Ulrich Haarbürste's Novel of Roy Orbison in Clingfilm

by Ulrich Haarbürste

  “I would not,” says Roy. “For one thing, that is past my habitual bedtime. For another, I am proud to say you will not find any patches of deserted waste ground within Düsseldorf.”

  “Hmm,” says the villain. “I was hoping for somewhere quiet and secluded without witnesses—I mean, unaccredited journalists. I have another suggestion. Do you know the Shady Loser Coffee Bar in the scary part of town?”

  “I do not,” says Roy, “but I do not like the sound of it.”

  “The place is somewhat raffish and bohemian in aspect but nowhere I would be ashamed to take my mother.” He sniggers to himself as he says this, for although it is not technically untrue, what he neglects to say is that his mother is an evil cutthroat and forger of supermarket discount coupons.

  “Very well,” says Roy, “if the fates do not conspire against us we will rendezvous there in an hour.”

  “Will you be alone and unarmed?” inquires the spy smoothly. “I have a reason for asking.”

  “I will be accompanied by my good friend Ulrich Haarbürste and his terrapin Jetta,” says Roy. “And just because I am from North America originally does not mean I carry guns everywhere. My music is my weapon—and my shield.”

  “Oh, now I’m really scared,” says the villain sarcastically.

  “I beg your pardon?” says Roy.

  “I said nothing, perhaps the operator was startled by a mouse,” says the deceiver easily. “I will hope to see you soon then.”

  He hangs up and turns to his confederates. “Success! Orbison has agreed to meet us.”

  “Capital!” says the Rolling Stone reporter. “You talked quite some time already. Did you obtain any interesting biographical details or quotable quotes from him?”

  “Yes, it turns out he is from North America originally, and he said that his music is his weapon—and his shield.”

  “Also,” says the Rolling Stone man, scribbling in his notebook. “I am impressed. This is more than we have discovered about Orbison in many years. You are a dab hand at the obtaining of information.”

  “You should see me when I am equipped with a dark cupboard and some unruly earwigs. . .” the villain mutters darkly.

  “I am sorry, what was that?”

  “Nothing, I was mumbling bashful words of self-deprecation,” lies the bad man smoothly.

  “I guarantee you,” he continues, “that by the time we have finished with Orbison, there will be no point in anyone else interviewing him ever again!!!”

  He winks at his true confederates and they snigger nastily and rub their hands with glee. . .

  TO BE CONTINUED! In the next chapter.

  Chapter 32

  “Capital,” says Roy, putting down the phone. “I have been given the means of making amends with the Rolling Stone reporter and getting back in touch with my fan base.” Briefly he recounts the salient points of the phone call. “I would be glad if you would accompany me.”

  “Of course, Roy.”

  “Press conferences make me nervous. If the strain becomes too much I will make a gesture with my handkerchief thus.” He takes out his handkerchief and flourishes it in a certain way which I mark well. “Upon this signal you must stand up and say that you have had a premonition of a disaster threatening us all and that we must abandon the conference and flee the building.”

  “Very well,” I say. “Perhaps, to make that more convincing, I should at the same time take some action to. . .cover and protect you in some way?” My hand twitches toward my inner pocket.

  “Do as you think fit.”

  In the front hall Roy picks up the briefcase the man gave him but then pauses and reflects. “I had hoped to kill two birds with one stone but finding the owner of the briefcase will have to wait for now. I do not care to take it into a place with such a disreputable name.”

  He puts the briefcase down and we make to the bus stop.

  Punctually we arrive at the Shady Loser Coffee Bar. It is that very same cafe in the scary part of town which we passed the night before. At this earlier hour it does not look quite so bad and we see no one more scary than a couple of failed car designers sitting in a corner looking sad. It is nonetheless not a place one would care to take one’s mother or immediate superior at work unless they were an evil cutthroat or tax evader.

  We look around for the Rolling Stone reporter or anyone with a notebook and the air of eager boyish inquiry that denotes a journalist but see no one.

  However, a waiter bows to Roy and says, “You are expected in the back room.”

  There is a seedy back room to the cafe which is rented out, no questions asked, to parties of wild-eyed students who wish to secretly debate VAT reform or agitate for more cycle lanes. Today the chief villain has reserved it for his so-called press conference. We knock and enter.

  The four men who greet our eyes look little like journalists, apart from the Rolling Stone reporter in his trademark flared velvet trousers and silver platform boots and silver afro wig.

  However, they all carry notebooks and sharpened pencils, so we suspect nothing. We do not recognize Otto as the one who gave Roy the briefcase, as he has changed his beard.

  “Mr. Orbison, welcome!” says the head villain with a big false smile. Right away I can tell there is something wrong about this fellow but I cannot put my finger on what. Perhaps it is something about the Mexican bandit sombrero he wears or the bandolier of bullets around his chest. Nevertheless we have no reason to be suspicious, so we exchange handshakes and bows. “Thank you for your time. I hope you will find the arrangements satisfactory.”

  Some chairs have been arranged, two at a table for Roy and me (along with a cushion for Jetta) and four in a row facing us at a respectful distance across the room.

  “This is quite satisfactory,” says Roy as we sit. “Perhaps we should establish some ground rules. First, you will ask questions one at a time, raising your hands when you do so, so that I may see who is talking. Second, questions about me and Queen Elizabeth are out of bounds. We are just good friends. Third, please take note of Mr. Haarbürste, my . . . security adviser and personal psychic. If he has any sudden untoward premonitions the conference will be over and I advise you to run fast and take your belongings with you.”

  “Also,” says the villain known as Otto. “A psychic? Have you ever appeared on ‘Spooky Occurrences’ or met Greta Sonderbar? I am a big fan of hers.”

  I decide to venture a little joke. “I have not,” I say, “but I knew you were going to say that!”

  “Christ,” mutters the villain, turning pale and making the sign of the cross.

  “Then if you will take your seats,” says Roy.

  They rush to do so and the press conference begins . . .

  What can transpire? Only the next chapter shall reveal that.

  Chapter 33

  “You may commence,” says Roy.

  And so the press conference commences.

  The lead villain is the first to hold his hand in the air.

  “Heinrich Schmidt, Düsseldorf Zeitung. Do you recommend my readers to come and hear your new concerts?”

  “I do,” says Roy, “for they represent great value for money. No less than twenty-three songs are performed with workmanlike precision. My new backing group are diligent fellows and have been drilled for maximum efficiency. I do not wish to speak boastfully, but not a wrong note has been played thus far.”

  The spy in black raises his hand.

  “Lothar Schmidt, Mönchengladbach After Hours. Do you have any plans to play in Mönchengladbach in the foreseeable future?”

  “No,” says Roy sternly, “for Mönchengladbach is a sadly unsatisfactory town. Let them look to the mass transit arrangements for their concert venues and then petition me to play there.”

  Another hand is raised.

  “Otto Schmidt, Just Seventeen magazine. When making out with girls, do you get alarmed if the girl is the first to use her tongue?”

  “It depends what she does with it,” s
ays Roy wryly.

  Diffidently I say, “I cannot help noticing that you are all three called Schmidt. Are you perchance related, or is this a case for Greta Sonderbar, fearless girl reporter of ‘Spooky Occurrences’?”

  “As it happens, we are related,” lies the first spy glibly. I as the narrator know that he is lying but I in the story do not. “It is quite a heartwarming tale. We are three brothers whose father dreamed of being a journalist but was prevented from doing so by a malevolent cabal of shadowy enemies who put it about that he was cavalier with the use of umlauts. He died a broken and pitiful man but we are each in our own way striving to avenge him by living out his dream.”

  He nudges the other two villains and they agree, “Yes, it is so, he speaks the truth.”

  He is a glib and plausible liar but something about his story rings alarm bells.

  “What was your father’s name?” I ask.

  “Schmidt, naturally.”

  “Naturally.”

  “If I may venture a question—” says the Rolling Stone reporter.

  “Ooh, but I have a good one,” says the chief villain rudely, not even holding his hand in the air. “Do you have any plans to work with George Harrison again?”

  “There are no plans but I would certainly like to,” says Roy. “It depends when he is next in town. He spends most of his time in Bremen nowadays.”

  Stealthily I mutter, “It strikes me that that question came close to being too personal. Shall I end the press conference and initiate the emergency protocol?” My hand strays toward an inner pocket.

  “No,” murmurs Roy, “I can handle this.”

  Raising his hippy-bangle-covered hand, the Rolling Stone reporter says, “If I may be permitted. What kind of plectrum—”

  “But I have a better one!” cries Lothar, riding roughshod over him. “What are your thoughts on the European Bank’s interest rates?”

  “They did not consult me when establishing the European Bank,” says Roy wryly. “They may sort out their own messes now.”

  “I have a really interesting question,” says the Rolling Stone reporter, pouting somewhat and holding his hand very high in the air.

  But the three villains have been confabulating together in whispers and nudging one another. Suddenly the spy in the sombrero stands upright so that his hand is even higher than that of the Rolling Stone reporter and says, “Ah, but I have an even more interesting one! Has Mr. Orbison ever been given any unexpected presents by ordinary members of the public?”

  “On occasion,” grants Roy. “For example, I was once presented with a cream cake in the shape of a guitar by the Burgomeister of Potsdam.”

  “My, how interesting,” says the fake reporter. Something about the sarcastic exaggeration of his tone strikes a false note.

  Diffidently I say, “I cannot help noticing that you are wearing a sombrero and bandolier of bullets. Have you ever been a Mexican bandit?”

  “As it happens I have lately had the privilege to ride with guerrilleros and known the savage thrill of burning people out of house and home, rustling donkeys, and cruelly pushing old ladies over so that they sit down heavily on cactuses—purely in a journalistic capacity, of course,” he adds unctuously, with another false smile.

  “Also,” I say thoughtfully.

  The Rolling Stone reporter is now standing on his chair with his hand very nearly brushing the ceiling in his eagerness to be heard. “If I may please be permitted to ask one question—” he says.

  “I admonish you not to stand on chairs,” says Roy. “People have to sit on them afterwards. Get down and await your turn.”

  Sadly the Rolling Stone reporter bows his head in acknowledgment of the rebuke and complies.

  The three so-called Schmidt brothers have again been confabulating and sniggering villainously. The lead villain raises his hand and says, “In any case, I had not finished and have a follow-up question. May I inquire, has Mr. Orbison ever been unexpectedly given a briefcase in somewhat mysterious circumstances? I have a reason for asking.”

  “As it happens, I have,” says Roy.

  “And may I further ask, did Mr. Orbison at any point happen to look inside that briefcase, become alarmed at what he found, and contact the authorities? Again, I have a personal interest in the answer.”

  “I did not,” says Roy.

  “Aha!” cries the man in the sombrero while his two cohorts nudge each other.

  The Rolling Stone reporter stands and bows and says, “With all due respect, I insist upon being allowed to ask a question.”

  “I am afraid,” says the chief villain in tones of silken menace, “that I have decided to make this interview a Düsseldorf Zeitung exclusive.”

  And before our disbelieving eyes he takes out a gun!

  He does not shoot the Rolling Stone man with it but hits him brutally on the top of his silver afro wig, and he drops unconscious to the ground and begins to snore.

  Meanwhile the other two villains also take out weapons, a bread knife and a bomb respectively.

  “I have heard of circulation wars,” mutters Roy wryly, “but this is ridiculous . . . I think I will put an end to this press conference.”

  He takes out his handkerchief and flourishes it in a certain way.

  I recognize my cue and stand and loudly say, “Roy, I have had a psychic premonition of disaster. There is great danger here. We must leave at once.”

  “Unglaublich,” mutters the villain with the bomb, backing away from me and crossing his fingers superstitiously.

  “Your psychic is quite correct,” says the chief villain silkily, pointing the gun at Roy. “You are in great danger here. But I regret to inform you, you will not be leaving . . .”

  To be continued!

  Chapter 34

  Now here is a pretty pickle! What can befall?

  Read on if you dare . . .

  The three villains advance on us, cocking their pistol, sharpening their bread knife and holding a lighted match near the fuse of their bomb.

  “Where is the briefcase you were given last night?” hisses the spy in the sombrero. “If you do not return it to us you will be killed.”

  “You said they must be killed anyway,” points out Otto.

  “Yes, that is so,” concedes Heinrich. “You must tell us where the briefcase is and then be killed.”

  “I will not tell you,” says Roy. “You are a scoundrel of some sort and up to no good. I suspect the case did not belong to you in the first place.”

  “We . . . found it somewhere,” says Heinrich slyly. “We are looking after it for the rightful owners.”

  He nudges his confederates and they chorus, “Yes, it is so.”

  “I am looking after it now,” says Roy defiantly, “and it is somewhere safe where you will never find it again!”

  “Pah,” sneers the spy, “I will wager you have merely dumped it in your front hall.”

  Roy and I nonchalantly study our fingernails and pick bits of lint off Jetta.

  The spy scowls. “Tell me where it is or things will go badly with you.”

  “I will not do so,” says Roy.

  “Then you leave me with no alternative,” says the spy in tones of silken menace. “You are about to undergo a very unpleasant experience.”

  I cough diffidently and say, “Perhaps my terrapin might be spared this ordeal? You may be a bandit and cutthroat but I am sure you are too big a man to take it out on her.”

  “On the contrary,” says the villain in tones of icy malice, “only last week I ran a steamroller over a duck whose owner had thwarted me in a scheme worth only five euros.”

  Such villainy! I shiver and clutch Jetta closer to me. Jetta for her part shrinks back into her carapace some way.

  “Very well,” I say, “but I warn you we shall try to escape. Perhaps you had better tie us up? If you have forgotten the rope I may be able to improvise . . . somehow . . .”

  “We have no need of rope,” sneers the criminal in tones of
suave cruelty. “If you try to escape you will be variously shot, sawn and blown up.” The villains brandish their various weapons menacingly.

  “There seems no choice but to cooperate,” mutters Roy.

  “At least they have not confiscated my clingfilm,” I say stealthily.

  Meanwhile the three villains are confabulating about what to do with us.

  “I have the perfect place nearby,” says the leader . . .

  What is that place? And what dark deeds can befall there? But will there be a silvery yet translucent lining at long last? Only a fool would rush in to the next chapter without considering the matter first.

  Chapter 35

  Roy, Jetta and I are marched at gunpoint (to say nothing of bomb and bread-knife point) out of the back door and across an alley and into a seedy lodging house.

  As we are forced up several flights of a rickety staircase with an unpolished and splintery bannister and a dangerous rug we pass various degraded figures who swill cough medicine or play with yo-yos in an unsafe and intimidating manner or offer to sell us unsuitable pension schemes.

  For reassurance I grip Jetta with one hand and a roll of clingfilm in an inner pocket with another.

  On the third floor we pass through a door without knocking and find ourselves in an exceptionally dirty flat. The villains do not even wipe their feet upon entering, and I do not really blame them, for the floor is even filthier than the hall outside and indeed the doormat itself is a dead badger. A degraded and vicious-looking old crone is stirring an unhygienic-looking vat of soup on a dangerous-looking stove, muttering seditious sentiments to herself as she does so.

  The woman turns and scowls. “My son!” she says in surprise.

  “Gentlemen,” says the spy in the sombrero, “my mother!”

  Roy and I and the other two spies bow politely and the son and the mother embrace each other. Very touching, you might think—but you would be wrong. For while they are hugging the mother picks the son’s pockets and the son steals his mother’s bra, to give as a present to one of his floozies.

  “What brings you here?” she inquires. “It cannot just be a social call to your old degraded mother, for you are evil.”