Lights Out in Wonderland

by DBC Pierre

The phone also woke me this morning, after a few tries during the night, hence you see it buried under bedclothes and towels. This seemed preferable to unplugging it, which might have somehow signaled my avoidance. Suddenly I’m a young man on the move, as the Master chases its wants—but with today’s strategic model adding new confidence, at its next ring I dig up the phone and answer.

  To my surprise it’s not Thomas, but a certain Toshiro.

  Toshiro Satou in Tokyo, making a polite introduction.

  “We are going before the court on Monday, October twenty-seventh,” he says. “Then the case will be decided. Mr. Smatosu tells me you were present at the scene. Perhaps you can tell me: did you see the victim pay for his meal?”

  “Hm.” I cast my mind back. “I don’t believe he paid.”

  “Oh, no.” Satou sounds crestfallen: “I hoped you saw.”

  “Well, I don’t think the men paid at all; they just left.”

  “Oh, no. But you saw the person ask for parts of fish?”

  “Yes, I did. He ordered livers, I observed him closely.”

  “Ah, good. And which words did he use to ask for it?”

  A silence comes with a sinking feeling, then: “Oh, no.”

  “Listen,” I say, “it’s very simple: all night the restaurant served deadly poisonous fish, not farmed, but from the sea. And after the incident I watched a man substitute the fish in the tank, and take all the poisonous ones out with him.”

  “And Mr. Smatosu knew they were deadly poisonous?”

  “Well, of course—that’s what the restaurant is famous for.”

  “And still he served them to the man, knowing of poison?”

  “Hm. Well—”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Look—can you just tell me what will help us win the case?”

  “Ah. It’s only needed fish, and the proof it came from there.”

  “Well, that’s not going to happen. Are witnesses not useful?”

  “Oh, no. You see, in Japan the court is most shameful matter.”

  “But surely it’s shameful to send an innocent man to prison?”

  “Yes, yes—but an innocent man. In this case, if the man knows some fish parts are deadly poisoned, which are in a safe box, under a key, and with deliberacy he opens the box to bring the deadly parts to the client—then is not innocent.”

  “But the client was drunk—he insisted on ordering the fish!”

  “No, no—the client is in restaurant, where he can safe be drunk. Instead our problem is that Mr. Smatosu is drunk! In a place of careful service! How can it be! Very serious matter in Japan! What can make him think to get drunk!”

  “Hm, well. Never mind that, I don’t see how the kitchen’s master can avoid responsibility—as the licensed chef, he abandoned a fugu restaurant to a complete beginner while there were still clients inside asking to eat livers.”

  “Yes.” Satou pauses. “And left them safe in a box, with key.”

  “Well, it sounds as if Smuts can be imprisoned for simply doing the job he was meant to do. The substitution of fish doesn’t seem to matter anymore.”

  “Oh, no—fish are important. If fish is illegal strength, then Mr. Smatosu couldn’t know it can kill. Responsibility passes to the owner of establishment. But with evidence of only soft-flavor fish from farm, it seems he deliberately poisons the man by using such big amount that a reasonable person can see it’s too much.”

  “Hm. So our only hope is a sample of that night’s torafugu?”

  “I think so. And with the restaurant connection clear to see.”

  The call doesn’t improve after this, although I learn that I might have a chance to speak with Smuts via his prison phone card in the coming days.

  A pall descends. The twenty-seventh is barely ten days off.

  Only the Basque can save us, and even then it seems a tall order—not only does he have to provide a sample of fugu, but he’ll also have to implicate his client. Even break the law to implicate him. Weight bears down on the mission. I lug it out onto the street with my hangover before the phone can ring again. Because as slim as chances seem, there’ll be no chance at all if I don’t get the Master’s quid pro quo.

  Jesuits in my mind send a warning to watch out for Thomas’s car—not only here but around the airport, even though we have no appointment to meet in person. With him being a man of action it seems a fair precaution. If he’s grown impatient, any more excuses about the keys could damage my credibility beyond repair.

