Golden Biker

by Alexander Von Eisenhart Rothe

  “What, er... what will be waiting for me inside?” he asked, unsettled.

  The driver smiled. “All the pleasures of India, Sir!”

  Gerd turned abruptly. “I told you, I don’t want to go to a whore house! You’re supposed to take me to my business partner!”

  The driver, still smiling, pushed him towards the entrance. “Do not worry! Mr Singh is expecting you inside. Sir, please go now!”

  Gerd entered and found himself in a dirty hallway lit by bright neon lamps. At the far end there was a metal door, loud Indian music coming from the other side. In front of the entrance stood the biggest Indian that Gerd had ever seen. He had an impressive moustache and a big red turban, establishing him as a Sikh. Sikhs were from a North Indian tribe known for its bravery, strength and business acumen, and from which in early times the ruling rajas and prime ministers had recruited their bodyguards. Until one day the bodyguards started killing their wards. Which, unsurprisingly, led to a drastic decline in their popularity.

  Although the Sikh looked menacing, he smiled and opened the door for Gerd.

  After he had squeezed himself past the man’s bulk and through the entrance, Gerd found himself in a big oblong room. The walls were completely mirrored and were dripping from the condensed hot air and humidity. Along one side, Indian men were sitting on small benches drinking whisky, all staring at the room’s centre where a large group of Indian girls in brightly coloured saris were dancing to deafening music. Every once in a while one of the men waved at one of the girls and gave her a 20 Rupee note, buying a dance just for himself.

  Gerd was flummoxed. What was going on here?

  “Ah, Mr Lauterbach! We are expecting you!” The voice behind him was yelling over the loud music. He turned around and looked straight into the face of his Indian business partner Harish Sing, dressed as usual in impeccable English clothes.

  Gerd unconsciously straightened up. Finally, business talk! Now he was in his element. His momentary insecurity vanished and he said, “Mr Singh, a pleasure to see you at last!” He stuck out his hand, which Harish instantly grabbed and eagerly shook.

  “The pleasure is mine, Mr Lauterbach. I do hope you had an agreeable journey.”

  There followed an endless recital of empty phrases and polite inquiries about the well-beings of spouses and children, as well as short but brisk discussions of the weather, the ever-worsening traffic and the last cricket match against arch-rival Pakistan, luckily won by India’s team, thus avoiding massive rioting up and down the country. Given the fact that such jabbering is unavoidable in cases like this, it was nevertheless something of an ordeal, the blaring music taking away much of the intended lightness. Having diligently covered all the areas that had absolutely nothing to do with the business at hand, Gerd finally got to ask the question that had been bothering him since the fateful phone call. “Now tell me Mr Singh. What exactly is the reason behind the fact that I am in the good graces of your hospitality for a second time?” (Which, properly translated, was: ‘Shit, can you please tell me what the fuck is going on here?’)

  Mr Singh gave a mysterious laugh. “Mr Lauterbach. India Medical Enterprises is a bigcompany, Of course, not as big as yours...”

  “... of course...” Gerd nodded.

  “... but still a big company. It is solely owned by my family and in my family all decisions are being made by our grandfather, our Báaba. Usually he gives us plenty of scope with the negotiations but in this case he has used his veto. He wants to see you. Today. Now...”

  For a moment, Gerd lost his professional self-composure. “But I thought we had come to an agreement...”

  “Indeed we had, Mr Lauterbach, and I am sure everything will turn out to your satisfaction.

  But nonetheless, before we sign the contract, Báaba desires to talk to you in person. If you would be so kind as to follow me?”

  He led the way, crossing the dance floor towards a small door exactly opposite the one Gerd had entered. Mr Singh rang a bell and waited. The door was opened by another hunk of a Sikh. Mr Singh and Gerd went through and found themselves standing in a room almost the exact copy of the previous one. Again, girls were dancing in their saris and again they were being watched by men drinking whisky. The only difference was, here the wooden benches had leather upholstery; the dancing girls looked slightly more attractive and the air was cooled by an air conditioning system. Mr Singh prompted Gerd to follow him, crossed the dance floor towards another small door, rang a bell, waited and the door was opened again from the inside. Again they found themselves in a mirrored room with dancing girls—Gerd had the feeling of being stuck in a time loop. With every new room the seats got more comfortable, the quality of the music more agreeable, the girls more beautiful and the room temperature cooler.

