TMB (XV): A Short History of Everything (II)

Again, I sat on the kitchen table, this time with had a glass, filled with a good shot of amber-coloured liquid.

They had killed Koesthler. That was the only way they could know about me.

They had followed me around. That was the only way they could know about Mr. X.

They had my girlfriend and were using her to pressure me.

They did not have my girlfriend. But they knew about her. They must have observed me, and tried to make me believe they had her, to pressure me.

What did they want? Well, Mr. X for sure. They wanted me to continue what I was doing. They wanted the information on Speyar to be found, by me. So they were not working for Speyar.

Or they were working for Speyar, and were trying to locate possible leaks, and I was supposed to find them for them.

Or they were agents of any of the other firms in the weapons industry, about which we'd delivered Mr. X with information.

How much did they know about me? How long had they been following me?

Our business worked on the premise of inconspicuousness. That was dead beat now. No way to re-establish it with those brutes on my heels.

They hadn't told me what they wanted actually. So they were counting on me to deliver it anyway, inevitably. I didn't even know myself what I was supposed to deliver. They were one step ahead of me.

Correction: I knew what I was supposed to deliver, at least to Mr. X. But I didn't know how to, at least since Mr. Koesthler's untimely death.

Whatever it was they wanted from me, it had nothing to do with Speyar. They could have roasted Koesthler themselves. I was sure they were capable of this. Very professional charisma. They would do whatever was necessary.

So they wanted me to find out something or someone they weren't able to find out themselves. Or they were aiming at Mr. X – but why kill Koesthler, when they knew of me anyway? Why not let me get the information of his and lead them to Mr. X right away?

Except they'd only learned of me from Koesthler. But why kill him?

I didn't know. But there was a picture beginning to form in my mind. I supported it by a good dram of whisky.

Finally, I did what I should have done long ago. I phoned the directory inquiries.

TMB XIV: Visit from the Zoo

"I don't know what you're speaking of."

That was a threadbare elusion, but I couldn't think of anything else. Simply the fact that he knew the names, Arthur Koesthlers as well as Mr. X's codename, showed that he wasn't guessing in thin air. I hoped he would talk on. Didn't know what to make of this.

He seemed to enjoy my puzzlement. On his face, something resembling a fine smile seemed to substitute the gloomy expression. He hadn't blinked for a single time yet.

"Arthur Koesthler: Working for the Speyar company for thirty years. Nineteen years in development, eleven years in the sales department. Fired half a year ago. Had an appointment with you tomorrow. Unfortunately isn't in shape to attend."

The monologue pleased him. He was beaming like a schoolboy reciting the basics in front of the class.

"Mr. X: The dark mystery man, but not so mysterious anymore. He's a client of your firm. You deliver him. Koesthler was supposed to be your source. Now that source has run dry. You're in trouble."

"How'd you find out where I live?" I asked.

His smile grew even broader.

"We have our methods, just as you have yours", he answered. "This visit of mine, or should I say us, is just an informal get-together."

Over in the shades, a couple of gorillas moved into view. They'd stood still like statues. Hadn't had the slightest idea they'd been there. Must even have stopped breathing. Deep-sea divers, without a doubt. Dark suits, bulging under their armpits. They were only lacking sunglasses.

"Your gorillas lack sunglasses", I told the cool guy on my sofa. "And you lack the right contact. I got no idea what you're talking about. Sounds like some scary Scotland Yard to me." This said, I reached for the whisky bottle on the cupboard.

"You're lacking something as well", the bloke said. "Been sitting here for a long time yesterday night. Been quite surprised yesterday afternoon, hmm?"

I could imagine what the guy was aiming at. Yet I couldn't believe my ears.

"We'll meet again. Keep a low profile. Do your work. And better do it well."

"I can't sleep. People come into my apartment and keep me awake", I said.

"Sorrow and pain can do that as well", he told me. He nodded to his menagerie, than moved towards the door.

Out if a sudden, I leaped for him. Tried to catch him on the wrist. His gorillas must have waited for something like that. Before I could even touch him, a hard blow felled me. An axe split my head. With a loud crash, I slumped on the floor.

He didn't even say anything, just shot me another of his dark gazes, then opened the door and stepped out, his apes right behind. One of them was putting away the gun he'd used to crush my skull.

The door closed, and I was alone. Trying not to touch anywhere those guys had touched, I crept into the kitchen to the bottle of whisky.

The clock read half past one.

This was one of those nights.

TMB XIII: Breaking and Entering

Arthur Koesthler would be buried someday next week. He'd died of a heart attack. That's what the autopsy report stated. Had worked for a major weapon manufacturing company all his life, until at age 52 he was "released" from work by one of the management hotshots running the firm. He was looking for new work, but naturally didn't come across any. We had come into contact, arranged for a meeting, and he'd succumbed to ill health. Had died in his hotel room three days ago, all doors closed, all locks intact, no fingerprints other than his own, no visitors, no nothing. Or so the story went.

He'd had a troublesome life eventually, but he'd left these troubles behind. On the other hand, with his death my troubles were only starting.

In a way, smoking was like bicycling or swimming: you never really forgot how to do it once you'd gotten the hang of it. Could quit smoking for years (or bicycling for that matter), and one day return and take up just where you'd let off. In other words, the pack of cigarettes lasted me for about three hours. My conscious self lasted about half an hour longer. That was when I decided it was about time to go home.

Usually, I'm a careful and considerate guy, paying attention to details. Tonight, I wasn't – drinking always brought another type of my personality in the foreground, the one sporting reckless abandon and cunning funkiness, or so I thought. Thus, I covered the distance to my home in a cheerful mood, not wasting a thought on my quandary, but savouring the very last cigarette and the fresh, moist night air. I unlocked the door, took up a day's worth of free newspapers and junk mail, and headed up the stairs. I dropped the lot right on the side table next to the door, went straight to the kitchen, and retrieved a chilled bottle of beer for good measure. I removed the crown cap and took a sip. Then I noticed that something was wrong.

That something could be easily traced to the man seated on my sofa. Above average height, rather muscular frame, wore a dark suit, dark shoes looking more expensive than my entire furniture, and a dark look – the last one on his face. I froze in my tracks, then leaned on the door frame. He eyed me, silently. He seemed at ease with himself and the world. The dark look of his just served to underline that appearance.

I did a quick mental check: the lock on the door had been intact. The door itself had been closed. The air in the room was as stale as always after a long day out – so no broken windows. Of course, he could have applied some more subtle methods of breaking and entering, but I couldn't tell. As far as I knew, he could've been in here all day long. Would explain his vibrancy. Of course, I could always ask.

Had he wanted to kill me, I'd already been dead. So I decided I could just as well take another sip of my beer and try to disentangle the situation.

"Care for a beer?", I asked. That elicited no discernible response.

"How'd you come in?"

He still fixated on my eyes, but now his mouth started moving. We were making progress.

"Arthur Koesthler", he said. "Mr. X." Then continued to watch me closely.

The rest of my beer I downed in a go. My inner turmoil I kept to myself.

TMB (XII): From One Joint To The Next

Were a couple of drinks we eventually downed. But what could you do – we just got carried away. Sometimes I wondered how a bunch of happy drunks could run an organisation like ours and yet succeed in doing so. Only, of course, until I remembered that most of the guys had an iron frame, fist and constitution right underneath that happy-drunk-appearance. And literally so.

I wasn't one of the iron-fisted. I was on board for my brains, or so I told myself. Could also have been the sheer luck I sported from time to time. If so, luck had deserted me recently.

When I left the office, the stars had already come out. They shone across the sky with a dignified standoffishness. Even scared the moon off. Well, perhaps he'd show his face later. Perhaps not. I had different things on my mind, I decided.

It was too late to believably get a taxi to the industrial area, so I walked for two miles to the rim of the suburbs and then called a cab from my mobile. I could have asked one of the guys to take me that far in one of their cars, but it hadn't appeared to me. Just like it hadn't appeared to me to ask Judy another time for the fucking telephone number. I was just about to dial her up when the taxi arrived. So I skipped the call for the time being and stepped in and stated my address. On second thoughts, I shouldn't have done so. Should have stated my usual next-block-street. Just to be on the safe side. But I was tired. It had been a long night, and it had been a long day. I was as tired as some bear, awakened from hibernation three months ahead of the schedule. That's what I felt like: as if I was trapped in the wrong existence, some other life, some other time, feeling perfectly like my own, but feazing already at the seams. At second thoughts, I cancelled my destination and directed the taxi to one of my favourite bars. It was a small, cosy, customary place, nothing special, nothing extraordinary, but clean, cheerful and understated, just as I liked it. Sure, I'd already had my fill, but these were special circumstances. The taxi driver just nodded, changed gears and course and delivered me within fifteen minutes. Smooth going, if I'd ever seen one. I paid my fare and stepped out into a light drizzle – no more stars, and no moon either, just a by and by slightly overcast sky. The driver took the tip, nodded again and off he went. Never would have thought I'd see the guy again, and under such circumstances. You never knew.

Next to the bar, there was your typical neighbourhood tobacco corner shop. I entered there first and bought my first pack of cigarettes in five years. I only returned twenty seconds later to buy a lighter.

TMB XI: A Short History Of Everything (I)

In the end, Rudy poured two drinks. His he downed in two gos. I nursed mine a bit longer, mainly to delay having to voice a definitive answer. I took a sip and enjoyed the warmth spreading in my stomach. It was warm in the office. The ice-cubes already were closer to death than to life. I gave the tumbler a quick shake, to elicit a last tinkle. The ice-cubes didn't pick up any courage. They passed by.

"I promised to take the appropriate action."

Silence.

"I said I'd personally guarantee the information he wanted."

More silence, for the longest time. Yet I could feel him flex his muscles, not as a preparation for any action, but just in an attempt to physically digest what I'd just told him. I emptied my glass, just to pass the time – and because I suddenly felt a little queasy.

"You know what that means, I assume?"

I knew. It had dawned on me back at that bar after my visit to Mr. X.

"I know", I said. "It dawned to me in a bar, right after leaving that murky dungeon of his."

Rudy sighed. I hadn't heard him sigh that often since the advent of the recent Gulf war, and the collapse it brought to the business with one of our, at that time, most important customers. I interpreted that as a sign that I was in trouble. But anyway, I'd already known that.

"I already know I am in trouble, thanks, Rudy", I said. Rudy stopped sighing and stepped closer.

"Don't play it too cool, my friend. You know that this means you've taken on responsibility as a whole. You know Mr. X. But tell me – how come you pledged yourself to something so stupid?" - Not even a second in between for me to even start an answer – "Ah, don't tell me."

So I didn't tell him. He continued:

"Any idea of why?"

"Wished I had any." I checked on the bottom of my glass for a last drop, then decided to give a rat's ass on reservation, grabbed the bottle and filled up again. Rudy just watched.

I put down the tumbler, then turned around to face him. I was slightly taken aback by the, as far as I could tell, sincere signs of concern on his face – some depth there was in his eyes that was seldom to be seen.

We'd known each other now for about ten years, starting off together as graduates of a run-of-the-mill university in the south. Had stayed in touch for one reason or the other. Hadn't been close friends to begin with, but somehow he'd always managed to stay on top of my whereabouts, sending postcard for Xmas and stupid stuff like that, and I'd written back, polite as I was, and that was that. I supposed he'd seen something in me – and right he'd been. Five years ago I'd joined his business. A "position" had opened up in the firm of his, and I'd been rather unhappy with the prospects of a kitchen-appliances-salesman as what I'd ended up at that time. So I didn't have to think it over for very long, but upped and left the town I was living in then. To make a long story short, I'd joined his ranks and proven to have some talent in the business. A little bit too much talent perhaps – at any rate enough talent to make my living and blunder ever deeper into that strange shadow-existence this business entailed, together with an almost insane demand for secrecy.

"She's gone", I said. "I want to know why. And I want to know where to." His eyes slowly changed back to normal again, but I didn't care.

"I know it's that damn secrecy that tore us apart. I know it was a miracle it turned out to last as long as it did anyway. But not this way – not from one moment to the other, not by erasing every last trace of hers except her bloody fingerprints." (And I didn't even know of those for sure.)

"You told him out of confusion", Rudy stated. "Yet Mr. X is no one to accept any confusion, or any other kind of excuse as far as that goes."

"I know. I'm aware of his record."

"I know you are."

Again, silence. Glasses that were filled. Two guys that sat next to each other on the corner of an old, mahogany office-desk.

"I knew her, too. Don't forget that. I remember our meetings, when you introduced me as a distant cousin. Hell, why actually a cousin? But a cousin I had to be and a cousin I was. Telling her my father had died ten years ago." Short sips of whisky.

