Golden Biker
Page 10
But Bear would never forget the Golden Biker…
End of flashback / Present
As Bear told his story, Arthur had been holding his tea, not realising it was getting cold. When Bear had finished his tale, he put the cup down with a little clunk.
“Women!” was the first thing Arthur came up with. “They’re nothing but trouble.”
Bear nodded with a sigh. “Whatever, we have to get to that valley. It’s our only chance to find the Golden Biker.”
They left the shack, with the best wishes of half of the village population, jumped onto their bikes and roared off towards Bombay. They had been on the road for fifteen minutes before Bear realised that they had forgotten to pay. Awkward, but—well—too late...
A mere half an hour behind them, in front of the same shack, the fancy SUV of the Goan Mafia boss came to a halt. Rajnesh jumped from the driver’s seat and went inside to order chai for his posse. Two minutes later he raced back to the car like lightening.
“Uncle, can you believe it, not an hour ago two foreigners on motorbikes were here!”
Shaki, whose faculty for enunciation had slowly returned, bent forward. “Did the chai wallah describe them to you?”
Rajnesh shook his head. “He says all foreigners look the same to him.”
“And what about the chai?” inquired Shaki
“They didn’t pay for it!”
Shaki gave him an ungracious slap on the back of his head. “I mean our chai, you nitwit!”
Rajnesh stopped grinning. “Ah. I totally forgot about it...”
“So...?”
“So, I will get it at once!” Rajnesh shouted and disappeared back into the shack.
Two minutes later he was back again.
“It definitely was our lot. The chai wallah cannot describe the two, but I am almost sure it’s them.”
“Aha, and why is that?”
“Because he could very well remember all the details of Number Two’s Yamaha.”
“My Yamaha! I will tear his head off and drink his blood if it has but a scratch!” blurted Number Two.
Shaki sighed. “Fine, so we know we are on the right track. Rajnesh?”
“Yes uncle?”
“The chai, what about the chai?”
“Oh... yes, of course. I’ll be right back.”
Again he disappeared into he shack.
Two minutes later he was back.
“It was them! A hundred per cent! There are about forty witnesses who saw them—and some of them can give a rather good description of Bear.”
Shaki darted an angry glance at his nephew. “Rajnesh?”
“The chai. Of course, coming right up!”
When Rajnesh had disappeared into the hut again, Number Two turned to Shaki. “Chief, I know he’s your nephew and all, but if I don’t get to slap him pretty soon, I’ll go bonkers!”
After another two minutes Rajnesh came out of the shack again—this time holding four steaming paper cups in his hands.
“Thanks nephew” Shaki said blowing on his tea. “Arre, step on the gas.”
Rajnesh climbed behind the wheel, started the engine and drove off.
“How did you pay?” Shaki wanted to know
Rajnesh smiled proudly. “I just told them that we were gangster-gundas, and that the foreigners would pay for the chai!”
“Well done! Maybe there is hope for you yet” Shaki grunted, sipping his chai.
One hour later a black and yellow tuc-tuc stopped in front of the shack. Sunil, the Goan taxi driver, got out and went inside.
“Excuse me, have you seen a foreigner with a pony tail and a backpack? I owe him some money.”
Sunil had no idea why the atmosphere changed so suddenly...
11. Himalayas / Spring 1944
Major Reginald Foster Fortescue-Billingham, commander of a much too small British infantry division, had a problem. Okay, if one disregarded all the other problems, as there were for example the Japanese army with its trigger-happy soldiers, hopelessly outnumbering them by far who were deeply ensconced in the hillside letting their artillery fire into the valley all day long. These volleys were interrupted only to give the hordes of sword and bayonet wielding Japanese foot soldiers a chance to pounce on his outfit and turn them into sushi. For weeks now, their rations had consisted of rice with nothing, and those few who had not been shot dead, slit open or become dyspeptic were sure to succumb to malaria, yellow fever or to one of the other known or less known diseases, the Indian continent was dispensing so freely.
However all of this, death, disease and the non-existing rations were a joke compared to the confounded teatime. Teatime, an English institution, a ritual as British as the Empire itself.
And nobody indeed nobody could deny that Sir Reginald was as English as cricket, Oxford and the King himself. He was a British gentleman, from top to bottom from the pomaded centre parting down to his hobnailed boots…and he hated tea. He had tried Assam, Darjeeling, Green tea, Orange Pekoe and Wild Cherry, but nothing, absolutely nothing could change the fact that he could not stand tea. And he despised himself for it. It was a flaw he anxiously kept as a secret from the world. At home, far away in Yorkshire this posed no problem, who cares... but afield? All his subordinates kept their tea time, all his superiors drank gallons of it, every ordinary recruit in the trenches would rather be overrun by the Japanese then miss his daily cup of tea. Only he, he could not stand the stuff. Could he be such a backstabber, such a bad example and not partake in drinking it? Impossible! Every day he therefore gulped down his tea in the company of his men in a pathetic charade feigning to savour it only to neutralise it later secretly in his tent with a wonderful cup of coffee.
He was just about to take a second sip when a recruit stormed into his tent.
