Bathing the Lion (16 page)

“Aren’t you worried at all? It’s a big move.”

“No, I’m not worried.”

Crebold was dubious but from what he could see, Kaspar was telling the truth. He didn’t know whether to admire him or think him a fool.

*   *   *

“So here we are again—together just like old times.” Crebold leaned back in the scarred bentwood chair. He put both hands behind his head and wove his fingers together. Looking around at the café he loudly sucked air through his teeth. Kaspar smiled because he did the same sucking thing all the time. It drove both Dean and Vanessa crazy.

“You’re smiling, Kaspar. Is something funny? Something I said?”

“No, it’s nothing.”

“I should be laughing at you because I
knew
something like this was going to happen in time. I even said it at your review.”

“Yes, you did. You were right.”

“But they didn’t listen to me, as usual.”

“Because you’re an asshole, Crebold. Everyone dislikes assholes.”

Rather than show anger, Crebold yawned. He stretched it out a long time. Even from the other side of the table Kaspar could see into the back of the other man’s mouth.

“Point taken, but asshole or not, I’ve been sent here because of your mistakes. Somehow we’ve got to figure out why this happened and then fix things.”

Kaspar sat up. “Did they send you only because of this one dream, or have I made other mistakes too?”

Crebold pulled on an earlobe. “I can’t answer that.”

“You can’t or
won’t
? Okay. All right, then another question—are they interfering all the time? After we retire they erase our memories and send us empty-headed to nice places to live till we die—”

“No, Kaspar, not empty-headed—
altered
. You’re an example: when they sent you to Earth you were reborn here as an early middle-aged man with a human mind. But because of your request, you actually have two—a mechanic’s
and
a human mind. A very stupid thing to ask for, because two minds should never be mixed. You knew it. You were a
mechanic
, for God’s sake.”

“You’re not answering my question, Crebold: once ‘retirees’ arrive wherever they’re sent and are reborn, is there ever interference in our lives or do they leave us alone until we die?”

“Gentlemen, your orders.” The waiter arrived carrying their drinks on an unusually large tray. Remembering Crebold’s rudeness, he purposely put Kaspar’s coffee down in front of him first and then the other’s tomato juice—with a poached egg inside it. He paused a moment to look at the absurd drink, wanting to make sure the twin saw his slight sneer.

Crebold grinned. He reached for the glass and put his hand over the top of it. Addressing the waiter in perfect German he said, “You think we’re twins but we’re not.”

The expression on the waiter’s face said I don’t understand what you’re talking about but I don’t care. Shaking his head, he gave a professional smile.

“Think of an ant farm or a beehive. All ants or bees look alike except for the queen, right? But each has a different duty. Some do the construction, others defend, some take care of the babies … but all ants look the same to us, right?” He pointed an index finger at Kaspar and then himself. “The two of us are mechanics. We fix things that break on the ant farm.”

Kaspar slid a protesting hand across the table toward his twin. “Don’t. Leave the man alone, please. Just let him go, okay?”

Crebold held up a finger to indicate he was almost finished.

Because Kaspar and the waiter were intent on watching his face and waiting to hear what he said next, neither paid attention to the gesture. His hand had been resting on top of the glass of tomato juice. When they did focus on it, they saw it was now completely covered with hundreds of jittering, moving, twisting black ants. Both men recoiled. From the top of the jacket cuff to the very tips of all five fingers, every centimeter of Crebold’s left hand was covered with a thick, black, roiling mass of small ants moving busily in every direction.

Still smiling, he lowered his elbow to the table. Looking at it he turned his hand back and forth, admiring it from all angles. Kaspar thought that’s exactly what he’s doing—admiring his own cleverness. Ants kept dropping off onto the table. But instead of scurrying around after they’d fallen, whenever one fell off it crawled right back up Crebold’s arm to the hand of shiny black motion.

“Remind you of the good old days, Kaspar?”

“Take it away, Crebold.”

The large serving tray slipped through the waiter’s fingers and almost fell to the floor. He caught it at the last moment and pulled it up against his chest as if to protect himself.

Crebold ignored both Kaspar and the ants swarming over his hand. He looked at the gaping waiter. “This is what I’m talking about. All these ants look alike, right? But every single one has a specific job. You’d never know it by looking at all these crazy little fellows now.” His eyes moved back to the ants, a slight smile on his lips.

“Crebold, please stop. Leave him out of this.”

A woman passing by happened to look down and saw the busy black hand. Horrified, she yelped loud enough so all the people at the surrounding tables glanced over to see why.

Kaspar was furious for two reasons: Crebold was showing off for no other reason than to display his powers to hapless “civilians.” Yet one of the most important rules they’d learned and perfected as mechanics was stealth. Under no circumstance should you
ever
reveal to civilians either who you are or what you are capable of doing while on a repair job. It was an imperative of the highest order, one of the first they learned, repeated again and again by their instructors:
Never let others know who you are
.
Never let civilians know what you are doing or what you can do
.
Fix whatever you have been assigned to fix and get out as quickly as you can.

But here was Crebold the asshole less than an hour after arriving, showing off dumb tricks that accomplished nothing other than making the little pisser feel pleased with himself for a few moments in front of an audience of civilians while possibly jeopardizing extremely important matters. It was shameful and inexcusable.

The bitter irony of the situation was Kaspar could do nothing to stop it. He’d been allowed to keep his mechanic’s memory but not the powers. Before being sent to Earth he was warned this loss would surely cause him frustration. Times would surely come when he wanted or needed them badly, but a mechanic’s powers and insight were always terminated upon retirement.

Exasperated now, he jerked his head away and looked out the café window. He was thinking about how to get this situation under control and stop Crebold from making things worse.

His eyes were caught by a bouncing bunch of orange shapes outside on the sidewalk. Focusing on them, Kaspar realized it was a group of jogging men in identical bright orange tracksuits. On the back of one man he glimpsed the word “Holland.” Perhaps it was some team on its daily training run?

Moments later the café doors opened and all of these orange-suited men entered. There were six of them. Without hesitation they came right over to Kaspar’s table, pushing the waiter and anyone else aside who got in their way.

On seeing them approach, Crebold’s eyes widened. He started to get up but his thighs bumped into the stone tabletop and he was caught halfway between up and down. The men were of various sizes and shapes. Two looked to be Arab, one Polynesian, one black, and two Scandinavians. Each of them had a crew cut and an athletic body.

Surrounding the table in a semicircle, they stared at Crebold and not Kaspar. One of the Arab men, a contemptuous look on his face, shook his head, reached out, and grabbed hold of Crebold’s black-encrusted hand. The ants disappeared instantaneously but the man did not let go. Wide-eyed Crebold looked caught and miserable.

Across the room someone shouted out, “Cut!” When Kaspar glanced over, he saw a burly unshaven man with a large camera on his shoulder moving toward them. The cameraman told the shocked waiter they were making a TV commercial here for insecticide. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. Handing the waiter a five-hundred euro note, he asked if it would be enough to cover his participation. The waiter was so thrown by the events of the last few minutes he could barely nod yes and look at the money in his hand.

“Great, thanks. We’re finished here, boys. Let’s move on to the next shot.”

Everyone in the café stared as the orange men, the cameraman, the man with ants on his hand, and his twin all left together. Kaspar would not meet the eyes of anyone in the café because he did not want to see how they reacted to this lunacy.

Out on the street a bright orange minivan with
BAGELS AND BEANS RACING TEAM
painted in bold blue letters across its side sat idling by the curb in a no-parking zone. Crebold began protesting but to no avail. The cameraman commanded him to get in the van and keep his mouth shut. The disgraced mechanic did as he was told. All the orange men climbed in next, leaving Kaspar and the cameraman standing next to each other on the sidewalk.

“Do you know who I am, Kaspar?”

“Grassmugg.”

The cameraman nodded, clearly pleased. They shook hands. “That’s right. Good for you, Kaspar. So many years here but you still know. You can still recognize any active mechanics when you see us?”

“Yes, I’m sure you know that was part of my arrangement,” Kaspar said quietly, although people passing paid no attention to either of them. “What’s going to happen to Crebold now?” He tipped his head toward the van.

“He’ll be parnaxed.”

“
Really?
” Kaspar glanced warily at Grassmugg.

“Yes. We knew he hated you. It’s why he was sent here now. We wanted to see if he could get over his personal animosity and work toward the general good, remember? We need all mechanics to be completely professional now. But Crebold doesn’t have the maturity, so he must be disciplined.”

Kaspar didn’t like Crebold at all, but
parnaxed
? Ow.

Grassmugg patted him on the shoulder, then handed the video camera to someone inside the van. “You’ve got to figure out why you had the dream last night, Kaspar. It’s extremely important you do. Dream sharing can lead to other situations that are not always good. Sometimes it reveals things no one should know about us or what we do.” He spoke in a friendly, even voice. There was no scold or aggression in it, which was reassuring.

Kaspar nodded he understood and asked if they would be sending anyone else to help him handle this.

“No, you’re on your own now.”

Kaspar just said straight out what he was thinking. “Should I kill myself? Wouldn’t that make everything a lot simpler? When the people in Vermont hear I died they’ll all be horrified. My death will most likely make them forget ever having this dream. It seems like the most logical solution to this problem.”

Grassmugg looked with clear approval at Kaspar while thinking over his suggestion. It was a good one and deserved serious consideration. “A commendable suggestion, Kaspar, and I appreciate the offer. It’s probably why they let you keep your memory in the first place; you’re still willing to sacrifice yourself when necessary. But I don’t think it’s time for that yet. We need you now—we need you here.”

Kaspar’s hotel was five blocks from the café. When the orange van drove off, he decided to walk back, which would give him time to think about how he was going to handle this matter. He started to reach for his phone but hesitated, shook his head, and slid it back into his pocket. He still wasn’t ready to talk to Dean or any of them yet. Kaspar wanted to organize his thoughts, create some kind of plausible explanation for the dream that would make sense to the others and hopefully assuage their concerns.

Frankly he was surprised something like this had not happened before in his life, or rather in
this
life. At his review meeting they’d said he would probably run into some kind of trouble if he chose to retain his mechanic’s memory after being reborn on Earth. As soon as you were retired and “wiped,” all of your previous powers were canceled too. That’s why most mechanics preferred having their memories erased: best to go into your new life with a mind like a blank sheet of paper just like any other newborn, no matter where you were relocated.

Some time ago Kaspar and Vanessa had been watching television. It was one of those afternoon talk shows; the subject for the day was reincarnation and the afterlife. After listening to three “experts” blab on a subject they knew nothing about, Kaspar said people don’t remember their past lives because it would either be too depressing, painful, or confusing. “We don’t even get over bad high school memories! How would knowing you were once a slave in ancient Peru, cut into pieces and fed to wild dogs because you were insubordinate, help you to live better now?

“Most lives are either boring or they suck. Do people really think it was any different in the past?”

Vanessa was eating one of the scrumptious raspberry-filled pierogies she’d baked that morning because she would be spending the afternoon with Kaspar and knew how much he liked them. “I disagree—I’d
love
to know about my past lives. I totally believe in reincarnation. Jane told me about my last one. She can do it, you know.” A bloop of raspberry preserve fell onto the back of her hand.

“Do
what
?”

“Tell who you were in your last life.”

Kaspar looked at her with one skeptical eye closed. “And you believe her?”

“Oh yes.” Vanessa nodded while licking the jam off her hand. “She said I was an American bomber pilot in World War II. My plane was shot down over Essen. That’s in Germany.”

Kaspar bit into his fourth pierogi. The image of Vanessa Corbin in the pilot’s seat of a B-17 airplane, flying perilous bombing missions over the Ruhr Valley in wartime Germany, was so preposterous and out of character that he wanted to laugh out loud.