[Friday, 26-1-2018 (Cancer): This is a day of high altitudes and dreams that have never been brought to life. Instead of turning to despair and pessimism, be the one to chase for them once again, deciding not to give up.]
Today is the birthday of #2, The Nerd. He's not just a colleague. He's more some weird kind of friend. I can't visit him, I'm on a mission, and I can't send him a present for his birthday either. What would the postman think if I wrote on the envelope: «Top secret bunker under a highly secured building that nobody knows about»? But I have his phone number and his email address, so I can send him the modern version of a postcard: a video.
During breakfast, I explain the case to the troops: "Today, our mission is to shoot a video, to impress every film producer who's looking for new ideas. We'll show Hollywood, and via them the world, why elderly people make better Bond girls and boys. Saving the world is not enough. We should also make the world a better place in the future, so our children and grandchildren won't suffer from the problems we have caused. Therefore, we'll record spectacular stunts. That will inspire others to follow our example."
"How do we do that?", Resi asks.
"It's simple: we record normal things and we send them to my friend #2, The Nerd, who's a specialist in special effects. You stumble, and he makes it look like a record-breaking run. You cough, and he turns it into a hurricane. He can make your pyjamas look like Superman's suit."
"My pyjamas already look like Superman's suit. They're blue with a big red S. My grandson gave them to me. He said he was a big boy now and—"
"Please, don't interrupt me, Frans. You can wear your pyjamas in a few years, when they give you the leading role in «Superman Returns XXIV». But first, we do something for The Nerd, to inspire him to do something back for us. Today is his birthday. We're going to make a video and send it to him. We're going to sing for him and drink to his health, celebrating this special day with a little Schnapps."
Shirley objects: "A little Schnapps for breakfast? Are you crazy?"
"This is an emergency. We can fill our glasses with water and fake it, but… I want to see those sparkles in the eyes of twenty people who get a little glass of real Austrian Stroh rum for breakfast, to celebrate a special day.", I say. The sparkles in the eyes of twenty people prove I'm right.
"And I want you all to kiss each other. We can't kiss The Nerd, but we can show him how much we all love him, by kissing each other. For someone as far away as he is, it's the next best thing."
"Can we kiss on the mouth?"
"If you want to, and if the one you kiss wants to, you can kiss on the mouth, Traudi."
"Can we kiss with the tongue too?"
"If that's what you both want, you can kiss with the tongue too, Traudi."
"Do you want me to kiss you with the tongue?"
"No, Traudi, I'm not available because I have to shoot the video. But you can ask Frans. He urgently needs to be kissed, on the mouth, with the tongue."
Traudi shakes her head: "No. Frans is old and ugly."
I object: "I'm ugly too. When you close your eyes and let your imagination take over, old and ugly are no impediments to enjoying a kiss. Am I right, Gabriela?"
Gabriela walks over to Frans, closes her eyes, takes him in her strong arms, and moves her head in a way that I can only imagine what she's doing to him, for a while, perhaps a little too long for this breakfast moment, and when she finally lets him escape, she turns to Traudi, and says: "I've been kissed better, but… it's not bad. He has some kind of «damn you» flavour that's worth trying."
Michaela gets the glasses and serves the rum. The troops line up on the set and put some extra spotlights on the scene. When everybody's ready, I shoot the video with my spiPhone. We sing: "Happy Birthday, Dear Nerd", and end with lots of kisses and hugs. After we've watched the result, I send the video to The Nerd, with a personal message: «Happy birthday. I'll put the Schnapps, the coffee and cake, and tonight's seven-course dinner for twenty people on my LSD expense account, trusting you to pay for it. As it's your birthday, you should treat us. Right?»
Three minutes later, I get the reply: «Sniff, sniff. Thank you all for your kind words, for thinking about me, for not forgetting my birthday. This means so much to me. Your video is the best birthday present ever. Start your seven-course dinner with champagne. Dedicate one glass to the ladies.»
My reply is immediate, as I already had it prepared while waiting for his answer: «In return, you might do us a favour. For our current mission, we need a list of people (probably female, but male not excluded) born under the sign of Virgo (but other signs not excluded), owner of (or working in) a restaurant (but other work not excluded) established on a high place (but other locations not excluded) in Kärnten, Austria (but other provinces and even other countries not excluded). We'll need a social report on them, starting with the ones who have the closest match with these mentioned variables. And we'll need it FAST.»
