The church is empty, except for an elderly lady who's cleaning the floor near the entrance. With my left index finger on my lips and then pointing it at the door, I suggest she takes a free afternoon from the mopping business. My right index finger holds the trigger of my Makarov. With a troubled face, she takes her bucket and leaves the scene.
The Chef stands in front of the altar, facing the back of the church. Sunlight falls through the colourful stained glass behind the huge cross. I've seen this film before. It was a nightmare. It was about kill or be killed. This time, I'm prepared. I'm armed. I'm in control. I run this show. There are no surprises. I know what's coming. I know what to do.
"The game is over. Put your hands in the air and turn around. Slowly. Don't try anything stupid."
The Chef puts his hands in the air, but not the way I instructed. He's mumbling in Latin to the cross in front of him, lowers his hands to raise them again, this time holding a white piece of bread, and again, now with a cup of wine like he's inviting the world for a last supper, without paying any interest at all to the gun behind him.
He's speaking Latin.
Perhaps he doesn't understand English.
I speak eight languages (seven, if 'speak' is about sound only, as language number eight is the international language of the hand and the feet), but Latin isn't one of them. I try it anyway: "Morituri te salutant". That means «those about to rock salute you». No, it means «those about to die salute you». The gladiators said it to the emperor before they fought each other to the death in the arena, to entertain the crowds of Rome. I'm the one who salutes. I'm the one who's going to die. I'm the one who turned the Ace of Spades five times in a row. I'm the one who faces the man without a face, the man with the gun and the detonator.
Slowly, The Chef turns around. He's dressed as a priest. He does have a face. He looks exactly like The Pope of the Tarot. He has something in his hands. He holds his hands together, right before his chest. I don't have a visual. The cloud that hid the sun moves away and an eye-blinding ray of sunlight hits me straight in the face. All I see is a silhouette. If it's a detonator he's holding, I can't shoot it without killing him. If it's a gun, leaving me one bullet of advantage to shoot him in his arm, I have a 50% chance to shoot the right arm, which might be the left arm, because statistics tell us that the majority are right-handed, but we also know that, in general, left-handed people are more creative and therefore should they, statistically, be better candidates to lead a worldwide conspiracy of criminals. And if I spend more milliseconds thinking, I won't have even the time to plant one bullet in him. I have to decide now. All I can do is aim at his head and pull the trigger.
Or I might be wrong.
Against all odds, this might just be an innocent priest.
What proof do I have?
If I wait long enough, I'll get the answer.
If he doesn't shoot, I'll know he's innocent.
If I shoot first, I'll know he's dead.
If he shoots first, I'll know he's The Chef, and I'm dead.
And I don't have time to think.
I have to act.
I thought I was prepared, but I wasn't prepared for this.
…
Killing him is no option. I'm not a killer. Saving the world from the bad boys should be done without violence. Violence is always the problem, never the answer.
I switch the safety on, throw my Makarov behind me, and spread my arms like the man on the cross who witnesses this scene. Nothing can go wrong. Shirley said a little prayer for me this morning. The Chef will fire his gun, the bullet will hit the Maltese cross that hangs on my neck, ricochet back into the arm he shot me with, and after seeing this spectacular miracle in front of his eyes, The Chef will fall on his knees, beg for mercy and confess his crimes.
Another cloud filters the sunlight and makes me see it more clearly:
He doesn't have a gun.
He only has a detonator.
It's not a detonator. It's a box. It's a collection box. The priest invites me to support his organization with a few coins.
A sudden feeling of joy comes over me, like the Higher Powers shine their light in my soul, a feeling of relief, for not making a mistake, for not killing an innocent man.
"The Lord welcomes you into his house, my friend.", the priest says: "My name is father Helmut and the woman behind you is my housekeeper Angela."
Behind me, I hear a disturbing click, followed by an even more disturbing voice: "And as soon as you lower those hands, you'll meet The Lord in person."
What did my horoscope say? The end is near. The worst is behind you. BEHIND ME! She's holding a gun, my own Makarov, and I don't have a Maltese cross hanging on my back, so not even a miracle can save me from the bullets.
