Lights Out in Wonderland

by DBC Pierre

  Still, these hopeful flurries don’t quell my main concern: that the call will be a date with the Master Limbo. And though I’ve wished for as much since reaching Berlin—the Master now wants something from me which I don’t have; and I can only imagine how it deals with nonpayment of its wants.

  I reach off the bed for my kit bag and pull out a bottle of wine. A palliative therapy. Simpatico I choose, as the name seems more fitting before breakfast. But I’ve barely emptied the neck of it when the phone starts to ring. I light a smoke before answering.

  “Good day,” says a man in German. He has a soft, crisp, well-modulated voice. “It seems we have friends in common.”

  I wait quietly on the line until he adds: “And according to one of them, unless I have a death wish, I should avoid drinking with you. Could it be true? I like the sound of that. Will I pick you up in, say, an hour?”

  “Ahh—hallo,” I reply. “But I’m afraid I’m engaged just now. Perhaps we could meet another time? Or I could give you a call?”

  “Unsatisfactory. Because I understand we might also have an interest in common—and we need to establish in the very short term whether we do or don’t have that interest. Though we can deal with one preliminary question right away, which is: I presume you know that certain public parts of the interest in question can be legitimately hired from the city for private functions?”

  “Hm? Of course,” I lie.

  “Good, good. Then we’re talking about something out of public bounds. Something, shall we say—extraordinary. Something ‘awesome,’ as our friend in Tokyo puts it.”

  “You could say that.”

  “Excellent. I think I can guess what you’re proposing—and if it’s what I hope it is, I’m impressed. I salute you. Actually, from the moment I heard where you were staying I reported to our man in Paris that things felt good. You know how he is about discretion. It shows real discipline to keep this business out of the Hotel de Rome or the Adlon—you must be dying up there with the cappuccino communists, you must be sick of the sight of pasta. It definitely calls for a drink. But can we at least say this evening? We must move quickly, our friend will be waiting for a call.”

  “May I ask who’s speaking?”

  “It’s not important on the telephone, I’m sure you understand. For now it’s your friend in Berlin. Can we say nine o’clock? In front of your hotel? You’ll know who I am. We can be candid in person, it’s tiresome playing cold war on the phone. I’ll look forward to our drink, very much. It’s been a while since I plugged into—the network.”

  “Ah—the network. Yes.”

  “And you know—I sense this could be its finest hour.”

  After bidding the man goodbye, I sit for a moment watching smoke curdle the light between curtains. And when I finally replace the phone I can’t help but shake my head. Ah, Smuts and his culinary al-Qaeda. Smuts and his kitchen KGB, with its shadowy myrmidons. Who knows when any of them find time to cook or eat amid intrigues? They probably spend their time at Burger King, plotting overthrows. I take a long draught of Marius, settling back to ponder it all. But after a while my mind starts to boggle. The realization dawns that Smuts’s fate may really hang on this underworld, or overworld as it more seems. His plight is far from a purely legal one, tainted as it is by commercial interests. It’s natural to imagine those interests holding the key to his release. But to the extent that I can even help, my problem is twofold: firstly, no deal to free him is actually offered. It’s only implied, and then only by Smuts. Which makes it a chess game, of wholly unspoken interests, between strangers meeting over a venue. Secondly, and no less crucially—there is no venue. Which makes it a bluff.

  And the Master Limbo will be better at that than me.

  The situation is ominous and suddenly very real. Of course, if I’d had such a call at my old flat in London it would’ve been easy to dismiss as bad theater. London has an immune system against the ominous and resonant, probably because public servants wore us out over the years with sinister language.

  But then, I’m not in London. Oblique interests do exist in the world, of sufficient scale that those who deal with them learn to behave in guarded and unusual ways. People do exist who roam in secrecy, who beat around bushes, hunting only the rarest prey. Hunting unicorns, as Smuts would say. Such people do exist.

  Perhaps nowhere more than in the limbo of modern capitalism.

