This isn't just a dinner.
It's a dîner-dansant.
It's a dance party.
I can't dance.
Not here.
Not now.
All the leaders of the First World will look at me, watch how I step on the toes of First Ladies and make me feel embarrassed, nervous, perhaps even scared…
Before the banquet starts, there is the closing speech from the Austrian hostess of the European Refugee Conference, a tall, blond woman in a red evening dress:
"Dear all,
» Today is Sunday. This morning, I went to the park with my two daughters. We took some old bread to feed the ducks. I saw something remarkable. Ducks follow Darwin's Law: the Survival of the Fittest. Some of those ducks are aggressive; they steal away as much bread as they can from the others. My daughters noticed that too. They told the aggressive ducks: «You've had enough. This piece of bread is for your friend, who had nothing.» My daughters follow Dante's Law of Human Qualities: when the strong take care of the weak, the weak can grow stronger, so they can take care of the strong when those are old and weak. My daughters are four and six years old. They taught me a lesson this morning.
» To understand that lesson, I want you to look around, look at all those people here, who have been talking for a whole week about what to do with all those Third World refugees who want to enter our First World. Some want to build walls. Others want to send them back. Others want to give away our tax money so their leaders can buy our weapons. For the last 500 years, it was US, the First World, who enslaved, robbed and impoverished the Third World. WE made those people poor. But nobody suggested saying «sorry». Nobody suggested we should go there, help them cultivate their land and build factories, teach them how they can take care of themselves. The aggressive ducks are we. Not one of those refugees is welcome at our table. We have seven courses and still we don't have enough to share our wealth with someone who has nothing. The aggressive ducks are WE. The lesson I learnt today was: the next generation will do a better job than we did.
» We should be ashamed of ourselves.
» I wish you a pleasant meal."
The lady in red gets a standing ovation, both from Shirley and from me. We are the only ones. Everybody is staring at us. I don't care. I've had a courage transfusion. I'm not afraid of anything, and least of standing up for people who need our help. And being a team with Shirley, who shouts: "God is a woman! God is a mother!", I have hope that the end of the world will not be humanities greatest achievement, that our children will listen to their god-mother instead of their animal instinct, and that we will listen to our children so we can learn how to give them the world they like best.
The seven-course dinner offers time and space to dance between every two dishes.
I can't dance.
I'll do everything to save the world. Last week, I've jumped off the wall of a high castle, I rode a savage wild donkey and risked my life in a speedboat, I've broken the world record Glacier Bouncing for Snowballs, I've looked Death in the eye, more than once, and I've even kissed a frog and turned her into a princess. I've done absolutely everything, and I've helped Shirley, so she could save the world. Together with Shirley, I can do anything, except…
I don't dance. I don't sing and I don't dance. Singing is here in the professional hands and nightingale throats of the Spittaler Spitze, so I don't have to worry about it. It's the dancing that makes me cry for help and wish to leave. Shirley wants to dance, and she wants to dance with me. And «dancing» doesn't mean imitating monkeys at a five-metre distance from each other. We're talking about five years of intensive training by professional teachers, about gliding and sliding with style and pleasure. Stepping on toes is a capital crime here. This is the top of society, all tall and beautiful, moving with grace. A clumsy short #5 Runner of the LSD would stand out here like a wheelchair in a Formula 1 race. I can't do this.
"I'm sorry, Shirley. I can't do this."
"You HAVE to, my dear Watson. Everyone here is High Society: at least 1,80 tall. You're the only one my size. I don't care if you step on my toes. If you want me to, I'll even lead. But you'll have to put your shame aside and grant me the pleasure of at least one dance. I've never asked you anything, but now I ask you this: dance with me."
I look at my empty plate.
"I can't do this, Shirley. I don't care, making a fool of myself, but I will not allow people to laugh at you for being with a fool like me. You deserve something better than a partner who trips over his own feet and falls face forward into the wedding cake. You're not asking me to dance with you; you're asking me to ruin this perfect party and this nice evening for everyone. I can't do this, Shirley. I'm sorry."