My horoscope was right. I'm obviously on an upward spiral, on a stairway to heaven. It makes me wonder where it ends…
"Angela. You're The Chef. I thought the best place to exchange mortal secrets would be the confessional, with the captains of food industry on one side and a priest providing the irresistible recipes on the other side. The idea was good, but I've made one BIG mistake: a priest would never do such a thing. The humble cleaning lady, though, fat and ugly, humiliated all her life by all those skinny models, she would have a much better motive to destroy the world. And it almost worked too."
"Almost? We have between three and four million casualties each year, and the numbers are going up fast. Thirty years ago, less than 15% of the world population suffered from being overweight, but since we started our little business, that percentage has doubled, and nothing indicates it will go down. The snowball we've tossed has grown into Ice Age. And when our dear father will be so kind to die this afternoon, murdered by a notorious criminal, who committed suicide with two bullets in the back of his head after his horrible act, the Sieben Gänge gang will go on as we've always done. Although I have to find a new set of collaborators to provide me with the sweet and greasy information that will poison the world's breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the upcoming decades."
"How much money is involved? How much do they pay you for the information?"
"Not enough to live in an ivory tower like the ones those captains of food industry reserve for themselves. Not even enough to buy myself that sparkling white dress with silver stars that I love so much. We do big volumes with little margins. But it pays the costs of my little organization, and I do own a helicopter."
Shirley was right: Angela likes to dress up. She likes to show off. She's a leader. She's a Leo. She's pride and joy with a big mouth and a small heart. Perhaps I can make use of that.
"And you have to wipe floors for a living. You're really the most pathetic criminal since Cain killed Abel."
"I'm not in it for the money. I'm doing this for a better world. After suffering hunger for millions of years, humanity has finally entered the century of plenty, and now… we can't enjoy it because society's hate against overweight is deadlier than famine in the past. Fabulous, fantastic, fascinating fat women are condemned to diet and gym without touching all the delicious sweet temptations on our table. Unless… If everyone is fat like me, we're all the same, and we can all enjoy a life of glorious gluttony. We're going back to the old days of Rubens, who adored women with full figures and painted us like we were angels who descended the stairway from heaven to save the earth from the ugly skeletons that call themselves «models»."
"It doesn't matter that such a decadent life will be shorter than a healthy life?"
"What's the value of living twenty years longer when during those last twenty years you're treated like a prisoner in a home for the elderly, with nothing to do, nothing to eat, and hardly anyone who cares about you…? Live life to the max and never mind paying the tax. That's my motto."
"And you don't care that you can't walk because your knees can't carry your weight? Did you forget about the diabetes you'll get? Are you perfectly happy with your fat body on a couch in front of a TV with snacks and Schnapps because you don't have any imagination about anything else you can do to entertain yourself? All you can eat for five dollars is better than all you can eat when you cook it yourself? It's not better at all. It's just more."
"Who cares what you think? All that matters is what the world thinks. They don't listen to you. They listen to me. Statistics don't lie. Statistics say that people with an overweight BMI of 27 have a higher life expectancy than people with a (considered healthy) BMI between 20 and 25. Over 30% of the world population already suffers from being overweight and it's going up fast. What are you going to do about it?"
"I'm going to tell them."
"As every doctor and president tells them, every day, even with laws, that smoking is bad for your health, and drugs kill, and alcohol is bad for you too. Who cares? The ones who make the choices, the consumers, won't change. They like everything I give them so generously. They love to get drunk. They adore eating as much as they can. They worship laziness."
"You're wrong. You think humanity is a tribe of stupid monkeys, only interested in food, sex, money, and doing as little as possible. When I tell them about your conspiracy to let them eat themselves to death, I'm sure their brain will beat their animal instincts and—"
"You're not going to tell anything to anybody. You lose. I win. I shoot. You die. Say goodbye."
"Don't you allow me a last wish? I would like to look you in the eye when you pull that trigger."
When the chuckle behind me has finished, Angela asks: "Do you want to see it coming?"
"I'm not afraid to die. I've lived life to the max. When you swallow life with big gulps, you have to accept it ends sooner. I've had a fascinating and fulfilling life, I have nothing left to feel sorry for, I've done my best to save the world or die in the attempt, and if this is the moment I die in the attempt, all I can think about is the place I'm going to, which is a beautiful place, with music and a permanent dance floor, it smells like Wiener schnitzel like only the mother of my friend Shirley could make it, and she's waiting for me, so we can eat together. I know it's up there, at the end of that stairway. I know someone who's been in that tunnel, and I trust her: she told the truth. I'm not afraid. I prefer to die instead of living in the hell you created…"
"Okay. Turn around. Slowly. Keep your distance and keep your hands above your head. And you, Father, will be next."