  A chill soaks through me. I’ve blindly thrust a hand into its wiring, into a tangle of practices and protocols so rare and aloof that it remains unknown to all but a lofty few in the world. A comment of Smuts’s comes to mind: “I could tell you rumors about the Basque that’d make your heart stop. I know chefs who’ve worked on his events who simply turn and walk away when you ask them about it. They don’t smile and change the subject. They don’t say, ‘I can’t tell you.’ They fucking turn and walk away.”

  Whoosh. The overworld.

  All I have to offer as it tightens its cone around me—is a kiosk.

  And if Gerd’s wife has anything to do with it—not even that.

  For a moment I consider changing hotels, or putting myself under a U-Bahn train. But there’s really nothing for it—if I’m committed to Smuts, I’m committed to meeting the man and painting him a castle in Spain. All the better then that he proposes a drink—I’ll just paint him the necessary castle, and make the night my farewell.

  With this decided, I spend the rest of the day the way a budget tourist might spend his last day alive, which calls for a sandwich in the café downstairs, followed by drinking and watching television in bed with the curtains shut. Here’s a thing, though: at a certain point I could swear I feel the fabled Marius correction take place inside me. I actually pause while prehuman minerals and energies seem to flick a loose switch in my genes. And from this, perhaps also from intoxicants generally, I soon find myself preparing to meet the Master. I don my suit and fur, splash myself with Jicky, and pack a bottle of Symphony in a plastic bag, till at nine o’clock two things converge outside the hotel. The first is a tramp who sees the bottle and staggers up: “For me?” He reaches out. “You great, great man. You great figure.”

  Behind this scene comes the whine of a turbine, then out of lamplight a moment later a black Mercedes which lunges to the curb, sparkling like liquid, and sends the vagrant reeling.

  I take a breath. Already I feel a hangover looming, but this needn’t be bad news. Rather it might help me rehearse the lesson of maturity, and shut mostly up.* Tonight’s mission doesn’t call for logistics, no, no. It merely hints at a venue. After Smuts is free the truth can unfold as it will. Because let’s be realistic: such a schoolyard wheeze as this can only come from that family of Smuts deals that never happen. That are replaced as quickly as they arrive, by hotels on icebergs, bistros in Baghdad—by anything from the carousel of maybes that buoys a brooding genius between smokes behind a kitchen.

  Fairly wise, this approach, I feel.

  Surely flowing from genome-corrected grapes.

  I step up to meet the car, then falter when I see a girl behind the wheel. She looks immaculate, with hair so clean and lack that it competes with the limousine for sparkle. I pull back, thinking I’ve mistaken a shampoo model for the kitchen overworld; but in a flash, and without a sound, the rear door swings open and a hand calls me in. Across a central console I find a trim, dark-haired man dressed in black. Perhaps forty, with the boyish good looks of an actor. “Thomas,” he says with a smile, offering me his hand.

  There’s nothing sinister about Thomas, although he’s smooth and charming. I warm to him as the car surges off, pressing us back into a nest of soft leather.

  “Gabriel,” I reply, handing the bag across the seat.

  He peers inside: “Ahh, Symphony—the 2004!” His face ignites, and he pauses before looking over to say: “You know—I think we’re going to
get along.”

  Another pair of eyes glances back, almond shapes in the mirror, then a button nose and a smile. “Cool fragrance,” says the driver. “Jicky?”

  “Bettina,” says Thomas. “She has an amazing nose.”

  “And,” she says, “you applied it just now—the citrus is strong.”

  I look into the mirror: “Yes, it is a beautiful nose.”

  And at this the ice, which anyhow was very thin, breaks in the car and we all laugh, and a sort of day breaks inside me. We motor like friends into the heart of Berlin, clear night flashing past, voices softly ticking like watches; and when occasionally Bettina’s gaze appears, fantasies arise in which I master her vanity.

  Surely a sign of returning hope. Ah, this insane limbo.

