Jeremiah is getting nervous: "Are you working for the tax department? Those Panama constructions are 100% legal, you know. That's what Johann told me. I don't use them for my own benefit. It's just a way to avoid taxes and have more money available to run this clinic. If I give the taxes to the government, somehow, I never get them back to do the work that needs taxes to finance it. I never did anything wrong. You should talk to my accountant, my tax lawyer. He assured me everything is completely legal."
Shirley searches her handbag and takes out a pear-shaped strawberry drop: "Take this, love. And shut up for a while. You've done enough talking, Bateleur. It's time you start to listen."
Jeremiah swallows the sweet and asks, with difficulty: "What do you mean with «Bateleur»?"
"Perhaps we should call you The Chef?", I say.
"I'm no chef. I need no sympathy. I'm just a poor boy from a poor family who helps people to kick their drinking habit."
Shirley shakes her head: "And you don't know anything about yellow sticky notes in light-blue airmail envelopes, do you?"
The three of us look towards the stack of light-blue airmail envelopes and the pile of yellow sticky notes, on top of the secretaire, next to the fireplace.
"I use those to light the fire. Nobody writes letters anymore…"
I help Shirley: "This is 2018, the age of mobile phones and electronic messages. Nobody writes letters anymore, except… The Chef of the Sieben Gänge gang because he doesn't trust governments that swore to protect our privacy on the Internet. This Chef likes his orders to stay secret. The Chef has planned a major terrorist attack tomorrow, but, for an incomprehensible reason, tries to help an accountant stay away tonight from the irresistible taste of Villacher beer, brewed according to the secret recipe he invented himself. Would you like another sweet, Jeremiah?"
Jeremiah accepts the sweet. It gives him time to think. He wants to think about the Makarov on my lap, he has to invent a new set of lies that we might accept as the truth, and he needs time to find the words to express his feelings.
Shirley has these words for him: "The first step is always acceptance. Accept that your game is over. Accept there's no way out anymore. Open your eyes, look up at the skies, and see what you've done to our world. This is the real life, Jeremiah. This is no fantasy, found in a bottle. You can't escape reality. The world is coming to an end tomorrow. We might stop it, but we'll need your help. Don't act as if nothing really matters. To us, the world matters a lot."
Jeremiah isn't a hard nut to crack: "You do remind me of my mother, you know. The thing with mothers is… They're always there…"
"And your mother died."
"No, my mother is a bitch. She's always there to piss me off when I do something wrong. Sometimes I wish that I'd never been born at all. Are you a mother, Shirley?"
"Yes. My son's name is Arnie. He lives far away from here, and I miss him a lot. I have a picture of him in my handbag. Look. He was five months old here. He's much bigger now."
"Well, little Arnie is lucky to have a mother like you. My mother…"
Jeremiah looks away. It's hard for him to sing his Bohemian Rhapsody to a couple of strangers.
"You were right. I was part of the Sieben Gänge gang, but I'm not The Chef. I was The Sommelier, the entertainer who serves the wine until one day, something terrible happened, and I stopped. Acceptance, like you said. I never saw any harm in what I did until that fatal moment on which I realised I'd missed the «point of no return» sign."
Shirley understands: "You thought you served the nectar of the Gods, but it turned out to be venomous poison."
"Did you ever taste Villacher beer? Did you like it?"
"Very much.", I confess.
"I opened a bar with the money the Sieben Gänge gang paid me for my secret recipe. As a bartender, I worked only at night. On the day, I worked for the gang, as the liaison officer who connected the communication lines between The Chef and the seven women who did the actual work. I've never done anything wrong, you know. I was the Sommelier who served the wine and told the jokes. I was the postman who rang twice and delivered the messages. They paid me well, and one of my drinking buddies, Johann, helped me to keep my money out of sight."
I say: "We don't work for the tax department. All we want is to find The Chef. Did you know he planned a major attack tomorrow? He wants to destroy the world. We have to stop him, and we'll need your help."