I won't allow Angela to focus on anything else but me: "I'm not afraid. I knew this moment would come, and I didn't walk away. Death isn't the end. Death is only the end when your life has been insignificant. When you gave meaning to it, you will live on in the hearts of others, and they will pass it on and on. When you dedicated yourself to healing wounds, teaching children, or building bridges, your work will live on after you. That's eternal life, and I'm looking forward to it."
"Nice last words. I'm sure someone will remember them. It won't be me, that's for sure."
She points the gun at my head. Is there one last trick I can use to outsmart her? Is there some kind of magic to escape the bullet? Killed by my own gun. What a disgrace. After my death, I will be remembered as the worst spy in history.
Goodbye.
At least, my life ends with a bang.
Bang!
BANG!
A flying handbag hits Angela on the head. Inside it, there's something heavy. It throws her off balance and makes her miss the shot. I feel how the bullet burns my hair. It enters the wood of the cross behind me, adding another mortal wound to Him who already suffered so much. I smell the sharp scent of death-faster-than-sound. I have no time to think. I have to act. I jump forward, grab Angela's wrist, and twist her arm to her back, pushing it until she drops the gun.
I get up, in control of the situation again.
Shirley stands in the church's doorway, relaxed, smiling: "I'm back."
"And right on time, Shirley. You saved not only the day, you also saved my life, and on top of that, you saved the world."
Shirley picks up her handbag and shows the big white stone she kept inside: "A little trick I learnt from Traudi Klammer; a marble rock always comes in handy when it's time to rock 'n' roll."
"Meet Angela, a.k.a. The Chef. She confessed everything. The spiPhone in my breast pocket recorded her confession, and on video, I have her intent to murder me in the first degree. The rest of her life, she will cook for inmates."
Angela is furious: "Two against one. How dare you! In twenty years, when the majority of the world population will be as fat as I am, you won't be able to outnumber us anymore. We're growing fast, a kilo each year. The heavy mob will rule the future, with or without me."
Shirley looks down at her: "Look at you. What do you have to be proud of? All you did with your life was make people miserable. You're pathetic."
"I can beat you with one hand tied at my back and both eyes closed, old woman."
"And if I'd give you that chance, what would I win with it?"
"You name it. Whatever you want. You'll lose anyway."
"Do you want a duel? Lovely. I take the challenge. You against me. You pick the weapons, but I pick the consequences for the winner and the loser. My dear Watson with his gun is the judge who will guarantee we'll respect the rules. Okay?"
A duel? I can't believe this: "Don't let her talk you into this, Shirley. We have everything under control. This woman is dangerous. I won't allow this. She's a heavyweight, you're a flyweight. One blow from her fist will launch you right through the stained glass window above the altar. You're no match for her when it comes to fighting. Or do you plan to give her a gun so she can shoot you?"
Angela laughs out loud: "I thought I heard you say you weren't afraid. Are you afraid now?"
Shirley laughs too, but her smile is mysterious rather than joyful: "Do you think that dear Angela and I are cavemen from the Wild West? Does the word «duel» make you forget we're ladies, used to solve our problems in more educated ways? Even the worst female criminal in the world has standards that make her stand high above the gunslingers who think violence is the best way to solve everything. Don't you agree, my dear Angela?"
Dear Angela, by far the most wanted criminal on this side of the Mississippi, agrees with her worst enemy: "Of course I agree, my dear Shirley. When females took over the lead, when mankind evolved into humanity, not every man understood the consequences: violence is never the answer and always the problem we have to solve. Survival of the fittest, survival of the strongest, and survival of the one who shoots first are the only rules of the Law of the Jungle. It worked fine for the dressed monkeys we were, but that Jungle Book isn't literary enough for the fine ladies we've become. As I have the right to choose the weapons for this duel, I will pick the one I'm most familiar with, the weapon with which I will eat you entirely, my dear little fair friend. I choose the frying pan. We're going to have a real Austrian duel: the one who bakes the best Wiener schnitzel wins the Jackpot. If I win, you let me go, and my entire gang with me."
