The Elephant was closed by then, and the only other place I knew was Adagio. So I decided to risk another visit to the medieval palace. Hey, even if I come across Herr Hagen again, it won’t effect anything – after all, I’m not doing anything reprehensible.
Everything inside was the same. The barman with a shaker and the fireplace. Only the band performing on the stage was different and there were fewer people than that Friday night.
Obeying some inexplicable impulse, I sat on the same stool by the bar. The barman brewed some mulled wine for me and offered me a glass of Kirsch, the local cherry vodka, but when I refused he left me and attended to other clients.
I was drinking mulled wine, thinking I’ll soon be back in America, when I suddenly saw Steve. He was sitting half-turned towards me at the table in the corner by the fireplace – and opposite him grinning with his white teeth and with a cup of beer in his hand was… Herr Hagen! The third person at the table was a small blonde with a large sensual mouth.
I guessed straight away that there’s something odd about this. An angel on my left shoulder said to me: ‘Joshua, my boy, finish your mulled wine, pay and go home to your uncomfortable cold, but peaceful bed’.
But at once a demon appeared on my right shoulder, who began to laugh mischievously: ‘Finally something interesting happened! You’d be a complete fool to leave at this crucial moment and go to sleep like an old man.’
Do I need to say which one I listened to? Although in this case I am completely unoriginal in this sense, for some reason people always listen to the one who speaks into the right ear.
So I decided to stay, ordered coffee and relocated to the far end of the bar under a fake shield with the emblem of some ancient knightly family. From there I could watch the trio while remaining unnoticed. Steve kept telling Herr Hagen and the girl some stories, accompanying his words with soft gestures that made it look like he was conducting an invisible orchestra. The girl was laughing like hell and bent so far forward her breasts could be easily be seen through the neck of her dress. Herr Hagen also was laughing and downing beer. Then he rang someone. Steve ordered a bottle of kirsch, and by the time the German had finished his telephone conversation there was already a full glass in front of him.
It looked to me as if Herr Hagen tried to refuse but Steve was insistent and the blonde also joined in the persuasion. They had one drink, then another and another…
Herr Hagen suddenly looked heavy. His lower lip dropped, his eyes glazed and his moves became large and coarse.
He tried to dance with the girl but kept bumping into other people and tripped over the legs of the bar stools. He began to attract attention. Two club security guards started watching Hagen as he staggered over the dance floor.
Steve, to his credit, came to help out his friend and for some reason I had no doubt of the fact that they were friends, although there was still an unanswered question – why had Steve asked me to watch the banker?
After sitting Herr Hagen at the table with aid of the blonde, Steve gestured for a waiter, kept explaining something for a long time. Finally, the waiter brought them a tray with two glasses of tequila and the bill in a crystal dish. Traditionally, visitors would be putting tips into such dishes if they liked the service, but now it was more of a tribute to tradition, because for a long time in Europe tips were included in the final bill.
After paying and knocking back that last drink, Steve helped Herr Hagen get up and they headed for the door accompanied by the girl, while the German kept trying to bow to every passer-by. In order not to lose sight, I also paid and hurried to the exit. Mulled wine and coffee were warming me up from the inside and my curiosity led me there, where in theory I really shouldn’t be. However, I decided at once: if Steve notices me I’ll simply pretend I ended up there by chance.
I pushed the heavy door open and I breathed in the damp Zurich air, filled with a mix of petrol, female perfume, rancid oil from the nearest fast food and the distant Alpine snow. Steve, the blond, and Herr Hagen were looming ahead like three characters from the Irish song ‘What will you do with the drunken sailor?’
I followed them with my hands in my pockets and smiled to the darkness, imagining how Steve’s face will look when he finds out that he, the ‘paladin’ and super agent, was tracked by an ordinary IT worker without any special qualification or operative training.
After walking along the narrow pavement next to the pale wall of an old house, they stopped under a streetlight and Herr Hagen tried to light a cigarette. I hadn’t seen him with a cigarette until now and I think people in Europe smoke much less – anti-tobacco propaganda and high cigarette prices seem to be working. So the fact that Herr Hagen was trying to smoke highlighted how drunk he was.
But he failed to light his cigarette and flung it carelessly on the wet asphalt. A short German curse reached me. The blonde burst out laughing, waving her handbag. She had a stunning figure and slim legs, but her voice and manners betrayed her lack of class.
All that time, I was getting closer to them. It was late, so there were hardly any other people on the street – just these three and an elderly couple, returning from a late promenade.
As I came up to Steve, the girl and Herr Hagen, they were walking a few steps towards a big white Opel. Then something unimaginable happened.
‘You’re drunk!’ Steve said, addressing his drinking companion. ‘So I’ll drive.’
‘N-no!’ Herr Hagen banged his fist on the roof of the car. ‘Thi-is is my car! I will dr… drive it… myself!’
‘Teddy-bear!’ the blonde laughed. ‘The teddy-bear will drive us!’
‘No-n!’ Steve objected. ‘You had too much to drink, mate. We’ll crash into a lamppost and…’
‘Your American politeness insults my German pride!’ Herr Hagen said with sudden assurance and, pushing Steve aside, climbed in behind the steering wheel.
Steve snorted, spread his arms, and walked around the car to sit in the front passenger seat while the blonde giggled in the back. I was standing five steps away by a downpipe from which water was gushing, and I had the impression it was all just a hoax.
Will they really drive in a state like this? Will Steve really allow the banker to…?
I rushed to the car intending to stop them, but the Opel had pulled off sharply, swerved, raced past the married couple who huddled against the wall in horror. Its headlights swept the dark windows of a neighboring building as it shot onto the big road leading to the center of town.
I sighed as I realized that the performance was over and I was left only to hope that everything would end well for its main characters.
Walking slowly along the pavement, I soon forgot Steve and Herr Hagen. I was thinking about the next day, more humming servers and cold coffee and about whether I’ll manage to finish my work or have to stay here longer…
But a surprise was waiting for me around the corner!
Across the road under the orange street lights a blue and white car of the Swiss road police slewed at an angle with its lights flashing. Herr Hagen’s Opel had its nose right up against the police car’s wing. Two policemen were talking intensely to Steve while the Opel’s owner, watched by another policeman, was standing on one leg with his arms spread, desperately trying to balance – presumably trying to prove he was sober. The blonde, waving her handbag, was walking in the distance smoking nervously.
To be honest, if I can avoid meeting the police I always do. Of course, European police are not the same as ours. Here they quite often carry out the role of government clerks who give out fines.
I have to admit we have higher levels of crime and the potential threat is higher. After all, in a country where people in every other house has guns, the policemen have to be tough. And what else do you want with the Second Amendment to the Constitution – you have to pay for it. That’s why if there’s an altercation on a road and a policeman suddenly tells you: ‘Be quiet, put your hands up and put them on the bonnet!’, everybody obeys. If they continue to wrangle, the office can consider it defiance and get a gun out. In the USA, for your information, if a policeman gets a gun out, then he will definitely fire it – so better not tempt fate.