  “So, then.” Thomas takes my hand: “Tonight’s agenda is simple. I have a question and a request, both of which, having seen your style, I’m sure you can easily satisfy. But let’s not rush into things. If you’ll indulge me, I’ll savor the mystery over supper.” He pauses before adding: “This may be a long night.”

  We reach the River Spree as it rolls under Friedrichstrasse, where the giant flags of the Reichstag ripple the skyline. The car stops beside stairs leading down to the riverside. “Grill Royal,” says Thomas. “Hope it’s okay for you. I’m known here, but they’re discreet. Still, we’ll save any serious talk until later.”

  Thomas’s entrance into the restaurant calls a crossfire of glances, and though service is busy we’re quickly assigned a table with a prime view. I watch a tourist liner glide past the window leaking mercury and gold across the gelatinous whorls of the Spree, and here, under flattering light, over linen and silver, I find a plane of well-being where I must pause, my friend, and call you in. Step close to these glowing linens, this sparkling glassware, snuffle this scent of hot food and vaporous wine, turn your ear to this elegant chatter between pleasant minds, and admit with me:

  The Master Limbo gets some things rather right.

  How can frail creatures resist comfort? And why should we? As wine, rustic breads, and chilled butter appear before us, these are questions we must ponder—also asking why comfort brings such poise, how it brings generosity of thought, peace of mind, how its light removes blemishes from the skin, till in the end we’re as proud as shining starlets—even possibly because we’re worth it.

  This is the Master Limbo. Observe and contemplate.

  Because suddenly the night doesn’t look hard at all. Suddenly it looks like pure civilization. How absurd were my fears in light of this reality! I recall now the first and most welcome effect of the Master: putting one at perfect ease. How could I feel uneasy in such a setting? Granted, I’d feared an interrogation by a master chef or hired ruffian, but something about Thomas, his shine, his breeding, suggests he’s not involved in the catering industry at all. Moreover, it suggests that as a person he isn’t given to interrogations of any kind. I wonder if he’s a just previous guest, or a friend of the mysterious Basque. However it might be, he seems a layman to the process, just as I am, and therefore probably thinks I know more than I do. The night simply calls for me to sit back, shut up, and observe the goings-on.

  With the appearance of oysters and finger cakes of black bread, he turns to chuckle: “Did you hear about the fish, in Tokyo?”

  “Hm? I was there. Tasted it myself.”

  “Just now—this week?” He stares, laughing. “And you’re still alive? You get better and better. Tokyo, Tempelhof, Marius—I’ve been trying to guess your connection to Berlin, but honestly, after this I give up.”

  Ah, the Enthusiasms. Or could it be that I finally swim with my natural school? Has capitalism merely plucked me to where I should be? I’d never considered the world of smilers, of fluent talkers and sharp dressers, to be my school. Though I admit there’s something about the habitual smiler that can make life smooth, my problem with smiles is that the markets seized them to use as fronts for sodomy. They can’t be trusted anymore, for all that goes on behind them. And so I find myself in a curious position, between worlds. What different worlds they are. For instance, I trusted the scowls in Gerd’s kiosk—because they promised nothing.

  And then, I suppose—nothing is what I got.

  Thomas catches my eye. “And is it true he entertained a girl in the tank? Your chef? When the Basque called he almost couldn’t speak from laughter.”

  “Hm. I think it’ll be a while before Smuts is laughing.”

  “From what I know, it’s typical of Didier’s boys. There must be something he can do, don’t take it too hard. I’m guessing you have a similar orbit in the network as I do—arm’s length, with occasional contact. Probably the safest position. At first I couldn’t believe what went on. But that’s just how things are at this level.”

  “I’m certainly in a safer position than Smuts.”

  Our gazes break apart, but Thomas leans in to shake my arm. “You know the Basque respects a maverick. All his best people are like that. Probably why they work so terribly together. My first event with him was at a Prussian hotel, the Schloss Neuhardenberg, a castle near the Polish border. He flew in three genius chefs and six great sous-chefs. By the end of the fish course there was a stabbing in the kitchen. And by the time the main was served, two cars were on fire and three people were missing who we’ve never seen again. I’m still embarrassed to return to the Schloss.”