"I didn't know that. As I told you: I've stepped out of the gang some time ago, when I started this clinic, right after…
» The success of my recipe changed me. Suddenly, I was the King of the Cups and felt like the king of the world. Everybody loved my beer; the factory won prizes and doubled its turnover every year. But, like any kind of joy, I wasn't satisfied with what I had. I wanted more. I went from beer to hard liquor. After some experiments, I launched a Schnapps, called Big Bang. It tasted like a mix of rocket fuel and paint remover with a slice of lemon, but it was cheap, everyone could produce it at home, and three shots were enough to keep you drunk for the entire evening. I served every client in my bar a glass and they all loved it, but it was a long evening, and I don't remember exactly how much I drank myself and how much I invited, and the booze was so cheap that it didn't really matter. It sent shivers down your spine. One after another passed out until the last of the booze brothers stood up and said: «Goodbye, everybody. I have to go. I'm going to leave you all behind and face the truth: I have to work tomorrow and…» and he dropped dead on the floor."
The silence that follows says more than a thousand pictures.
Once we face the results of our acts, we start to think and feel sorry, when it's too late.
Everyone deserves a second chance, but Death doesn't provide that luxury, and there's no Planet B.
Shirley gets up to fill Jeremiah's glass with fresh water: "It must have been terrible."
"The most terrible thing happened right then: my mother called. I said to her: «Mamma, I've just killed a man. I put a bottle against his head. A few rounds later, he was dead. Beelzebub has a demon put aside for me.» And she answered: «You're really the worst son any mother can wish for, giving all those rounds to strangers you don't even know… And your old mother, what? Not even a round of empty glasses do you give me.» And then she hung up the phone. I knew she hated me, she would never ever call me anymore, she would refuse to see me ever again, me, her only son, and I was so ashamed of myself that I swore I would never do it again, supply alcoholic drinks to anybody."
"And? Did you?"
"No."
"What happened?"
"Twenty seconds later, my mum called again. She said: «The bottles of Immerbesoffen Peach Schnapps are on offer at Supermarket Oberkräuter. Tomorrow is the last day. I make Wiener schnitzel for dinner.» And then she hung up."
"And?"
"How could I say no? It's my mother. Her Wiener schnitzel is irresistible."
Shirley nods silently. She's a mother too. I understand.
Shirley has one more question: "I have one more question, but… If you don't want to tell me, it's alright."
Jeremiah doesn't object: "Whatever you want, ma'am. I'm not going to lie anymore."
"Did your mother make the crispy crust of her Wiener schnitzel with bread or with rusk?"
"Wholewheat rusk, and only eggs from chickens that had a better life."
"Lovely. That recipe is indeed irresistible. Now, tell me about the Sieben Gänge gang. We need to find the one in charge."
"The Chef? Impossible."
"Nothing is impossible."
"Pigs can fly?"
"Do you want to see the film Watson made of them, two days ago?"
I take my spiPhone out of my pocket and show Jeremiah the video I shot in the garden of Twilight Zone where the inhabitants were training Heidi and Peter. Not only red bulls, but also pink pigs can have wings. Impossible is nothing.
Jeremiah isn't convinced yet: "If you can make the impossible possible, you can find The Chef by yourself because I have no idea how to find him. He sent me his instructions via pigeons, with orders to eat both the orders and the pigeons. Once a week, one white pigeon landed on the roof, to deliver my messages to The Chef. I've never seen him, not heard his voice, not even smelled his aftershave."
Jeremiah is relieved by his confession. He didn't do anything wrong. In fact, he changed his life and turned it from destruction into healing, from pushing people into alcoholics to helping them kick the habit.
Shirley puts her hand on his shoulder: "You did well, Jeremiah. You did nothing wrong. Don't listen to what your mother tells you. You've been a good son, and she's been a bad mother."
"I'm not a good person. I helped the gang to kill millions. When the captain orders the soldier to shoot an unarmed prisoner, who is guilty of murder?"
"Both are guilty, the captain for giving the order, and the soldier for pulling the trigger. When either one would have acted differently, the killing wouldn't take place.", I answer.
Jeremiah shakes his sad head: "And how about the one who produced the gun and the bullet? And how about the one who started the war? And what do you say about the one who pays the taxes that are used to pay the captain and the soldier and the guns and the bullets? We all make choices and we're all convinced we're the good guys, while all the others in the world are the bad boys. There are laws against pulling triggers and giving orders to kill, but there are no laws against making money, not even when you produce guns or bullets or wars in faraway countries, because war produces many jobs in the military, and making money is never against the law. Do you know how the Sieben Gänge gang works? Do you know how we kill all those millions of people each year? Do you know how we make all that money?"
"We don't, but we're eager to hear it.", I say.
