you with it. You can't do it alone. You'll have to talk about it. Share the pain that's causing all those tears. It's alright. You can tell me. Let it out. Try to find the words to give meaning to your loss, your pain, your failure. After that's been done, you can close that tap forever."
Seraphina is searching for those words. It's hard to translate pain into words. They come slowly, with difficulty, but once she's started, she can't stop: "They… They… They killed my son… They were fighting a war, and they ordered him to come and fight. He never came back. He was a hero, they wrote to me. I didn't want a hero. I wanted my little boy. They didn't even tell me where they buried him… I swore an oath of revenge. The Sieben Gänge gang gave me that possibility. Revenge was their primary goal too, they said. So I started to poison visitors from the Balkan, who caused the war that killed my son. And I killed Germans too because they started the Second World War. And I murdered Americans because they were in almost every war of the last hundred years. And when somebody came here who was from another country, all I could only think of was the wars they started, Napoleon, Crusades, Vikings, the Russian revolution, Spanish conquistadores in Latin America… I poisoned them all. The meat, I sold to my customers. The rest, I gave to my two friends outside."
I can hardly breathe. This woman killed every tourist who came up here? I can't believe it: "My mother is your age. I might be your son's age. How can you do to my mother what the government did to you? How can you live with that?"
Shirley ignores me. She looks Seraphina in the red eyes and says: "Tell me the truth."
I interrupt: "Do you want the truth? Give me half an hour and a blunt kitchen knife. Pain is an expert negotiator. The truth is that we ate human flesh, and we loved it, Shirley."
Shirley gives me a «you're not really helping»-look.
"I don't believe you.", Shirley says to Seraphina: "You didn't kill anyone. Killing is primitive monkey behaviour. You're too intelligent for that. How often could you have killed my dear friend Watson? But you didn't. No, you're no killer. And you would never feed poisoned food to your two little friends, either. You're telling me a story. Pulp fiction. Tell me the truth."
I say: "She told you the truth. She's killed and eaten hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of victims."
Shirley shakes her head: "She's a Scorpio, my dear Watson. Scorpios like secrets. She hopes we'll kill her for the crimes she just made up because she's afraid to live with the loss of her son. That part was true. The part about the killings wasn't."
"How do you know?"
"Missing people have relatives who go looking for them. Did Der Kommissar tell us about that important murder case he was working on? He didn't. Facts, my dear Watson. Nobody is missing. I suspect we've been eating Mürmeltiere schnitzel, made of big, protected mountain marmots. Am I right, Seraphina?"
Seraphina lowers her head: "My son is dead. Kill me too. Killing others is humanity's only solution to solve its problems. If the killers work for the government, they call them war heroes. If they don't…"
Shirley doesn't give in. She wipes Seraphina's hair out of her salty tears, lifts the woman's head and looks her in the eye: "We won't end your life, Seraphina, but we will end your misery: you're going with us to the Twilight Zone. We'll give you the chance to take revenge on the governments who spend their money on wars instead of on taking care of retired people. We'll give you a chance to wipe your tears and give meaning to your life. You won't get away without paying for what you did, but… we can offer you the chance to make it up, to undo the damage, to give to others what you so much wanted to give to your son. It will be hard work, it will be the rest of your life, and what you'll wipe from the floor will be a lot worse than tears, as your clients have the age at which the bladder doesn't always work as they wish. Don't look back in search of revenge. Look forward and search for solutions. We can forgive you, but you have to show, every day, that we can trust you. Can we trust you?"
Seraphina accepts the handkerchief from Shirley and wipes her eyes: "You can trust me. I promise. Revenge is a poison that eats you from the inside. I'm ready to learn a different recipe."
Shirley gets up: "Get your things. We're going back to the world of the living."
"What do I do with Heidi and Peter?"
"We take them with us, of course. The people in the Twilight Zone will love two pets to play with. Heidi and Peter aren't just more intelligent than those old folks; they're a lot cleaner too. Those old-timers can learn a lot from your pets."
"And we're taking them with us in the funicular?", I ask.
"Oh, they're mountain pigs. They're not afraid of heights."