  After three more doors, dance floors and mirrored walls they finally reached the last room.

  Here, only a single girl was swaying to the music with sensuous languid motions. There were no benches alongside the walls, only two throne-like chairs, with soft upholstery and embroidered cushions.

  “Please do sit down, Mr Lauterebach, I will inform Báaba-ji that you have arrived. Until then, enjoy the dance!”

  Gerd sank into one of the pillowed armchairs feeling immediately like a pasha. Were they trying to pull the wool over his eyes, or what? A small Indian waiter appeared carrying a tray. He offered it to Gerd. On it was a glass of malt whisky, a bowl of peanuts, and a fat bundle of five hundred Rupee notes. Gerd looked up, puzzled. “What’s that for?”

  The waiter bowed curtly. “We always serve small snacks with the whisky, sir.”

  “Not the peanuts, I mean the money!”

  “Oh, that. Courtesy of Mr Singh. You can slip it to the dancing girl.”

  “I see...”

  Gerd squinted towards the dance floor. The girl was an Indian beauty, right out of the Kama Sutra. Her thick black hair was braided into a plait, which reached down to her waist. Jasmine flowers had been plaited into the braids and their smell filled the whole room. Her even, oval face was of a brownish milk-coffee colour and her full lips glistened in the spotlights. Under her long eyelashes her brown eyes flashed seductively, and under her bright red sari her stunning physique gyrated lasciviously. Gerd waved for the waiter.

  “Yes, sir!”

  “You might have noticed I’m a stranger around here.”

  “Indeed, sir.”

  “Then please tell me, what’s going on? What kind of establishment is this and what is it with the girls?”

  “This is a beer bar. Men come here to watch girls dancing.”

  Gerd nodded blankly. “The girls dance... and the men watch, that’s it?”

  “Yes, sir—Indian morals are very strict. Officially we are a beer bar. But only by name to fool the vice squad. Unofficially, one can drink hard liquor undisturbed while watching beautiful girls dancing. Beer we don’t have.”

  “And nobody from the vice squad has noticed this yet?”

  “Of course they all know about it. But every month they get a bit of money and everyone is happy!”

  “But then why pretend to run a beer bar?”

  “But certainly, sir, officially the vice squad is not knowing this trick!”

  Gerd stared at the beauty in the middle of the dance floor. Now that he was here, he might as well... not wanting to offend anybody... and anyhow, he would not be doing anything wrong...

  “Um, how do I... I mean, what do I have to do, to get her to... um?”

  The waiter pulled a five hundred Rupee note from the bundle, approached the girl and slipped it into her hand. Instantly she underwent some sort of transformation; a mesmerising smile appeared on her face, she tossed her long hair back and began a seductively slow dance, just for Gerd. Her hips gyrated, her breasts in her skimpy blouse moved up and down to the rhythm of the mu
sic, her navel seemed to be rotating.

  Gerd tried to calm himself. True, it was all very nice to look at, this... um, well this masterful execution of movements... very professional... this dance-step... and also of cultural interest is, um.... the way she sways her hips... and of course there is the socio-political aspect of it all... the Indian classical dance in society...

  ... etcetera, etcetera, anything he could think of to take his mind off the fact that he had a rock-hard erection.

  “Ah, I see you are enjoying yourself already?” It was the voice of Mr Singh behind him.

  Gerd wanted to get up but thought better of it given the quite visible bump in his trousers.

  “Oh, yes, the performance is quite interesting. I assume it’s an old Indian temple dance?” he said, desperately trying to think of something cold.

  “Actually it isn’t. Don’t you recognise this song? We selected it just for you. We thought you liked this sort of thing.”

  Only now did he notice the song that had been playing all the time, it was ‘Macarena’, the Techno-Smurf version. He hadn’t really been paying much attention to the music...

  Luckily, this embarrassing realisation had a detumescent effect on his genital region, enabling him to get up and to follow Mr Singh to yet another door.

  “Please, after you.” Mr Singh let him pass. Gerd pushed the doorknob, then pulled it—nothing.

  “It seems to be locked.”

  Mr Singh smiled proudly. “Try the other side, Mr Lauterbach.”

  Gerd pushed the other edge of the door. The hinges had been switched and it opened immediately.

  “It is a precautionary measure against unwelcome guests. The hinges are fake; the door opens the other way, so anybody not privy to this is thinking it is closed. Brilliant, isn’t it?” Mr Singh declared proudly.

  “Yes, really great,” Gerd mumbled, entering the room with decidedly mixed feelings.

  9. Himalayas / Spring 1944

  Hermann spun round. Before him stood a... well, what exactly? Was it a man or a demon? The apparition was at least a head taller than him, shimmering golden from head to toe. Hermann could not see its face as it was covered by a golden mask.

  Terrified, he stumbled backwards, fumbling for his pistol.

  “Who... who are you?” Hermann stammered, taking aim at the approaching figure.

  The golden apparition raised its hand in salutation.

  “I am the Golden Biker. The alpha and the omega...”

  Hermann uttered a half-suppressed cry. “You! You are the Primeval Aryan!” He was overcome by the sudden realisation—this must be one of the Ueber-Mensch he’d been ordered to find! The master race in the Himalayas! He had reached his mission’s objective while all his experts were lying about giggling! His heart raced—this was a historic moment!

  “Er, me Hermann. You Aryan? Me too. From Germania. You and me—relatives!” Hermann had made a stab at first contact, oblivious to the fact that the figure had just introduced himself quite articulately.

  Instead of answering, the Primeval Aryan offered him a short, peculiarly shaped tube with golden billows of smoke wafting from it. “Smoke this and you shall find peace.”

  Hermann took the tube and sniffed the sweet-smelling smoke. It must be some sort of peace pipe. Just like the Red Indians...

  He was about to take a deep drag when the snickering of his adjutant made him stop. Hang on—hadn’t they been babbling about some ominous pipe a minute ago? And now they were lying about the place giggling, totally out of their minds? “What will happen if I smoke this?” he asked warily.

  “The chillum is carrying my golden ganja. It will bring you peace, love, and understanding. On top of that, you’ll get pretty stoned.”

  “Peace and understanding?” said Hermann, disgustedly. He threw the pipe down. “Women’s stuff! I am looking for you and your men to face our mutual enemy—the inferior races and their cultures. Their destiny is to be extinguished or subjugated by us. Your people and my people, we shall rule, and the world will tremble under our boots. Because today we own Germany... or rather, the Himalayas... but tomorrow, THE WHOLE WORLD!”

  The Golden Biker listened to him with an almost woeful expression on his face. “Stranger who comes from far away” he said after a while, “don’t you have any other dreams?”

  Hermann, who had just talked himself into a rage, was standing stiffened, his fist up in the air. “Wha-what?”

  The Golden Biker bent down and picked up the pipe. “The Golden Biker does not fight. He grows golden ganja, for he knows that those who will search for peace shall find salvation.” Again he offered Hermann the chillum.

  Hermann’s jaw dropped several times in a row, which made him look like a fish on dry land. He raised his pistol in a swift move. “So!” he screamed, “You are not the person I took you for! You are a spy, a saboteur... and for this there is only one punishment!”

  Slowly the Golden Biker retreated and, with every word he spoke, his shimmering figure began to be swallowed up by darkness. “I remember you. I remember your face, not from the past but from a time to come. Far, far away into the future we will see each other again, in a different valley far to the west. Today you will not kill me, but this day in the future will be my last. Farewell, my friend. I don’t envy you the years that lie before you...”

  The golden light faded into the night. Hermann was red with anger. “I DON’T ENVY YOU EITHER YOU... YOU... PACIFIST!” he yelled furiously, before sending some bullets after the apparition into the darkness.

  His yelling, coupled with the gunshots, was loud enough to attract the attention of the British.

  Less than two minutes later he and his crew were surrounded by enemy troops.

  10. Ratnagiri / circa 125 miles south of Bombay / present

  The sky above the Indian Ocean slowly turned pink under the rays of the rising sun. The dawn of a new day. Fishermen who had spent the night out on sea in their long wooden boats were landing on the beach, unloading big nets filled with their catch. Of course they were not being all calm and quiet about it, they were singing the same ancient songs their fathers and grandfathers had once sung when they returned from fishing.

  “SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Bear screamed at the singing fishermen, his voice breaking. With a groan, he fell back into the sand.

  Arthur who had been wide-awake for two hours sucked happily at his grandfather’s pipe. He looked at Bear and frowned. “What’s the matter with you? I think it’s rather sweet.”

  Bear pulled his leather hat down over his face and wrapped himself in his jacket. “Yeah, great...! But not at five thirty in the morning. I want to sleep, goddammit!”

  Slowly the chill of the night made way for the heat of the new day. The previous night they had ridden on until they could no longer see their hands before their eyes and they had stopped to sleep on the beach, wrapped in their jackets. Arthur was suffering from typical jet lag: he had been tired all day, then had woken up in the middle of the night—and had not slept a wink since.

  He got up, stretched, tapped the pipe clean on his heel and began his usual morning exercise. Just because he was on a quest for the Golden Biker did not mean he had to give up all his daily routines. As usual, he began his fitness routine with squats. Breathing heavily, he counted: Twenty... one, twenty... two, twenty... threeee, twen—”

  Bear lifted is hat for a moment and squinted at him. “Would you mind performing that charade in silence?”

  Arthur stopped. “I’ve lost count! Where was I?”

  Bear turned around again. “The question is not where were you, but where you should be. And in my opinion that’s the loony bin.”

  “A little bit of exercise in the morning gives you a better start for the day. You should try it once. Twe-e-enty... one, twe-e-enty... two...”

 
Bear put his fingers in his ears, moaning quietly, “Five thirty in the morning. I don’t believe it...”

  “Hello sir, you have coins?” a child’s voice squawked suddenly.

  Arthur stalled mid-squat. There was a small boy in front of him dressed in nothing but a blotched and faded lunghi, staring at him with big dark eyes.

  “I’m sorry I don’t have any change” Arthur answered politely. “I know it sounds silly...”

  “To hell with him, I want to sleep” Bear grumbled under his hat.

  Arthur sighed disapprovingly. How could one be so heartless and so tired?

  “Sir, I am collecting foreign coins for my school. Do you have a coin from your country?”

  Arthur began to rummage through his pockets ignoring Bear’s grumble, “Don’t give him anything, or you’ll never get rid of him.”

  Eventually Arthur found a 50-cent coin, which he gave to the boy. His big brown eyes became even bigger, he gave Arthur a wide smile, said thank you and ran away as fast as his bare feet could go.

  Never get rid of him, pah! Arthur thought. What a cute little fellow... one only has to be nice and treat people the way one would like to be treated.

  He was feeling great. There he was, lying on a beach by the Indian Ocean, he had made a little Indian boy happy and had struck up a friendship with him. You know, if you travel with an open heart it’s easy to contact and make friends. Yup, that’s it, really. Arthur resumed his morning exercise.

  Five minutes later the whole beach was swarming with screaming children who all wanted to have a ‘coin for school’.

  “Excellent!” Bear was yelling into the wind. “Just perfect, you asshole. Thank you very much!”

  Arthur gained on him with his bike. “How could I have guessed that would happen?”

  Bear angrily turned to him. “No, not guessed, you should have known! I did warn you, right?”

  They rode their bikes without speaking, side by side through the lifting morning fog. From time to time a truck overtook them blaring its horn. Mostly, the roads were still quiet.