At that moment, a gentleman with a black beard steps out of the dancing crowd before us. He's wearing a black smoking jacket with a bow tie. I smell intense lavender from the Provence. The gentleman gently kisses Shirley's hand and asks: "My dear lady. Would you be so kind as to grant me the pleasure of this dance? They told me you're an excellent dancer and… you're the only one around who's my size."
Shirley looks puzzled. She looks at me. She looks at her watch. It's twelve o'clock. It's the beginning of another day. She looks at the small man in his black suit. She takes a deep, deep breath and tells him: "I'm honoured, Sir. I'd be delighted to dance with you, but I hope you allow me to finish my little conversation with my dear friend Watson here. It will only be a minute…"
The man in black smiles: "Of course.", and steps back to give us some privacy.
Shirley looks me in the eye, takes my hand and says: "Don't be sorry. I know that one day you'll learn how to dance. After that day, I'll be waiting for you. You've been there for me, you've saved my life, you never let me down, not even when you looked Death in the eye, and we've saved the world together. So don't feel bad for having two left feet. Don't be sorry. I'm not sorry. I'm grateful and happy, for this perfect evening, and for everything we did.
» You're not a bad dancer. Good and bad are just relative. One reason can be enough to change any good person into a bad person, but everyone can listen and learn and take that reason away again. There's always a solution. The basic motivation of every human being is to be happy, to know yourself, and to live your dream. And the most fascinating and fulfilling dream is to help others. That's the meaning of life, the salt of the seven-course dinner the Higher Powers cooked for us. I'm happy I've found that salt, and I'm even more happy I've found somebody I can pass that salt to, somebody who will pass the salt to others. By doing so, he'll make sure that a tiny bit of me will live forever. Thank you, my dear Watson, for saving my life, and for giving me the chance to live forever."
She kisses me on the cheek.
It feels like a goodbye.
Shirley feels it too, but she wipes it away with a radiant smile: "Don't worry. It's just one dance. I'll be back."
And then she turns to the man in black, gives him her hand and says: "I'm ready now. Safe embraces, Captain. Come and save me. Take me home to your religion for tonight."
And religion it is. Shirley's spinning, but she's not afraid. Dancing makes her happy. There are some things you can't do by yourself. Saving the world is one of them. Dancing is another one. Two people so close, united like one, floating with the violins, turning and smiling, happy as can be, thanks to some music.
"You are an excellent dancer, Captain. I can dance with you forever.", Shirley laughs as they pass my table. She's doing this intentionally. She wants to tell me something. She wants to infect me with the dancing virus that gives her so much pleasure…
I'll always say that music is humanity's best invention ever. Music takes possession of your soul, it can change your mood, no matter how you feel, and its lyrics teach us how to see the image through the singer's eyes. Making music together, scientifically proven by some hotshot happiness professor, is the closest anyone can come to perfect happiness. As I see Shirley swirl over the dance floor in the arms of her Captain, I understand that I have one more step to go if I want to enjoy music to the max: one day, I'll have to learn how to dance. Or perhaps there are two more steps, as playing an instrument might also add a completely new dimension to the pleasure music provides. Perhaps Shirley's right.
No. Not «perhaps». Shirley is right. She's always right. I should try to find the time for some dancing classes. It won't be easy, as my job takes me everywhere, so I don't exactly have a free evening each week to learn the samba or the hokipoki, but I can start with books and videos, try to find places to practice, don't walk away from it but make an effort, as Shirley has tried to teach me during this past week. It's okay to train on points you're already good at, but when you train on your weak points, you will always make better progress. Perhaps it's better to start with learning how to play an instrument. A blues harmonica wouldn't take up much space in my spy suitcase…
But not tonight.
Tonight, nobody has the blues.
Tonight we rock 'n' roll.
Tonight we celebrate, with a great dinner and a great little friend for company.
Life can't get any better than this.
I wonder what's for dessert.
"The end is near. Es gibt hier bestimmt eine Bombenstimmung. La Bomba. Das wird der Knaller…"
A blow with a baseball bat on my head could not have hit me harder. A remarkable voice behind me brought me back to Earth: thanks to all the attention we gave to the Sieben Gänge gang, we completely forgot how this story started… Shirley overheard a man with a remarkable voice, saying something about a bomb on a Sunday-night party, to destroy the world. Of course. There would be no better place than here at the meeting, where rich countries discuss how poverty can be kept out of sight. Of course. «Evil» is here the poor majority, who wants to destroy the selfish rich minority that does all those horrible things to them. Of course. I thought Shirley was the only one who could recognise that 'remarkable voice', but after hearing it myself, I know exactly what she meant. The man who planned to destroy the world is here. He walked right behind me. If I'm fast enough, I can stop him from concluding his plan to let this party end with a BANG. Where's Shirley? I have to tell her. I might need her help. But I can't see her anywhere. Perhaps it's better this way. Perhaps this time it's my turn to save the world. I can do this. I'm a spy. I can do anything. I'm trained, fit, and fast enough to get up and follow the man in the tuxedo with the remarkable voice.
How naive was I to think there would be only one conspiracy to destroy the world. The work of a spy never ends. Thanks to all the examples Hollywood provides us with, destroying the world has become much more inspiring than doing something good for each other.
Rostov! I left my gun at home. He's almost a head taller than I am. He's a heavyweight. I'm a flyweight. But I have the advantage of surprise, I'm prepared, and I'm ready to die in the attempt.
The big man in the tuxedo disappears through a door with a numbered lock. With a jump forward, I catch the door before it closes behind him, slipping through without making a sound. The noise from the ballroom allows me to close in on him unnoticed, before he reaches another door at the end of the corridor. Quickly, I search my pockets. I'm dressed for a party, not for a secret operation. All I find are two invitations, a handkerchief, a few euros to pay for the taxi home, a fountain pen…
The pen is mightier than the sword. In the right hands, my hands, a pen becomes a powerful weapon. I press it with force into the back of the man in the tuxedo, just before he opens the door: "The end is near. The worst is behind you. Put your hands in the air and don't do anything stupid."
The big man freezes, terrified, and raises his hands as high as he can: "Don't shoot me. I'm just an innocent Chef."
"I've had my share of problems with Chefs. You're all the same."
"No, I'm not. I'm unique. I'm The Creator, the winner of this year's first prize at the Austrian Gastronomy Festival for the best dessert of the year, La Bomba, and I'm about to serve it to the international Ministers of Refugee Affairs. It's spectacular. Once you've tried it, you can't stop eating until you explode. You've never tasted anything better. Please, let me serve it first. You can shoot me whenever you want, but please allow me to see the intense pleasure on the faces of everyone here when they try my creation."
A dessert? La Bomba is a dessert?
"What's in it? Gunpowder? Poison? A green liquid acid that makes pretty faces ugly when they're hit by the splashes?"
The Creator defends himself: "No, no… Truffles, whipped cream, sugar, fresh eggs, chocolate, condensed milk, all sweet and delicious. Per spoonful, it's 1.500 Kcal, and it costs 1.500 euros. It's really the perfect dessert for such a glorious evening. The world leaders here deserve only the best."
I get sick of all this. I push him forward through the door to see it with my own eyes. It's true. In the middle of the kitchen, there's a half-round sphere, covered with marzipan and whipped cream, with enough calories to save Africa from starvation, reserved for the world leaders to enlighten their conference about how to keep all those starving Africans away from our European tables. What do I do? Do I lift this awful man by his belt and throw him in the middle of his creation? Would that solve the problem?
"Take a bite.", I say.
"What?"
"Take a bite of the dessert. I want to know if it's poisoned. Then, I'll fire a bullet through it, to make sure there's no dynamite or terrorist hidden inside. And then I'll send in the dogs to sniff for forbidden drugs. And then I'll call the press, so they can give their opinion about what's going on here."
The big Creator is confused: "But… This is a prize-winning dessert. You can't fire a bullet through it. I have to serve it. We're late already. It's after midnight."
I take a spoon and try it myself. It's delicious. It's a misunderstanding. It's a perfect finale of a perfect party. Nobody wants to be saved here. They want to eat themselves to death. The card of Death, the unavoidable Ace of Spades, always wins at the end.
Without a word, I leave the Creator alone and return to the ballroom. I want to find Shirley, to tell her I've found the man with the remarkable voice, it was just a hoax, the world is safe, except for the risk of suicide by overweight, but we've already neutralised the gang behind that conspiracy, so there's nothing left for us to do now but enjoy this party and dance until the security throws us out…
I can't find Shirley anywhere.
She's not on the dance floor.
She's not at one of the tables.
I look everywhere, but I don't see Shirley, and neither do I see her dance partner, the man in the black suit. Strange. Shirley doesn't seem the type to sneak out with a stranger for a one-night stand. Perhaps she went to the bathroom. She can't have gone far. Her handbag still lies on our table. She wouldn't go anywhere without her handbag. But she doesn't come back, not to eat her dessert, nor to drink her coffee or her little Schnapps, not to thank the hostess for the wonderful evening like everybody else does, not even to help the ladies who clean up the place after the guests have left.
Her handbag is all that remains.
Something is wrong.
Something terrible has happened.
Shirley was here, in mortal danger, and I was hunting the wrong rabbit, not available to save her.
I have no ideas left but one: check the handbag. It feels wrong. A lady's handbag is personal. One should never ask a lady for her age, and one should never look inside her handbag. But this is an emergency. I have no other options.
The handbag is empty, except for one small item, a card, a Tarot card: the Tower, La Maison Dieu, new beginnings, the Wind of Change brings flashes of insight and the tearing down of what you once believed in…
Maison is French and means «home».
Shirley has gone home.
As I have nothing better to do, I take her empty handbag and leave the building. It's a nice night for a walk. I know where she lives. She left with a new partner, but I'm not jealous. I just want to know if she's alright.
* * *
Austrian construction workers must hold the world record in efficiency: Shirley's house burnt down and was destroyed in an explosion ten days ago, but it's been refurbished to its original state.
It looks empty. I knock on the door. Nobody answers. I walk around the house, but there's nobody there either. When I return to the front door, I see a curtain move at the window of the house next door. I put on a friendly smile and wave to the neighbour, so she knows everything is all right. She's not convinced. She opens the door and asks suspiciously: "What are you doing here, in the middle of the night?"
"I'm looking for the woman who lives here, ma'am. I now realise I don't even know her real name. She's about this high, 1,59 metres, long blond hair, no curls, brave as a Yorkshire terrier, and a smile you'll never forget."
"Maria? Maria Schwarzenegger? You can say that, brave and smiling. With all the bad luck she's had: first, she lost her husband, then the doctors found a tumour in her head as big as a bar of soap, but nothing could make her lose her optimism."
"Yes, that's her. Have you seen her around? We went to a dinner party tonight, and I didn't see her leave. I've been looking for her since."
"You've been with her to a dinner party tonight? I guess you've mistaken Maria for another woman. Maria died two years ago. An explosion and a fire destroyed her house. They found her body in the kitchen. The police said it was an accident. She fell and hurt her head before the fire broke out. The newspapers wrote it was a terrorist attack. We'll never find out what really happened. Fact is that they rebuilt the house, and it's been for sale since. Nobody wants to buy it. They say there's a ghost, living there. That's crazy. Who believes in ghosts? I don't. Do you believe in ghosts, Sir?"
The Ace of Spades.
The Man In Black invited her to the dance.
Shirley said she'd dance with him eternally…
La Maison Dieu.
A sudden flash of new insight strikes me like a baseball bat.
Shirley went home.
I don't know what to believe anymore…