“Sorry to disturb you, Sir, I did not want to interrupt your tea time!”
“No problem, Hawkins, what is it?” Reginald discretely put the cup down behind him.
“Sir, I do apologise for the disturbance, it can wait until you are ready!”
It’s all right, what’s up?”
“Oh no, I insist!”
Sir Reginald moaned, fell back into his chair and under the watchful eye of the soldier slurped his coffee.
“Quite a long seep, your tea, I mean, if you’ll excuse the remark!”
Sir Reginald clanked the empty cup on the saucer. “Now, what is it?”
“I wish to report, we made 10 prisoners!”
“Aha, splendid, Japanese, I presume!”
“No Sir, they claim to be Swiss!”
“Swiss??? In India?”
“We also thought that was suspicious. We guess they are Germans!”
“Aha, and why is that?”
“Well Sir, one of them is wearing a SS-uniform!”
“Now, that is a rather tangible guess, isn’t it?”
“Very tangible, Sir!”
“What do the prisoners have to say for themselves?”
“Well, ehm, they don’t talk, not in the strict sense, they don’t!”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“They... they’re giggling...”
“They’re giggling?”
“Yes sir, they’re giggling and every once in a while they’re also singing. They all seem to be very high-spirited. Except the one in the SS-uniform, something’s obviously has upset him.
But he refuses to talk to us!”
Sir Reginald grabbed his cap and without comment, left his tent. From afar he heard cackling laughter coming from the stables they had sequestrated for prisoners. He saluted the recruit on duty with a silent tip to his cap, entered the hut and was flabbergasted.
The whole lot of them seemed to be under the influenc
e of some hallucinatory drug. Some were silently giggling to themselves others were apparently catching invisible butterflies, some were humming a little melody with a blissful smile and one of them was examining the mesmerising structure of a wooden beam as if therein could be found all the answers to all the questions in the world. Another one, who apparently had had a nose accident quite recently, was rambling on about being some species of bird, without a stitch on. What bird exactly, Reginald’s grasp of the German language was not sufficient to tell. ‘Kohlmeise...’ whatever that meant...
Only one of them, easily recognisable because of his SS-uniform was sitting in the corner sulking. Since he seemed to be the only one not to be under the influence of drugs, Reginald tried his luck.
“Do you speak English?”
“Schuut mii, inglisch bastaad, ju vill not get ze informäschion from mii nefer efer!”
“Well Sir, we usually don’t go around shooting people just like that. That would be more the speciality of your side, wouldn’t it?”
Hermann was swearing something in German, which really would have been quite offensive if Reginald’s German had been better. The fact that at this moment Hermann’s gums started to bleed again gave him the added impression of a dangerous madman.
“I see, you are quite agitated, may I offer you a cigarette to calm you down?”
The Englishman fished a pack of Indian cigarettes from his pockets and held them under the nose of the still inwardly cursing Hermann.
Demonstratively Hermann turned his head. “I smoke not, I drink not. Like our Befat!”
“Befat?”
“Best Fuehrer of all time! You can only dream of zis, you vis your fat Churchill!”
“Aha, I understand!” Reginald tried to remain calm.
This over excited Nazi obviously was no gentleman. “Can I offer you anything else? “How about some coffee?”
“Nefer liked coffee. A tea I vould take, the Befat always drinks it!”
“You know, you are really beginning to get on my nerves now. Whatever happened out there last night, you can prepare yourself for a nice long stretch as a prisoner of war!”
Hermann crossed his arms as a sign that he would not say anything more.
Sir Reginald turned around without a word and left the hut. Outside he stopped and turned to the guard. “Keep a good eye on this BIFAL in there!”
“Beg you pardon, Sir?”
Sir Reginald inhaled deeply looking into the clear Indian starlit sky.
“B-I-F-AL—Biggest fart alive!”
As soon as the door had slammed shut Hermann quit his iron pose. How on earth could that have happened? Everything seemed to go so well. Full of disgust he looked at his undignified companions Sauermann tiptoed through the room purring blissfully: “The round is so soft, oh, how soft is the ground...” whereas the zoologist was informing everybody that the shed’s wobbly roof structure was a stroke of architectural genius, in fact he had never seen anything like it.
It was devastating...
He had blundered. He would not find the primeval Aryan, nor would he help the Japanese with their invasion of India. He would be doing nothing. He would be sitting in some POW camp and twiddle his thumbs. And when one day the war would be won... won without his assistance... he would be released and brought back to Germany. Obersturmbannfuehrer Rosselmann, Himmler, the Fuehrer yes, even Eva Braun they all would be deeply disappointed
This golden fellow was to blame for all of this. But he would take his revenge one day, that much was sure even if it would cost him years!
12. Bombay / Gate of India / Present
The drama had actually started the moment Gerd had entered the last room of the beer bar.
Mr Singh’s grandfather looked different from what he had imagined. An imposing figure, the beard and turban easily defining him as a Sikh he was at least a head taller then Gerd. But in contrast to the modern dressed Sikhs who where functioning as doormen outside, Báaba was wearing a Kaccha, traditional kneebreches. From his belt jutted the Kirpan, a short dagger and around the wrist hung a heavy steel bracelet the Kara. For insiders it became immediately clear that Báaba was a hard-core Sikh. But Gerd was no insider.
