by DBC Pierre
“Ha ha ha.”
“Ha ha ha ha.”
“Bah.” Gerd nudges him. “Piratenburg, eh?”
“Not now,” grunts Gottfried.
The kiosk magnate looks down for a moment. Clenches and unclenches his hands at his sides, gazes over the row of patrons. Then he pats my shoulder goodbye—two soft little pats—and steps away by himself.
I watch his cardigan hover off down the road.
19
“You saw the wagon?” Thomas sits texting in the back seat. “Nice, don’t you think? By Wednesday we’ll have another two trailers there. We’ll keep that one open to the public, and for the event it can double as a reserve kitchen.”
I stare bleakly through the window. Although I’m not inclined to discoveries tonight, I can’t help but make one from here: the world is a glossier place through the glass of a limousine. “But are you allowed to just park and serve food like that?” I ask.
Thomas doesn’t look up: “The city licensed it. Tempelhof’s last days are a special event. Less than a week to go. Exciting.”
“You’ll kill the small businesses in the terminal.”
“What?” He turns a gaze on me. “Whoever didn’t make their money there in the last seventy years isn’t going to be saved by this week.” Thomas finally slides himself up in his seat and puts down his phone. “You’re not getting sentimental over the old cobwebs in the building? They’re mostly East German, you can’t even call them businesspeople. They’re plodders, they’re cogs. And we’re not running for profit, we’re giving food and drink away. We’re doing the right thing by everyone.”
“Seems harsh to say. Some very smart folk in there.”
“Ja, ja.” He laughs. “Every Eastie’s a nuclear physicist. But what’s the point of a nuclear physicist who sweeps floors for a living? A rocket engineer who can’t peel a banana? A neurosurgeon who can’t hold a conversation?” He hangs his mouth open awaiting the reply. “My friend, your English sentimentality’s showing. A charming quality, but trust me—they’ll be fine, and we’ll be fine.”
“Are we going to General Aviation?” Bettina peers back.
“No, he’s coming discreetly, Air France.”
“General Aviation?” I look at Thomas. “For private aircraft?”
“Three or four jets will be involved before the week’s out. The runway is the venue’s equal most attractive feature. Produce can be flown direct from source, and the guests can land right beside their table.” He sees me blink at this, and reaches over to slap a leg. “I tried to tell you: it’s the mother of them all.”
“Sounds like it. And who are the guests?”
“Ha—even I won’t know for sure. And if I did, I’d have to kill myself. But I can guarantee you this—they eat jets for breakfast.”
At Berlin Tegel I make an effort to show a good face. Who knows what to expect from this character Didier Le Basque? I should be overjoyed at his arrival, on paper, at least. In any event, I’m saved from much wondering by the appearance of a thickset, bottom-heavy man through the arrivals gate. Black stubble covers his face and jaw, spreading up over his head like burnt lawn. A strange and massive nose precedes him, then eyes glinting quickly through an unspoken no-man’s-land around his overcoat, a force field common to all whose power blares from inside.
The Basque doesn’t look at me, but offers a finger of his left hand to squeeze before moving past in a wave of cologne. Only when he sees Thomas does his brow lift off his nose. “Look at this one”—he points—“the looks of a movie star give him a soft life, uh? Me, I have to work double hard to compensate my ugliness.”
“Oh”—Thomas grins—“and you consider it compensated?”
He receives a punch, the pair kiss on both cheeks, and we stride out to the car. The driver’s seat is empty, and I see Bettina in a taxi queue ahead. Instead Thomas takes the wheel with Didier beside him, leaving me to loll in the rear.