The Nerd replies in less than a second: «But… that's going to cost me the entire day, and the next week not excluded. Today's my birthday…»
«Well? Nobody will visit you, and you have nothing better to do. We did you a huge favour. We ask a tiny thing back. If you like, we can send you hate-mail for the rest of the year.»
«I'll let you know asap.»
«You're a real friend. Thank you.»
This morning, right after getting up, saying a little prayer for me, and taking a shower, Shirley put today's Tarot cards on the table. The first card was Judgement, and it came out upside down. She explained to me that Judgement stands for change, rebirth, resurrection, the dead rise, their sins are forgiven and they move onto heaven. But when the card comes out in reverse, the message of healing becomes one of damage, the trumpets sound negative and deafening, the man covers his ears to hide from the noise. Judgement is about life after death, but reversed, it means death after a meaningless life, a change from Good to Bad.
For a moment, I remembered the Ace of Spades, fearing today is my Judgement, but Shirley had said a little prayer for me. I have faith. Nothing bad will happen to me during the next 24 hours.
"What's the darkest page in human history?", Shirley asked.
"World War Two?"
"Exactly. What caused it?"
Suddenly, I understood why she asked. Today, our mission is Snow White, the 'dessert' of the Sieben Gänge gang.
"Racism. The white Anglo-Saxon protestants thought they were better than all the others. They wanted to change the world by killing everyone who's different: holocaust, destruction of other races and religions, making life on earth a living hell, with 50 million deaths in five years. The superior Arian race showed the world the most horrible example of Survival of the Fittest in human history. The lesson we should have learnt from it was: there's no superior race unless that race is the human race itself. By working together, all the not-superior allies defeated the violent predators who wanted to destroy them. Even the fittest superior wasn't strong enough to beat all the others together. Selfishness doesn't stand a chance against a united majority."
"What makes you use the lovely words «the lesson we should have learnt»?", Shirley wondered.
"Because we haven't learnt anything yet. We still have races, religions, and genders who think they are superior to others, and act according to that credence. Perhaps they no longer put others in gas chambers, but building walls to keep poverty out of sight, or arranging that coloured people can't get decent jobs, or making education and healthcare so expensive that only your own kind of people can afford it, or #metoo-stories about sexual abuse by superiors, that's what modern racism looks like.
» Our criminal for today, Snow White, might live on the top floor of her own Ivory Tower, a high mountain, covered with white snow, so she can look down at all the others, feeling superior, feeling the best, high above all the others. The card lays upside-down. This person judges without listening, like racists and sexists only use their own words to convince others about their twisted ideas, without listening at all to the opinion of those others. Am I right?"
Shirley agreed with a nod and a smile, adding her opinion while turning the other cards: "On top of that (absolutely brilliant) conclusion, my dear Watson, I would say: our Snow White is a man, an Ice Cream Man, and he's a Virgo. Systematic and ordered, analytical, practical, and no big spender. Most Virgos deserve admiration, but also tend to be over-critical and envious, and they're not good listeners either. That's an explosive mix. Without common sense to control those characteristics, they can easily turn into a feeling of superiority in combination with a lack of forgiveness to people who are different."
"What makes you think Snow White's a man?"
"I'm sorry. You're right. Being a woman, I can't imagine any other woman would make a difference between people of different races or religions. After ages of being treated by men as inferior beings, I assumed (without thinking) that women would never do to others what they hated so much when others did it to them. You're right. That would be a racist way of thinking. It's wrong to assume every individual of a group has the same characteristics, customs or opinion. I'm sorry, my dear Watson. We should say «probably a man, but women not excluded». Okay? Now let's have a look at the other cards, to see where we can find our prey.
» The valet of coins stands for learning new skills. The valet of swords means learning from difficult situations, secret activities (like being a spy or a criminal), and escape from reality. The seven of swords stands for «taking the easy way out». The six of swords means «leaving your problems behind». It looks like one of the next cards will be the two of batons… You see? Here it is."
To Shirley, everything was clear before we even had breakfast, but I needed the data from The Nerd, the list of statistic probabilities of some kind of relation with learning a new skill that had to do with an easy way to escape and leave everything behind with two sticks in my hands.
The first name on the list, and the social report that comes with it, clarify everything: Raquel Heiligenblut, owner and only employer of restaurant Schareck on top of the Mölltaler Gletscher (3.122 metres high). Our Ice Cream man is a woman. She was born on the 16th of September, 1969. She's a Virgo. I send The Nerd a message: «Thanks. Your first shot hit the target. You've earned your free birthday.
"Over three thousand metres high… How are we going to run around in a place like that? There must be plenty of snow this time of the year.", I say.
"It's easy. We'll take skis."
"I don't know how to ski.", I say.
Shirley gives me a mysterious smile: "Didn't the cards say you'd learn new skills today? I promise you: it's fun. After today, your life will never be the same. I'm going to teach you how to ski."
* * *
Trumpets of silence announce our arrival. The train station is empty, the restaurant abandoned, the glacier deserted. Even the expected icy wind has taken a sabbatical. A lonely snowman halfway up the hill is the only witness of our fruitless mission.
It's not completely fruitless: when we enter the self-service restaurant, the fruits are waiting for us on the counter. There are two of everything. Two cups of pear ice cream with red berries. Two plates with Apfelstrudel. Two portions of strawberry cheesecake (with fresh strawberries). Two high glasses of coconut ice cream with walnuts. Two bowls of chocolate truffles with whipped cream. Two banana splits with dark chocolate sauce that smell like a summer holiday. Little cards explain every tasty detail: «All the fruits are picked freshly this morning», «The ice cream was made of milk from cows that have a better life», «The apples from the Apfelstrudel are 100% ecological» «In the freezer, I have bim bam banana pops, dixie cups, and push-ups too» «All flavours are guaranteed to satisfy».
I can't resist. I take a fork, hesitate, and decide to start with the Apfelstrudel on the right.
Shirley puts her hand on my lifted arm: "Don't eat it. It might be poisoned. This might be a trap. We're dealing with a criminal here, my dear Watson."
The strong smell of cinnamon and freshly baked pastry, I can't resist… but I do resist, for a while, to explain statistics to Shirley: "If you were a criminal and you wanted to poison someone with such a fine collection as we find here, would you put poison in every cup? Or would you save money and just use your valuable, hard-to-get poison only in the dessert that every simple victim would pick first? Did you ever have coconut ice cream with walnuts? That dessert would everybody pick first, so it's poisoned. How about the banana split or the pear ice cream? Those probably go for the rest of the medals, which makes it easier to leave them like they are. Strawberry cheesecake and truffles with whipped cream seem to be a safe investment, as you can get them anywhere and they always taste good, but their popularity would make them easy picks and therefore you can't be sure they aren't poisoned. But this simple Apfelstrudel, available in every bakery, that's a plate every customer would leave. It's my safest bet in case of poison. And it's scientifically proven that people look from left to right (that's why every supermarket puts the most expensive products on the left and the cheaper ones on the right) so the right Apfelstrudel is the least preferred choice of this fine selection, making it also the one with the least chance to be poisoned. Let me taste it and prove I'm right."
"We've had breakfast at eight o'clock. We've had vegetable soup with bread for lunch, about two hours ago. All you think about is eating and drinking. Can't you control your senses until it's time for dinner? It's your friend's birthday. We'll have everything you can imagine, even champagne to drink with it, but you can't resist a simple piece of Apfelstrudel, even when there's a risk it will kill you. What's wrong with you?"
"It's… It's just irresistible, Shirley. The food and the drinks in this country are so good. I can't think of anything else but eating. And why not? We've wasted our time, coming here. Raquel Snow White isn't here. There's nobody. Before we go back, we take a snack. Before we leave here, we take one beer. This food is good. How can anything so good be bad for you?"
Shirley doesn't allow me. She takes the Apfelstrudel out of my hand and puts it back to where it belongs: "Use your brain, my dear Watson. Would you leave your restaurant without locking the door? This isn't a fairy tale. This is the real world. Like some of her criminal colleagues, Raquel knew we'd be coming. She set a trap for us, and it's such a simple trap that you walk into it without any fear because you expect something better from a criminal like her. Don't underestimate the sweet lady who made all this. We have better things to do. Let's go outside."
Ten minutes later, our fruitless mission has already turned into a mission impossible. It's easy to find Snow White: all I have to do is look in a mirror; after falling thirty times in the last twenty seconds, I'm white from my head to my toes.
"It will never work, Shirley. It takes days, even weeks, to learn how to ski. How could you think you could teach me in half an afternoon?"
"Impossible doesn't exist, my dear Watson. I'll show you. Just copy what I do and you'll break the record before it's dark."
I'm worried about breaking the record, but about breaking my arm, my legs, my neck. This hill, this glacier we're looking at, is not a training facility; it's an Olympic gold medal, looked at from the other side. So far, we're just moving on the plain space around the buildings, but that's already far too difficult for me.
"Are you sure I can do this?"
"If I can do it, you can."
"I've never skied before in my life. You've skied since you were… four years old?"
"Two years old. That's why it's so easy: if a two-year-old can do it, you can do it too. Get up on your feet again. You learn this by falling and getting up. First, you'll have to practise how to glide and slide, to make you feel comfortable. Use your balance, not your force. That's right. You're a natural. Don't skate; that's langlauf, where your heels are not fixed to the skis. You go up like this… and down… Do you see how easy it is? Left… Right… Brake… And that's all there is to learn. You're good with this. Ten minutes and you already know everything. Are you ready to take the lift and ski down the slope? Let's go up to where the snowman stands, halfway up the glacier, for our first proper training."
I eat snow twice before I get the trick with the lift. Up here, where the snowman guards the hill, the way down looks even more impossible. All I do is look. Shirley goes down for a demo run. She controls speed and direction. She makes it look easy. Knees, posture, break, slide, move over, balance, hands like this, body like that, and all at once. I wait until she gets back. I give her my Makarov handgun: "Hold this for me, please. I don't want to take the risk of shooting myself in the foot; I'll need both my feet to stop and steer."
"Why would I need a revolver?"
"It's not a revolver. It's a pistol. You'll need it to defend yourself.", I reply.
"You don't defend yourself with a gun. You attack others with a gun. There's a difference. And up here, there's nobody to attack me. The Abominable Yeti lives in the Himalaya."
"You teach me how to ski, and I teach you how to shoot. It's easy. You aim, you pull the trigger, and you kill. A two-year-old can do it."
"And where do I aim?"
"Kill the snowman. One bullet in the gut, one in the head, one in the heart."
"Lovely. What's the snowman's crime?"
"Racism. He thinks: «Being white is being right.» He hates blue snowmen and orange snowmen and purple snowmen. As this country is white, he claims it is for white snowmen only. He wants to send the brown snowmen back to the desert and the black snowmen back to the tropics, so they melt and die. That's a serious crime. Did I tell you about his plans with the snowwomen? He wants them to be hot. You can read more about it at #meltmetoo."
"And if I don't shoot him?"
"He'll be in the White House within two years. Everybody likes a cool President."
Shirley has a better idea: "There is an alternative. We can take all the white racist snowmen and deport them to the South Pole. They can create their perfect white world there, together, without bothering the coloured majority of the world's population."
"Aren't you afraid they will enslave the penguins and use them as waiters?"
"Hm. I guess they will. You're right. It's better to shoot the snowman. What were the instructions? Safety off, aim… And shoo—"
"Wait! Stop! Don't shoot!"
"Did you say that, my dear Watson? "
"I think it was the snowman."
The snowman prefers suicide by decapitation. He takes off his hat and takes off his head. A red, female face appears from under the mask:" Don't shoot. I'm not a snowman."
I take the Makarov from Shirley: "We know. You're Snow White, the sixth member of the Sieben Gänge gang. You're under arrest. You have the right to stay here, lonely and cold on this mountain, or you have the chance to come with us to the Twilight Zone, to meet people of all colours and find out how nice and warm they are."
"How did you know where to find me?"
Shirley explains: "I'm Shirley Holmes and this handsome young man is my dear friend Watson. We've solved enigmas much more complicated than the little two-piece jigsaw puzzle you prepared for us, love. You knew we were coming because we've seen the camera at the train station below, but we knew you were still here because there's only one train, so you couldn't get away. You thought you were smart, setting a trap for us, the poisoned desserts, hiding until the danger was over. The snowman suit was your only option. You've made this sweet and tasty for us, but we're the salty and bitter kinds. We like a challenge. We like to take up against the fairest of them all, to find out if we're superior. That's why we want to give you a fair chance: you race downhill with me and Watson. If you beat one of us, we'll let you go."
I lower the gun: "Let her go? Do you give me a head start first? I've never skied before. She lives here. She skied before she could walk. Why should we give her a chance?"
"Respect, my dear Watson. This is about good vs bad. If you claim to be good, you better show instead of tell. Good people are recognised by their acts."
"I am a better person, but she's a better skier. It doesn't make sense."
Shirley smiles: "Yes, it does. Nobody is just simply good or bad. We all have our qualities and vices. I agree with your opinion about equal rights for all races, genders, religions, and ages, but Darwin and our dear Snow White tell us about the Survival of the Fittest, giving the strongest and most aggressive animal the right to kill all the others to survive. That's what sport is about: show that you're better, or lose and become extinct. Snow White is the white minority. You and I can work together. It's obvious who will win. So I offer Snow White the choice: are we going to race the full run? Or do we take the short piste, from here to the door of the station?"
"SHIRLEY! That upper half is closed for amateurs. I'm not even allowed to go there, and neither are you."
"Look…"
Shirley takes a round piece of shiny metal out of her handbag.
"Is that real?", Snow White asks.
"Of course."
Shirley's bronze medal has an inscription: 1956 Winter Olympics. Cortina d'Ampezzo, just around the corner.
In those years, the name of the discipline was engraved on the other side of the medal, but before I can ask for further information, Snow White opens the front of her snowman suit and shows what's around her neck: 1992 Albertville, gold on ski jumping (long jump), gold on slalom, gold on Super G. She grins: "We have permission to do the full run."
"She's stolen those three medals, hasn't she? They're fake, aren't they? She's a criminal. Criminals do that.", I doubt.
"If those medals are fake, there's nothing for you to worry about. May the best one win.", Shirley smiles.
"If I beat one of you, you let me go? Word of honour?", Snow White grins.
"Yes, that's the deal, but if we both beat you, you confess your crimes and serve the rest of your life in the Twilight Zone."
With a firm handshake and shattering laughter, Snow White confirms the deal. She steps out of her snowman showman suit and lifts her pair of skis out of the snow beside her, making sure we see the Bite The Apple logo and the 5G model: the most expensive skis of the market, waxed with poison paint, which isn't allowed for official races because it's so fast and so expensive that athletes from poor countries wouldn't stand a chance. I look down at my wooden skies: Mount Silly, Dopey Outdoor Sports 3.0 (designed just before the last ice age). Is this a fair race?
There's no jury, no judge, no time to complain. We take the lift to the top of the glacier. Before the red line and the signs of warning, we stop and look doooown. I close my eyes. This is no Super G. This is suicide.
"Why did anyone build a lift to this place anyway?", I ask.
"To feed the Abominable Yeti and keep him up here.", Raquel laughs: "Are you afraid? Do you want a head start?"
With her left stick, she tics my ski stick between my legs and, with her right hand, she pushes me forward.
I try to keep my balance, but I trip over my stick and fall face first, protecting my head with my arms, losing sticks and breaking skis on the first metres, making a ball of myself, rocking and rolling, picking up speed while picking up more and more snow, getting into shape for a record-breaking descent (round is a perfect shape), losing every sense of reality, bumping against every rock available, but keeping my perfectly straight line to the finish at all costs: we have a race to win and I have to show who's going for the triple gold on the upcoming Olympics in Korea. My world is spinning, but I'm not afraid. I have no time to be afraid. I have no idea about my top speed. I'm not aware of what my competitors are doing. I'm not interested in my lap time. I'm in a flow. I can win this. I'm fit and Shirley said a little prayer for me this morning. Nothing can go wrong. I will survive. But will I win?
I hit the entrance door with a big bang. The protecting snowball breaks, so I can see the close finish for place two. Snow White took the left piste. She leads, but her speed goes down when she reaches the last part, where she has to slalom between the rocks. Shirley comes from the right. Go on, Shirley. You can still beat her. Go right. NO! RIGHT! WATCH OUT.
Shirley disappears behind two big rocks. Snow White is almost here. Two turns, one turn, the final right line to the door, but on the other side of the rocks, Shirley saw a ramp that could launch her, to fly the last fifty metres, and there she comes, shouting: "WHOOPIE", and Snow White makes the terrible mistakes to look, with an open mouth, at Shirley and not at the ground. She hits a rock and breaks a ski while Shirley makes a perfect telemark landing on the doorstep.
"We won."
"You lost, Snow White."
"So, as promised, no more lies. Are all those desserts poisoned, or just some of them?"
Snow White is a sportive loser. She bows her head and confesses: "Only the right Apfelstrudel has been poisoned. I couldn't stand it to spoil the rest too. They're too good. Did you ever taste pear ice cream with raspberries? That strawberry cheesecake is spectacular. Those chocolate truffles with whipped cream… And did you ever taste coconut ice cream like this?"
We take them all in big boxes.
I have one loose end to tie up: "What's written on the back of your Olympic medal, Shirley?"
With a conspiracy smile, she shows me the other side of her medal: «Snowball fight for mixed teams, demonstration sports».
"It was a onetime-only event. They said it wasn't good for TV."