"This mission isn't over yet.", Shirley says.
I look around. On the table in front of me, I see a hot cup of coffee and a piece of chocolate cake, still warm from the oven. On seven chairs against the wall of the dining room of Twilight Zone, I see the seven members of the Sieben Gänge gang. Every one of them confessed her crimes and accepted her punishment. On fifteen other chairs behind me, the oldsters are happier than ever. All our problems are solved, the world is saved, and we're celebrating our success. But Shirley doesn't agree.
"You better relax and take a piece of chocolate cake, Shirley. There's nothing left to worry about. Or are you the kind of woman who always wants to have the last word?", I say.
Shirley, still in her toga of the Advocate of the Devil, paces around in front of the seductive seven: "What was the work you did for the gang? You received orders, and you reported back. What were those orders about? You had to invent irresistible recipes. Am I right? Were those recipes used to cover up the taste of poison? Is that how you killed millions of people each year?"
A good lawyer never asks questions she doesn't already have the answer to. The seven fat ladies of heavy crime nod in silence. Shirley goes on with her final plead: "Who gave the orders? Who received the reports? Who is The Chef behind all these activities? The Sieben Gänge gang doesn't consist of seven people. There is one more, The Chef, and it's already Saturday afternoon, the terrorist attack is tomorrow, time is running out, the clock is ticking, so, ladies, you better start talking FAST!"
"Wereallydon'tknowwhatyou'retalkingabout,wehavenothingmoretosay,we'vetoldyoueverythingweknow,wehavenoidea,we—"
"STOP!"
"But… you said we had to talk fast. I broke my tongue on that last word."
I stand up and offer Shirley my seat, my coffee, and my piece of cake, because this is a piece of cake for a real spy, trained in terrible torture, an exactitude expert, an intelligent Interpol interviewer, interfering in interesting interrogations. No more rhetoric questions. No more lawyer word games. We need facts.
The courtroom falls silent. The smacking and clacking stop. Even the triplets hold their eternal gossip for a complete second. I stand in front of the accused women, point my index finger at the last one, Barbara, and ask with a severe tone: "What was the last order you received?"
"Three crates of pear liqueur and ten boxes of dark chocolate bonbons for the Luxembourg Ambassador."
Okay. Wrong question. I need to get warmed up. Slowly, I pace to the other end of the line, point my finger at Michaela, and ask: "Who paid you for the recipes you invented? How did you get the money? How did you get the orders to make those recipes? How did you send them? To whom? Did you invent that Caribbean Kiss yourself?"
Nothing like shooting an entire salvo to get warmed up. The result is immediate: "Do you want me to answer all those questions at the same time? Can't you make a list of priorities? Why do you point your finger at me? Do you enjoy it, making me nervous? Are you angry with me? Or do you talk to every woman like this?"
The rest of the gang responds too: "Didn't you ever learn how to behave in front of a woman?" - "Do you enjoy making her upset?" - "Can't you see she's crying?" - "Why is it so important to you to know all this?" - "What do you want to know anyway?" - "If you want to have the right answers, you'll have to start with asking the right questions, don't you think?" - "Can you pass me the sugar, please?"
The jury behind me responds too: "Can't you be quiet?" - "What did you say?" - "How can I hear the answer when everybody's talking at the same time?" - "Can you pass me the milk, please?" - "May I have another piece of this delicious chocolate cake?" - "I left my false teeth on my nightstand. Can I borrow yours?"
We've warmed up.
It's good to be a professional; your training will always make you do the right thing at the right moment. Now it's the right moment to put the finger on the weak spot, find the information I'm looking, for with one short, sharp and shaggy Shakespearean question: "Do you or do you not want to cooperate with us to save the world against the upcoming disaster that you and your criminal sisters created?"
Michaela doesn't hesitate: "Yes."
"What «yes»?"
"Yes, SIR!"
"That's not what I meant."
"Yes, I do or I do not want that whatever you said. I'm not sure yet if I do or if I don't, but one of those two will definitely be my choice, so: yes."
"How do you get your orders?"
"Someone writes them on a yellow sticky note, puts it in a light-blue airmail envelope, and slips it under the door of my flat."
All the other women confirm the receipt of the same mail from the same male.
Hey! That's interesting information. Our Number Eight seems to be a man.
"How do you know The Chef is a man?"
Michaela explains: "That's obvious. He always rings twice. The postMAN always rings twice. A woman would ring once. She wouldn't waste more time. Women always have lots of important things to do."
All the other women agree and ask if this stupid interrogation is over now because they have lots of important things to do, like preparing dinner, and the jury is unanimous in their verdict: dinner is number one on their priority list.
Shirley hammers down the noise with her empty cup: "All quiet. This mission isn't over yet. If we don't waste more time, we might still find our man, The Chef." She shuffles her Tarot-deck and turns the first card: "The Bateleur, a.k.a. The Magician, the first numbered trump of the Tarot. He's known as «The Entertainer», famous for his sharp wit, his willpower and his creativity. He's the energy that drives, the catalyst that brings together all elements. He's the one who does conjuring tricks, like the magician in the theatre or the charlatan who fools the people with his sharp tongue. Lovely. We're on the right track. The arms and the hands of the Maltese cross are: King of cups (tactful and diplomatic, in control of emotions), Queen of cups (empathy, home and family), nine of cups (self-satisfaction), eight of cups (finding a new direction in life), seven of cups (disillusion), five of cups (unhappy ending), four of cups (withdrawing into a shell), Ace of cups (starting something new)…"
"It's a countdown… It's the end of the world…", I whisper.
Frans stands up, sick and tired of that same old song: "It's the end of the world every day since we started this story, Doctor Watson. When I woke up this morning, I could have sworn it was judgement day, the end of the world, or the end of my life, I don't care, but it was the worst hangover ever, and I've had a few. And you know what? The Higher Powers decided to give me another day, and I'm grateful for it, grateful for this delicious chocolate cake, grateful for being part of this fantastic team, and now Miss Shirley turns all those cards, all those cups, and I'm sure they have only one meaning, and it fits perfectly with today being Saturday night and tomorrow being the end of the world. My message is simple: two thousand zero zero, party over, out of time, so tonight we're going to party like we're ninety, like we're ninety-nine. Who wants to go out with me for a dance and a laugh?"
Everybody gets up, tells the seven sisters to leave the dirty dishes, we'll wash them after the end of the world, we'll need their help to push our wheelchairs or give us an arm, we know a nice bar-dancing in the Villach city centre, we have the money from the casino that has to rock 'n' roll tonight, and we are a team, we don't leave anybody behind, we're in this together, so Shirley and I have no choice but to go too because if we stay at home, we won't get any dinner, and a piece of chocolate cake is nice, but to prepare us for tomorrow's challenge, we'll need seven dishes, and a whole line of cups and…
* * *
"They're playing a waltz… Lovely. Come on, my dear Watson. Dance with me."
"I'm sorry, Shirley, but I don't sing and I don't dance."
"But… This is my favourite song by my favourite group, the Spittaler Spitze. We're here to have fun. Come on. Don't spoil the night. One dance…"
It's late, I'm tired, it's been a long day, and tomorrow might be the most important day in the history of humanity. How many more excuses do I need to make Shirley change her mind?
I take a deep breath. I know Shirley. She won't change her mind. She has so much energy that she can dance all night, and she wants to dance with me, and I don't dance, ever.
"I don't dance, but I'll do anything else for you, Shirley, because you're my friend and I love you and I'm the best partner any spy can wish for, unless you're looking for a partner to dance with, so I'm going to find you a better partner, someone who knows how to dance the waltz and doesn't step on your toes as I would."
"Do it fast. This song doesn't last forever."
"I will."
"And pick someone my size. I hate it to dance with tall men. I hate it when people look down on me."
What do you do when you go out and you don't like to dance? I'm not a heavy drinker. I'm not looking for a one-night stand. This place is so noisy that conversation is impossible. So I do what everybody else does: listen to music and look at other people. For a spy, observation is good training. From my corner at the end of the bar, I have a clear view of the dance floor and everybody around it. I'd already spotted Shirley's perfect partner hours ago: it's a short, lean man, late forties or early fifties, who's been wallflowering since we came in, sitting on the same glass of mineral water for already more than an hour.
I order ein grosses Bier at the bar and cross the dance floor: "My friend Shirley likes to dance. If you'd like to dance with her, you can have this beer. But if you prefer a Schnapps, I'll drink the beer myself."
He's looking at me like I just spoke Martian to him. Men are from Mars. We speak the same body language. Even on Mars, they love Villacher beer. I try an encouraging smile and hand him the glass, but he wards off my attack, scared as a mouse in the house of Cat Stevens: "No, no…" But then his expression changes, he's tempted, he grabs my wrist to avoid I'll withdraw the offer.
Like a priest in prayer, he says to me: "I want to love you, but I want it too much. I want to kiss you, but your lips are bitter as poison. POISON! You're poison, rushing through my veins. I don't want to break my chains."
Immediately, I apologise: "I'm sorry, Sir. No hard feelings or bad intentions. I didn't realise you were gay. I'm not trying to seduce you or whatever. It's hard to make yourself understood with all this noise. All I wanted to ask you is if you would like to dance with my friend Shirley. She's over there. This is her favourite song…"
The short man doesn't listen. He moves his hand up, fast, and makes me throw the beer into my own face. This isn't funny. I'm a tolerant person, I have nothing against gay people, but I don't tolerate it when they start throwing beer into my face.
Before I can do anything, he runs away. I go after him. Outside, I grab him by the neck to stop him: "You're going to pay for this!"
He shakes my hand off, shouts: "Leave me ALONE! You're POISON!" and starts running.
I feel Shirley's hand on my arm. She's seen what happened, but she saw it with her eyes instead of mine: "What's wrong?"
"I asked that gay man if he wanted to dance with you. I even offered him a beer, as a sign of good intentions, but he thought I wanted him to cheat on his partner or something and said I was poison."
Shirley doesn't waste time: "Follow him. I want to know what he meant with that poison. We're looking for a man who wants to poison the world, remember?"
"What? We're on our night out. Can't you think about anything else but your idea that the world is about to end? Let's go back inside. I'll find you another partner to dance with."
Shirley doesn't listen. She walks in third gear after the running man: "If that man is gay, I'm Lucy Liu. There's something strange going on here, and I want to find out what it is."
I can't stay behind. I look over my shoulder, see how the old folks and the seven women are having a good time, trust them to take care of each other, and follow Shirley.
The man has disappeared, but the silence of the night helps us follow the sound of his running feet. Shirley's high heels don't allow her to go any faster. I have to make up for that. I run as fast as I can to the corner, see an empty street with one backstreet, and when I reach that corner, I'm just in time to see our man disappear through a black door halfway down the alley.
In front of the black door, I wait for Shirley.
"What's this?", she asks.
"We've found the King of cups… What did the arms and hands of the Maltese cross say?"
Shirley has an excellent memory: "This man had empathy for his home and his family, but in search of more self-satisfaction, he followed the line of cups towards a new direction in life, which became a disillusion with an unhappy ending. He withdrew into a shell until he started a new life… And here's where he started it… The King of cups… He's not gay. He's an alcoholic…"
A sign on the wall, next to the front door, confirms it: «Königsgasse, Anonymous Alcoholics. We're discreet, we're open day and night, and we're here to help you, one step at a time. But the first step, inside, you'll have to take yourself».
We step inside. Soft music welcomes us. Heavy carpet on the floor, comfortable couches, and leather armchairs around a fireplace make us want to stay. A tall and bony man in a black suit stands up and walks towards us with his right hand stretched out: "How brave of you to come here! And it's about time too: you smell like you took a beer shower. Don't worry. I'm Jeremiah. I'm here to help you. Everything will work out fine. You'll always remember this as the most important moment of the rest of your life. What's your name? Are you both looking for help? Or is one of you here to support the other?"
"I'm Doctor Watson and this here is my friend Shirley. We—"
"Don't worry, Shirley. Do you know you look a lot like my mother? Please, sit down. We have many elderly people like you here. After retirement, many people don't know how to entertain themselves anymore, and they start drinking. It's not your fault. Society pushes us in the wrong direction, with all the advertisements, telling us every minute we need more and more and more, and we can't be happy if we're not drunk and stoned and beautiful. We act like brainless monkeys, following all the suggestions of the industry that's only interested in our money. You've made the right decision by coming here. Alcohol isn't a reward; it's a punishment. It's a poison, eating you from the inside, but it's easy to say «no». Your life will become richer without that ugly, liquid devil, trying to seduce you. You'll like it here. You'll meet new friends. We do a lot of nice things together, we stimulate each other to become better people, and we help each other with everything. It's much easier NOT to drink. NOT doing anything is always easier than doing it. You can also quit smoking and drugs here, if you like."
Shirley has heard enough: "I'm not an alcoholic, love. I'm—"
"Of course, you're not. Acceptance is always the first step. Nobody comes here, thinking it's wrong to drink. Alcohol is society's most accepted hard drug. When we want to become friends with a stranger in a bar, the first thing we do is offer him a beer. The problem is that thin, red line between custom and addiction. The problem is that someone took away that sign «stop, go back». All you have to accept is this: you've had your last drink. From now on, you're on zero point zero tolerance. That's not a punishment; that's a reward. All that alcohol has done you no good at all; it only made you forget all the problems it caused."
"We're not looking for a treatment, Sir. We're looking for someone who entered here just a few minutes ago, a short man with dark brown hair, pale skin, blue jacket, light-blue shirt, black jeans, black leather shoes, hazelnut eyes, about fifty years old. He could be involved in… criminal affairs. We hope you can help us. Do you mind if we sit down?", I ask.
Apart from the sitting down, Jeremiah doesn't understand: "Do you mean Johann? Johann is the most honest person I know. He's an accountant who used to work for the tax office. His Panama constructions are 100% legal, he said. Don't worry. He's upstairs. We have rooms there for people who need close attention, so they can lock themselves in when they have a weak moment. Johann hasn't had a weak moment in months. He said he was strong enough to go outside without being troubled by the temptation of Villacher beer. That beer is just too good to be true; it's so hard to resist. Every day, I regret having invented its recipe."
A deadly silence falls between us.
I look at Shirley. Shirley looks at me. We both know.
Our target is the Bateleur, the Magician, a charlatan, an entertainer who makes people laugh, so they turn their backs on him and give him the chance to put a knife in.
Johann is a tax lawyer, probably the most honest man in town.
Johann is an accountant, probably the most boring man in Villach.
We've been hunting the wrong rabbit.
We've been fishing a Red Herring.
I've one last question for Jeremiah: "Tell me, Jeremiah… Did you just say that the one who invented the secret recipe of Villacher beer… was you?"