We first head back to the Brandenburg Gate, with Thomas and the Basque hissing across the front like boys digging a tunnel to China. I soon find myself intrigued by this Basque; his spirit is somehow sudden, passions thrust and dodge inside him as he talks, making his body bustle with inexpressible force. And though his fast-shifting gaze warns not to ask questions, you feel that any offense of his would come from fervor and not malice.* It takes no time to identify his echo in Smuts’s voice, not least the “uh?” at the end of a sentence, and the constant “Putain.” But then fine-dining kitchens are known to breed dialect, so it says nothing about the pair. Likewise the Basque’s swarming energy, which I’ve observed in other powerful types. As he drops his bag at the Adlon I watch staff around the door react to his presence, and after a moment I detect a hook in his demeanor—a disdainful gaze he gives everything at first, then a measured assent which comes as a relief to the recipient. In this way he hooks them by their self-esteem, pulling them more gratefully into his service.
“So, Gabriel,” he growls into the back, “you have a girl? Or did we disturb your hunting tonight, in which case I’m sorry.”
“No, broke up with one not long ago.”
“All the better. Berlin is fine hunting.”
“Hm—frankly, the only one I’ve met here seems difficult. Just a glance from her is like a smack with a mallet. Hard case.”
“Putain, but that’s why they’re spectacular! You have to chase them! Maybe Thomas lends you one of his fancy cars—once a girl doesn’t burn her panty on a plastic seat, she quickly sees reason in everything you say.”
“Ha ha—I think this one would see the opposite. Anyway, I’m not interested in her, she’s just someone I see around the place.”
“A little socialist? My friend, when it comes to ass on plastic, no girl is a socialist. Give it rich leather and the panty falls off.”
I laugh at Didier and he growls a laugh back, playing a combination of dirty uncle and soldier, prodding man to man, testing my humor, softening me.
“In any case it’s all academic,” I say. “A tortoise beat me to her.”
“Quoi? A tortoise!” the men exclaim.
“She’s leaving for South America on a wildlife tour. The giant tortoises of the Galápagos. She’s smitten with Lonesome George.”
“Ahh,” says Thomas, “that’s the famous one. The animal’s like a hundred years old.”
“Uff.” Didier rolls his eyes. “Then don’t feel too bad. You simply have to say she prefers an older type.” Laughter fills the car, two tenors and a basso growl as the Mercedes surges off into traffic.
Not until we head for Tempelhof, when this banter is over that sorts men into hierarchical packs, does Didier open himself up to my view. After some chat about failing banks, he looks over his shoulder and I chance at saying: “Ironic, isn’t it, a high-rolling banquet in such a climate?”
Before answering he softly says: “In case it hasn’t been assumed, what you see and hear from now on belongs to us. You won’t find our secrets heavy—in fact they’re light and rare like stolen kisses. But we must keep them. Nobody has ever broken trust with me—think and you’ll know what this means. Uh?” He stares until I nod, then goes on: “Bon. As to your comment, you’re wrong, there’s zero irony. The middle class might see the economy failing, but the truth is that we live in the richest time of all human history, an abundance the Romans could only dream of. You don’t notice because of capitalism’s success—real wealth has moved up into the hands of very few. There never has been such wealth concentrated in individuals, uh. Never.”
“But surely—”
“Listen to me: the so-called economy is meaningless, don’t be distracted by that. It was never a device for societies. Here’s the analogy: think of a space rocket. Ninety-nine percent of the rocket is just a fuel can—and when the fuel is used up, it falls back to earth. What you see now with the economy is just
that—the can falling down empty. The people who built the rocket are way up in space. Nothing will ever touch them again, not for five hundred years. Large or small is the only choice in human life, my friend—and they made a choice.”
“Then it’s the perfect time for a banquet.”
“Exactly. It’s the best time in history for a banquet—though it also presents a big challenge. Accumulators of wealth often have no palate, no higher senses. Some only come from camel herders, or from the ruthless bourgeoisie. Many aren’t particularly inspired or intelligent. They often have no tuning for nuance. People think the powerful bask in a world of exquisite subtlety because they see them owning sublime antiquities and artworks. But the two things are mutually exclusive. You cannot have painful sensibilities and be powerful. The two destroy each other. Most own great pieces of art because the pieces themselves are powerful. So it’s a challenge for us because it’s hard to satisfy dull senses—and that’s why we work with big ideas. With locations and experiences they can’t buy for money. Naturally the wealthier they get, the harder it is to find things they can’t buy. We’re working above the margins of possibility. Also such banquets often celebrate special occasions, which doubles the challenge because the location must reflect the occasion. You can’t toast a shipping tycoon in a shipwreck, uh. This banquet, for example, is a passing-out ceremony, a change of life at the highest level. So as a motif the airport is perfect because of its role in the famous Berlin airlifts. It was like the River Styx—craft not only passed through to another destination, they passed through to another life, another history. See how it fits? Remember, beauty must be surprising—and so the truly exquisite must really shock and be strange in its proportions. Guests have to leave wondering if the occasion really happened. And this building is a perfect launching pad for that. The best I’ve had.”
“Must keep you busy, finding locations at this level,” I say.
“We’re not a catering outfit, we don’t do this for a living. We’re just showing off. We do the impossible because we can, because we have testicles, because in life we choose the large over the small—though naturally it doesn’t hurt our business to create legends. When you’re the richest man, or the second, or even the hundredth richest, you want to feel that you own the world and everything in it. And when you serve those people like we do, you have to occasionally show them that you have the keys, that you can deliver it, if only for a night.”
With this we turn onto Columbiadamm, where the hulk of the airport rises into view. “Look at her, my God,” Didier gasps under his breath. “Ernst Sagebiel’s masterpiece. Norman Foster called her the mother of all airports, uh. We’re driving half a kilometer already and the building still goes on out of sight. And look, look”—he nudges Thomas—“eagles still guard the outside.”
Thomas has uncovered another route downstairs, through a utility room accessible from outside. We descend to Wonderland.
“Pu-tain,” Didier hisses as the lights snap on.
For a time the only sounds are the scuffing of shoes and the swish of breath in still air. And when we slowly gather in the middle of the long salon of archways, more time passes before minds go to work, before ideas come in whispers:
“What about kitchens?” asks Didier. “Any still exist in here?”
“Better mobile,” says Thomas. “Film catering vans outside.”
The Basque nods around the vaulted ceilings, measures distances up and down the concourse in his mind. “First things first: the blank gun must be outside in the railway tunnel. Evacuation can be through the end down there—do you know if we can access tunnels to the airside? Are there direct routes out to the planes?”
“At least two routes,” says Thomas, “though we still have to reverse-engineer one more security lock to get a key. Did you figure out a flight plan?”
“Of course—we’ll file a nonstop plan from Paris to Helsinki, which brings us directly overhead. Then we make a precautionary landing due to instrument failure. Paris can set up something noncritical with one of the cockpit lights.”
“Smart. So the plane is on standby all evening, ready to roll.”
“Exactly, open for all to see, stairs down, interior lights burning, systems left on. Friendly, friendly, friendly; and even anonymous luggage inside.”
“Perfect. And if we take on fuel, use some ground services, the airport will love us. The field usually shuts at eleven, but if we pay our fees and keep within noise limits we can be cleared for takeoff round midnight, especially from a precautionary landing and given that it’s the last Friday of operations. Though I warn you, because of the date they might suspect we’re joyriding—Schönefeld is the all-night airport, and just as close by. But it’s nothing some charm from the crew won’t fix. Who’s flying?”
“Actually the lead guests will fly themselves, without technical crew—we’ll need a couple of dummy pilots, just to hang around the plane and upstairs.”
“I can fix that—we’re using a friend of mine to supply another jet for produce, and his company’s known at Tempelhof so has good clearance to airside.”
“Bon.” Didier nods. “And did you rent some cover space upstairs?”
“Confirming tomorrow. I think we can get any amount of hangar or office space, and also some of the main terminal for singular events, after-hours though.”
“Singular? Then book one for every day. Possess it all right away.”
“Won’t it waste too much time, running daily cover events?”
“Tell them it’s a film production, just stand a camera there. We have to possess as much of the building as possible, there has to be activity in every corner until they don’t remember what’s normal anymore. Throw new faces, new activities, new furniture at them every day now until they’re tired of wondering what’s going on.”
“And what of the menu?” asks Thomas. “Refrigeration is an issue.”
“You know how it is, uh—it’s according to what we can get. What we still need is a signature dish, and the scale of that won’t be known until the end. I’m working contacts day and night. So far, in actual possession, we can probably do a tiger.”
“A tiger?” Thomas blinks.
“Clean one, uh. Little one. You have a problem with it? It’s an animal. If we didn’t eat it, another animal would, or it would eat us. You think it’s enlightened not to eat? That’s the logic of our death.”
“Hey—I’m not arguing.”
“Good. There’s no argument there. I thought maybe you joined the campaign to save cute things, and things that beep underwater. For this guest list we have to be symbolic, don’t think we’re going to break our balls like last time, growing hybrid crops, making stem-cell cappuccinos. Especially not from a catering van and with a walk through open air before service. This time it’s bold and simple, with unique, full-flavored ingredients, exquisitely treated, and served under cloche. And actually, the more I think about the open air between kitchen and table, the more I suggest we set up a theatrical cover. A film production upstairs which can then spill out to the trailers and so on. You get the picture, uh? A cover where anything goes.”
At this Thomas and Didier step away down the salon, muttering, pointing around the arches and walls. And a realization comes to me: that Smuts’s and my seminal dream is here unfolding—Nimbus. Our restaurant from so long ago.
The dream seems to flood back through the arches, assembling in all its details as if this were the space it was meant for. Shrouds to catch tears and sauce, last wills and testaments, no signage, no couples, its name passed in whispers. Will there be shrouds at this banquet, I muse, or deep-sea fishing chairs with straps?
And what of the dress code, must I find my own clothes?
Seeing the men return, I catch Didier’s eye. “Is there a dress code?” I ask. “Should I keep an eye out for anything? Evening wear? Or is
it masquerade?”
They stop, framed between archways, and stare for a moment. “What?” Didier peers down his nose. “Dress code for what, for who—you mean guests?”
“Yes, for me—at the banquet. Should I find my own costume?”
The air suddenly grows heavy. Didier takes another step toward me, I watch his lips slowly load like a gun. “My friend—this is strictly a closed event.”
I stand silent, looking from one man to the other.
“Perhaps”—he shrugs—“there might be something you can do when we set up, if you like—I don’t know, maybe help in one of the trailers.”
“Ah. Hm. I just thought that, after—”
“Listen, no, let’s be clear: our business is concluded—uh?”
20
I find it impossible to rise the next morning. Instead I lie with a vague sense of foreboding, clearing my throat and scratching myself for no other reason than to prove I still exist. It must be afternoon when the phone rings, chirping little shots of adrenaline. Behind Smuts’s voice I hear the clatters and cries of a prison; a groan here, a yelp there, echoing off surfaces of iron. It takes him a moment and some words in Japanese before he’s alone. I nudge my cold breakfast tray aside with a knee.
“Gabriel,” he finally says, “you cunts forget me or what?”
“Eh?” I stiffen. “Of course not, what makes you say that?”
“I know the Lord works in mysterious ways, but at least tell me what the fuck’s going on. I’m living in prison years, which are made of that last hour before the school bell. I keep waiting for Didi or Satou to bail me out of here.”
“But—haven’t you been in conference with the Basque?”
“Have I fuck, not since that one call at the police station. All I can think is he’s at the Peninsula playing with himself. Most likely in your room, uh.”
“Well, no—he’s over here. His colleague said you were in touch, said a plan was in hand. Everything’s full steam in Berlin, moving in dog years.”