Shirley has no doubt: "Wiener schnitzel? Lovely! You just gave me the advantage to play at home, dear. There's no chance you'll win this. If you lose, you and your gang will dedicate the rest of your lives to taking care of the elderly people, and on top of that, you'll dedicate yourself to writing cookbooks with healthy and cheap recipes, giving the heavyweights of this world a good alternative to the future you cooked up for them. What they choose is their concern, but you and your fat sisters will work to solve the problems you've caused. Do we have a deal?"
I can't believe this: "You can't be serious, Shirley. And what if you lose? Angela has made a living, turning good food into an addiction. She's a professional, and you're just an amateur. She's the sheriff of science with seven stars. You're the naive Native American at the gunpoint of extinction."
"Trust me, my dear Watson. When the future of the world is at stake, there's nobody better than me to save it. There's one last detail we should agree on, Angela: the arena. Do you want us to cook here, in this cold church, with no food supplier around, and only our dear Father Helmut as a juror? Did you think about the fact that today is a Sunday and the shops are all closed?"
Angela looks suspicious: "What did you have in mind?"
I know Shirley. Even when the shops are all closed, I know that, with one word, she gets what she came for. I know what she has in mind, and I'm not looking forward to it, not at all: "Shirley wants this to be a fair fight. She wants a professional jury, consisting of your seven members of the Sieben Gänge gang plus our fifteen Bond girls and boys in the Twilight Zone. She wants father Helmut to come with us because 7 plus 15 make 22 and that might result in a draw. She wants us to go down there, so the two of you can prepare the meat, while I take care of the salad, the fried potatoes, the drinks, the vegetables, the dessert and the coffee. She wants me to call her friend Günter Oberkräuter, so we'll get the best ingredients, even on a Sunday. She wants me to call Frans Waltz, so everything will be waiting for us in the kitchen of the Twilight Zone when we arrive. She wants me to fly your helicopter because we can't get away from here any other way since the avalanche blocked this mountain. Did I forget anything?"
Shirley corrects me on one point: "We can't do this in the kitchen of the Twilight Zone, my dear Watson. There's no space for 23 people plus three cooks, not in the kitchen and not in the dining room. We have to do this in the Ambassador's villa. And you should prepare a starter too. What do you suggest, my dear Angela? How about Fritattensuppe?"
"An excellent choice. It's easy to prepare, it raises the appetite, and absolutely everyone loves Fritattensuppe. Don't you agree, my dear Father Helmut? If today would be your birthday, what would you like to eat?"
Father Helmut licks his lips after hearing The Chef's suggestion: "Fritattensuppe, Wiener schnitzel with salad, vegetables and fried potatoes, followed by Dame Blanche ice cream for dessert."
"Do you know how to prepare Fritattensuppe, my dear Watson?", Shirley asks.
"Do you know how to prepare a hot chocolate sauce for Dame Blanche, my dear Watson?", Angela asks.
"Do you know how to fly a helicopter, my dear Watson?", Father Helmut asks.
I'm a spy. I'm trained to save the world. I can do everything. Although…
"Fritattensuppe?"
"You bake a thin omelette, you cut it into fine strips, and you add them to a beef bouillon. If we don't lose more time here, you'll have the rest of the afternoon to prepare that beef bouillon."
We're not losing more time.
* * *
Beef bouillon was never my speciality, but with the help of two experienced cooks, I'm more than content with the result. While the bouillon boils, I have time to prepare the rest.
And then the duel starts.
The kitchen of the Ambassador's house has three stoves, two big ones in the far corners, plus my small stove next to the entrance. In the centre of the kitchen, there's a big table with 23 plates. Each plate will be filled with two halves of a schnitzel. One part has a little flag with an A on it, the flag on the other half shows a 1. I have no idea which symbol stands for either cook, and no time to find out because I'm running like crazy to get everything ready in time.
The jurors have to taste both parts of their schnitzel and hide the flag of their favourite part in their fist, making the other flag disappear forever, without showing their choice to anyone else. It's a dinner, so talking is allowed, but it should be a conversation that has nothing to do with the outcome of the contest.
