Variant Exchange

by Fox J Wilde

  Räder in Den Rädern

  Lena arrived at Gustavo’s at about 8:45 am on Tuesday. It was a restaurant on the other side of Berlin that Lena rarely frequented. Mrs. Schroeder was right—this place was relatively busy this early in the morning. With its faux-fancy wooden decorations, embroidered steins and pseudo-traditional dressings, the restaurant felt strangely out of place in the dour realm of Eastern Germany. Honestly, it felt more like a Western-designed, Bavarian-themed tourist-trap for folks from the West than anything else. She didn’t like it, and didn’t think any of her fellow townspeople would either. Yet here everyone was, disagreeing with her.

  “Ah well,” she thought to herself, as she picked a booth near the rear, “Might as well enjoy it like everyone else.”

  As she sat, she watched the hustle and bustle of people eating, drinking, and conversing with their mouths full of food. Thick spittle flew everywhere as people laughed and joked obnoxiously with each other. And the children…the children were a sonic force to be reckoned with. They emitted an ear-piercing onslaught of such cacophonous force and eruptive pitch, Lena honestly wondered if taking up toddler-murdering would be a more profitable vocation than super-sleuthing,

  “Why in the hell do people make these stupid things?!?” Lena raged silently. “It’s like taking all of the hate and misery in the world and personifying it into a tiny, brooding monster that poops and screams.” Just like that, Lena realized that motherhood wasn’t for her. She also realized why she hated restaurants.

  “May I help you today, dear?” a middle-aged woman with a certain stately beauty said as she approached Lena’s table. Lena marveled at how well this woman had aged. She had the most piercing blue eyes and youthful skin that she had yet seen on anyone over thirty-five, “Some people get all the luck,” she muttered to herself.

  “Um, yes,” she replied, “What are your specials for the day?”

  “Well ma’am, we have a...” The woman rattled off several dishes that Lena didn’t know, and could hardly be bothered to remember. Phrases like, “Glazed with a...” and “drizzled in a fine...” were utterly lost on her.

  “Do you have currywurst?” Lena interrupted.

  “You don’t like restaurants very much do you?” the lady asked, grinning slightly.

  “I, uh…” Lena stuttered, not wanting to be insulting.

  “Don’t you worry, dear. We’ll have your food out to you soon enough.” The lady winked at her, and then sauntered into the maelstrom of children puking on themselves, off to parts unknown.

  “What a wonderful life,” Lena thought sarcastically, “Getting to be surrounded by these little mutants every day? Count me out.” She felt bad about thinking it, though. The woman seemed so graceful in the midst of what must have been a certain and insurmountable misery. Lena decided to do what she could to give a chance to the large group of obnoxious strangers and their extremely audible chewing.

  Over at one table sat a morbidly fat couple, stuffing their faces with prodigious quantities of meat while soaking it down with gallons of beer apiece. At another table sat another morbidly fat couple, this time with disturbingly loud children. Even the rotund little brats were cramming their faces full of wurst, letting the juices drip onto their puke-soaked pants. Of course, they made time to squeal at random, mid-munch. They did so in an octave that Lena thought for sure signified subsequent defecation, and a volume that threatened to lobotomize. At another table sat a lone woman with graying hair, hunched over and wearing a headscarf that looked to be just as upset about everything as Lena was. Lena noticed that the woman winced every time a child screeched for no reason, and glowered at them in return. “Finally, someone that gets it,” she laughed to herself.

  After a few more minutes, the lovely serving lady walked out and brought her a plate of Stollen: a big, steaming pile of German fruitcake, “Yum” Lena ruefully thought to herself. She glared near-audibly at the internationally reviled log of candied…erm, age-loaf…and really hoped that this wasn’t what she was supposed to actually eat once her little spy-ritual was over.

  “How does it look, dear?” the woman asked.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Lena said, “you forgot the salmon.”

  “Oh, gracious me,” the woman said, “I’m so sorry. I’ll bring that right out!” With that, she turned and headed back towards the kitchens, leaving Lena alone and afraid with her only company this worthless stump of candied horse puck. Somehow, despite its radioactively-fluorescent coloring, it still managed to look pock-marked and diseased—like a leper in food form. As if sensing her hatred, it glared back at her, daring her to be hungry enough to try it. The joke was on the fruitcake, however, as no one could possibly be that starving.

  As Lena waited, her senses were assailed by more chewing, more spitting, and more wailing from a crowd hell-bent in the sport of public eating. By the time the woman brought out her food, Lena had decided that being the poster-child for domestic espionage wasn’t nearly worth this.

  “Heeeere you go,” the woman said, as she plopped down a huge plate of delicious-looking wurst, “I think you will really like the recipe. Let me know if you need a to-go box.”

  “Oh this looks amazing, but I don’t think I can eat it all,” Lena replied, salivating.

  “Well, most folks your size ask for to-go boxes,” the lady said, winking.

  “I’ll…I’ll, uh…” Lena stammered, before thinking better of it and saying, “I’ll let you know when I’m ready to leave. Wouldn’t want to miss out on the experience.”

  “It’s good to enjoy the ambiance,” the woman smiled. “Do you want me to leave the fruitcake or murder it behind the dumpsters?”

  “You can take it. I don’t like the way it’s staring at me,” Lena said honestly. The woman understood. Yet somehow, Lena suspected that another one of Mrs. Schroeder’s spy network had played a tiny practical joke on her. “First they name me ‘Sunshine’, and now this?! Ugh!!”

  For nearly a half hour, Lena wasted time attempting to appear normal. She instinctively knew that leaving too quickly would be unnatural. Then again, her being here would be unnatural as well, which is why Lena had honored Mr. Collin’s instructions and made a point to regularly visit Gustavo’s every day or so since leaving Mrs. Schroeder’s apartment. She knew she had made the right choice. Yet as she looked about at the truly disgusting display of gluttony around her, well…this really was the hardest part of the job.

  “Why can’t they pick locations with real people?” Lena boggled. Silently, she resigned to picking at her food as she returned to people-watching. Here, a tourist-looking couple; there a tourist-looking couple; everywhere she looked, there they were, with rear-ends proudly escaping from pants and underwear alike, all ablaze with swampy sweat. Perhaps Lena would resolve to eat less of her wurst than she had originally planned. That, or maybe she would become a vegetarian.

  She scanned the crowd some more, taking note of the very few regulars she had seen in previous visits. All of them looked about the same as everyone else. However, as Lena scanned, she looked over at a table in a corner. A man and a woman sat, drinking coffee and talking quietly. There was nothing about them that really stuck out in the least. As a matter of fact, the more Lena looked at them, the more she took notice of how perfectly ordinary they looked, and the more it niggled at her.

  Sure, there were people of all shapes and sizes at Gustavo’s—most of them just inclined towards a more…family-sized…physique. This pair, on the other hand, seemed reasonably fit. No worries there. The bland-looking clothing, perhaps no worries there. It just looked, well, grayer than normal. The haircuts seemed…well, actually, most everything about them seemed very hygienic and well-manicured.

  She decided to apply some of Patrick’s training: the point-scale designed to detect law-enforcement agents. They were both well-manicured and hygienic; just one point, but a point, nonetheless. Bland clothing; p
erhaps two or three points. Still not a lot, but worth mentioning. But now that she thought about it, the haircuts seemed just a tad specific; so maybe that was two points. The fact that they were in a restaurant and hadn’t ordered food; two points. The fact that they didn’t gesture or emote all that much, and kept to themselves; maybe a half a point. But the occasional looks around the room? While that was just one minor point, it brought the lack of gesturing or emotion up to a solid two points. This wasn’t even accounting for the set of the man’s jaw. He wore a tense, determined stare, and the muscle on the side of his jaw was constantly flexing; three points for sure.

  Now this couple officially had her interest, so she watched them more intently. She noticed that both of them—despite their reasonably business-casual attire—wore comfortable sports-shoes; four points. However, they were really black, clashing slightly with the general neatness of the slacks. “Maybe five points,” Lena thought. The black leather belt the man wore; just one point. But the fact that the woman wasn’t dressed like a woman; well that was another three points. “Actually, make that four points for the belt,” Lena thought, as she realized that the belt had a girth to it—possibly designed to hold both a concealed firearm and extra magazines.

  Lena had been taught to get antsy around ten points, but she was always one to exaggerate at the best of times, so, maybe fifteen would be better. However, many points they were up to now, though, it was far past that.

  All was confirmed, however, when the man leaned forward to grab his drink and Lena made out a hard crease in the back of his shirt, signifying that he was indeed wearing a concealed firearm, “That’s almost five points right there,” Lena gasped. And the small watch the woman wore, with the face on the inside of her wrist; ten points immediately…and not just because women never wore watches (and the rare times that they did, it certainly wasn’t a black nylon band): she wore it on the inside to avoid glare in darkness. Lena didn’t even have to take into account how perfect their teeth were (signifying expensive, government-provided dental care), which would have tacked on another two points.

  These people weren’t mere informants or assets, they were Stasi surveillance officers. Lena was sure of it. Suddenly, she felt very afraid. She had gotten so used to the idea of working for the HVA that she had grown slightly lackadaisical in her approach. Oh, she needed to bail immediately. But how to get out of this naturally?

  “How is the food, dear?” the lovely server lady asked as she walked over.

  “On second thought,” Lena said, trying to hide her nervousness, “I think the Stollen was more appetizing.”

  “Are you sure?” the woman asked after a second’s consideration, “Our chefs were working very hard on this wurst.”

  “I’m sure they did,” Lena said, apologetically, “but I think the Stollen would be better for my health…I’m on a diet, you see.”

  “I can appreciate that,” the woman replied with a wink. “Just so you understand, the wurst really won’t keep all that long, now that it’s prepared. It will have to be thrown out if you don’t want it.”

  “I think some other customers would be happy to eat it,” Lena said, glancing over at the couple and tapping her wrist in the international ‘spy shit’-gesture.

  “I’m sure they…” the woman said, casually glancing over at the couple, “Ah I see…would you wait here a few more minutes and let me talk to the chefs? We might be able to whip something up for you.”

  “If it’s not too much trouble,” Lena said, relieved. It felt good to know she wasn’t alone in this.

  The woman left to go to the kitchens, and Lena sat picking at her wurst, trying hard to not fidget with anticipation. She hated herself then. Most of the time, she fantasized about situations like this, coming up with hare-brained solutions to them. Most of those imagined solutions involved an equally imagined and ridiculous martial arts routine that she could use to disable at least five people in rapid succession, with improvised weaponry fashioned out of a spork and pickle.

  Now that she was in one of these situations for real, however, she could feel her stomach twisting itself into knots. Her brain was screaming at her, “Go now. Go now…you have to get out of here right now.” Her feet began to itch, and her palms began to sweat as a phantom pain spread throughout her body—silent promises of every terrible fate the State could bring to bear against her, “If you don’t leave right now, you will die!”

  As Lena looked around the room nervously, she noticed the older woman in the headscarf gathering her things and standing up to leave. She hadn’t paid for her meal, Lena realized, “Now that bitch is punk rock.” she smiled at herself. The woman simply stood up nonchalantly, and began walking towards the kitchens. Lena watched as the woman called into a doorway, and began speaking to a chef who appeared. He looked gruff at first. Yet after a large smile spread across his face, Lena noticed him reaching into a pocket and grabbing two cigarettes. After handing one to her, he motioned for her to follow him into the back rooms.

  “What a slut,” Lena giggled to herself, “First stealing food, then sweet-talking herself into a free cigarette—couldn’t have done it better myself.”

  Yet as Lena giggled to herself, she noticed the well-manicured ‘couple’ stand up quickly, muttering to each other. The woman began walking towards the kitchens, before being greeted by another serving woman. The man walked quickly out of the restaurant and stood just outside the front door, looking both directions frantically. He seemed frustrated about something, and Lena felt fairly certain she knew exactly what he was frustrated about.

  Just then, cheering erupted at a table in the middle of the room. The serving staff and a few chefs had gathered around a table with a young couple and their two fat children, clutching cheap guitars and noisemakers.

  “Happy birthday, from Gustavo’s…we wish you merry cheer! And…” the staff sang in tandem, clapping along and creating a deafening ruckus as everyone in the restaurant began clapping along and singing off key. The room had become a thing of such terribly cheesy noise, Lena considered whether or not ‘people-in-general’-murdering would be a better profession than simply axing toddlers.

  “Here is your to-go box,” the lovely serving lady said cheerfully, as she dropped some change down in front of Lena and began scooping the remainder of the wurst into a small Styrofoam box, “...and here is your change and receipt!”

  “But I haven’t paid yet,” Lena said honestly, as she grabbed the small slip of paper. Oddly, the piece of paper listed off several items that she hadn’t paid for—a large soft drink, a coffee, a plate of Rouladen and a salad. Curiously, she had been charged ‘0.02 marks’ for her water. Also, the coffee seemed to cost a few more marks than you would think it would. That, and the soft-drink she hadn’t ordered was nearly free.

  “Have a wonderful day, my dear. Make sure you put that money to good use,” the woman winked, before walking over to the group of singing serving staff, and began singing wildly.

  As silently and naturally as possible, Lena slipped out of her chair, gathered her things, and began heading towards the exit. She couldn’t help but notice tiny daggers of alarm shrieking their way down her spine, turning her ten-foot walk into a ten-mile crawl in slow motion, “Almost there…” she said to herself, “Almost there...” As the sweet air of freedom filled her lungs with the swinging open of the door, Lena thanked the gods above for the lovely woman and her awful (and awfully clever) distraction.

  “May your day be filled with beer, and your stein be full of cheer. Gustavo’s, Gustavo’s, we’re glad to see you here!”

  Gertrude Schroeder and Walter Müller sat together in the tiny chapel’s pews. The chapel was old as dirt, decrepit with neglect and plainly furnished. All of the pews showed signs of wear, several of the kneelers were broken, and the stained-glass was covered in a sooty-film. The few priests that kept the place going were all old men, bent double with brittl
e bones, and not in any shape to make the church more presentable than its current state. Yet Gertrude wouldn’t have it any other way. The building was filled to the brim with memories and held together with prayer. She knew in her heart that the dust was blessed, and the general muss was precisely the way the Savior wanted it to be.

  It was still early in the evening, yet only the priest kept company with the two, bustling about some arcane religious duties back in the cramped offices. His services were rarely needed at the busiest of times, and only his dedication to his calling kept him from doing what any sensible man would do—taking a long nap behind the altar. Nevertheless, he kept the doors unlocked for the wayward disciple, and the heavy scent of incense filled the air with a holy warmth, “Sure, they are Catholics…” Gertrude would often joke to herself, “but Jesus loves them too.”

  “Why do we come here?” Walter asked, “You know I’m not a Catholic.”

  “Neither am I, Walter.”

  “Well, then why do you come here?”

  “Because it reminds me of my husband, God rest his dear soul. And it’s good for you.”

  “How is it good for me?”

  “Because you’re getting crankier by the month, you angry old prune.” she poked. “If Jesus is what it takes to make you smile every now and again, then so be it.”

  “I know something else that would make me smile.” He grinned devilishly.

  “You couldn’t possibly satisfy a real woman like me.” she jested. Walter was a good man, with a good heart; never mind his silliness. When one reached her age, few things bothered her nearly as much as her poor feet. If anything, Walter was young in heart and she loved him for it.

  “With the right pills I could,” he teased, before placing a hand on her knee.

  “Walter!” she laughed, swatting his hand away. “Not in the Lord’s house!”

  “Awww, God probably likes it. This place probably hasn’t seen a good lovemaking session since it was built. Besides, can’t an old man get a little happiness before he dies?”