Still standing next to the display case, Finn watched as Aisquith placed a hand on Kate’s shoulder. Obviously, the Brit still carried a torch. Well, fuck that shit.
Finn strode over to where the pair stood at the window.
‘And another thing,’ he announced without preamble, determined to break up their little exchange. ‘You don’t have one scrap of evidence to prove any of your theories. You keep yammering about something that I can’t see, touch or smell. Just how the hell do you use the ley line that’s on the axis to create this all-powerful Vril force?’ Monkey wrench hurled, he belligerently put his hands on his hips.
Aisquith shrugged. ‘I have no idea.’
‘Finally! An honest answer.’
‘Cædmon, do you by any chance know when the heliacal rising of Sirius will take place?’ Kate enquired, still riding the Vril bandwagon.
‘Unless I’m greatly mistaken, it will occur on the seventh of August.’
Kate’s jaw visibly slackened. ‘Oh, my God … that’s just three days away.’
33
‘Scheisse! ’
Annoyed that the dresser drawer had jammed, Dolf Reinhardt yanked it off the runner, several pairs of rolled socks bouncing free and rolling across the bare floor.
In a hurry, he deposited the drawer on to the nearby bed. Hearing the pulsating beat of loud music emanate from the next-door apartment, he strode over to the adjoining wall and roughly banged it with a balled fist.
‘Halt die fresse, drecksau! ’
Uncertain if what he was hearing was rap or hip-hop, Dolf was absolutely convinced that the Senegalese family who had recently moved into the flat was a gang of dirty pigs. Ear to the wall, he listened as a female berated someone in a foreign language. Whatever was said, it had the desired effect, the offending music turned down. Satisfied, Dolf gathered his small bundle of clean clothes and headed into the bathroom.
Over the last three years, his Oberkampf neighbourhood had become infested with dark-skinned foreigners and homosexuals. Dolf was repulsed by the sight of them. Willing to put up with leaky plumbing and having to climb six flights of steps, he could not tolerate living in a mixed apartment building. Unfortunately, Paris was a rich man’s city, the lower-class enclave all that he could afford.
Squeezing his six-foot-two frame into the ridiculously small bathroom, he set the pile of clothing on the toilet lid. He then peered into the cracked mirror above the sink, ignoring the incessant plop plop plop that emanated from the tap. Examining his bald pate, he detected a slight golden shimmer. His light blond hair made him look like a gargantuan baby chick – the reason why he kept his head shaved. Striking a bad-ass pose, he flexed both arms, pleased, as always, at seeing the veined muscles. Check out these gunz! Although it’d been twenty years since he’d been crowned the European Junior Boxing Champion, Dolf still had the arms of a heavyweight contender.
Born in East Berlin, he’d been recruited from elementary school into the world-renowned Sportvereinigung Dynamo. Only the most talented athletes were placed into the state-run sports programme. His mother predictably baulked at the idea of her eleven-year-old son living away from home but, with a bit of coaxing, soon relented. Dolf assured her that he would bring honour to the family and, more importantly, to the German Democratic Republic. Since the 1970s, the GDR had dominated the Olympic games, their athletes the best trained in the world.
When, on a rainy October morning, Hedwig Reinhardt signed the official paperwork, she in effect legally turned her only child over to the Stasi, the secret police who were in charge of running the Sports Dynamo.
For the next six years, Dolf’s life was strictly regimented, the sports ideology of the GDR relentlessly hammered into him. Training, teamwork, good hygiene, healthy nutrition and self-discipline were the core principles of the elite sports programme. Because of his size and strength, Dolf quickly came to the attention of the boxing coaches. As his training intensified, Dolf, like many of the top-tier athletes, was constantly monitored. Whenever he left the dormitory, he had to sign a register, indicating what time he would return. If, for whatever reason, he was tardy, a Stasi agent would be sent to locate him. At international boxing matches, he was instructed by these same Stasi agents not to speak to foreigners, especially members of the press.
In 1988, at the age of seventeen, he became the European Junior Champion in his weight division. His coaches were ecstatic, certain that Dolf would be a medal contender in the 1992 Barcelona Olympic Games.
And then, in 1989, the fucking wall came tumbling down, literally, the tide of history turning very much against him.
Within days of the collapse of the Berlin Wall, the Sports Dynamo was closed; all of the athletes put out on the street. Hopes dashed. Dreams destroyed. While thousands cheered throughout the city, Dolf sat huddled in a locker room sobbing. Everything he’d known had just been robbed from him. The glory, the greatness, of being an East German athlete. How many times had he dreamed of carrying the GDR flag in the opening ceremony at Barcelona? Head held high. The pride of his country. The envy of the world.
Grief soon mutated into confusion when, several weeks after his training abruptly ended, he began to notice unusual changes in his body, horrified that his testicles were shrinking. But, even more worrisome, he was starting to develop breasts! Too humiliated to tell his mother, he began to wear baggy shirts. Finally, afraid that he might actually be morphing into a girl, he went to a health clinic on the west side of Berlin. Where no one knew him.
The doctor took one glance at his plump boobies and, like he was a mind reader, said, ‘You were an athlete at the Sports Dynamo, weren’t you?’
Dolf hesitantly nodded his head, too afraid to do anything other than admit to the truth.
‘You have a condition known as gynaecomastia. In your case, it’s the result of having been administered androgenic steroids.’
Vehemently shaking his head, Dolf denied the charge. ‘That is a lie! We were only given vitamins and regeneration tablets.’
‘Yes, so they all claim,’ the doctor replied wearily. ‘I can refer you to a specialist who’ll remove the breast tissue.’
Although a surgical referral was made, Dolf never went to the appointment. He was terrified that, once it was revealed he’d been doped with steroids, his Junior European Championship medal would be stripped from him.
Still standing at the bathroom sink, Dolf glanced at his breasts. They weren’t huge, thank God. But they were decidedly feminine, the skin soft, the nipples enlarged. Over the years, he’d often contemplated having the breast tissue removed. But, just when he’d be on the brink of making an appointment, thinking it was finally safe, there would be a new media story about the East German doping scandal – usually triggered by some emotionally traumatized ex-athlete who felt betrayed by the old regime.
Why the hell can’t they keep their mouths shut?
It’d been twenty years! Who gave a shit if those female athletes had been turned into hairy-assed infertile Amazons?
Knowing that the details of the 1988 European Junior Championship were readily available on the Internet, Dolf feared some nosy surgeon would key his name into a search engine. Twenty years may have passed, but they could still take his medal from him. Better to live with a pair of boobies than the shame of having his one glory in life wrenched from his grasp.