The dinner is a success. Everybody had time to go upstairs and find something to dress up for the occasion. Everybody is excited to have a delicious final part in this adventure. White wine and excellent cold Villacher beer bring back long-forgotten stories. Michaela, Gabriela and Raphaela help with the serving, but they aren't allowed to enter the kitchen. I'm too busy to see which schnitzels get the 1-flags and who prepares the half with the A-flags on them. All the meat comes from the same animal, a mountain pig that died of natural causes after having a better life. All the ingredients are the same for both cooks, but when I try a little bit of the last plate before serving it, I do notice the difference in taste: schnitzel 1 is very good but schnitzel A is even better. And when all the jurors open their fists to show their idea of the winner, we find out that everybody agreed with me: the cook who prepared the schnitzel with the A-flag has won the duel. Unanimously.
"IT'S NOT FAIR! We used the same ingredients, the same frying pan, the same kitchen, everything the same, and still, everyone has picked your schnitzel to be the best. You've cheated. It's not fair.", Angela shouts.
It surprises me. For being the A of Angela, I suspected her to be the winner, but now it turns out that Shirley won the cooking duel. She smiles mysteriously: "If you admit I won, and if you accept your punishment of taking care of the elderly for the rest of your life plus informing the world about how good food can be healthy and tasty too, I will tell you my secret ingredient."
Angela's curiosity is bigger than she can handle: "Agreed. Nobody will call me a lousy loser. I promise." [The title of Angela's book about living better with good food is: «Live2Eat, Eat2Live - Step by step towards a healthy, positive balance», available FOR FREE!!! via www.editorialperdido.eu, the publisher of this LSD series.]
Shirley reveals her magic trick: "My secret ingredient is: love. You play to win. I play to please. I put all my love into my work, and everyone noticed the difference."
"What's this? What's everybody doing here in my house? What's that smell?"
It's the Ambassador.
Rostov!
And we were THIS close to a happy ending.
There's always someone in a suit who makes happiness only available for the happy few, the leaders of the pack, the owners of everything.
I try to save the day: "It's not what you think, Sir. Like you, I work for the Luxembourg government, and as this is formally not your house, but only—"
"I'm not interested in who you work for or who pays the bill. I'm talking about that delicious smell around here, the best Wiener schnitzel I've smelled in my life. Don't tell me you have eaten it all. After two weeks of official banquets with tea, rice, and noodles, there's nothing I'd like better than an honest home-cooked meal. Do you have Fritattensuppe and Dame Blanche too? Is this somebody's birthday? I have two invitations for tonight's dîner-dansant with the European Ministers of Refugee Affairs, and I would love to trade them for a place on your dinner table."
Dîner-dansant? Dinner and dance, the magic words. Shirley snatches the two invitations out of the Ambassador's hand, escorts him and his wife to the best table, and asks Angela and the seven sisters to take care of everything because she herself has to change and represent the Ambassador at this important event. I can't stay behind. She will need her partner to watch her back. And also: Shirley and I didn't eat one bite of this duel-dinner. I'm starving.
Five minutes later, I'm in my tuxedo, asking myself: "Gun or no gun?"
The gun causes an ugly bulge on the left side of my jacket. I decide to leave it at home. This is, after all, a party for the international jet set, highly secured by professionals from every country in the world that's rich enough to worry about the invasion of poor people from poor continents that were rich continents before the white man came. There's nothing to worry about.
Downstairs, there's nothing to worry about either. The Ambassador starts with his starter, the Bond boys and girls make the Dames Blanche disappear, and then my own Dame Blanche, Shirley, glides down the stairway, dressed in a gorgeous evening gown, sparkling white with silver stars. Everyone turns heads.
I make a bow and ask politely: "Do you allow me to accompany you to the dance, my dear Shirley?"
"Elementally, my dear Watson."
A taxi is waiting for us in front of the door. Ten minutes later, we park in front of the Congress Centre Villach. I open the door of the car and offer Shirley my arm. Together, we climb the stairway to the heaven of haute cuisine and high culture, that peak of power, high and cold, where white lights shine and queens are sold, where all that glitters is not gold, often have you heard that told, about a rock that never rolled.
When we get there, when we enter that ballroom, there's a feeling I get, when I look at the jet set, and my spirit is crying for leaving…