Chapter 7

"More strudel, herr Barhoe?" ventured the Baron, even as he cut a hefty slice and put it in his plate.

"No, no, thank you. I'm full," I said and declined politely because indeed I had eaten as much as a starving bull. I hadn't quite expected this sort of reception, especially with what I'd been told up to that point about the Baron. Had I based my expectations solely on the merit of what I'd been led to believe, brutal torture would have been the order of the day, instead of a lavish, gourmet banquet that seemed impossibly exceptional by any standards. It was indeed far better than the usual all-you-can-eat buffet, and definitely a lot more satisfying than Jules' sandwich.

Bartholomew had laid out everything on a solid, definitely antique wooden table with experienced precision and unusual alacrity and grace, not to be expected from someone looking so ungainly. Not only that, but it appeared he'd actually cooked everything himself. My initial reaction upon learning of that fact would have been to search my plate for signs of hair, fallen teeth, or worse. Once I took a bite, I found the idea childish since it all tasted, and looked, perfectly fine.

I felt full and content. I'd left all my cares behind, postponed every thought and notion of why and how, and had instead focused on pure enjoyment of the simpler things in life: roast phageant with sour berry and cream sauce, a deliciously refreshing sauerkraut, a variety of grilled sausages and lots of other things I couldn't be bothered asking about and rather concentrated on eating them. I'd even taken a piss, in what could've been an exact replica of the bathroom of the Queen of England.

It was bliss. The Baron even gave me the luxury of engaging in nothing more than small-talk about nothing important in particular, like the Colts', the federal budget, or the Republican convention. Unfortunately, the generally unavoidable rule of thumb in the universe was well in effect in the Baron's study as well, and bliss could only have lasted for that long:

"Please, Herr Barhoe, komm, let's sit by ze fireplace. Brandy?"

"I won't say no to that, Baron," I replied and followed him to the fireplace, a delicately crafted marble-lined fireplace, the wood inside creaking and cracking as it burned beautifully. I sat on a very warm and comfortable chair, sporting ivory inlaid arms and green velvet cushions. It felt like enjoying the afterglow of sex, without any sex. Even as my gaze wandered around the room for a bit, I felt for a moment like I was doing intel work for a job.

Especially when I saw the high-tech display at the far side of the room that looked rather like a map of sorts. Lights and icons blinked on and off, moving, vanishing and reappearing as if stuff was happening all the time. The way the display seemed to be made out of thin-air reminded me of Star Wars holograms, and stupefyingly rich folks with a tendency to spent it on perfectly useless gadgets such as this one. The Baron offered me a glass of a rich, full-bodied brandy that didn't require a connoisseur's experience to tell it was the best stuff on Earth. He sat opposite me, cupped his own glass in his hands, drank a mouthful, tasted it thoroughly, swallowed and said:

"Fantastische, ja?"

"You mean the brandy? I'm no expert, but it seems ... One of a kind."

"It is. From my personal vineyards. You vere looking at ze screen, ja? Mezmerizing, isn't it?"

"It does have that 'wow' factor about it."

"Do you realize vat it is vee are actually looking at right now, herr Barhoe?"

"Not really, no."

"Ze var."

"I'm sorry?"

"Zee vaarr."

"I'm sorry, I can't quite get that."

"Ze-e va-aarr!" he said, bulging his eyes and then aiming and shooting with an imaginary sort of rifle, even taking proper care to imitate the recoil. I could imagine this man would have made an awesome air guitarist.

"Oh, the war you mean?"

"Yes, yes. Ze var."

"I was told stuff that didn't make much sense, about a war going on. That it somehow involved me. And Eileen as well. Where is she, actually?"

"Ah, ja. Ze guardian zpeerit!"

"So you know about that?"

"How could vee not, herr Barhoe? See zat bright white and blue roundel, almost near ze zenter, zurrounded by all ze red and yellow boxes? Zat, is vere Eileen is."

"And what's she doing there?"

"Fighting, herr Barhoe. As is her duty. As is our duty."