"You believe The Chef planned a terrorist attack. I believe you're wrong. The Chef doesn't work like that. How many killings do all the terrorists in the world have on their account?"
I produce the data like a computer: "About 25.000 casualties last year. It was on the news. In fact, it's on the news almost every day when terrorists kill people. It makes terrorism, right after football, the second most popular sport on earth."
Jeremiah shakes his head: "25.000 per year? We kill 3,5 million people per year. That's 10.000 people per day, 400 per hour, one every ten seconds. You don't see us on the news. Do you know why? Because we make people believe we're doing something good for them. Like everyone believes that alcohol is a reward instead of a punishment, we've changed the world food industry into something that produces poison. We give them what they want in such high quantities that they eat themselves to death. As long as everybody's happy, it doesn't really matter…
» In the world, one billion people suffer hunger, and each year 9 million of them die. In this same world, over two billion people suffer from being overweight and each year, we, the Sieben Gänge gang, murder 3,5 million of them. We make those people feel good about themselves, and we make the food so delicious that they can't resist. They can't even think of sharing their overweight with those who are dying of hunger. It doesn't really matter…"
As an economist, I correct his mistake: "We have a free-market economy. Everyone is free to choose."
Sadly, Jeremiah shakes his head: "Did those three billion victims have a free choice? Who chooses to die? Who chooses to live like a zombie, sitting on a couch every night, working on heart attacks while watching terrorist attacks on TV, instead of living an active and interesting life with others? Those people don't have free will. Those people are victims of the decisions of others, like the unarmed prisoner who looks into the barrel of the one who started the war.
» The soldier who's holding the gun is the captain of industry who produces all the food and drinks, the one who makes eating irresistible, the one who invents the marketing that makes the victims in front of the TV believe that eating an entire bag of crisps makes you happier than eating just a little bit. He's only doing his job and making more money. The health of our society doesn't really matter…
» The captain who's giving the order is the government that makes laws against terrorists but ignores the real problems that destroy our society. They prohibit fun and they raise taxes. They are only interested in the money that makes their world go round. For them, it doesn't really matter what schools teach children or how old folks need to live.
» All those ideas, for captains of the food industry and government advisers, come from… The Chef. It's The Chef who started the war for money against consumers. I don't know how he distributes the knowledge he gets from me via his white pigeon, but I've seen enough commercials of New, Better, Irresistible products on TV, only one month after sending the recipe of that new, better, irresistible product away in a light-blue airmail envelope. Industry pays for them, governments earn higher taxes with them, and everybody feels fantastic.
» That's how it works. The Chef is responsible for more killings than Hitler, Stalin and George Bush together, and he never hits the headlines of the Eight O'clock News. Dead consumers tell no tales."
What can I say…?
Shirley pinks away a tear.
This is worse than we could ever imagine.
It's not a poison; it's an idea. The most deadly virus humanity created is eating us alive.
Two billion people put their lives at risk because they refuse to help one billion others who suffer.
"We'll find that Chef, Shirley. He will not get away with this."
Shirley isn't convinced anymore: "Two billion people infected? It's impossible, my dear Watson."
I stand up: "If we stay here on this cosy couch, everything is impossible, but if we do this together… You know I don't dance and you know I don't sing, but making the impossible possible is my daily job."
Jeremiah is touched by my words. He stands up too and shakes my hand: "Thank you, Doctor Watson. You're my hero. If you ever appear on Facebook, I'll follow you everywhere."
"True heroes don't follow. True heroes go their own way and don't stop until they've reached their goal. Shirley taught me that, by the way. She's the real hero of this story."
Jeremiah helps Shirley to stand up so he can shake her hand too: "I'm sure your little Arnie will be proud to have a mother like you. If there's anything I can do for you, all you have to do is ask."
Shirley shakes her head: "All I wanted was one dance, but even that was too much to ask for. My dear Watson wants to make the impossible possible, but he refuses to dance with me to the music of the Spittaler Spitze. You men should talk less and do more."
Jeremiah bows and answers: "It will be an honour to take you out and dance with you, Miss Shirley. In my old days, I was an excellent dancer…"
"In the old days, I was young and beautiful, but the old days have passed, the bar is closed and I don't want to dance with you. You're much too tall. I hate it to dance with tall men. I need someone of my own size. I hate it when people look down on me."