"I liked her."

"So do I", I said, deliberately ignoring the past-tense he'd used, "so do I. And I want to know what's going on."

"Find out", he simply stated. "Do as you wish. But first things first. You've made a commitment. You know as well as I do what that means." His voice suddenly as cold as steel. Didn't tolerate the booze as well as he once used to anymore.

"You know what that means, and you will do what that implies. A plight like that could mean the end for our whole organisation. We depend on the trust of our customers, as well as on their backing. We're operating a god-damn house of cards here, and you just may have knocked down one of it's supporting cross beams. Hell, the most eerie damned cross-beam thinkable."

Suddenly overwhelmed with anger, he positioned himself right in front of me and poked me on the nose with his index finger:

"Do what you feel like, but solve that bloody quandary first. You hear me? Get that bloody intelligence, and I don't mind who's been killed or will be killed in the process, I want to maintain this business, and you will not tear it down."

Most pathetic show I'd ever witnessed. Outright awkward. But he had a point. A stupid pledge I'd made, and I'd have to fulfil it, come what may. As I knew very well, what I wanted wasn't of any importance if I failed Mr. X. First things first, as Rudy had demanded.

"You have a point", I said. "Please, calm down. I've been in this line of business long enough to know my competences."

Putting a hand on my shoulder, with an all but encouraging gesture:

"Care for another drink?"

"Sure do", I answered, purporting the air of the confident.

Wished I'd had any reason to.

TMB X: Office Sum-Up

It was about quarter to six when I finally pulled in at our office. Back at that bar, I’d been deep in thoughts eventually, working on the problems at hand as rationally as I could, but to no avail. Neither my girlfriend nor "Case C" I was to tackle this way, whatever ideas or thoughts I tried to wrench from my deadpan brain. So, in the end, I ended up at the office. Just great. I knew exactly what that would mean.

As soon as I'd closed the door behind me, I heard Judy's piercing voice. No telephone line in between to soften her vocal tone. Just ungracious reality to live up to.

"The Boss is waiting for you. In his office." She must have been waiting for hours on end to inform me instantaneously the moment I stepped in – I still had my hand on the door handle. As I turned around, I just catched her hand letting go of the shotgun under the table, and she gestured me towards the Boss's room. As if I didn’t know where it was.

"Thanks, Judy", with an indignant voice this time myself, trying to swallow my mood. "By the way, any chance you've come over this telephone-code of mine?"

"He's been waiting for nearly an hour now" was all she cared to answer. Judy had her merits. But perhaps she'd had too many of those lately. Something to be seen to.

I forsake the conversation and stepped down the corridor. I had a rough idea what would be next, and I couldn't say I was looking forward to it.

Rudy stood behind his large, polished mahogany-desk, facing the window, his gaze going over the vast landscape of the industrial park that surrounded our modest accommodations. That was his statesman-pose, his back to the door, demonstrating to stand above the worldly things. Flinched not even a bit when I entered.

He would have to descent to humdrum matters soon enough, so I just sat down in the visitor's chair in front of him and took a cigarette out of the silver cigarette-box on is table.

"I haven't invited you to sit down", he said.

I took his massive silver lighter and lightened the cigarette.

"And I haven't offered you one of my cigarettes either."

Turkish-Egyptian cigarettes they were, cost a fortune bought on the regular market – if this kind of cigarettes had been dealt on the regular market. They were a thank-you of one of our customers, as far as I knew.

He turned. I had to steal his thunder as soon as possible. I knew what he could be up to once he had enliven himself enough.

"The guy who had the information was killed. In his own room. No signs of breaking and entering, no weapons' traces, all tracks covered. My girlfriend ran away yesterday. We were supposed to marry. I'm not drunk yet, but I wish I were."

He hesitated. Whatever he'd been up to saying, he didn't say. Had lost his plot for an instance. I could tell from the way he kneaded his hands behind his back, although the stern look stayed on his face. I took another drag on the cigarette and knocked the ash off in his crystal ashtray. Stupid furnishing to begin with.

Rudy was the kind of guy who had stood up to his share of fights, and survived every one of them, which in itself already was an accomplishment in our line of business. Our organization might have seemed a little odd at first glance – all the codes, stupid security measures, and all the Rudies and Judies and Hughies (our chief operations officer was indeed called Hughy) -, but in the end, we lived up to a pretty high standard of target achievement. That was why we were still in the business, and in demand like none other. And Rudy was the Boss and had always been, and as far as anyone could see, he would always be – which gave enough evidence of his figure as far as one could be interested.

He gave me another stringent look, moved to the table, then sighed.

"I know", he said. "I know every single fucking bit of your story. She's upped. Your informant was killed. Mr. X is growing uneasy. Our reputation is at stake. That's about it."

He took a cigarette himself out of the box, and lightened it with a solemn expression. He took a puff.

"So, what are you going to do about it?"

This was the second time today I'd been asked that. It didn't ring any better the oftener I heard it.

I stood up and took a glance out of the window myself, reviewing my options, composing an answer that would ring true in his eyes and yet not commit me to a path I'd rather avoid to take, at all costs.

"You have a drink?" I finally said.

TMB IX: The Lion Tamer

I ordered a beer from the barkeeper behind the counter and sat on a table at the other end of the room. My palms were slightly sweaty, and I tried to play it cool, as cool as I could. Slowly sipping on my beer, I wondered what was going on – after all, I was the slow emotions guy. Must have been something like love at first glance, I thought, or at least what passed for it.

Between sips, I cast a careful glance over at her. She was just sitting there, paying attention to nothing in particular, as far as I could see, and nursed her drink, a tequila sunrise, as I was now able to notice. I turned to myself again, and it would be another two beers and a few whiskies before I’d muster the damn courage to approach her, via a short detour to the bar to have another whisky and an overlengthy chat with the barkeeper, what about I have forgotten. But I couldn’t stay away from that girl, for whatever reason, and I did not.

In fact, love at first glance it was not. It took several months for the two of us to figure it out, and some things we never really figured out anyway.

She was no beauty. That is, no beauty in the usual sense of the word. Not an ugly person, by no means, but on the rather unremarkable side of beauty for sure. But she commanded something I had no words for – a certain aura of decisiveness, some sort of fatal attraction there was no antidote for, that enchanted and maddened me whenever it showed, which could be as seldomly as every few months, and as often as several times a day, when we both had a day off and spent it without getting out of bed at all.

Thinking about it, one must wonder about our mutual secretiveness. I didn’t know her position about it, but she never inquired, and never provided any insights into her working life herself, so I kept my secrets to myself and let her have hers. Even when we finally moved in together, we spent half our lives on our own, in a low-key kind of way, I leaving the flat at around eight, she at eight-thirty, and meeting again at seven or eight o’clock in the evening. When one of us had to do any home office, which only infrequently but nevertheless occurred, he or she locked the door, and the other one accepted it.

We lived the life of two schizophrenics, two half-people, merging in the try to add up to a whole one, two ghost-like strangers that met each night like for the first time ever, and tried to make something out of nothing really – perhaps the reason we’d come together in the first place. We went to bars, to concerts or to the theatre, even made mutual friends on those occasions, friends we never met at home but only when we went out at night, but we called them our friends anyway and in serious. Thinking about it, it had worked for a surprisingly long time. In retrospect, I was surprised that it had even lasted so long. But as it was, I never had questioned our strange way of life for as long as it worked. Now that that life had collapsed, I had to admit for the first time that I had never known what her work had been. Just as she’d never had the tiniest clue about mine. She could have tamed lions on a regular basis, as far as I’d known. Something I would now have to undertake for real.

TMB VIII: The Girl, the Drink and the Music

The way we’d first met each other had been nearly as unforeseeable as the apparent ending of our relationship. In fact, it had been a strange thing that we’d entered a relationship at all in the first place.

I had been an avid jazz fan for as long as I could remember. I didn’t play any musical instrument myself, nor did I have a musical taste in any way more sophisticated than the average listener. But one day in my teens I’d stumbled across a club... A friend of mine had taken me there one night. He was a trombone player. I think he’d been pretty good at it. Wondered what he was doing now. Got a job with a firm in the United States and up and away he went. I hadn’t heard of him in years.

Anyway, we went to that club on that night. Some band had been playing, I couldn’t remember where they came from... well, somewhere in Europe it must have been. I couldn’t even properly remember now what it had been they had played that night, but what I still knew was that after the first few minutes, I’d been hooked. We stayed till after hours that night. After the concert, some of the band’s musicians jammed right until dusk, and we were there and listened to all of it.

From that day on, I was hooked on jazz. I spent a fortune on concert tickets, and a second, slightly smaller one on records. I couldn’t forget what I had experienced that night. Sometimes, my subsequent concert visits lived up to my expectations, sometimes they didn’t. I didn’t even really know what it was that I was looking for, but I could tell when I found it. In the end, what had happened was that a completely different world of music, sound and rhythm had been opened up to me. It was like an epiphany of sorts. Up to that night in the club, music to me had been something that was playing along in the background, neither important nor obtrusive. I’d just been not interested, I guess; I hadn’t yet found what I was looking for, nor had I known that I’d been looking for anything at all.

One night, I attended a small club in downtown, in fact just a medium sized room in a blind alley, called The Cat’s Cradle. A band played there that night nobody knew much about. But I’d done my homework and some search on the guys that played in the band, and I was confident that my continuing quest for the perfect experience would pay off another time this evening. I took two hours off from work and arrived early. The club was still as empty as student’s wallet. Nearly empty, that is. The barkeeper still polished away on his glasses, humming along happily and watching his reflection in the finished tumbler. Spread all over the counter was his mixing equipment. It had been used recently. The result of his efforts resided on a small table in the far corner of the room. It was a picture of a drink. It shone like a statue - the product of the finest skills, acquired in long, laborious years; of the finest ingredients, carefully selected and chosen for their unique qualities; and of the most careful planning and considerations and the most sophisticated philosophical underpinnings any drink could possibly receive. It was the drink of drinks.

But I had no eyes for it. I only had eyes for her.

TMB VII: Mystery Man Breeds Fear

Not much was known about Mr. X, although, initially, we had put quite a fraction of our resources to the task of checking out his background. We did so every time with a prospective client. Primarily, this was to avoid any possible conflicts of interest between our regulars and the new customers. Moreover, although they were minimal, we took pride in our business ethics. We did not deal with maniacs or fanatics, nor with terrorists, religiously motivated or overly destructive clients. Only reasonably rational customers got on our roster. In the case of Mr. X, it turned out he wasn't any of the above, but not much else transpired. He seemed as sleek and bland as your regular bookkeeper, yet it was clear to us that he couldn't be - after all, he had enlisted our services.

He was a walking enigma, sitting in a coal bunker and strongly interested in the machinations of the weapons industry. Whatever one made of that.

Of course, there were rumors circulating from time to time, in those well-informed circles where we, too, moved about. There weren't too many of these, and most of them turned out to be highly exaggerated, rather the result of an imagination run wild than based on any real facts. However, some of the buzz couldn't be smoothed out that easily. By the majority, that was related to pretty sophisticated methods Mr. X was said to have used occasionally to put certain people "to rest" who'd thwarted him. It didn't help that, naturally, no evidence for nor against these propositions could be come by, not even by us.
Mr. X was a dark horse. You couldn't be sure of him.
But he payed on time.

"So what are you going to do about it?"

The question lingered in the air like an unwanted guest. I'd gladly seen it off again. But I had to put up with it, whether I wanted to or not.

Mr. X seemed to play around with a pencil or something, settled back in his chair. He was on the safe side. It was me who had to come up with something, and quickly.

"I'll see to it. I personally guarantee the information you want."

As if I hadn't any other problems. But I couldn't think of anything else to say. And after all, that was part of my job description. Yet I hated that I had to make that offer. Surely would get me into a lot of trouble. But making no extensive offer to Mr. X would get me into trouble right now. I was still better off that way.

He seemed to consider my offering for a moment of two. The hushed tapping had stopped.

"I rely on you", he finally said.

With that, it was settled.

Four simple words, spoken in a low voice, and yet involving a burden as heavy as lead. I knew Mr. X wouldn't just cancel his business with our firm, but hold me personally accountable if I failed to accomplish my pledge. That kind of a guy he was. At least that much seemed sure.

He stood up and walked off to the far end of the room. I could hear his steps. No goodbye or anything. Not that I'd have insisted on it. He could afford to be rude. It was as simple as that.

A door closed, and silence ensued. There was nothing left for me to do here.

Thinking of it, it was surreal indeed. I sat on an uncomfortable chair in the middle of an abandoned parking lot, illuminated like a Christmas tree or a heavy criminal in the interrogation room, my girlfriend had vanished on the day of our wedding just yesterday and disposed of any evidence we'd ever lived together, and I'd made a stupid promise to retrieve some information that seemed to be almost impossible to come by, because otherwise we'd already had it. On top of that, I would be held accountable by a guy who was a living rumor and frankly unpredictable.

Just great.

I stood up and left this place, as quickly as possible.

For reasons of secrecy, I did not enter the next bar, and not the one after that. But the third bar was it, as soon as I had put some distance between me and "Hill Street".

I retreated to a corner table and ordered a double espresso and schnapps. I needed them badly.

I peered around. This was your ordinary bar, nothing special or fancy, just a counter, a couple of tables and chairs, dimly lit, not really tidy and not really dirty either. A place where a man could settle between one impossible job and the next.

My order arrived with a middle-aged woman as unremarkable as the bar itself. I finished off my drinks in record time. After that, I felt slightly better, although the espresso turned out to be anything but that. But the knot that had started to build in my stomach began to dissolve, and I composed myself again.

I'd yet have to drop by the office later, but right now I'd go nowhere soon. Bearing the espresso in mind, I ordered beer. Then I got out the list I'd spent the morning drawing up.

I still had work to do.

TMB VI: Tough Guy In A Basement

The room I entered was big and rectangular, without much in it as far as I could see, which wasn't very far anyway.
It reminded me of an abandoned underground parking lot every time. Most of it lay in deep shadows. A lone, large desktop prominently resided in the middle of it, just barely visible in the dark.

A few meters in front of that desk, a single chair stood in a circle of white light, cast by a bright spotlight far overhead. That was where I was supposed to sit down for our talk. Mr. X probably was already seated behind his desk. Regularities like these were such a comfort sometimes.

Seated, I stared into the gloom. The chair was just uncomfortable enough to make you uneasy. Besides being one of our best customers, Mr. X also was kind of a wily guy. I more felt than actually could see his silhouette behind the heavy table top.

"I need more information", he intoned out of sudden, startling me. He loved surprises, as long as they were his. His voice was deep and sonorous. If he had been upset yesterday, now there wasn't any apparent sign of it. Yet I cold sense a certain sharpness underneath everything else. That was enough to be concerned. You didn't want a guy like Mr. X to be dissatisfied with you, you really didn't. Well, at least I didn't.

After that remark of his, he remained silent and waited for my opening bid.

"What is it you lack?" I ventured.

"I'm paying your organization generous fees. Yet I feel that the scope of information you're delivering me is incommensurately limited - much too limited, that is."
He paused a second, over there in the dark, and let his words sink in.
"I think the scope of your delivery is indeed defined in our mutual agreement, isn't it? Especially in regard of Case C."

I knew it. He was up to "Case C".

Those stupid code words weren't my thing, but in this line of business, I had to run with the pack. When you were dealing with the sort of products we were dealing with, a certain amount of precautions were out of the question. However, those stupid codes were really getting on my nerves lately.

I hastily searched my mind for the actual state of Case C, and behold, Mr. X had a point. Case C was proving problematic.

"Case C is proving problematic", I told him. No use to try to put wool over his eyes. He had been in his part of the business for so long, I couldn’t hope to lead him astray even for the shortest time. Besides, I really valued my health. This was another thing about this business. One continuously ran a given health risk, and it paid off not to raise that risk if one could help it.

The silence behind the desk was unsettling. I counted on being allowed extra time, to check things out. Yet it got on my nerves anyway.

"So what are you going to do about it?" he finally asked.

That was a good question.

TMB V: Going Down

I arrived ten minutes early at Mr. _______________'s office, so I decided to take a short rest on a bench in the small park on the other side of the street and get some fresh air. "Hill Street" was our code name for this park, due to its lone little hill on its far side. A Justice's statue was perched on a pedestal in the middle of it, of all things. But the local pigeons seemed to love it. What Justice thought of them, I didn't know.

We never spelled out Mr. _______________'s name. Judy, back in the office, was the only living person I knew who could somehow pronounce that accumulation of blanks anyway. But most times, and for convenience's sake, we just called him Mr. X, in order to have a name. Indeed, our clients ranged from A to X, with an occasional vacant letter in between, but Mr. X was meant to be "Mr. X", for he was the most secretive member of the already very secretive clientele of our fairly secretive service. If anyone was worthy to bear that most classical of code names, it was him.

For a few minutes, I banished all thoughts from my overcrowded brain and luxuriated in the pleasant sensation of an empty mind. I took off my jacket and rolled up my sleeves. The warmth of the sun felt good on my skin. Too many things had happened in the last 24 hours, and I was still worried. But I needed to keep a level head. Mr. X was a tough guy.

A minute before the appointed time, I casually strolled over to the building. I donned my jacket again and checked my tie in my reflection on the wide glass doors before entering the lobby. The upper stories were occupied by a variety of company offices. Big copper and bronze name plates on a column in the middle of the entrance hall proclaimed their presence. Mr. X didn't have a plate. On the one hand, it would have been a bit silly to have a name plate having "Mr. X" etched on it in big capital letters, and on the other hand he didn't occupy a regular office at this place. He preferred more inconspicuous accommodations.

So I skipped the elevator and headed for the stairs. The office building was well cared for, neat and tidy and not a speckle of dust anywhere. Even down in the basement it was so clean, you could have eaten from the floor or performed surgery in the boiler room, or operated an office in the coal bunker, which was an interesting and not-so-farfetched idea indeed.

I entered the abandoned coal bunker. Even here, not a bit of coal dust, not even in the corners. I headed for a heavy, reinforced steel door, placed unobtrusively in a far corner. After I had gathered myself for a moment, I pushed one of the rivets. It slid slightly inwards, just like a button, although, in appearance, it differed not the least from all the other, very real rivets this door boasted with. I didn’t know what would have happened if I had entered the door without pushing the rivet before, thus signalling my arrival, but it had been made quite clear to me that this rivet needed to be pushed. It was meant to be pushed. That was its sole purpose in its rivet-life. Furthermore, I had been assured that I really didn't want to find out anyway. So I believed them. After all, if anyone knew this door, it was them.

Behind the door stretched a brightly lit, narrow and fairly short corridor, with another steel door on the other end and a large mirror on the left hand side, reaching from one end of the corridor to the other. I never found out if someone actually was on the other side, but I thought so. I faced the mirror as usual and put a wide grin on my face, then grinned at myself grinning back at me. I did that every time. I couldn't help it. The big mirror was just too alluring. Whoever there was on the other side of it, I hoped they enjoyed the show.

Some time ticked by and I was checked out or so I assumed. I suspected them to x-ray me, but I didn't really know. Someday I'd have to have a radiation check after one of these visits.

Eventually, the door on the far end of the corridor opened up the tiniest crack, and I proceeded.

TMB IV: Pulling together

I put the drawer on the floor and browsed again through the vestiges. My first impression had been right. No trace left of her in the pictures.

I took the whole mess and carried it to the sofa, then skimmed through it some more, my mind actually blank like the grey sea on a rainy day. Couldn’t think of anything else, nor cared to. Finally I switched off the lights and sat at the kitchen table, the only illumination coming from the lantern on the street. It glowed cold and ghost-like, just like I felt inside.

I got up once more and got half a bottle of Scotch out of the cupboard, placed it on the table and sat down again. Some minutes ticked by stealthily. I noticed I hadn't gotten a glass or anything to pour it into, but didn't feel like getting up right again. So I just sat there and stared at the bottle for the longest time. The faintest trace of light got caught in its honey-coloured body, and it slightly glowed in the gloom. My life as I had known it slid out of my hands. Every time before I could come to terms with one of the changes, another one had already taken place on top of that. I needed a break to catch up. I really did.

I reached out and touched the bottle. The cool of the glass felt comforting against my fingertips. I stared at it some more.

Then I got up and went to bed, tiptoeing through the mess in the rooms, mercifully hidden in darkness. I didn't even brush my teeth. In bed, I closed and reopened my eyes repeatedly. The dark behind my eyelids and the dark in the room differed not one degree from one another. I held up my hand. Nothing to be seen. Just like that thick film of lightlessness I felt encompassing me.

I continued to blink irregularly until I fell asleep.

Half past six, I opened my eyes again. The first messengers of dawn peered in through the window. I felt completely awake and utterly disoriented at the same time. As if you had all the pieces of an extensive puzzle in your head, but none of them seem to fit any other, and in the end you come to doubt they even belong together, but yet you are stuck with them.

I got a first push towards orientation when I looked over at the other side of the bed and noticed that no one had slept there. Second one was that I still had my shoes on. Dammit, I really had to get a hold on myself again.

I got up and had to face the chaos of yesterday's searching, but I'd take care of that later. I undressed and took a hot shower. After that I switched over to an ice-cold turrent and endured the onslaught for half a minute or so. When I regained proper consciousness, the unfitting puzzle pieces in my head had headed out, probably bound for some more pleasurable place, and I could go about my business. I dressed in jeans, t-shirt and a black pullover. In the kitchen I cooked up a pot of really black coffee, as black as a moonless, overcast night spent 100 feet underground in a coal-pit, and as strong as Muhammad Ali. After two cups of it I felt like I could tackle the cleaning business now.

A frenzy of concentrated putting away put away with everything. Last I fitted the drawer back in the desk and glanced at the watch. By now it was seven-fifteen.

Applying the same focused concentration, I made some eggs and toast. I didn't think of anything, but put all my efforts to the task at hand. Methodically, I ate my breakfast, buttering my toast, using the cutlery in the proper way, scooping up the yolk with some crust. Then I cleaned up the table and washed up in the sink. By now the sun had risen and whitewashed the kitchen walls with golden light.

I went to the bathroom and took a long, leisurely piss, then washed my hands and splashed some water on my face. I stared at myself in the mirror, looking right through it and not seeing anything. The face in the mirror stared likewise back through me.

Then I got on the phone and called my office that I would be in later today and if anything was up I needed to know.

"We tried to call you yesterday", the sec on duty told me. "Have you checked your mailbox?"

I told her that I hadn't done so.

"No", I said. "Anything you can't tell me right now? Saving time?"

She coughed, indignantly, but answered anyway.

"You have an appointment with Mr. _______________ at three-thirty today. He called yesterday and insisted on it."
I heard her catching her breath and think for a second or two. Then she continued, in a slightly lower voice:
"He appeared to be a little upset over something."
Now her voice dropped to a whisper altogether:
"But he didn't tell me."

Now what should I make out of this?

"That's alright", I assured her. After all, he was one of our best customers. "I'll be right there and meet the man. At his office, as usual?"

"Yes." Her voice was back to normal. She had straight organizing-business to do again. Something she knew about. You could tell she was by far more happier now. Someone elso would take care of the emotional stuff. I doubted I was a good fit either.
"Over at Hill Street", she said. Again a pause. "Well, I hope we'll see you later."

Was there a hint of sarcasm in her voice now? Ye Gods, things weren't getting any easier. But I didn't really care anyway.

"Oh, Judy!" I called out before she could hang up, "one more thing: Could you figure out which country's code...", quickly browsing through my mobile until I found the appropriate number, "...'0041' could be?"

Now she'd seemed to snort! Was this task beneath her or what? But she just reread the code to me and gave me an affirmation.

I hung up and took a breath. Then I got some paper and pencil and sat down again at the kitchen table.

Pouring me another cup of that coffee I pondered again over yesterday's events. Something seriously needed some sorting out.
It was about time.

TMB III: Without a Trace

Nothing unusual at first. Not that I had expected anything. The apartment was cool and quiet. The silence hovering in the rooms was almost palpable. The foreboding of her absence hung in the air like a faint shadow. I took off my jacket, unbuttoned the upper buttons of my shirt, and drank a glass of water at the kitchen sink. I switched on the lights in the bed- and the living room and rechecked her wardrobe. Same as before: not a trace of her garments. Her blouses, her jackets, her skirts and dresses, her trousers, her underwear, all gone - as if they never even had existed in this particular space and time. I sighed at the sight and returned to the living room, where I seated myself strategically on the sofa. We'd chosen that one together, just like most of the other furniture in our apartment. Originally it had been my apartment to begin with, but she'd done a great job refurbishing it once she had moved in with me. She'd had a great taste. Damn it. Right now it felt as if she had died. Perhaps had. Who knew? This brought my thoughts right back to the mystery at hand. What was going on?

Our life together had not been bad, or so I had assumed and still did. When we hadn't been working, we'd spent most of our time together, although, admittedly, we worked most of the time. There had been diversions in our personal interests, but we'd covered enough common ground to build upon. Well, we had started building long ago. Only that now it rather appeared like so many castles in the air to me…

To tell the truth, she'd filled the more energetic part of our relationship. She'd come into my life that summer three years ago, she'd pressed to move in with me, she'd done most of the rearrangements in our home, and she'd insisted on marrying. Now she was the one who had opted to go. Energetic right until the end. And good for a surprise, as always.

I myself seemed rather like the phlegmatic type to me. Oh, I sure was a nice guy, neat and tidy, and ready to rise to most occasions. But phlegmatic I was on the emotional side. As long as she'd been around, that hadn't been much of a problem, as she had tended to pull me out of my habitual submersion and up into her own occasional frenzy. But the moment she was gone I'd slumped right back into my natural affinity to indecision concerning my emotional matters. It had taken me most of the night to figure out I was angry. And up until now to notice that I was also sad. And even more so the longer I pondered about it.

She'd repeatedly called me an emotional steamroller - slow to get moving and catch speed, but steadily rolling along once I got going.

I immersed myself in misery for a period of time, on the edge of crying, but not having any tears to shed. Then I pulled the brakes. That was one of the advantages being a steamroller entailed.

That very moment, a door shut with an audible click. I stared into space absentmindedly until I realized what I'd just heard and made the necessary connections to establish the knowledge that the sound had indeed come from the front door.

I jumped up and raced over and out onto the stairs. No one there. I hurried down and burst onto the dimly lit street - no one there either.

While I pondered the question whether I had really heard anything and whether anyone had had been here at all, it occurred to me to catch the door to our apartment building just in time before it fell shut. In my mad dash down the stairs, I hadn't thought of taking any keys with me. Fortunately, our apartment door upstairs was stuck on the uneven floor as usually. Quite a feat to close it so quietly. Light poured out through the crack in the door and sprawled across the floor like a discarded blanket.

I shut the door with a reasonable amount of force and returned to the kitchen. I drank another two glasses of water and pulled a beer from the fridge. Leaning against a shelf, I took a few gulps and used the bottle to chill my forehead.

Someone had been here. He (or she?) must have hidden in our guests' washroom. So I must have surprised him. Thinking of it, given that at first glance nothing seemed to be stolen (no open drawers, no disorder to speak of), and that the lock on the door was completely intact (I went over and checked just to be sure), it seemed to me it had in fact been her who'd raided our apartment - or at least someone who hadn't been interested in any valuables and had had her keys.

That thought startled me so much, I nearly ran out on the streets again, spilling some of my beer midway through the room. Looking down on my beer-soaked trousers, I told myself to calm down. Whoever had been here was long gone by now. I took a look out of the kitchen window, just to be sure. As before, no one was to be seen.

Why had she come back? What had she done? And why hiding herself the moment I came through the door?

It must have been a close thing. Looked like she'd been about to leave when I scrambled up the stairs. After all, I hadn't been particularly quiet. She'd heard me and must have decided to take no chances. She'd cleared the scene, hiding in the washroom. Then making it to the door the moment I was distracted.

Provided it had been her. But who else could it have been?

I emptied the beer and started to turn our apartment upside down.

I started right in the kitchen. I opened every shelf and drawer, rummaged through the pots and provisions, ransacked the cutlery. Nothing unusual to speak of. Nothing lacking.

I continued in the living room, took the books out of their shelves and flipped through the pages, opened every cupboard and mentally reconstructed the original state of things. Nothing unusual here either.

On the way to the bedroom I paid a short visit to the bathroom, throwing a cursory glance at the assembled bottles and tubes. Her perfumes, shampoos and even toothbrush were gone, but you could restock on these everywhere you wanted. You needn't sneak in in the middle of the night to get them.

Even more puzzled I entered the bedroom. Her wardrobe had been empty before, no need to look there. I took a half-hearted look into my own wardrobe, but could see at first glance that nothing was in the wrong place or missing. What would she have done with, say, one of my ties, anyway?

So, the last place to sort through was our desk in the corner. We'd both used it for home office now and then, and had stored some of our collective stuff in it, as well as our personal documents.

My stuff resided in the top drawer. Business as usual in there. Her things used to be in the middle drawer. It now was as empty as a church on weekdays. Her papers, her passport, her documents, her banking stuff: all gone. A lone remaining paper clip lay in the far corner, like in a still life.

I opened the bottom drawer. There we'd stored our photographs, capturing everything from friends' wedding feasts to our holidays, and also what we'd saved of our love letters we'd written now and then to each other.

Taken aback I looked on the shambles before me. An Armageddon of mutilated memories stretched out before my eyes. I took a closer look on some of the scraps: She'd cut herself out clearly of every single photograph we'd been on together. The pictures of her herself were missing completely. Every photo left in the drawer showed me and only me. No need to tell that our love letters had vanished as well.

She'd erased every trace that she'd ever shared a life with me. And thoroughly so.
God dammit, what was going on?

TMB II: The Foreign Encounter

Taking off the worn, clumpy receiver and fishing for some cents in my pocket, I tried to think of where I'd put her parents' phone number. Funny thing I had it at all, given what a secret we'd both made of our upbringings and our past in general. I remembered that it had been me who, one day, had insisted on at least exchanging our parents’ numbers, just in case we ever needed them.

"What if you get run over by a truck?" I asked her.

She didn't really seem convinced, but in the end gave in to my constant nagging. Then I had forgotten about the whole thing myself, up until now. And now it seemed that number came in handy after all.

Frankly, I didn't have any real idea where to start. I even wasn't so sure if it was a good idea to look for her at all. Her actions of today spoke a pretty clear language in themselves. And once she had set her mind on something, she usually stuck with it. She was that kind of a girl. Rather stubborn, or so people would have called it. In fact, stubborn as concrete.

But if I really wanted to find her out, I had to start somewhere. And right now, her parents seemed to me to be a sensible first try. After all, she had to be somewhere, didn't she?

But where had I done that number? After five minutes of serious head scratching it came to me that I'd simply stored it in my mobile, like everything else I have to remember for one reason or another. Anyway, the most rational place to put a phone-number. And there it was.

So I fed the phone and started to dial, then hesitated and took a closer look on their area code – in fact, it seemed to be a foreign number.

I temporarily hung up again. Why hadn't I ever noticed that before? It didn't make sense at all. I couldn't imagine her being a foreigner. Never had given me any hint of anything like that. Neither had she had an accent, nor practiced any weird alien customs or cooked exceedingly spicy dishes. But, on the other hand, here I was, abandoned by her on the day of our wedding, stuck in a bar in the middle of the night, and having to admit that all I ever thought I knew about my girlfriend had all of a sudden become more than unsure, so probably I had to face the improbable and try to make some sense out of it after all.

And to make at least some sense out of it, I wanted for sure! You don't live together for years on end, finally settle to marriage (it had even been her idea!), and then stand by while your supposed spouse vanishes into thin air at a whim. Well, normally you don't just vanish in the first place.

Out of a sudden, I found myself determined to find out what was going on here. In fact, I was angry, I realized, damned angry. I clenched a fist and slowly took a deep breath. Ah, I indeed was a bit slow at times to come to terms, but in the end I always made up my mind. Rock-solid I was, in every way.

I grabbed the receiver again and started to dial up her parents once and for all, then noticed something in the back of my mind trying to catch my attention. Something important, and I ran the risk of missing it. I decided to take a closer look on what I'd just thought:

Here I was. (Nope.)

Abandoned on the day of our wedding. (Not yet there.)

Stuck in a bar. (Closer…)

Middle of the night. (Bingo!)

An inaudible bell started to ring in my head. It was in the middle of the night. Took a look on my watch: 11:53 pm. I couldn't possibly phone her parents right now. Even if I'd reached them, I'd been more likely to get called names than to find out anything about her. Even more so since we'd never been introduced to each other, her parents and I. Probably they didn't even know her daughter had been about to get married at all. (My parents didn't, as a matter of fact.)

Now that was a fine mess. I leaned against the ad-plastered, grimy wall and twisted my mind for other leads to pursue and other directions to take, but I couldn't come up with any. After ten minutes of brooding like this, I washed my hands and face at the sink in the privy, and reluctantly returned to my seat at the bar.

What was left to do tonight? I couldn't think of anything better than to return home, get some sleep after all and see what the next day would bring. It couldn't possibly get any worse than it already was, I told myself.

And return home I did, after I'd ordered one last whisky 'for the road'. The fine malt and the cool, crisp night air brought back some of my energy, and so I was in a fairly good mood when I finally arrived at our flat's door.

That was, of course, before I noticed what had been going on inside while I'd been away.

The Marriage Blues

We’d lived together for three years. Then she‘d begun to have that idea of hers about marrying. Over time, I gradually had lost my power to resist and, on a sunny January 25^th afternoon, had finally given in.

Neither of us wanted a big party. Just a few friends of ours, a church and a nice banquet in the evening. I had my reasons to exclude my parents, and hers I’d never met.

Next thing I knew, she'd left me standing right in front of the altar. Or, more precisely: she excused herself half an hour before the marriage on behalf of last-minute-fixing one thing or another about her white, glossy dress, and never returned.

The crowd grew more and more uneasy, the next couple already had turned up and taken to make photographs in the front yard, and the priest asked me about her. I didn’t know what to tell him.

I wished our friends home, cancelled the catering, apologized to the priest and went home to our apartment. She wasn’t there either. Neither were her things. She must had packed them up in advance.

I had repeatedly called home the last hour. Had had the feeling I might catch her there. Five calls, the answering machine signalled in blinking red digits. Five calls, and she hadn’t bothered to answer even a single one of them. Provided she had been here even so long.

That night I didn’t stay at home. I didn’t know yet what to feel about it, and I felt it wouldn’t help to stay in the place where we’d spent most of our time together. So I circled through the bars downtown, downing a few whiskies and waiting for a conclusion to finally arrive on the blank slate of my mind, for a feeling, an opinion or anything.

Several friends tried to call me on the mobile, probably in order to inquire about that rather bizarre marriage-ceremony of ours they had come to witness, but I didn’t answer any of their calls. I wouldn’t have known what to tell them anyway. Thinking of it, my then-still-girlfriend and me had delivered quite a show. Splitting up right in the church, in front of the altar, like in a cheap Hollywood movie, then vanishing from the screen and answering none of their calls whatsoever. As far as they knew, we could have both been dead by now, or left the country in a hurry in order to come over the events, off to Timbuktu or Bangladesh or the Sudan. Not that I really cared about ever visiting one of those countries, but well, you never knew what people were up to next. That’s the thing about them.

Over the first sips of a new Heineken, it suddenly appeared to me that I hadn’t the slightest idea about the whereabouts of my runaway-bride either. Hadn’t even thought of it. That’s what shock and surprise do for you. I’d been acting on autopilot for the last few hours, doing the necessary provided it catched my eye, and trying to make some sense out of the events. That being said, I had in fact done what I often did in situations like that, being unsure of my own appraisal of things: I went to a bar and drank something, waiting for a conclusion to arrive. As yet, I still wasn’t sure if I could cross over to the banks of comprehension successfully in the end. At the moment, I felt more like being stuck on the shallows of achingly unfiltered reality.

Anyway, I had to admit that I had no idea about her. That applied equally well to the situation at large, as well as to her disposition.

I’d thought I’d known her pretty well by now, having understood how her mind worked most of the time, and checked out the sandbanks beneath the smooth surface of her consciousness. How wrong I’d been. It now dawned on me that I hadn’t had the slightest idea of her, contrary to my popular beliefs. If things like that happened to you, even your sturdiest convictions and safest views started to crumble.

So I downed my Heineken and took my mobile out of the inner pocket of my jacket. Right there I realized that I was still wearing my wedding suit, complete with the bow tie around my neck. I took it off and crammed it in one of my other pockets. Then I took a closer look on my mobile’s screen: twelve calls during absence, but none of these from her. Several friends, several calls each; and one call from my office, but I didn’t feel like answering that right now either.

I was about to dial a number, but on second thoughts got up and headed for the public phone at the rear of the bar, right next to the privy. I wanted to make a few calls myself, but didn’t want everybody to know at first glance it was me who was calling. Also, the whole situation had taken on a surreal touch anyway, and so I felt I could do something surreal myself, like using one of those old, dial-equipped phones like they did in those equally old, black-and-white hard-boiled movies they made in the Forties. I felt like a beaten, battered private eye myself, clad in my suit, nursing some whisky in a bar, reflecting on the disappearance of another person.

Not that it even really mattered anymore. Had been a clear-cut case the moment I realized her things were gone as well.

But I just wanted to know, for the sake of it.