As opposed to the other rooms here there were no dancing girls and instead of mirrors hanging from the wall there was a gigantic plasma TV screen showing alternate live-streams from the different dancing rooms.
Báaba was sitting on a richly ornamented, throne like armchair and did nothing but radiate strength and calmness. He silently motioned Gerd towards a second smaller chair.
“Leave us alone, Harish” Báaba said to Mr Singh who immediately left the room with the words “Of course, Báaba-Ji!” The door fell into its lock and it was quiet.
Gerd immediately slipped into the role of the professional businessman and reached out his hand. “I’ve heard so much about you, Grand..., uhm... Bab...well, how would you like to be addressed?”
Báaba mustered him with an unfathomable look and said nothing.
Gerd smiled embarrassed and did not really know where to put his outstretched hand.
“I, ah... yes, well, you... you wanted to see me—and there I am. The wish of our dearest customer is our command!”
“The dearest customers are always those who don’t realise they’ve just been ripped off! At least that’s the way we play it. How do you do you play it where you come from, Mr Lauterbach?”
“I don’t understand what you mean...” came Gerd’s uneasy answer.
The old man took a deep breath, sounding almost like a sigh.
“The Hindus have a philosophy regarding the different stages in the life of a man. As a child he should play and enjoy his life. As a young man he should learn everything to become a rich man later on. And he should marry. As a husband he should be expanding the family fortune, increase the property and have many offspring. But when he is an old man, a rich man, if his sons can feed the family then he should renounce all worldly belongings and move around the country as a poor Yogi, searching for wisdom and enlightenment!”
Gerd, who had no idea what the Sikh was talking about, nodded diligently.
“I am not a Hindu, Mr Lauterbach,” the Báaba continued, “but I respect this wisdom and find it very useful. Look at me, I have grown old. The day will come, when I cannot conduct any more business. Meanwhile I have passed on almost all of my activities to my sons and grandsons. Not every one has enough experience yet, but they will learn eventually.”
Gerd nodded. Slowly he was feeling better. This looked like it was going to be story-telling time.
“Now, I am planning to retire back to my home country, the Punjab, to study the teachings of the holy Arjun Dif. My whole life will be dedicated to the spirit and the soul! Our business transaction will be my last and you must understand that I would like to see my family to be comfortably circumstanced.”
“But of course! I think this is a great...!”
“Shut up!” Báaba interrupted Gerd sharply, “What kind of an idiot do you take me for, Mr Lauterbach. Do you really believe I’ll be buying six tons of a drug that I know is totally useless???”
This was a turn of events Gerd had not seen coming. “I assure you, Hormominimum is an excellent drug, all the tests...”
“Cut the crap! Just because we belong to what you call the ‘Third World’ doesn’t mean we’re stupid! But I’ll let you in on something that that will make you happy: I’ll buy the stuff nevertheless!”
A heavy load fell of Gerd’s heart; the thud could be heard in the outlying districts of the city.
“I am delighted to hear that, I guarantee you...”
“BUT...” Báaba let this ‘But’ hang in the air effectually...
“BUT only under one condition.”
“Being?”
“You
r company has been developing a new virility product. It is supposed to be very effective and ready to be marketed very soon!”
Gerd was surprised. “How come, you know that? This was to be made public only next month!”
Báaba raised his hand in defence. “I have my sources, let’s leave it at that. Here is my condition. I will buy the full amount of six tons of your useless Hormone preparation at the agreed price—if you put a ton of the new virility product on top, free of charge!”
Gerd gasped for air. “That... that is absolutely impossible, the price of one single ton of this new drug exceeds by far the financial leeway I have for our negotiations!”
Báaba shrugged his shoulders. “No virility drug, no deal!”
Gerd started a fight against the mounting stress and his eyelid, which again had started a life of its own. “Listen, let’s be reasonable here. I am sure I can accommodate you quite a bit with the price concerning the Hormominimum!”
The old man got up. Instantly the door opened and Mr Singh appeared in the doorway. The Báaba gave Gerd a jovial slap on the shoulder. “Now you know my terms. If you want to get rid of your hormone pills you put another ton of virility drug on top of it. Have a safe journey home and pass my regards to the board!”
Mr Singh pulled Gerd out of the room polite but firm. “But that’s ridiculous!” Gerd fumed.
“Absolutely ridiculous!”
Mr Singh remained friendly. As soon as they had left Báaba’s audience room he pushed Gerd, whose eyelid had gotten totally out of control by now, back into one of the armchairs, offered him a glass of whisky and beckoned the gorgeous dancing Indian girl before he discreetly withdrew. She was slinking towards Gerd like a tiger her long slim fingers moving between his shirt buttons, she pinched his nipple and passionately whispered into his ears.
“Hello stranger, my name is Sherie. Would you like to have some fun tonight, you and me?”
But Gerd’s thoughts were someplace else.