  “Sounds like a police magnet.” I sip some wine.

  “That was definitely his last hotel event. And the last with multiple chefs-de-cuisine. After that he went underground, things got serious.”

  Settling into this chilled Chablis, taking our time over oysters and bread, my comfort grows with Thomas, and with the situation, till I find myself scouring my memory for anecdotes from Smuts that I can use in conversation.

  “Still no less vulnerable,” I say. “I mean—how do you explain a fountain of wine to a local cop?”

  Thomas nods, peering over his glass. “As far as I know, he never had a problem. Well—look at the scale of venues he’s used. Fountains are the least of it. And from the very beginning, an event’s first and most important tool has been the warning pistol. Everything’s designed backwards from that. It’s a holy tradition now. The first employee is always the lookout with the blank gun. The alarum. And the first consideration for any venue is the evacuation. I think it’s only been tested once. They found that the shot drew attention from the evacuation to the lookout, so it actually served a double purpose. And because it’s obviously a blank gun, things aren’t so serious for the lookout if he’s caught. Needless to say, he gets paid extra in that case.”

  We pick over oyster shells in their beds of ice, dip bread into puddles of seawater and lemon, bathing our fingers.

  “Unbelievable planning goes into the events these days.” Thomas slides a last mollusc over his tongue. “The ones I’ve seen, anyway. Typical Basque, he’s like a rich kid doing jewel robberies.”

  We laugh, but as Thomas draws breath to continue I become aware of a chubby, gray-suited type swaggering over.

  “Brandy!” He waves at Thomas. “Brandy-boy!”

  “Werner.” Thomas nods. “Get fired or what?”

  “How can I fire myself, I’m the boss?” The character sits without invitation, leering around nearby tables. He doesn’t greet me.

  “It’s a joke. Seems late for you to still be out.”

  “Please be gentle—I’ve just lost my woman.”

  “Oh, no, the giggly one? Or the Mexican?”

  “The other one—with my home and children.”

  “Uff, sounds expensive—very sorry to hear it.”

  “Don’t remind me, I’m at the Adlon a week now. She won’t let me in the house. Give me some wine—let them bring another glass.”

  “Have mine.” Thomas fills the glass with wi
ne.

  “Hear who fell down the chute from Lehman’s?”

  “Shh, Werner, not here.” Thomas looks around.

  “What? That’s not news, the dealing room’s full of it. Anyway, Madoff will draw the press. Meanwhile, see the back doors flying open everywhere? I hear there’s even a time bomb at World Bank ticking toward 2012. Know how I know? Their back door flew open. Who knows where they’ll run?”

  “Depends how rich the bomb is,” says Thomas. “Anyway, it doesn’t concern us.”

  “What do you mean, it doesn’t concern us? The theories end here, Brandy. These first crashes are just drops in the ocean. Try getting a phone signal in Zurich today, you won’t get one—lines are totally jammed with inbound cash.”

  “It’s a renewal, let’s just say that.” Thomas gently folds his napkin onto the table.

  “A renewal! Back to subsistence farming, maybe. Back to fucking hunter-gathering. Let me tell you what I heard about Bank of Scotland.”

  “Actually, we’re just leaving.” Thomas rises. “This is Rufus, by the way—a friend of a friend I bumped into. I’ll go splash my boots.”

  “Leaving already?” calls Werner. “Do I stink now?”

  When Thomas doesn’t reply, the interloper gets on with quaffing our wine. “Rufus,” he eventually grunts. “How’d you get a name like that?”

  “Don’t ask me.”

  He pauses to stare. Then returns to munching our bread.

  There’s a disturbed feeling at the table. Thomas’s instincts are correct. Civilization, which must be a delicate substance, even a vapor, has vanished. After minutes listening to Werner slurp like a pig, watching him help himself to the rest of our bread and wine, I make an attempt at conversation: