#GenghizInLove: Episode 52

We had time to kill since Barbie's flight would only get in at eight the following evening. Stash plugged his video camera into the television and played tapes from their honeymoon in Venice, that spectacular city made for sin. I listened with amused delight to their stories: Lulu's giggly enthusiasm bubbled merrily through Stash's ironic descriptions like froth on dry champagne. It was a lovely night that ended with breakfast in bed together at three in the afternoon, feasting on eggs Benedict and garlicky salami and Bellini cocktails, brought to us on silver platters by a charming dark-eyed maid in a black and white uniform that nicely fitted her slender frame. The maid glanced wide-eyed at Lulu reclining luxuriously in bed between two men. Lulu smiled at the girl and thanked her nicely but the maid just put her hand to her mouth, crossed herself, and scampered away.

"I'm even wearing pyjamas," Lulu exclaimed indignantly. "Honestly. People just assume the worst."

"I can't even get it up," I said mournfully. "Did I tell you about Lady Rudolphine and this lotion called Lethe?" I told my friends the sad story of my drug-induced impotence. "I'll remain a eunuch until I can find a good home for Anastasia's soul."

"There, there, sweetheart," Lulu said tenderly. "Don't cry. We'll find her for you."

"Evil Axel has probably got her pregnant already."

"That can be fixed," Stash said reassuringly. "In Poland we have many cures for that ill. Repression is the mother of invention."

We finished our cocktails and dressed lazily. Just as we were leaving Lulu's sumptuous suite, the phone rang.

"Maya?" Lulu exclaimed. "Where are you, angel? How fabulous. Yes, we just finished breakfast. Wait for us… we'll be right there." She hung up, her eyes shining. "Maya is here, darlings. We're to meet her at this café down the street right away."

We hurried out of the hotel into the dark evening. Cold raindrops spattered heavily down from an oddly yellow-grey sky obscured by massive black clouds. A bare-headed man in a black raincoat ran past us. The yellow lights and smoky warmth of the Café Arpad were welcome shelter from the storm.

After a short struggle with the officious maitre d' and his flunkeys, all dressed in regulation black and white, we made our way into the café. Maya was sitting at a corner table in front of plate glass windows overlooking a broad boulevard, talking intently to three swarthy men I did not recognise. She caught sight of us and her thin face lit up. We hugged for a long moment and I felt her heart beat like the pulsing of a bird.

"These are some friends who will be helping us," Maya said, tactfully not introducing her companions. "I won't bother with their names as you wouldn't be able to pronounce them anyway." We all laughed. The swarthy men had nice smiles under their grey-flecked dark moustaches. I felt grateful to them for the risk they were taking for someone they didn't even know and I tried haltingly to thank them, but was told by Maya to shut up and sit down and drink my coffee like a good child.

"So when we do this?" asked the youngest of the swarthy men.

"How we do it?" asked the middle one.

"What we do?" asked the oldest and gruffest of Maya's men.

Lulu, Stash and Maya turned in unison to look at me. So did the scowling waitress, coming up at that moment with a plate of assorted pastries.

I took a deep breath and an apple tart and extracted a crumpled piece of paper from my pocket. I smoothed it out on the table. "I was involved in renting the facility for the Budapest college so I happened to have the building floor plan," I explained. "This is the main entrance. If security here is like in Prague, then there might be steel doors and guards with sub-machine guns. We would need university identification to get in. Here are the conference rooms and the guest suites. My guess is that Axel and his men have Anastasia holed up in one of those suites while they hold their conference in the main board room. Axel has a small army of men who wear purple jump suits. I believe they are armed and dangerous."

"What is our objective?" Stash asked.

"I need ten minutes alone with Anastasia."

"Is she that hard to get?" Maya grinned. She lightly jabbed a finger at the building plan. "This is actually not so difficult. We just need to arrange a diversion so that the guards go away from the guest area."

"A demonstration at the main entrance?" Stash suggested.

Maya nodded. "That might work. Gives us enough time to sneak into the guest suites… if this plan is accurate."

"Must watch building," the oldest swarthy man said emphatically. "I no trust paper."

"You're right. Will you three mount a stake-out of the building tonight?"

"In this weather?" I protested. "I feel guilty enough as it is, getting you folks involved. I'll watch the building by myself tonight."

"Don't be silly," Maya replied acerbically. "In the first place, they know you. Secondly, you're not a trained watcher. You'll fall asleep. Third, my friends are used to jail."

"Oh, okay," I said, shame-faced. "But I don't know how to thank them for this."

"This isn't just about you," Maya replied mysteriously. "We have our own reasons." She got up. "We shouldn't spend too much time together in one place. Let's disperse for now. Think up a plan and let's meet for breakfast here tomorrow. Before four in the afternoon, okay?"

"I've got to go pick up Barbie," I told Lulu and Stash as we walked back to the hotel. "I don't know what time we'll be back."

"The room's all yours, angel," Lulu sang out, holding on to Stash's strong arm. "We'll do the night clubs and mount a little stake-out of our own."

"Have fun." I grabbed a taxi outside the hotel and asked the driver to take me to the airport. The street lights glowed vivid white against the glistening black of the night. Black and white, black and white… the flickering tapestry of light burned an obscure pattern into my mind and inchoate plans floated like paper airplanes through my brain, as I sat brooding through the long taxi ride. The flight from LA had already arrived. As I stood waiting for Barbie to clear customs, my ideas slowly gathered shape and flowered into dazzling blossom at the sight of my childhood friend striding through the arrivals area, oblivious as ever of the dropping jaws and envious gazes, lissom and svelte, long blonde hair blowing behind her and big blue eyes glistening with joy at the sight of me, the archetypal Amerikan beauty, my lovely Barbie doll.

"I missed you!" Barbie exclaimed in her inimitable child-like fashion, once I had dragged her through the drooling crowds and we were safely in a taxi headed back to the city. "I've been so lonely since Sleaze went away. I have a really bad feeling about this trip to England and my astrologer agrees…"

"Have you heard from him?"

"He called after he arrived in England, but I haven't heard from him since." Barbie pouted. "I don't think he loves me anymore."

"Of course he does, you little idiot." It didn't matter that Barbie had metamorphosed into the hottest starlet in Southern Kalifornia: I looked at the shining butterfly and saw a familiar caterpillar. For me, Barbie would always be the scrawny little girl next door with the big trusting eyes who adopted me as her big brother and whom I had tirelessly abused ever since. "But a man's got to do…"

"What does a man have to do?" Barbie prodded me in the ribs. "What is Luke up to in England? And what are you planning to do with this…" She thrust a hand into her opulent cleavage and pulled at her bra. In the mirror I saw the elderly taxi driver's eyes nearly pop out of his head as the taxi swerved alarmingly off the road.

"Barbie, wait till we get to the hotel, all right?" I scolded in alarm.

"Okay, okay. It's sort of uncomfortable, that's all."

We made it to the hotel without further mishap, and the taxi driver's eyes were so glued to Barbie's chest that he didn't even bother to bargain with me. I took my friend up to Lulu's room and opened the door for her. Barbie tip-toed in and turned to me, holding a finger to her lips.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

"Sshh…" Barbie looked at me reprovingly, went into the bathroom, and turned the shower on full-blast.

"What are you doing?"

"Taking off my clothes, silly."

"I can see that," I replied acidly. "And you look very nice. But what's with the silence routine?"

"Security," Barbie said, unhooking her bra and letting her splendid breasts fall free, a vision for sore eyes in the billowing steam. "Luke taught me. They can't listen to our conversation while the shower is on."

"Guess we'll have to leave the shower on for a while then. Where's the Truth drug?"

"My bra has a secret compartment."

"Tut tut. Don't tell me you need to stuff your bra these days." As a teenager, I had caught Barbie stuffing her training bra with my athletic socks, and blackmailed her into buying us milkshakes for a whole year with her pocket money.

"It's very convenient. I've smuggled all sorts of things in it. Here." Barbie handed me a small glass vial filled with glowing amber liquid.

I looked at the vial curiously. "Truth, huh? How long does it take to work?"

"Ten minutes, maybe fifteen. Works best with food."

"Maybe I should test it on you and find out if you've been naughty or nice lately."

"Very naughty." Barbie got into the marble bath and moaned throatily as the hot water cascaded down her beautiful body. "Oooh, yeah. That's what I needed. You could soap my back, you know, like you used to when we were kids. And isn't there any champagne in this joint?"

"All right, I'll soap your back and bring you some fizz. Luke's been spoiling you. You were never this demanding as a kid." I retreated out of the bathroom, clutching onto the precious fluid. "Let me just get this to safety before you throw the soap at me."

Lulu and Stash didn't get back from the night clubs until six the next morning. After ordering a little something from room service, the four of us walked sedately by the Danube embankment like good little tourists, all the while plotting mayhem and murder, until it was time to meet Maya and her companions. On the way there, we found a toy store and made a few small purchases. Over breakfast at the Café Arpad, brought grudgingly by a puffy-eyed waiter, I told my friends of my plan. Maya whistled approvingly.

"Could work," the oldest swarthy man agreed, grudgingly. "But have to get past the nuns."

"Nuns?"

"Many nuns around the building," the middle man explained. "With sub-machine guns."

"Nuns with guns," Barbie said dreamily. "Sounds like a rock band."

"They must be guarding the Cardinal," Stash said. He looked at his watch. "Well, we should get going."

I nodded in agreement. We got up, pulled out the toy pistols we had bought at the toy store, and finally got the attention of our waiter. We picked out waiters of approximately the right shape and size, forced them to take off their white and black uniforms, tied them together in a circle amidst the café's confused clientele, and gave the long-suffering pianist a handful of money to play Hungarian dances all morning. Lulu, Barbie and I piled into Stash's Mercedes and we followed the nondescript Lada Maya and her friends had rented almost to the entrance of the university building. While Maya and her companions began yelling Kurdish independence slogans through megaphones, attracting a large crowd of curious bystanders, many of whom shouted along in sympathy, Lulu, Stash, Barbie and I dressed quickly in the stolen waiters' uniforms, took up the platters of sandwiches we had ordered from room service at the Grand Hotel, and marched resolutely into the service entrance of the university building. Lulu and Barbie smiled and batted their long eyelashes at the stout nun guarding the gate and offered her a salami sandwich. The nun grunted and let us in. Once we were inside the building, Lulu and Barbie adjusted their clothes, pulling up a skirt, undoing some buttons. The irresistible waitress wenches then led the way past guards and men in purple jumpsuits, flashing smiles and cleavage in every direction, while I consulted the floor plan at each turn. We could hear the Kurdish demonstration growing in volume outside on the street, and hurried before the police arrived and dragged away our friends.

"We've got two minutes max before the guards return," Lulu said urgently, knocking down the first guest suite door. We fanned out down the corridor, searching for Anastasia. Besides a couple of cleaning ladies in mid-fuck, we saw no one. Anastasia was nowhere to be found.

"This is hopeless," I said breathlessly. "She could be anywhere. We have to interrogate Axel and his friends."

"Break into their meeting and feed them sandwiches?

"I know it's rude, Lulu, but I'm desperate."

"All right, let's do it. Sandwiches to the ready… aim, fire."

We marched down the corridor in perfect formation, past some returning jumpsuits. I opened the boardroom door noiselessly and we distributed the sandwich platters evenly along a long glittering mahogany table. The assembled dignitaries ignored us completely, their attention focused on a balding thick-set man with a drooping lower lip who was standing at the head of the room lecturing them in heavy hectoring tones. Listening is hungry work: the Truth-laden sandwiches disappeared within minutes in an orgy of chewing and gobbling. I complacently watched them take their medicine, having stashed away a couple of spare sandwiches in my pocket. Sitting inconspicuously in a corner of the boardroom, I checked my watch. Ten minutes, then fifteen. Time to tell the truth.

#GenghizInLove: Episode 51

Just then the phone rang, as if in answer to my wish. "Floss?" I asked happily. Then cautiously: "God isn't there, is he? Good. You have no idea how much trouble it caused last time he listened in on our conversation."

"Well, he is a spy, you know," Floss pointed out. "It's his job. Have you been getting into trouble again?"

"Story of my life. How about you?"

"Well, actually I just got someone out of trouble."

"You sound awfully pleased with yourself about it. What did you do?"

"My first good deed since I was expelled from the Girl Scouts," Floss replied smugly. "There's someone where who would like to speak with you. Here."

"Hi…" The familiar voice was as thickly happy as chocolate syrup.

"Navel!" I exclaimed, jumping for joy. "You escaped!"

"Floss rescued me. Our hero." I heard the sound of lips smacking and then Flossie howling in outrage and smacking him.

"Tell me all."

"Well, there I was on this wretched island in the Outer Hebrides, cold, unshaven, malnourished, an indentured servant to this gruff old man."

"Meredith's grandfather, right?"

"Right. Rasputin had sold me into slavery after my father had delivered me into his evil clutches. Anyway, so there I was on Rottenegg island, slaving away, trying to get all the old man's diapers washed before the storm, when I suddenly saw…"

"Flossie walking on the water?"

"She might as well have been considering the boat was knee deep in water. Anyway there she was with her firm-breasted Sikh amazons, intrepidly sailing in to the rescue…"

"He's telling it all wrong," Floss interjected impatiently, her voice booming over the speaker phone. "It wasn't nearly as romantic as young Mister Pickie makes it sound."

"Oh, so Sikh amazons aren't romantic?" Navel responded hotly.

"Stop bickering, guys," I groaned. "Floss, is Navel just making all this up again?"

"Not quite. I did bring along a few friends to help… God damn it, Navel, get away from that teddy bear. It's mine!"

"Where did you find these friends?" I asked.

"In the Punjab obviously. By the way, you bastard, why did you have to get me freed?"

"I can't believe this." I was stung. "Weren't the Sikhs going to pull all your teeth out?"

"We were just pretending. It was part of my research program to see if the West really cares. Then Xox comes along and intervenes and the Sikh warriors didn't want to play anymore. Don't know why they are so scared of Xox."

"Well, he funds them, doesn't he?"

"Yeah, but it goes deeper than that. They worship him like a god. Anyway, that's where I met Trixie Kaur and the other girls. They're a special guerrilla unit trained in Ninja techniques. Suicide bombers. So when you told me Navel was in captivity, I had the girls fly over…"

"These are real warrior women!" Navel interrupted enthusiastically. "Serious muscles. But they're so bashful too. All veils and dark eyes. Too cool. I'm going to ask Trixie to marry me. Anyway, so Captain Floss and her Sikh amazons come sailing up in their leaky little boat and just take over the island, tie the old man onto a stretcher, sail to the mainland and deliver him to an old folks home. He was still cursing a blue streak when we dropped him off. In Scottish too. Wonder how those prim little old ladies are going to take it…"

"When did you mount the rescue, Floss?" I asked enviously.

"A couple of days ago. I couldn't find you anywhere…"

"And we've been celebrating ever since," Navel hiccuped. "It's been the wildest party. Even Lulu called to congratulate me…"

"She actually called to find you," Floss explained. "But Navel is now totally convinced that he is the centre of the universe."

"A few hours in bed with the Sikh amazon should clarify things for him. Where was Lulu calling from?"

"Budapest." Floss sounded serious. "She had some news for you."

"What is it?"

"Lulu and her husband…

"Stash."

"Yeah. They were in Budapest on her way back to Berlin." Floss hesitated. "Lulu saw Anastasia there."

"Oh my god."

"Apparently Axel is in Budapest for some meeting at the University of Truth and Justice."

"Guess who else is in Budapest? " Navel chimed in. "My father. He found out I had escaped and called right away to threaten me with the mental institution again. Isn't it odd?"

"No, Navel, I don't think it's odd at all," I sighed, remembering the Cardinal mention Mr. Pickie of the Zurich Club at Prince Ludwig's suicide party. "I have to get to Budapest right away."

"Lulu thought you might," Floss replied. "So she and Stash are going to wait in Budapest for you. They're staying at the Grand Hotel."

"They would," I replied, remembering that great domed edifice with the elaborate façade and the courteous doormen in purple livery. I had spent an unforgettable night there once with a cute little Hungarian chanteuse named Annike, back in the carefree days of my early youth, before I became entangled with wild witches and Katholic conspiracies.

"Go to it!" Navel piped up. "Go rescue the girl!"

"I'll do my best," I replied. "You couldn't possibly send those Sikh amazons over here, could you?"

"Can't do that," Floss replied regretfully. "It would take weeks to get them visas. But you know what… I'll call Maya and see if she knows any Kurdish guerrillas lying low in Budapest who might be able to help."

"That would be lovely," I said gratefully. "I'll take all the help I can get."

I stuck a note on Hell's door telling him I was off to Budapest for the weekend. Sweet Annichka at the reception desk called a taxi for me. Ten frantic minutes later, I was sprinting down a railway platform at Prague train station, trying to overtake the accelerating midnight express to Budapest. By some miracle, I made it with a last mad leap, although I twisted my ankle horribly and then had to pay a hefty fine for not having bought my ticket in the train station like everyone else. Central European train conductors have no sense of adventure.

Limping through the crowded train, I eventually found a vacant seat next to a smelly old man with thin unshaven cheeks and mad red-rimmed eyes. Every so often he would smash his fist into the overhead compartment and shout wildly in Romanian. Everyone else scowled at the old man but I found his hoarse war cry oddly exhilarating: I too was on the warpath after all. I bummed a cigarette from the old guy and gratefully sucked in the harsh smoke. Coughing my lungs out, tears obscuring my sight, massaging my bruised ankle, huddled next to my rank neighbour, I had a sudden moment of happiness. All my fears evaporated in that instant of epiphany: I was on my way to rescue my darling, and what could be more romantic than that?

My happiness lasted all the way to Budapest. Standing on the crowded platform, shaking hands cordially with my elderly neighbour (who spoke English, French, and German equally fluently and was a respectable Bucharest book seller and avid chess enthusiast on his way back from a disastrous tournament in Prague), I experienced the first return of apprehension. What if Lulu and Stash had grown impatient and left Budapest? And what if Floss had failed to find Maya for extra help? How was I to storm the Budapest College of the University of Truth and Justice alone?

My fears were groundless: Lulu and Stash greeted me at the Grand Hotel with warm hugs and cold champagne. "Take a hot bath this instant, angel!" Lulu exclaimed, wrinkling her adorable nose in distaste. "How you stink!"

"It's just Romanian cigarettes, Lu." I offered her the battered pack my neighbour had generously given me. "Want one?"

"Don't be silly, sweetie." Lulu ripped open an embossed box of gold-tipped Balkan Sobranies and lit up luxuriously. "We could use those as tear gas though."

"Do you know where they're holding Anastasia captive?"

"Darling," Lulu said nicely. "I hate to break it to you but nobody is holding Anastasia captive. I saw her twice, once with this hefty character with the drooping lower lip…"

"Axel."

"Right. They were having dinner in this very chic restaurant. And the second time was by herself downtown. She was wearing a fur coat and her chauffeur was trotting behind her with lots of bags. She looked like she had been shopping"

"Did you talk to her?"

"I tried, angel." Lulu bit her lip. "I was right in front of her and I waved and called out her name but she just looked blankly at me. Through me, really. Then she just got into her limo and drove away."

"They've got her on drugs," I wailed. "Or hypnotised her. Some kind of mind control."

"Don't be so excitable, sugar," Lulu chided. "She's just blank because you've got her soul stuck away somewhere."

"We have to get her alone so that I can put her soul back into her."

"How do you do that?" Lulu asked with interest. "Do you stick your… soul into her and kind of wiggle it about?"

"That's one way. I bet they've got her in the university building somewhere. We have to get the truth out of her captors somehow."

"Do you have a plan for getting into the university building?" Stash asked, sucking back some chloroform. His calm presence was heartening.

"Do you have your video camera handy?"

"I never travel without it."

"We could pretend to be a film crew."

"Won't work." Lulu shook her head. "Axel and his people hate all forms of popular entertainment."

"Well, we've got to get in there somehow. We can figure out the details later."

"And just how are you going to get the truth out of Axel and his cohorts?"

"I don't know," I replied, perplexed. But then memory hit me like lightning. "The Truth drug. Would you hand me the phone, please? I've got to call Kalifornia right away."

And I did, and Barbie was home and yes, she knew exactly what I was asking about. Luke had told her all about the Truth drug which he was working on and had even left a sample for her use. Barbie agreed without hesitation to catch the next flight out from LA and to secrete the drug on her lovely person. I smiled beatifically at my astounded friends. Those who ask shall receive.

#GenghizInLove: Episode 50

50


"What the devil do you want now?" Hell growled, taking off his reading glasses and looking up from the enormous pile of papers and books which, as usual, had slipped over from his table onto every other horizontal surface in his office. I gnashed my teeth. The old devil knew perfectly well what I wanted. I wanted to ask him lots of questions and to get some real answers. But I didn't have the nerve, so I temporized.

"Two things, Otto. What happens to the European Studies department now that Hohenstaufen has… retired?"

"Hire a replacement, obviously."

"Why do we need a European Studies department anyway?"

Hell frowned. "Asking questions again," he reproved.

"It was a rhetorical question," I protested.

Hell sniffed, implicitly conceding the point. "Xox wants to defuse the anger against him by giving away some money. I told him that you can't buy love. He replied that it's not about love. Eurocrats are all whores anyway. Man's got a point."

"Whom do we want to bribe?" I asked bluntly.

"The Germans lost the most money."

"But Xox didn't even speculate against the deutschmark!"

"The Germans had to lend the European central banks the most money. They lost more than four hundred billion dollars."

I whistled. "Xox made that much?"

"Not just him. Lots of other speculators as well. But he made the most. At least two hundred billion." Hell shrugged. "Call Troll."

"Who?"

"Gunther Otto Troll. Former head of the German central bank. Ask him to take over the European Studies department."

I stared at Hell through narrowed eyes. "And he will? Just like that? You set this up, didn't you?"

"None of your business." Hell flashed me his old alligator grin. "What was the second thing you wanted to ask me?"

"Nero Insanetti managed to seriously offend a journalist from The Sociologist. They're influential. It might damage our reputation if they published something negative."

Hell shrugged. "Used to work for them, didn't you? Who's the editor? Dogsbody, isn't it?"

"He retired twenty years ago," I said kindly. "The new man is Jenkins."

"Call him up. What do you need to bother me for?"

As I sat down in Delilah's office, poised to call Jenkins, I suddenly wondered how Hell knew that I had once worked for The Sociologist. I had never told him and he had never evinced any interest at all in my past. Had he been doing some background checks on me? I had a horrifying vision of Hell cackling as he looked through a dossier on my chequered career. I shuddered and tried vainly to dismiss both the disturbing image and, more generally, my past.

Jenkins clearly felt the same way. When I called him, there was nothing but the sound of deep breathing. "My God!" he finally croaked. "It is you. Thought I'd got rid of you forever." His tone changed from fear to suspicion. "Hell you want? Can't have job back and that's final," he snapped. "Got somebody else. Good guy for a change."

"That's actually all I wanted to find out," I said soothingly. Jenkins' mangled diction aroused a twinge of nostalgia. "Who do you have on the Central Europe beat these days?"

"Correspondents anonymous," Jenkins replied stiffly, but after some coaxing he relented. "Had to hire someone after Rasputin disappeared. New man with no experience. Smart young fellow with lots of initiative. Highly recommended."

"Who is he?"

"Name of Godfrey Blythe. About your age. Went to Oxford too. Know him?"

I suppressed a snigger. The image of God bustling around the chancelleries of Central Europe, hustling confidential interviews with highly placed sources, was too incongruous for words. I wondered how long it would take before Jenkins would have to brace himself for yet another painful dismissal. "Yes, I know Godfrey," I replied. "All too well. Who recommended him?"

"Terence Killjoy-Yuck," Jenkins replied. "Oh shit. Recommended you too, didn't he? Oh, no, what have I done..."

"Don't worry," I said maliciously. "I'm sure you'll just love Godfrey's reports."

"Haven't seen any so far," Jenkins confessed. "Only been on job a week."

"Who was the correspondent before that?"

"No one full-time. Had to look for someone we could trust after debacle with you. Tried out freelancer based in Prague. Didn't work out. Writing style was too sincere. Too Amerikan."

"Bob something?" I asked casually.

"That's right," Jenkins confirmed. "Worked for English language newspaper there."

"Prahahaha!"

"What's so funny about Prague? Never had time to go there myself but everyone says it is a bleak and dismal place."

"Prahaha! is the name of Bob's newspaper."

"How did you hear of it?" Jenkins asked in surprise. "Where are you anyway? Not back in Mongolia yet?"

"I'm in Prague too. I'm the special assistant to Lord Hades at the University of Truth and Justice."

"The Lord Hades?"

"The one and only. He's the rector of this university."

"Xox's university?" Jenkins asked, interested. "Bob sent peculiar report about the place. Claimed university staff all violent psychotics on drugs. Too silly to print until all this currency market turmoil today. Xox is big news now. Might just use story as exclusive scoop for tomorrow's issue. Don't have much else on the man."

"Don't do that," I replied calmly. "Bob showed up at the university completely drunk and proceeded to insult everyone he encountered. Why, he even tried to rape one of the receptionists and when they tried to stop him he swore he would get revenge. I know all about it."

"Really?" Jenkins said dubiously. "Sounded so sober."

"He was clearly on drugs."

"If you say," Jenkins sighed. "Wish we knew more about Xox."

"Doesn't everyone?" I responded sympathetically. "Who else made a killing on this currency speculation?"

"Besides Xox, looks as though Sir Johnny Silver did very well. Quite surprising since he's been going downhill for some time. Perverse investments!" Jenkins chuckled. "Who on earth buys gold in this day and age? Rumoured he was acting clandestinely for Christian Covett but impossible to confirm. Covett is always so circumspect."

"Who's Covett?"

"As you Amerikans like to say," and here Jenkins assumed a truly grotesque exaggerated nasal drawl, "Which planet are you from, anyway?" Much to my relief, Jenkins dropped back into his usual British whine. "Most successful investor of his generation. Whatever he touches turns to gold. Everyone in the business world reveres Covett. Your ignorance extraordinary."

"I'm not in the business world," I replied tartly. "Nor am I Amerikan. Have you ever heard of something called Midas?"

"Can't be happening," Jenkins moaned. "Must be nightmare. Calls out of blue to test my knowledge of mythology. Must be those new sleeping pills."

"Okay, you don't know about the Midas conspiracy," I said, unfazed. "What do you know about Banque Eurolux? Or about the Holier Than Thou Bank? Or about the Bank Run on Islamic Principles Offshore?"

"All have peculiar names."

"Are they involved in any scandals?"

"All embroiled in major scandals." Jenkins' tone sharpened. "How do you know that? I've only just heard in past hour about impending arrests at Bank Ripoff. At dawn tomorrow. Rumour that Sultan of Arabia himself is named in arrest warrants. Biggest shareholder in Bank Ripoff, you know. Personally guaranteed every Muslim deposit. Not Muslim, are you?" he asked suspiciously.

"I'll tip all my friends off," I promised. "Come on, Jenkins. You haven't even told me what the scandals are. What's the Hotbank scandal?"

"Going on for donkey's years. No solid proof but rumour is Hotbank, Vatikan's bank, you know, is involved up to ears in seriously troubled Italian bank called Banco Nectarini. If Banco Nectarini collapses, Pope out on street. Begging for alms just like Jesus," Jenkins commented irreverently.

"Have you heard anything about a merger of Hotbank and Bank Ripoff?"

"Heard rumour. Amazing if true. Sultan of Arabia hooking up with Pope? Would salvage Nectarini fortune and probably tide Hotbank over cash flow crisis. What is all this, anyway, twenty questions? Can't you read The Sociologist like everyone else?"

"Thanks for answering my questions. I'll give you an inside tip about Xox, if you want."

"What?" Jenkins asked breathlessly.

"He prefers the Financial Times to the Wall Street Journal," I lied.

"Really?" Jenkins breathed. "Could run an opinion piece on that. Should appeal to British readers. Buck 'em up. Master of the Universe reads British paper. Jolly good fillip to national pride. Although did take fifty billion pounds off our Treasury. Makes it sound too much like own goal, doesn't it? Still, thanks ever so much, old chap. Call again sometime."

"I will," I promised. "By the way, how can I get in touch with Godfrey? Where is he based?"

"Funny should ask. Wanted him to start in Vienna, get taste for Central Europe, whipped cream and all that, but fellow insisted wanted to be in Budapest this week. Had hunch something big going to happen."

"I wonder what," I said slowly. "Do you have a number where I can reach him?"

"Not yet," Jenkins replied regretfully. "Wish I did. I'd like to fax him." I smiled, remembering Jenkins' faxes. They were a standing joke among all of the overseas correspondents for The Sociologist, communications which came through on our fax machines at all hours of the day and night, querulous, meticulous, officious, and scrupulous, just like the man himself. I felt a wave of liking for that balding worried middle-aged man sitting so far away at his untidy editing table late at night, hunting for yet another missing dispatch, trying to make yet another deadline, never able to catch enough sleep. I hoped his new sleeping pills would work.

Was it too late to call Hell's nominee to take over the European Studies department? I made a few phone calls and found out that Gunther Otto Troll was ensconced in Berlin as the vice-chairman of Exponential Investments. The former head of the German central bank already worked for Xox. No wonder Hell had been so complacent about persuading Troll to replace Professor Hohenstaufen. What else was up Hell's sleeve and who else was in Xox's pocket? I sighed and picked up the phone again.

"May I speak to Herr Troll, please? I'm the special assistant to the rector of the University of Truth and Justice... Herr Troll, Lord Hades would like you to take over the European Studies department here."

"Hmmm." Troll didn't sound surprised. "Ja, he mentioned this a few weeks ago. When does Otto expect me?"

"As soon as possible. It's a mess right now, frankly."

Troll laughed shortly. "Hohenstaufen's department, nicht wahr? No wonder. I will come to Prague tomorrow. We will have to summon Lady Snatcher and Monsieur Jacques for a debate on the future of Europe." Troll chuckled. "That should be fun."

"Jacques who?"

"I forget this new man's last name. Doesn't matter. It is one of the great unspoken rules that the European president should be named Jacques. Makes it easier for everyone."

"When do you want to hold this debate, sir?"

"Xox should be there."

"He will be here next week to announce the university's permanent endowment. There is also the annual university keynote lecture."

"Who is speaking?"

"Professor Hohenstaufen invited Jean Rameau. The head of Banque Eurolux."

"I know who Rameau is, thank you very much. We are mortal enemies. So Hohenstaufen invited Rameau, did he? How naughty of him. And then he died. Tut, tut. What very bad manners."

"Perhaps we could combine the lecture and the debate?"

"Ach, ja. A small conference in fact. Rameau will lecture. I will destroy him in front of all the assembled dignitaries. Then Lady Snatcher and Monsieur Jacques will claw each other's eyes out. Good. Anything else?"

"No, sir." I was impressed by Troll's brisk efficiency.

"Don't call me `sir', okay? My people call me Gott. My initials, you understand. G-O-T. Gott."

"Jawohl, Gott."

"Give my regards to Otto. Congratulate him on grabbing little Pipi so quickly." Troll chuckled again. "The old crocodile still snaps up his prey faster than anyone else."

"Have you known Otto long?"

"I was his student at Chicago thirty years ago. I still remember his Game Theory course. He gave me a C. I wanted to kill him. It would have been so easy to rig up a little car bomb..." Gott sounded wistful. "Xox also wanted to kill Otto. Even though he got a B+. He was a megalomaniac even in those days. As if he didn't know that Otto never gave anyone an A. Anyway, mustn't open old wounds. See you soon, young man."

"Yes, Gott." Xox had been Hell's student. The two men had known each other for thirty years. Why did Hell pretend to know nothing about his former student and present employer? I put the phone down, stretched my weary body, cracking every joint in my back, and yawned. It had been a long day and I had done a lot of work and I deserved some rest. I had weathered a barrage of insults, regained my old job, seen a man die, arranged for his physical and legal disposal, ordered a tank to blow a hole into the building in which I was now sitting, and found out more tantalizing titbits about billionaires and banking scandals. And yet each moment's revelation only led to more secrets, as though questions were rabbits multiplying in some dark warren. In that moment I longed for the simplicity of an answer.

#GenghizInLove: Episode 49

I rolled up my sleeves and got back to work but not immediately: after taking one look at what Nero Insanetti had done to my office, I had to go to the bar first. I ordered a double scotch on the rocks: normally I drink my whisky neat but they had just run out of single malt and I drink blended whiskies only for medicinal purposes. Marek, my big blond friend behind the bar, eyed me curiously as I gulped the whisky down and asked for another. "Are you all right?" he asked. "You look green."

"I'm fine now," I replied after downing my second whisky. "Had a small shock. Did you know Nero Insanetti?"

Marek made a sour face. "He came in here once with a journalist. They ordered some tea, but before the water had even boiled, Nero was screaming like a maniac and they were rolling around on the floor and Nero was trying to strangle the other guy." Marek brought out a huge cosh from beneath the counter and brandished it at me. "I had to knock Nero out with this before he let go of the journalist's throat."

"What was his problem?"

Marek shrugged. "Well, the journalist was trying to interview Nero about the university but Nero started screaming that he wasn't a reporter at all but a spy and that it was Nero's job to execute spies. That's all I heard because the guy wanted to leave the building before Nero regained consciousness. I wonder what kind of story he wrote about the university."

"What magazine was he from?" I had an uneasy foreboding that I already knew.

"Let me think... The Sociologist? Is that really the name of a magazine? Doesn’t sound as sexy as Playtoy or Renthouse."

"They like to think they're different."

"So anyway, be careful around Nero."

It's all right. We just got rid of him."

"About time," Marek replied, shaking his head. "He was getting on everyone's nerves. He would just sit for hours in that corner holding his head in his hands, moaning loudly. Then all of a sudden he would sit up and scream loudly, `Why me, O Lord?' I was going to speak to that nice old Lord Hades about it."

"I don't think Nero was talking to that nice old Lord Hades, Marek. I think he was talking to God. He was a good Katholic."

"Oh, yeah?" Marek sniggered. "Does a good Katholic pretend to faint in the elevator so that he can look up a girl's skirt? Ask Annichka about it. He even sent her a memo threatening to complain to the management if she didn't wear wider skirts so that he could get a better view."

"Nero did that?" I gasped angrily. "To cute innocent little Annichka?"

"She's not that little anymore. Or that innocent," Marek said, winking. "But she sure is cute."

"Oh, come on, Marek. Annichka's not even sixteen yet. She likes to play with crayons."

"She's just getting ready for bigger things. Besides, she turned sixteen while you were away. Her cheekbones are beginning to show through the babyfat. She's past her prime. I wouldn't touch her with a pitchfork. Who's going to the Superbowl this year?"

"You'd love to touch Annichka with your pitchfork. You're just being perverse. It must be Nero's influence." I groaned and got up reluctantly. "I'd love to stay and talk about chicks and football, Marek, but I have to clean up the mess Nero made."

"Here." Marek offered me a pair of bright yellow heavy duty rubber gloves. "Who knows what diseases he had?"

"Thanks. I'll bring these back tonight."

"Anytime, pal. Glad you're back." Marek smirked. "You know who else will be glad? Annichka."

"Oh, stop it."

"No, really. She's been dying to play with your... crayon."

Smiling, I escaped before Marek could wing any more lewd insinuations my way but the smile died on my lips as I stood in the doorway of my office, contemplating the revolting task before me. It was worse than mucking out a pigsty because pigs are at least careful to keep their feed apart from their muck. Nero, on the other hand, had eaten, drunk, slept, defecated, and, possibly, worked in the same squalid space: crumpled papers, potato chips, rosaries, files, half-eaten sandwiches, computer diskettes, used teabags, academic journals, beer bottles, crucifixes, pillows, turds, a sleeping bag, pools of urine, prayer books, tweed jackets, clumps of dried vomit, old school ties... all lay strewn on the floor before me, impartially intermingled, like some primeval scene of inhuman devastation. I felt sick to my stomach and I leaned against the doorway and held my hand over my mouth and swallowed hard to stop myself from retching.

I dimly heard a door open. I looked up. Otto Hell was standing next to me, leaning on his stick, impassively contemplating the disaster zone. At length he sighed. "I blame myself," he said heavily. "Should have kept an eye on him. Fellow just cracked up. He wasn't always like this."

"What happened to him, Otto?"

Hell cocked a beady brown eye at the stains on the ceiling. "Must have started after he went to Albania. Sent me a wild memo from Tirana saying that Albania was like a combination of North Korea and Bangladesh and that he finally understood Xox. Acted strange ever since."

"Why did Nero go to Albania?"

"The X-O-X Foundation is about to open an office there. The Amerikan attache in Tirana asked for some information."

"Was the attache's name Steele Remington?"

"Sounds right." Hell glanced at me. "Know him?"

"We went to school together."

Hell surveyed the wreckage again and shook his head. "Can't clean this up with just a pair of rubber gloves. Blow out that wall and flush the muck out. Share Delilah's office in the meantime. Notice the inscriptions on the ceiling?"

I looked up. "I thought it was just damp coming through. But that shade of brown... Gosh, you're right, Otto! Those are words. And they look like they were written in blood."

Hell nodded. "Can you decipher the words?"

"No," I confessed. "Can you?"

"'Course I can," Hell said gruffly. "Cracked German codes during the war, didn't I? Just as well that you can't read them," he said grimly. "They're curses. In Latin. Aimed at you."

My mouth dropped open. "Why me?"

"He told you," Hell replied drily. "You're the Antichrist, ain't you?"

"I don't understand why Nero took such an immediate dislike to me." I pouted. "It's not like I look weird or anything." I rubbed the pointy little horns on my head as a thought struck me. "He must have written these curses before he even met me! And look, there's a little voodoo doll with all these pins stuck in it. It doesn't look in the least bit like me?"

"Got any enemies?"

"Me?" I stared at Hell. "I spread sweetness and light wherever I go. Why would I have any enemies?"

"Stole Anastasia away from Axel, didn't you?"

"It wasn't my fault," I whimpered. "She seduced me. Besides, he's got her back now."

"What about Killjoy-Yuck? Think he might be upset at you for killing his men in Berlin?"

"Godfrey said Terence didn't mind," I protested. "They were working for Rasputin on the side. The British have privatised everything… But what does Terence have to do with Nero's curses? You said Nero was working for Ugh and Hohenstaufen. Are they in cahoots with the British secret service as well?"

"Ask Killjoy-Yuck. Invite him to Prague for Xox's formal announcement about the University's endowment."

"You think he'll talk?"

"After I've interrogated him, he damn well better."

"Otto, why did Terence send me here? He knew I was incompetent."

"Maybe because he knew you were incompetent."

I grimaced. "This is too complicated for me."

"An incompetent spy is easily found out," Hell explained patiently. "If you were blown then Xox's security apparatus would relax their guard. They wouldn't dig deeper."

"Who's the real spy, then?"

"Told you not to ask questions," Hell growled, shuffling away on his stick. "Do I have to train you all over again? You were being set up. Why do you think I let Masaryk fire you over that absurd murder charge?"

"You said that I was bad for the university's reputation!" I cried in outrage. "You mean you knew I was being set up for something even worse so you wanted to get me out of the way?" I realized too late that I had just asked another question so I coughed and nodded and smiled. "Of course you know exactly what's going on. But you aren't going to tell me!"

"You'll find out soon enough," Hell replied equably. "Now close that door and get to work. There's a lot to do."

"Right away, Otto." I saluted and set off in search of a demolition crew.

An hour later, as dusk fell, I watched happily from a safe distance as an enormous tank rolled up the street. The gun turret turned slowly around and up. The 120mm howitzer stood fixed for a moment and then fired, an unearthly sound, as if God were ripping his robes to shreds in a rage. A soft white cloud rose from the side of the university building and a large mound of debris crashed onto the sidewalk. The smoke cleared, showing a gaping black hole where Nero's office had once been. I cheered loudly. I felt like Yeltsin.

A grinning blond giant leaped from the tank and strode up towards me. "Is all?" he asked, gesturing at the polished facade of the university building. "Just one?"

I looked longingly at the brightly-lit windows of Professor Masaryk's office. Professor Flysenko's office was immediately below. They were both working late. The neat rectangle of light was such a tempting target. I sighed. "No, that's all... for the moment," I said regretfully, handing the demolition man a fat wad of cash. "Can I reach you in an emergency?"

The giant gave me his business card. "Satisfaction guaranteed!"

"What kind of guarantee?"

"Tactical battlefield nuclear weapons," the blond man beamed. "Just got shipment from Uzbekistan. Can launch from shoulder." He kissed his hand theatrically. "Beautiful!"

"Where are you from, Mister..." I glanced at his card. "Darko Darkovich?"

"Ex-Yugoslavia, of course," Darkovich replied, a trifle impatiently. "Everyone in arms trade is from ex-Yugoslavia these days."

"I'll be in touch," I promised and went back to the building to make some phone calls. I was full of righteous indignation. My personal inadequacies had been abused by clever vicious men weaving intricate plots. I felt like taking revenge. Should I ask Hell some more questions first? I shrugged. Why not? Fools ask questions that wise men won't answer.

#GenghizInLove: Episode 48

All eyes were on Nero Insanetti. Otto Hell had just accused his special assistant of conspiring with evil Professor Ugh and smarmy Professor Hohenstaufen. The atmosphere in the conference room was electric.

"What conspiracy, Lord Hades?" Nero squealed. "I don't know anything. I have met Professor Ugh just once. And I didn't even know that Professor Hohenstaufen had invited the head of Banque Eurolux to give a lecture here."

"That's not true, Nero," Benito said gravely, pulling a crumpled sheaf of papers out of a handsome burgundy calfskin portfolio. "I have a whole bunch of confidential memos from you about this lecture."

"Me too," Immanuel confirmed.

"Which memo was that?" Professor Masaryk asked in amazement. "He sends me a dozen memos every day. And my office is just next door."

"Memos work better than face to face communication," Nero shouted furiously. "My efficiency requires a speed of decision faster than sight!" Professor Masaryk stared at Nero blankly. "This is an objective fact," Nero screamed, froth dripping from his mouth, "Not a personal preference!"

"Shouldn't we call a doctor?" Marya Madlenova inquired calmly. "The man is clearly mad."

"I am not mad!" Nero shrieked, swallowing his slaver. "I am merely enthusiastic! You pretend to be a philologist, you bitch! I am filled with God!"

"Does God speak to you through Attila Ugh?" Hell asked drily. "What did Ugh offer you for passing on copies of all my private communication with Xox?"

"Insanetti is secretly working for Ugh?" Professor Masaryk's face darkened with fury at such perfidy. He walked across the room and wagged his finger in Nero's face. "How could you do this to us? We took you in, we fed you well, we treated you properly, and you betrayed us to the Hungarians?"

"Ugh has grand plans," Hell said calmly. "Wants to use this university as a front for secretly training his own private army. Ugh has struck a deal with Zimmerfreien to get financial backing from the Vatikan for his clever little schemes."

