“Zere!” Hermann barked, pulling the camouflage net off the truck on whose bed laid several bazookas in plain view,
“... and here.” He tore down another camouflage net, revealing an off road jeep with a huge machine gun mounted on its roof. “And here!” He opened the cargo hold of a small truck letting the astonished policeman see the heavy artillery hidden there. “And zere!” He pointed towards his soldiers, who had piled their rifles into smallish pyramids and who were sitting around a gas stove.
Hermann spun around, made two large steps and stood facing the policeman, their toes almost touching. “Well,” he said, icily fixing his counterpart with his watery-blue eyes, “and vat hef you got to show for, you miserable Indian wimp?”
It had been Bear of course who had suggested breakfast at the camel market before they would be continuing their journey. Much to Arthur’s and Gerd’s chagrin however it had consisted of the usual strong chai and some rice with an indefinable spicy hot sauce. The Jain, having been invited by Bear, was strutting along the threesome, naked, his belly full, sweeping the ground before him.
“Look there!” Arthur suddenly exclaimed, “A barber!”
He pointed at the scrawny Indian, whose ‘salon’ consisted of a rickety wooden chair and a broken piece of mirror, everything under the open sky amongst camels, horses and the masses of market visitors.
“Wait just a minute!” with a determined expression Arthur stomped over to the hairdresser.
“Are you getting a perm, Mini Mouse?” Bear teased him grinning.
“Arthur let himself drop onto the noisy wobbling wooden chair, peeled off his hair band dropping it into the dust. “No.” He turned to the barber. “Just cut it off! All of it, I am so sick of it!”
The barber gave a servile head wiggle, grabbed his rusty pair of scissors, an almost toothless pink plastic comb with a Barbie motive and started to work.
Gerd watched the proceedings with a dubious expression. “Are you sure, that’s such a good idea? It takes years to grow back long hair like that!”
But Arthur remained undeterred and happily watched his matted strands of hair fall to the ground under the screeching of the scissors.
The barber worked fast and workmanlike.
Shortly thereafter Arthur looked into the faces of his friends expectantly. “And, how do I look?”
Gerd and Bear bit their lips.
“Well...” Bear mumbled.
“A bit, eh, like...!” Gerd stammered.
“Like what! Just tell me!” Arthur had become suspicious, took the broken piece of mirror and stared. “I look like, like...”
“... an Indian!” complemented Bear grinning. It was true. The barber had given him a bowl cut, with a meticulously drawn centre parting, short at the sides, a bit longer on top, a slight quiff and enough oil to run a motorcycle with.
“You look like an Indian vacuum sales man!” Gerd snickered.
Baer tapped at the hair band in the dirt. “I preferred the Mini Mouse look!”
Arthur pushed some Rupees into the hand of the barber and a trifle annoyed started to walk away. “At least, I don’t have those tufts in my face anymore!”
They marched back to their motorbikes pushing through the mass of humans and camels.
Arthur was reminded of a Goth-meeting in Germany he once had attended, tattoos, piercings and strange haircuts wherever you looked. No, not on the people—on the camels! It was they that had been done up by their proud owners like Christmas trees, fancy patterns and pictures had been shaved into the fur, delicate lines tattooed into their skins and silver rings stuck into noses and ears. Arthur assumed, that some camel herder’s wife must be jealous of their pets.
They crossed the road and leisurely approached their parked machines, when Gerd emitted a load oath.
“Oh shit! My exhaust pipe!!!”
They inspected the damage. “It’s no big deal!” Bear said eventually and with a swift move tore off the whole pipe. “We’ll fix it along the way someplace. Just going to be a bit noisy, that’s all!”
Bear was just about to mount his bike, when he recognised the four-wheeler. For an instant his body centre felt as if filled with molten lead.
“The car! The car over there belongs to Shaki!”
Gerd and Arthur turned pale simultaneously. “Then he’s got to be around somewhere!”