  Holes in the cloud cover drop beams of light on the city. I hail a cab under one of them. By the time I reach the airport the ground shines with rain. The sound of it hissing under tires, lights wavering in puddles, the forward lean of wandering people, all lift my pulse to the resting state of a limbo: excitement under dread.

  The airport is busier than I’ve seen it before. I have the taxi drop me at the small monumental garden facing the entrance talons. Blocked by its bushes and trees, I scout the scene for black Mercedes-Benzes. Cars come and go around the front, and the parking lot is more than usually full. And sure enough, halfway down a row sits a sparkling black Mercedes. I crane for a better look—and there it sits.

  I peer and pause, but then—there’s another one. And as I step back to light a smoke, a third black Mercedes sails into the parking lot. Make note for your own odyssey: there are no days off in limbo. In fact, the success-measuring device of my brain, only ever active near the absurd, now pits the scene against my dying wishes, asking if ending my days in a monumental garden in Germany was what I had in mind.

  Enervation comes over me. In fact, I wonder if I’m still tripping, if there’s a car-multiplying factor at work. I decide to approach the terminal with my head down, and even then, glancing over my shoulder, I see another black Mercedes. I scurry up the steps and throw myself into the building’s vacuum, letting it rattle me in through the doors.

  Gerd sees me entering from the kiosk. “Boom, boom,” he sings through the hatch, “there stands a horse in the hallway—haa! Eh?”

  “Ha ha, yes.” I step up to the window.

  “You know, I heard from Gottfried. He almost never phones, but suddenly he called to say he liked your wine. If you tell me which supermarket has it, maybe I’ll get some.”

  “I doubt you’ll find any. But I have a bottle I can give him.”

  “Nee, you shouldn’t give it, then. It’s only Gottfried, he can drink Chianti.”

  “There’s more to him than meets the eye—that’s a real unicorn of wines.”

  “Bah, typical Gottfried, you never know what’s going on with him. Half the time he’s like a statue, then you suddenly see something else.” Gerd flicks a look around the lobby before lowering his voice to a hiss. “Real Stasi man—did you hear about the security police of the GDR? That’s Gottfried’s old job, probably at a high level too. In Germany we don’t speak of those things anymore, times have moved on. But he saw some sights in his life. Dieter knows more about him. He always jokes that Gottfried still keeps his work socks and gun next to his bed. But it’s only half joking. He lives every day like he’s waiting, maybe to score his master stroke for socialism, give one last good punch from the GDR. He still quietly monitors, watching the horizon for comrades. Watching like a Doberman.”

  “What does he work at now?”

  “He repairs bicycles in his workshop and does maintenance work here part-time. But things are bad, I feel sorry for him. He lost his wife a couple of years ago and the color went out of his skin. Now his business goes downhill, and the airport soon closes. He loves this place, even though it wasn’t part of communist Berlin. I think he feels it a bit like himself—solid and full of hidden tunnels. Gottfried has a better security clearance than me, you know, he even gets to help on the airside, around the planes. He has a sharp mind, very
rational, people always recognize it in the end. He soon makes himself a fixture. You should see some of his little inventions.”

  Anna emerges from the back, making Gerd return to his doings on the counter. “Nein, Gottfried,” he mutters. “Let him drink Chianti. Why not?”

  As conversation begins to falter, I draw breath and step up to the mission’s front line: “That was an amazing basement you showed me after the show.”

  “Ja, isn’t it? Must be as much building down there as on top.”

  “Really? You must lend me the keys, I’d love to look around.”

  “Haa—but no. Under federal law we can’t allow tourists. Until the end of the month it’s still an international airport, and the tunnels also reach airside. Strict authorization required. Even I have no business going down—the kiosk usually has its storeroom up here, but the airport is using it while they move things out. Routines are changing as the place closes down. Bah, well. Don’t know what we do after that.”

  “A real shame.” I try to keep my face from falling.

  “Ach, I guess that’s life. Anyway, the city is full of bunkers if you’re interested. Abandoned subway stations, breweries, tunnels—even highways. Hitler was going to replace Berlin with a super-capital, Germania, like a new imperial Rome. They say that for every building on the ground in Berlin there’s another one underground. The Berliner Unterwelten company makes tours, you should call them.”

  Picturing Thomas on a guided tour, I excuse myself and crawl back to the hotel. The strongest man couldn’t sit through another act of my life. As the taxi passes over the Spree I recall my evening with Thomas. Already it seems like a month ago. The distance seems greater because I look back from another world, the world of horses in hallways and fights over bockwurst. This slipping in and out of worlds is exhausting, I reel trying to bring the two together.

  In fact, I’m reminded of the parachute cadet who asked an instructor: “If the main parachute doesn’t open, how long do I have to deploy the auxiliary?”

  To which the instructor laughingly replied: “The rest of your life.”

  There does not exist in human design an answer to the forces now exerted on your servant and illustrator. For a few moments I lie paralyzed on the bed, reflecting on the forces I’ve unleashed. I ponder how tiny were the seemingly insurmountable forces of yesterday. Ah, this cone. How roomy it used to be. Croaking to myself as I stir, I lay a generous line that makes me bleed through both nostrils. Then, plugging them with tissues that grow heavy and wet, I gather together my worldly belongings, I suppose as a sort of gauge of self-worth, and stop to peer at them over dripping tusks. What decadent luggage. What have I become? I ask. What became of the luggage of vitality, the smiling soft toys, the fruits from an auntie’s orchard, the sandals just in case?

  I never had that luggage, is what became of it. I was merely led to believe I had it. The dreams and equations of my life were orchestrated for me on the basis of a life I never had. By executives called John for whom I don’t exist.

  Here is my fucking luggage: a dozen bottles of wine, a flask of perfume, a Miesbacher jacket and hat, a faux-fur coat, and an alluvium of drugs.

  I move to the pile and straighten the feather on the hat.

  After ten minutes back on the bed, taking in this sum of my life’s work, the phone rings, and before I know what I’m doing, I snatch it up off its cradle.

  “He lives!” booms Thomas. “My God, for a while there I worried that I’d blown the deal—sorry if we were indiscreet towards the end, of course it was dumb to show up at the venue. Hopefully there’s no harm done?”

  “ ‘He lives’ is a bit optimistic,” I sniff.

  “Ha, still suffering? Then at least I was a good host. And maybe this will brighten your day: I reported to our friend in Paris that your proposal was just the one we’d hoped for. He’s on cloud nine, especially as this is the last month in history we’ll be able to use it. It’s like a banquet on the Titanic the day before it sailed!”

  “Oh, yes?”

  “He has the mother of all events brewing. The mother.”

  “And what of Smuts? Have we the mother of all cases?”

  “Of course—Didi’s in conference right now, don’t worry. There are some strings to pull, and naturally he feels bad about his client there. But really it was a case of ‘buyer beware’ for the old man, we can’t let any of our people take the blame for his unlucky gamble. Rest assured that things are happening in the East.”

  “That’s very good news.”

  “As for our event, we have to move fast. After I gave him the all-clear about the venue, Basque set a provisional date of Friday, October twenty-fourth. The end of next week, the last weekend of operations at the airport. It’ll be by the skin of our teeth, a lot has to happen between now and then. I won’t say any more on the phone—but boy, are we going to drink on Monday. Save yourself.”

  “Oh, yes?” I stir off the pillow. “Well, but there’s still a hurdle or two to get over.”

  “Don’t worry, it’s all in hand. The crew will arrive Tuesday.”

  “Oh, yes? Which crew’s this?”

  “You know, Basque’s people from Paris—surveyor, electrician, decorator. Security people, et cetera. By the end of the day everything will be under control.”

  “What? But I’m still trying to get keys!”

  “Excellent, get me a set too. Grab a bunch of them if you can. Listen, I won’t hold you up on the phone—let’s meet tomorrow for brunch, I’ll collect you at either place. We haven’t spoken of remuneration, and also I have a small favor to ask: Basque will arrive incognito on a commercial flight through Tegel, so won’t be checking any luggage—and I thought what a nice touch if we had a bottle of your 2004 to share with him, I haven’t been able to find any in over a year. I thought if you’re in the cellar this weekend, perhaps you could grab one to give to him?”

  “Hm—and which cellar’s this?”

  “Ha, don’t be modest. I like you more and more, Gabriel.”

  Whoosh. My hand drops with the phone. Across the bed, through its tiny speaker, I hear Thomas like a faraway hornet:

  “You just get better and better. ‘Which cellar’—ha!”

  18

  What conceivable thing among these libertines’ chattels might benefit from the cool, dark, unfluctuating conditions of an underground cellar?

  Oh, yes. And as the taxi glides back over the Spree I pat the bag of Marius, even unzip it to caress one of the bottles. Perhaps beauty can be useful after all. Because Gerd surely balked at loaning his keys after I mentioned exploring the bunkers. But if his own store is there, presumably also accessible to Anna and Sauer-Frau, then the issue isn’t with possessing the keys as such but with roaming unauthorized parts of the building. Thus I need a more workmanlike reason to enter the bunkers—like a need to store something in his basement. And after all, even Gottfried is with me if the question comes down to the health and safety of a remarkable unicorn wine.

  Ah, Thomas, you genius. You concierge of Enthusiasmus.

  I find Gerd putting on his cardigan when I step into the terminal. And somehow, even though my situation hasn’t materially changed, the bluster of shifting Fortune and the clink of wine in my bag usher in an energy of free passage, that energy of certainty above confidence. Puffing with the bag’s weight, I explain to Gerd that this rarest of wines needs a stable home for a few days. He looks to Anna, who tidies in the back room, then pulls out the keys and hands them to me: “Do you remember which doors? The green key, then the yellow.”

  “Thanks, yes. I’ll be back shortly.”

  “Ja, give the keys back to Anna.” He pauses to stare on his way out the door. “And Frederick—at least down there it’ll be safe from Gottfried, eh? Haa!”

  My pulse grows sharp as I near the basement. Something
more than just excitement. As I open the door to the bahn tunnel, it hits me: I descend into a limbo. A real one, in an abandoned underworld. The thought makes me stop and sway. Tempelhof: a limbo. Gabriel: a limbo. Security lights shine off cobbles between railway lines, and I stop to look forward and back. The bahn stretches into the dark in both directions, lights curling away around bends. Behind me my past, in front my future.

  My eyes grow full and hot. A tear drops onto the road, falling in a spot where light makes it glisten. It’s the only sparkling thing underground. The space is suddenly a model of my unconscious. Dark, festering, tunneled through.

  With one tiny sparkle inside it.

  Soon to close down forever.

  After removing a bottle for Thomas and leaving my bag in the store, I can’t resist going to the bunkers. The key slides into Wonderland’s door, I switch on the lights. And there I stare through the arches as if peering down a well. The space is momentous. A habitat of Pan, steeped in emotional shadows from all who passed through on a knife edge of life. If grapes absorb yearnings, then these walls must tremble with them, ooze them, shriek them out in the night.

  A curious breeze hurries me back up the bahn tunnel. New ideas swirl in its wake. Thomas now suggests payment might flow from the venue. I hadn’t considered this, being so concerned with my death. Perhaps, if it really goes ahead, the caper might fund Gerd’s recovery. A little capitalism for a good cause, strictly managed, of course. The symmetry, as Smuts would say, is perfect. A redistribution of wealth. My death can still follow, and in the style I wished for: a banquet unlike anything since the fall of ancient Rome. No risk attaches to Gerd. If I copy the keys, then his set remains safely upstairs with him. The kitchen overworld will take possession of the complex for a night, and be answerable for itself. Why not some regulated profiteering? As Gerd milks his last sales of bockwurst upstairs, a nest egg might hatch underground.

  A repayment of family debt. Just look at the symmetry.

  Although a sensor inside me flags this as a final plunge down the Master Limbo’s throat, I ask myself: why not?