"But what was Insanetti's role in all this?"

"To keep Ugh informed and to keep me in ignorance."

"I see it all now." Professor Masaryk nodded slowly. "Amazingly, even I remember. Insanetti came here from Budapest. I thought nothing of it when I hired him in your absence, Otto. He had good recommendations from distinguished academics in Italy and Poland and England and France and even the best of us have to go to Budapest occasionally. Why, I myself have been to Budapest three times in my life!" Professor Masaryk smiled proudly and flexed his biceps but then the smile faded from his lips and he shuddered. "Although nothing could persuade me to spend the night there. But this Insanetti spent six whole months there." Professor Masaryk glared accusingly at Nero. "Why, he even speaks that disgusting gibberish which bears no resemblance to any civilized language, Hungarian!" As professional linguists, Marya Madlenova and Divka nodded in sad agreement.

"I will give you three minutes to explain yourself, Nero," Hell said icily.

Nero took off his watch (a large digital object on a plastic strap, I observed in disgust) and put it carefully on the table. "In the first place, I wish to record my grave dissent with the general intolerance in this room against non-Indo-European languages. If necessary, I will summon you all as witnesses in a court of law. Estonians don't like such prejudice!" He angrily thumped the table. "But I must collect myself. I have two minutes and thirty-five seconds remaining. As for my connection with Professor Ugh, I can only say that he is a gentleman of great character. He is almost English in his hostility to all outsiders. I am deeply awed by this quality since my mother is from Ireland. My father traces his ancestry to the early martyrs. I am, therefore, doubly Katholic. Professor Hohenstaufen goes to confession only on Sundays; I go every day. The Cardinal has absolved me in advance for all crimes I commit on behalf of his ambition to restore our Mother Church to her rightful position as World Nanny. My conscience is clear. I have a minute and forty-two seconds remaining, I notice, and I hope you are all observing the remarkable clarity of my defence. As I have frequently observed in my memos, I play chess not poker and this training serves me well since I can make good moves even under time pressure. As a good Katholic, as a historian, and as a Roman, I felt it my duty to assist the Cardinal and Professor Hohenstaufen in their commendable efforts to restore the Holy Roman Empire. By force of arms if necessary!" Nero shouted, clambering onto the table. He pulled a large revolver out of his tweed jacket and waved it around wildly before cocking the safety catch and aiming the gun at my forehead. "I will become a martyr if need be but I will rid the world of this Antichrist!"

Hell neatly hooked the crook of his walking stick around Nero's ankle and pulled him off the table with a resounding crash and bang: the gun went off as Nero fell. "I still have three seconds left!" Nero moaned from the floor. "Two seconds!"

"You just used them," Hell observed coldly. "Your time is up. Benito, confiscate that gun, give Nero his severance pay, and then throw him out of the building." Benito kicked the gun towards me, and dragged Nero, still whimpering, out of the room. I picked up the gun and put it in my pocket. I have always had a weakness for shiny toys.

Professor Masaryk suddenly smote his forehead. "Was this not foolish, Otto?" he exclaimed. "Now he can go and tell all our secrets to Ugh! Should we not bring him back and..." Professor Masaryk hesitated.

Otto smiled grimly. "And what? Shoot him? No, Tomas. Let Nero run off to Budapest and tell Ugh that we know all about his little plot. They have secrets, we don't. Remember that." Professor Masaryk nodded earnestly and moved his lips, obviously repeating the words like some magic mantra. I looked at Hell curiously. He had more secrets than anyone else I knew. And while I was beginning dimly to perceive who `they' might be, I still had no clue who `we' were. Hell had told me to do some historical research for him on the intermarriages between the G and T, Gapsburg, and Schadenfreude families but did that mean that I was once again working for Hell? And what did the plot to breed the next Holy Roman Emperor have to do with that enigmatic bald billionaire, Mister Xox?

Lost in this maze of questions I barely noticed Benito come back and hand Hell a piece of paper. "Fax for you, Lord Hades," Benito said. "Just came in from New York while I was throwing Nero out of a window. I thought you might want to see it."

"Thank you, Benito," Hell said kindly. He looked at the fax message and a thin smile crossed his lips. "Well, we may not have any secrets but Xox certainly does," he announced in a jocular tone I had never heard before. "Guess it's not a secret anymore. Or not for much longer anyway. Might be of particular interest to you, Schweinbraten," Hell added, glancing at Professor Hohenstaufen who was sitting slumped in his chair, a dull glaze of shock clouding his porcine little eyes. "This is a fax from the Fund for Peace and Love in which Xox offers this University a permanent endowment of a hundred billion dollars. What do you think? Should we accept?" Hell's eyes crinkled faintly as he looked around at the jaws hanging slack all around him.

"A hundred billion dollars," Professor Masaryk said faintly. "Is that a lot of money?"

"I begin to like this university," Marya Madlenova murmured mercenarily. "I might just stay here. Permanently. Is Xox married?"

"What did he do, rob a bank?" Immanuel wise-cracked.

"Actually, several," Hell replied blandly. "Apparently he has just concluded a successful speculation successfully against the British, European and Swiss central banks. He bet that they couldn't support their currencies above a certain level. They bet that they could. They lost. They are a lot poorer. He is a lot richer."

"Why does he want to give all this money to the university?" Divka asked sensibly.

"Man doesn't approve of how little Western Europe is doing to help Eastern Europe. Thinks he can do it better. So he's playing Robin Hood. It's probably a good tax deduction." My eyes narrowed. What billionaire ever pays taxes? Why was Hell making up plausible excuses for Xox's bizarre philanthropy?

"This is the end of Europe," Professor Hohenstaufen groaned in sepulchral tones. "The end of the single currency project. It is all over. The project of building a united Europe is over. The work to which I and millions of other Eurocrats dedicated our lives is ruined. It is the end." Hohenstaufen tottered to his feet and gazed at Hell emptily. "Please accept my apologies, Lord Hades," he quavered, trying vainly to speak in his former pompous intonations. "I must go and shoot myself." He shuffled slowly towards the door.

"Just one question before you go," Marya Madlenova said in her usual murmur but it sounded loud as a shot in that stunned silence. "Isn't suicide a mortal sin?"

Professor Hohenstaufen fell to the floor like a pole-axed bull.

Immanuel dropped Hohenstaufen's wrist. "No pulse," he said. "He's dead this time. Must have been a massive heart attack."

"He was under a lot of stress lately," I said gravely.

"Better this way, really," Hell pronounced. "No need to call the police. Easier on the family. Call a doctor. Issue the usual condolences."

"Yes, Lord Hades," Benito answered obediently, but Hell shook his head.

"Not you. You've got your own department to handle, Benito. I think we can leave this to my special assistant." Hell scowled at me. "Xox is coming here next week to announce his gift to the University. Wants a big bash. Lots of things to arrange. Get to work." I looked up in gratified surprise. All eyes were on me. I smirked modestly. It felt good to have my job again.

#GenghizInLove: Episode 47

Nero Insanetti, the madman who had taken my place as Otto Hell's special assistant, immediately confirmed my feeling of being unwelcome. As soon as the meeting commenced, Nero flailed his short arms in the air. "Point of order, Lord Hades!" He glared venomously at me. "What is a stranger doing in our midst?"

"Whom are you talking about?" Otto growled.

Nero pointed at me. "This devil," he yelped. "What does he do in our beautiful building? Why is he at our important meetings? Why does he eat our fine free food?"

"Nero," Otto replied with quiet menace. "He is here at my invitation. Now stop playing the fool."

"Excuse me, Otto," Professor Masaryk said, obsequiously enough, but a mutinous gleam shone in his eye. "But I believe that Insanetti has a point. This fellow has a police record. Why, he was even implicated in a murder." Professor Masaryk suppressed a sob. "The murder of a pure young girl who worked at this university. A sweet young thing who worked for me. Oh, Lucy!"

Benito coughed deferentially. "Actually, sir, her real name was Charlotte Stant. And we don't know how she came to work here. Or anything about her character."

Professor Masaryk took off his glasses and waved them about vaguely. "Her name is irrelevant. So are her origins. And her morals. Ever since she died I have been unable to do my work properly. Nobody does it for me." Delilah indignantly opened her mouth in protest. Professor Masaryk shook his head obstinately. "No, my dear Lila, you do your best, but it will take a long time to train you properly. You only bring me papers to sign. More and more papers but never any vitamins." Anger suffused his distinguished old face. "I refuse to sit at the same table with this man. He callously deprived me of my vitamins. And he did it together with a well-known CIA agent! The man is a rapist, a murderer, and a spy!"

Professor Flysenko whistled in amazement. "A murderer!" he rumbled. "Now I understand. He challenged me to a duel only fifteen minutes ago. He wanted to kill me!"

"And he is insufferably insolent." Professor Prince Maximilian von und zu Hohenstaufen-Niebelungen joyfully joined this concerted assault. "He refused to go to dinner with me. The young fool has no conception of court etiquette! Is that the sort of example we should encourage for our students? He is a bad influence and his continued presence in this room, building, university, and city will poison the atmosphere permanently!"

"As it is we suffer enough from the air pollution in Prague," Professor Masaryk agreed.

Nero crossed his arms across his chest victoriously. "Leave the room immediately!" he exultantly hissed at me.

"He is obstinate," Professor Masaryk said sorrowfully. "He feels no shame. I told him to confess. And do you know what he said in reply to me? To a man old enough to be his grandfather?" Professor Masaryk looked around at his fellow mutineers. "He had the colossal nerve to say that he hadn't killed the girl. That he was innocent! Even though the newspapers had already convicted him."

"An obvious degenerate," Flysenko said, shaking his head. "In my monumental study of prostitution I make the most interesting point that you can tell a whore by the shape of her skull. Just look at this fellow. He barely has a nose. Look how pointed his ears are. As for the shape of his eyes, why, he even has an epicanthian fold!"

Professor Hohenstaufen leaned forward and stared. "Gott im Himmel!" he exclaimed in shock. "You are right! His eyes are like almonds!"

"He's from Mongolia," Immanuel protested. "He was born that way. He can't help it!"

"Exactly," Flysenko answered triumphantly. "But we can. We Europeans must resist the evil from the East. For centuries now we Poles have been the bulwark of the West. Leave him to me. I know how to deal with Orientals." He crossed himself superstitiously, muttered a short sibilant prayer, and leaned across the table towards me, his little brown eyes glittering with malice. "O evil emissary of the yellow peril!" he hissed. "Depart immediately. Or else the sword of Jan Sobieski will fall upon you!"

"Lord Hades, would you please put an end to this nonsense?" Divka said loudly. "If we are not going to get down to business, I must run away and pack. Poor Wenceslas is going to Tripoli this evening and I promised to go with him. Otherwise he will never be able to understand what Gaddafi is talking about. They will get Wenceslas horribly drunk and he will just nod his head and agree to everything and it really would be very bad for our little country's international reputation if we send any more Semtex to the IRA."

"Travelling a lot with Good King Wenceslas, aren't you?" Professor Novak asked jealously. "Do you have any time left for your students?"

"I make time for my students," Divka replied, her eyes flashing. "Unlike you. You just make them. And then double-time them."

"Stop this squabbling!" Professor Hell expostulated. "Really, Divka, I'm surprised at you."

"He started it," Divka muttered defensively.

"Did not," Novak spluttered under his breath.

"Did too."

"Told you to stop it!" Hell said in exasperation. "Sound like an old married couple!"

"Well, actually, we were married," Divka and Novak said in unison but then their momentary harmony fell apart into an acrimonious counterpoint as they pointed fingers at each other and simultaneously yelled: "It was his fault!" "It was her fault!"

"This is not a divorce court!" Hell bellowed. A sullen silence settled over the room. "Maybe we can get on with the meeting now," Hell grumbled. "Where were we?"

"We still have not resolved the question of this murderer's presence," Professor Masaryk noted.

"Do we really want the CIA to know all our secrets?" Professor Hohenstaufen added.

Otto glared at Hohenstaufen. "What secrets?" he demanded. "Got anything to hide, Untermenschen?"

Professor Hohenstaufen tried to meet Hell's glare, failed, blushed, and bit the ends of his drooping grey moustache. "I go to confession every Sunday," he mumbled weakly.

"You see?" Professor Masaryk said to me earnestly. "This is how to set an example. Do not be so proud, young man. Listen to your elders. Emulate their conduct. Professor Hohenstaufen never raped anyone."

The image of a gaunt young man in tight trousers with garish makeup around his hollow haunted eyes hanging around the Zoo station in Berlin flashed before me. "Except his son." The words slipped rebelliously out of my mouth despite my firm resolve to keep my mouth shut. The effect, however, was astounding: Hohenstaufen gasped, turned purple, clutched his flabby chest, and collapsed onto the floor.

"Now see what you have done!" Professor Masaryk howled. "Another murder!"

"He's not dead yet," Immanuel said, kneeling over Professor Hohenstaufen's prostrate form. "He just fainted."

"Heart attack?" Hell inquired.

"I don't think so," Immanuel replied. "His heartbeat sounds pretty regular."

"Well, if he's not dying, throw some cold water in his face," Hell ordered. "Haven't got all day." Benito picked up a bottle of mineral water from the table and poured it over Professor Hohenstaufen's head. Hohenstaufen spluttered and sat up. He looked like a fat bedraggled water rat. "Now, if you're feeling better, Schutzstaffen, why don't you tell us your little secrets?" Hell invited. "You might, for instance, tell us why you have secretly invited the president of Banque Eurolux to give a lecture to our students."

Hohenstaufen gagged and looked imploringly at Hell. "May I please be excused from this meeting, your lordship? I do not feel well..."

"Not just yet," Hell replied inexorably. "As Masaryk says, you'll feel better once you've confessed."

"Really, Otto!" Professor Masaryk gulped. "I didn't mean it like that. Must we torture a senior colleague in this fashion? Prince Maximilian has already told us that he confesses every Sunday!"

"Ah, but to whom?" Hell murmured. "Who is your confessor, Sauerkraut? Is it by any chance His Eminence the Cardinal, cousin to the late Prince Ludwig von G and T?"

"His Eminence is also my cousin," Professor Hohenstaufen replied with some dignity. "Why should I not keep my sins in the family?"

"Like with your son, eh?" Hohenstaufen's face turned purple again and he swayed in his chair. "Never mind that for the moment," Hell said magnanimously. "Just answer the question. Why did you invite the president of the Banque Europeenne pour la luxe, calme, et volupte to give this year's keynote lecture?"

"Banque Eurolux is a prominent European institution," Professor Hohenstaufen responded. "I am the director of the European Studies department. I assumed that we would all agree that this invitation would be good for our little institution."

"Isn't Jean Rameau the president of Banque Eurolux?" Marya Madlenova asked, interested. "Pompous little pseudo-intellectual fake. So is his twin brother Jacques, the chairman of Pan-European Airlines. They take after their uncle. My dear friend Jean-Saul Fartre once introduced me to Albert Rameau. Such an annoying person. Always babbling about killing Arabs on the beach. It was a great relief when he died in that absurd motorcycle accident. His ridiculous disciples speak darkly of murder but it was obviously his own fault since he never could hold his drink. Nor can his nephews. I cannot imagine what Jean Rameau could have to say that would be of any interest to our students."

"That could be said for most of the people we invite to give lectures," Novak pointed out. "What makes Rameau particularly objectionable?"

"Well, besides the fact that he has stolen several hundred million dollars from the bank he manages, money which was supposed to go to starving babies suffering from AIDS in the worst orphanages in Romania, nothing," Hell replied. "Man is a vicious criminal, but, then, most bankers are. Point is, Rameau needs lots of support and legitimacy right now in order to keep his job. What did Rameau offer Donnerblitzen here in return for this flattering invitation?"

"Would Professor Hohenstaufen do such a thing for money?" Divka's eyes were wide with horror at the thought of such corruption.

"It is done all the time." Marya Madlenova shrugged. "How do you think Nixon got rehabilitated? The going rate is ten thousand dollars per lecture for the person who arranges the event."

"That's peanuts, I suppose," Immanuel sniggered, fingering the tattered fabric of his threadbare jacket.

"This is all part of a bigger game," Hell said grimly. "Isn't it, Sachertorte?" Professor Hohenstaufen looked about him like a hunted animal. "How long have you been a whore and a spy? Selling your favours to everyone: kickbacks from Rameau, graft from the Cardinal, hush money from Attila Ugh, and, of course, palm grease from Nero..."

Nero let out an agonized wail and began to hop up and down in his chair. Hell looked at his special assistant coldly. "How long have you been involved in Hohenstaufen and Ugh's little conspiracy, Nero?"

The atmosphere in the room was suddenly palpably tense. Everyone leaned forward in their chairs and held their breath, waiting for the next unpredictable disclosure. The peaceful facade of the University of Truth and Justice was cracking open: what dreadful skeletons would now stagger forth from hidden closets?

#GenghizInLove: Episode 46

Lunch was as usual delicious but I couldn't help feeling unwelcome. Marya Madlenova was sitting right opposite and kept staring coldly at me with rapier thrusts of her hazel eyes. I couldn't remember just why she was so furious and it distracted me from my search for a fresh victim. I knew all the pretty students too well to steal their souls, I had listened to their poignant stories and admired photographs of their children. Delilah was the only attractive woman in the room whom I didn't know at all but she already seemed caught between two importunate suitors, Benito and Hachek Katastrofski. It was a relief when Benito hastily gathered us around after we had lingered sufficiently over café au lait and white chocolate mousse.

"I don't know why Lord Hades summoned this emergency meeting," Benito said. "It's all very hush-hush. I think it's about the future of the University of Truth and Justice."

"There is no future," Immanuel pointed out comfortingly as we trooped towards the elevator. "The very notion is misleading."

"Yeah, well, nobody told Lord Hades," Benito answered. "But if we're late for this meeting, I certainly won't have a future."

Immanuel shrugged amiably. "In the future we'll all just be dirt in the ground."

"Are you speaking from experience?"

A crazy grin spread over Immanuel's face. "Well, you know, Benito, in my last incarnation..."

The elevator doors opened noiselessly. There was a moment of silence as we began our descent to Hell.

"All right," Benito groaned. "The suspense is killing me. What were you in your last incarnation?"

"Nothing," Immanuel crowed, triumphantly thumping Benito on his sleekly groomed head. "That's the point. We only live once. Then we're dead. Dead, dead, dead. Get it?"

"That's so hopeless," Benito moaned. "What about our immortal souls?"

"We don't have souls," Immanuel replied smugly. "We're just meat. Dead meat."

"But you're a philosopher," Benito howled. "You're supposed to figure out what makes human beings special."

"Ah, Benito," Marya Madlenova murmured disdainfully. "Do not be so stupid in public. Only fools get so excited about being human beings. Personally, I would rather be a peach."

"We are special because we can kill," Hachek Katastrofski asserted in a high-pitched hesitating nasal whine. "The only moral law is the law of the jungle."

"Eat meat or be meat?" I asked.

Katastrofski nodded. "Humans are superior because they can kill other animals. And those humans are superior who can kill other humans."

"Why can't we just be nice to each other?" Benito pleaded. "Each of us is unique and irreplaceable. We all contribute to Earth's diversity in our own special way. Love thy neighbor..."

"The only way to love your neighbor is to fuck her," Katastrofski replied harshly, staring down meaningfully into the deep cleavage between Delilah's large breasts. Delilah looked up at him, blushed, and turned away. Her breasts bobbed all the more invitingly as she stepped out of the elevator and walked down the long carpeted corridor towards the conference room.

Benito glared angrily at Katastrofski. "I was talking about animals," he hissed. "Would you fuck a dolphin? Or a baby seal?"

"Would a dolphin or a baby seal prefer to be fucked or to be slaughtered and eaten?" Marya Madlenova asked meditatively. "It is hard to know what animals really want."

"I'm told that great advances have been made recently in understanding the language of dolphins," Divka chimed in helpfully.

"Well, my dear, speaking purely as a professional philologist I think it may take some time before dolphins and human beings are on good enough terms for us to ask them such questions politely. As for baby seals..." Madlenova threw up her hands elegantly, raking my cheek with a sharp impeccably lacquered fingernail. "Ah, pardon," she said winsomely. "I hope I didn't hurt you. Too much."

"Nobody ever bothered to ask baby seals if it hurts too much to have their skulls clubbed open," Benito said bitterly.

"There is no need to ask. They cringe and moan and make all those pitiful little sounds," Marya Madlenova replied as we walked into the conference room. "You remind me of a baby seal, Benito," she added sweetly. "You show your feelings so openly. I can so vividly imagine you gambolling in the snow. Of course you would like to have a playmate with whom to gambol. But perhaps she has already been clubbed by the big bad hunter?" Madlenova patted Benito's cheek, walked across the room, and sat down, smiling to herself.

Benito stared at her, his mouth hanging wide open. "What a bitch," he whispered hoarsely.

"I think she likes you.".

"What the hell are you talking about? That bitch just called me a baby seal!"

"Well, you do look pretty sleek. Your hair, I mean," I added hastily, seeing the indignation rise in his hot brown eyes. "I think she meant it as a compliment. Or as a warning."

"I just don't get what Lila sees in that fucking hook-nosed slick Polish son of a bitch..."

"You talking about me?" A deep voice rumbled behind us. A tall middle-aged man with a pot belly stood in the doorway glowering at Benito. His black hair was plastered to a curiously pointy skull and his fleshy nose did have a hook to it. A greying Hitler moustache rose and fell rhythmically with the irritable twitching of the man's thick pale pink lips.

Benito blushed scarlet. "Oh, I'm sorry, Professor Flysenko. I wasn't talking about you at all."

"You were not?" Flysenko frowned. "But I am Polish and a son of a bitch and I think I'm pretty slick. I was glad to hear that Delilah likes me. It is fun to rub up against her in queues, elevators, and other public places. But whom were you talking about if not me? What other slick Polish son of a bitch is here?" Flysenko scanned the room quickly with his restless little brown eyes. "Ah. You must have been talking about young Hachek Katastrofski then. This makes things complicated. My compatriot, my competitor. Blood solidarity or sperm rivalry? In my books I have always said that sex is our primary instinct. I must uphold my writings. I shall challenge him to a duel. Will you be my second?"

Benito nodded eagerly but I regretfully cut him off. "Benito cannot possibly be your second, sir, since he is an interested party to this conflict. The laws of duelling will not permit it."

Flysenko sneered at me. "What could you, obviously an Asian, possibly know about duelling?"

I pulled out my well worn black duelling glove from the special pocket in my trousers where I have kept it ever since that unfortunate incident at a ball in Heidelberg when some oaf in a loud check jacket asked my partner to dance with him five times in succession and I realized, much to my dismay, that I had no glove with which to challenge him and the ballroom was filled with his friends who laughed at me and refused to lend me their gloves, and as a result I resignedly watched the dunce carouse the night away with the girl while I stood leaning against a wall, my eyes full of misery and hatred. I have known better ever since: I never leave home without it. "Pistols at dawn?" I asked casually, twirling my glove with one hand while I watched Flysenko's little eyes widen with fear and loathing.

"Oh, I don't know," Flysenko replied, in as nonchalant a tone as he could manage, but we could all hear the tremor beneath the rumble. "It seems so unnecessary. We are all reasonable men. I'm sure we can work something out."

"An apology perhaps?" I said tauntingly.

Flysenko stiffened but subsided after another warning twirl of my glove. "Well," he conceded. "Perhaps Asians do know something about duelling."

"Thank you, Professor Flysenko," I said warmly and shook his clammy hand. After having saved the honor of a whole continent I felt that I could afford to be gracious. Besides, if Hell wanted me to come back to the University of Truth and Justice, I would probably have to work with this repulsive coward. "If you would like, I would be glad to be your second in your duel with Katastrofski. May the best man win."

But Flysenko shuddered at the word `duel', mumbled something noncommittal, shuffled across the room like a man broken before his time, and struck up a conversation with his young Polish colleague. They glanced covertly at me as they spoke, which is always disturbing, but I was more disturbed by Marya Madlenova's steely smile. She beckoned me over towards her and I had no choice but to obey.

"So, my young Mongolian," she murmured. "You know how to stand up for yourself. I like that in a man. Men should be... erect." I collapsed into a chair. Madlenova's knee brushed mine under the table. Long cool fingers stroked my thigh. The fingers slid deftly into my lap. But then Madlenova frowned and took her hand away. "Perhaps I was wrong?" I said nothing. A pale freckled face surrounded by a halo of curly red hair flickered dimly before my eyes, the candle-lit ikon of an archaic deity. A great melancholy welled hotly up into my eyes. To sleep with Madlenova would be to admit that the goal of recovering Anastasia was a lost cause: was I then to abjure my lost goddess and convert to this disturbing new divinity? Was I even physically capable of infidelity? Yet even this unwonted passivity of my body seemed like some sort of betrayal. "Here comes Professor Hell," Marya Madlenova said distantly. "Come to my room after this meeting. I may give you another chance to prove yourself."

We all stood up as Otto shuffled into the room, followed by Professors Masaryk and Novak arguing heatedly together as ever, with pudgy Nero Insanetti and Professor Hohenstaufen tagging along in their wake. Hell glared at us and waved his stick irritably around. "Stop this nonsense," Hell commanded. "Sit."

We sat. I tried to pay attention as the meeting began with all the usual preliminaries but my mind was somewhere else. I felt the same freezing sensation on my forehead and scrotum and I wondered miserably what Lady Rudolphine's mysterious ointment Lethe was doing to my bodily functions. Would I ever have an erection again or was I doomed to a lifetime of mockery and derision at my impotence? I looked around at the powerful and beautiful men and women sitting proudly at this burnished mahogany conference table, their hair or balding pates glittering in the strong overhead electric lights, and once more I felt myself the shy stranger at a foreign feast, thirteenth at the table, anonymous, unwanted.