Arthur finally croaked hoarsely looking around himself in panic.
Gerd kick-started the engine. “Exactly, that’s why we should scram, and how!”
“Wait!” Bear said, “if he managed to follow us till here, he’ll get to us sooner or later! We have to somehow stop him!” He glanced at the Jain. Suddenly he had an idea. “Didn’t you say before you were driving a motorbike yourself a long time ago?”
“Oh, blessed time of lazing about, the all so sweet sitting-stoned-under-the-tent-doing-nothing, gone, oy vey, gone for good...” Moshe and Ephraim had just dispatched their daily brief (‘Nothing happened!’), filled a small pipe and had gotten ready for another hard day of surveying a completely empty palace, when suddenly an old man with a wide brimmed hat and a long beard and a coat much too warm for the climate had stood in their tent. Surprised they looked up—which in the light of yearlong consumption of hashish, manifested a reaction bordering on the panic side.
“Baruch haba!” the man greeted them heartily.
“Eeehm... wha’?” Ephraim answered.
The visitor thoughtfully stroke his beard, strode through the tent with a keen interest, wiped a reproachful finger across the dust covered field radio, positioned himself in front of the two, pulled out a note from his coat pocket and began reading: “Moshe Finkelstein and Ephraim Rosenblum: Agents of lower rank, at the moment transferred for disciplinary reasons to an observation post in the Thar Desert/India. Psychologically unstable, tendency towards substance abuse, lack of ambition, no discipline. Unfit for any service at a higher rank!” He folded the note back and tucked it away. “In other words—you two are nothing but scum!”
“Correct!” Ephraim answered not really impressed, “which answers the question as to who we are. And who might you be, if you please?”
“Solomon Theodor Narbin—your back-up, gentlemen!”
Moshe’s eyebrows shot up. “They’re sending us an Orthodox for backup?”
Solomon gave them a mild smile. “Maybe, a little wisdom from the scriptures would do you good, no?”
Ephraim let out a cynical laugh. “So far we managed to get by quite well without any backup, grandpa! And by the way, this a job for men made of stouter stuff, so piss off!”
The move was quick then Ephraim could see it. Fast as lightning Solomon had grabbed his thumbs pushing them back relentlessly. Screaming with pain, Ephraim fell down on his knees. But Solomon did not let go.
“When Moses set out to lead our people home he was well over 80 years old. And then he spent another 40 years wandering about in the desert!”
“Maybe if I he’d been younger, he would have asked for directions!” Moshe, still sitting in his camping chair remarked lackadaisically.
Solomon loosened his thumbscrews and immediately Ephraim slumped down whining.
“Enough, I don’t want to hear any more jokes. This here is a shit pile and I will get to the bottom of it! First we have to pick up the trail of those Germans again!”
“Ha-ha” Moshe laughed drily, “they’ve been gone since yesterday. This here is India, my good man, on these roads even a fast car is useless!”
Solomon went over to the radio, reported to HQ and gave a code that Moshe had never heard before. “Now” Solomon said when he was finished, “they will be here in five minutes!”
“Who will?” Moshe wondered.
“Mission Airborne!”
“Does that mean we have a...
”
“... a helicopter, for sure!” Solomon answered not without pride.
Moshe was baffled and even Ephraim forgot his throbbing thumb. That their mission was that important, they had not known. A helicopter! That was quite something.
“Fine!” said Solomon clapping his hand in eager determination, “we have just enough time!”
Ephraim looked at him suspiciously, “time for what?”
“Praying of course. I don’t suppose you Sindiker have done so today. You have your own Tefillin and Tallit or would you like me to lend you my spare?”
Needless to mention they did not own either one of them, truth be told they had not had a proper prayer since their Bar Mitzvah.
Whilst Solomon was swaying his body to and fro, reciting from the Tora with silently moving his lips, Moshe and Ephraim glanced at each other surreptitiously.
“What are we going to do now?” Moshe formed the words with silent lips.
“No idea!” Ephraim answered just as silent.
“I do have eyes in my back...” Solomon piped and continued to pray.
Exactly five minutes later the most elegant helicopter Moshe and Ephraim had ever seen landed right in front of the tent. Everything about it—even the windows—was black; a deep saturated pitch dark black. Even the rhythmic ‘whup-whup-whup’ of the rotors sounded so cool and proud as if to say: “I am the coolest thing ever to fly through the air and I cost more then the monthly electricity bill of a mid-sized American town. Better be awestruck!” This helicopter was truly sending a message to all other helicopters in the world to scuttle for a style consultant.
“Wow!” Ephraim cried out against the roar of the rotors, “this must be the hottest piece of machinery, I’ve ever seen! I did not know we had this sort of stuff!”
“Well, actually!” Solomon admitted, “it doesn’t belong to the Mossad in the true sense of the word. Due to budgetary reasons our airborne facility was privatised. We now share the helicopter with the secret services from the USA, Germany, England and France, everybody’s trying to cut corners, you know?”
With a fine tuned, especially designed sound, the side door opened and a peroxide blonde beauty appeared in a tight cut overall whose colour matched the helicopter’s, helmet held under her arm.
“Hello and welcome. Thank you for using ‘Secret Air’. Would you like to pay cash or by credit card?”
“Gloib mir, sometimes I love this job!” Solomon said winking at the other two, who were staring at the pilot and the aircraft with their mouths wide open.
Ephraim’s eyes wandered between Solomon and the cleavage of the pilot. “I thought you were an Orthodox...!” he murmured to Solomon, struck by what he saw.
Solomon gave him a broad smile. “My dear Ephraim. I am Orthodox—not gay! And I am not blind either. Praise the Lord, that he builds broads like that!”
After he had given her his American Express Card, the pilot informed them of the ‘Happy-Fly&Spy-Week’ offer: “The use of the on board infrared as well as heat sensitive cameras is available for an introductory price. Also recently added, a splendid directional microphone, giving exceptional results over long distances... headphones are to be purchased separately, though.”
“We’ll take the whole shmeer! Just charge it to the card.” Solomon said, climbed into the helicopter and winked at the others to follow him. Greatly impressed Moshe and Ephraim sank into the wide leather seats. The pilot closed the sliding door and immediately they were enveloped by acclimatised air and easy-listening music.
“Ok, here we go!” the pilot chirped over the intercom, while she was starting the turbine, “In case you are interested in joining our frequent-flyer program, you will find the forms in the seat pockets in front of you!”
“Hello, my name is Rajnesh!”
“Hello, Rajnesh!!” the group of gypsies sitting around in a semi circle on low chairs answered in a chorus.
“He... hello!” Rajnesh repeated a little hesitantly. “I’m Rajnesh and I’m from Goa... and when I get older I would like to take over my uncle’s business!”
“But that’s not so bad, is it...? Ashok reassured him.
“No, not really. But sometimes in my uncles business it gets to become quite rough... and I... sometimes I am not so sure if I... if I... ” He faltered.
“It’s okay!” Ashok got up from his chair. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to! Am I right guys?”
“No, he don’t have to, if he don’t want to...” came an understanding murmur from the rows of gypsies.
“How can we help him? Hm? Anybody got an idea?”
“Group-Hug, Juhuuu!!!!” the gypsies shouted happily and they all sprang up at once to give Rajnesh an extensive buddy hug.
After they had reclaimed their seats, Rajnesh gave himself another push. “Well, my uncle’s business is rather violent… and me, I am actually… quite nice! Ok, there, I’ve said it!”
General applause supported him. Those gypsies were much nicer then he had thought them to be. They had taken him directly him from the parking lot to their camp. It turned out to be they were a group of performing artists and musicians on their way to Delhi to attend a big cultural festival. They had declared Rajnesh to be their guest of honour and improvised a small party inside their tent. Some of the travelling acrobats performed their tricks, one fakir ran over broken glass with bare feet thereby balancing a 40-pounds wagon wheel on his head.
Another young man, dressed up as a woman performed a special ‘knee dance’, where he was wildly rotating around his axis on his knees. Because of the wide skirt one could not see his legs and he looked like a disoriented transsexual midget on speed. Needless to say there also were victuals: sugar glazed figs, petit fours made from palm sugar and more sickly sweet snacks were passed around on silver plates. In short—Rajnesh was really enjoying himself.
Near the end Ashok had invited him to attend the daily discussion forum of the gypsy clan, which he had installed after his return from the USA. Here everybody was encouraged to really let go, say whatever was on his mind.
“And now” Ashok continued after the applause for Rajnesh’s soul striptease had died down, “its time for collective laughing!”
Five minutes later Number One and Number Two jerked the flap of the huge assembly tent open. They had been looking for Rajnesh for over half an hour by now, when suddenly they had heard his distinct high-pitched laughter from the direction of the gypsies’ camp. The inside of the tent offered a disturbing spectacle: Rajnesh together with a motley crew of men were standing in a circle laughing and holding their bellies.
“What is going on here?” Number One barked.
“Oh, he-he-hello!” Rajnesh giggled breathlessly wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.
“What on earth are you doing there???” Number Two accosted him.
“Hi-hi... laughing... muhihihi...!”
“And what is it, that’s so funny?”
“Nothing...” Rajnesh declared still snickering, “that’s something marvellous. It’s a sort of therapy. Watch this...!” He confronted the group and shouted. “Okay, once again, the taser-gun-laugh... and, here we go!!!” The gypsies’ hands reached out for one another but upon touching jolted back as if they had received an electric shock. And they were cracking up over it...
Number One and Two looked at Rajnesh and the others flabbergasted. Rajnesh was slapping his thighs, rolling with laughter.
“You see, ha-ha, the trick is, hi-hi, if you’re happy, you are laughing. And this also works the other way round. Simply by laughing, you’ll get happy... wuhahahihi!”
This was all Number Two’s nerves could stand. Angrily he grabbed Rajnesh by his collar
“You silly little...!” Instantly a voice cut through the air.
“Aaah, more guests! W
elcome, welcome to the laughing club!” Ashok approached them with outstretched arms.
“Who’s he?” Number Two growled still holding Rajnesh by the collar.
“This is Ashok, the gypsy chief!” Rajnesh answered, still giggling in spite of his uncomfortable position.
“Does that mean, all of these clowns here are gypsies?” Number One whispered, while a new laughing exercise was shuddering he tent.
“Sinti and Roma” corrected Rajnesh and snickered. Number One let go of him.
“Hello, you must be friends of Rajnesh!” Ashok welcomed them happily.
“Yes, ehm, that’s true!” said Number Two nodding, “We are, ehm, just passing through, ’cause we’re, ehm, we’re...”
“... musicians, I know, Rajnesh told me...”
“Musicians?” Number One and Two spat out simultaneously. Number One turned round to Rajnesh giving him an angry stare. Rajnesh shrugged his shoulders and bashfully looked at the floor.
“Yes, that’s right!” Number One finally grunted, turning round again to Ashok, “We are... musicians. And now will you excuse us and our friend here for a moment.” He grabbed Rajnesh by the scruff of his neck and pulled him towards the exit. “We have to tune our instruments!”
As soon as they stood in front of the tent, Number One took a swing at Rajnesh that sent him flying across the square landing him directly in a pile if camel dung.
“I have been itching to do that for a long time!” he said, contently kneading his fist.
Number Two solemnly looked down at his injured hand. “You’re so lucky...”
“You want me to sock him for you?”
“Oh yes, please...”
Number Two lifted the whimpering Rajnesh from the floor and hit him as hard as he could for a second time.
“Ouuuch!!!” Rajnesh howled flopping back into the dirt, “stop it, if my uncle gets to know about this...”
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