"I'm not sure we're on the same page here. You've been all too kind and frankly I wasn't expecting that, but ever since this demon and spirit business started, all I'm getting is opportunities to get myself killed, and weird stuff going on that no-one explains. Then I'm pushed and shoved this way and that and all the while, I'm supposed to bring some one back from the dead just to save my own ass from what is arguably the most powerful mobster in the western hemisphere. All's fine and dandy, but I've got problems of my own. I never signed up for all of this, whatever this actually is."

"Ha ha! Bobby! I'd missed zat air of stubbornness and self-indulgence! You really care about yourself, first and foremost, ja?"

"Well, you make it sound like I'm a really mean son of a bitch, but yeah. I think my own ass is worth more than anyone else's, if that's what you mean. And now that I come to think of it, what do you mean by 'missed that air'? I don't recall having met before. Believe me, I would."

"No! Of course. You have no recollection. But vee have met, I can assure you. You can see for yourself."

Then he grinned at me, and what I saw behind that grin was a friendly-looking, jovial, well-mannered, half-Austrian, half-German gentleman that could become the wiliest son of a bitch with the flip of a switch. It would have felt very reassuring at that time had I known for certain that we were on the same side. Judging from what I saw on the display next though, it seemed like for some reason, we were like best buddies. But I could've sworn, on pain of anything other than death or excruciating torture involving genitalia, that I had never laid eyes on that man, or any of the other folks on the screen in my life; not even waiting in line for the cash register, or in one of those cult films on after-hours TV.

Yet here I was, seeing myself in photos, playing cards with the Baron and the Pope, looking seriously drunk alongside a very healthy, yet still fat, gray-haired Elvis, and all very naturally it would seem, having birthday cake alongside the Queen of England. And that was just the people I could recognise: because there were hundreds of photos that I was in, wearing fatigues, those silly hats, examining crates of weird-looking stuff, some in exotic locations, others in what appeared to be laboratory facilities.

There were even photos of me jumping off a plane holding something that looked like a blob of pus-ridden flesh with stumped tentacles, skiing in the alps carrying a really strange sort of gun and shooting at faint blueish things, that looked eerily like ghosts. To top things off, I saw a photo of me in an astronaut's suit mock-humping another astronaut on the moon, with a vast building complex in the background and a couple of things that astonishingly similar to flying saucers right above our heads. I just couldn't believe all that and even though I was about to start laughing hysterically, especially after that astronaut photo, I just said what came to mind first:

"That's bullshit. I don't know why you're trying so hard, but that's just doctored. Fake. Those guys must be lookalikes. Or made with a computer, I dunno. They can do some seriously good-looking fakes. Ever seen Avatar?"

The Baron smiled knowingly, as if this was exactly what he wanted to hear:

"Vell, zat's exactly vat I vanted to hear from you Bobby. I couldn't expect any less. But it's troo. And, no, zer is no vey for me to really make you beelieeve, Bobby. No amount of documented proof can really, really, convince you of zat matter. Even if I brought to you ze truckloads of reports zat cover every operation you have ever taken part in. It would not be enough. Even if you had a talk vith every one of your now retired clozest colleagues, Jimmy ze Spazz, Voimund of Savoy, Helen Mirrene, Hilderich D'Augnacy. Even if zey cried in front of your very eyes and begged you to believe them, hoping zat some spark of your former life remained alive in you, if not in your mind, zen in your soul, still you vouldn't be convinced. You can never be convinced that you are, in fact, Bobby Barhoe, and zat vee have been friends, ever since zee vaarr."

"I'm sorry, since what?"

"Ze-ee va-aarr, Bobby. Ze zecond vorld vaarr."

That was just so crazy in so many ways, that I could not help myself any longer: I started laughing uncontrollably, spilling almost half of the brandy into the fire, which abruptly flamed up and even singed a couple of hairs off my hand. I only knew because I could smell it. Then I heard the Baron go on, talking mirthlessly as if to himself, while his gaze remained locked on the fire:

"Flammability, my dear Bobby. Ze degree of eazeeness vit vith something burns, or ignites, resulting into fire, or combustion. How fitting, to sit idly by ze fire, while ze vorld hangs by a tread."

I barely had the capacity to stand upright, but I managed to find the right amount of breath in me to correct the Baron: