2 cobra 13

 sorry, sorry, I was plunging into writing.... this might end up needing another story to make enough length but at least it will carry on. 

 

Chapter 13

 

 

There was a big funeral for Daichi of course. I did not attend.

I’d be as welcome as a fire in an ice cream factory.

The security was huge, and a number of the Black Roses were arrested for assaulting anyone they thought was of First Nation descent. As this included a most offended Muscovite trader whose family was Siberian, it was a bit of a diplomatic incident. I managed to extricate the aggrieved Muscovite, and took him for vodka and sticky things with cream in the Russian cafe, ‘Rodina.’ No, I don’t trust any Muscovite, but it never harms to have contacts.

I stuck to tea, which the Russians drink very strong and sweet. I like it well enough and I am always a sucker for sticky things with cream.

And I was thinking of comestibles if anyone was having smutty thoughts about my wife.

Willow would probably be happy to take a job in here washing up for a couple of weeks so she could figure out the recipes. You never know when being able to cook for a particular culture might come in. She could cook Chinese food to die for, and Japanese food which was actually edible.

I left Gospodin Vladimir Vasiliyevitch Ponamarenko feeling happier, with a likelihood of being hospitable to citizens of Seattle and a friend of Jay’s. Called Rick.

I had to leave him teaching Willow how to make Russian tea, however, as I was called up for the last task; strictly no wives.

Willow would quietly find her way to the test site, but another day giving hospitality to a convivial contact who would be returning with a contract from Consolidated Boeing – or as we locals call it, Reconstituted Boeing from when it had to be heaved out of trouble and nationalised by the guvmint – and a happy future for his special safety equipment.

No wonder he had to come to America to sell it; the phrase, ‘health and safety’ to the average Muscovite means whether he remembered to pack his cigarettes and vodka.

 

oOoOo

 

I arrived at the big hotel in Canada. We’d had our first snow in Seattle so it wasn’t such a shock to me getting off the plane as it was to some people. The place was white.

The hotel was white, too, but that was because the facade was white marble. Inside was more marble  than I could have imagine existed. For starters the floor was cream marble save for a circle of black marble surrounding the bottom of the staircase. The staircase had curved treads of black marble diminishing slightly in size up to a kind of half-landing, which would have been second floor height – or do they count, like in England in Canada to be the first floor? – anywhere else. The balustrade was white marble carved in a baroque filigree. The staircase then split to rise further, following the circular atrium to open on the next floor [however it was numbered] which was on a gallery encircling the atrium completely with a balcony between marble pillars, the balcony of the same intricately carved marble. There was another floor above that, equally looking down into the atrium, and above that, carved semi-circular plaster scenes, big enough to hint at servants’ quarters hidden behind them. Above all, a glass roof let in the daylight which was almost superfluous with the number of chandeliers. There were rooms off the atrium, presumably lounges, smoking rooms, card rooms, dining rooms and so on. Here in the atrium, several comfortable looking sofas lurked in niches, presumably for people waiting for vehicular transport, or meeting people, potted plants, provided with discreet low tables for coffee with magazines on a lower shelf and so on.

I am not sure what the other clientele though of us scruffy herberts. I went and lurked on one of the lurking sofas whilst waiting to be shown my room.

I was right. It was leather-covered and real leather at that, you could smell it, even without my expensive nose, the gorgeous smell of polish on leather.  It was just as comfortable as it looked.

I parked my feet over the arm, being careful not to put them on the leather. I may be a pleb, but I’m not a barbarian.

A woman coming down the stairs gave a little moan of dismay.

She half looked as if she was going to flee back up rather than pass my fellows.

Raymond Lamborghini saved the day. He swept her a bow.

“Ma’am!” he said. “Don’t be intimidated by us, I pray you. We don’t bite.”

“I do,” I said.

“Most of us don’t bite,” said Ray. “Ignore my friend; he had his sense of humour operated on and something went wrong on the table and it ended up pickled.”

I grinned at him.

“As a consequence of which, cold white marble frightens me,” I said, rising to bow.

I can be a gentleman.

When I choose.

The dowager-type was more or less giggling by now at our repartee.

“Oh, dear me, I do hope you will all be all right in that terrible competition,” she said.

“Why, surely you will watch and cheer us on?” said Ray.

“Ray! You haven’t been introduced, most improper of you to call the lady ‘Shirley,’” I admonished.

She was laughing, and blushing a little, possibly from the thought of so many handsome fellows in their skivvies.

“And my name is Rose Markham,” she said.

“Ah, a good name for a true flower of womanhood,” said Ray. It sounds ghastly but the way he said it was plain he was teasing as well as complimenting; I have no idea how he managed to make such cheesy lines sound reasonable.

“They’re planning to bottle Ray, and sell him by the ounce to men with no charm,” I said.

“So long as I get a fair cut,” said Ray.

Mrs. Markham passed on to, she said, the restaurant, where she was meeting her attorney.

“May all law suits suit, and be as sweet as the suite in which you dine,” I said.

I kissed her hand with a flourish, as Ray worked on figuring that piece of wordplay out.

At least we knew now where the restaurant was.

“You two are incredible,” said Elizabeth.

“It’s why you love us,” I said, wondering whether to mosey back to my sofa.  But then Mr. Oppenheimer turned up with someone who looked so like an old world duke that he had to be the manager.

“I’m sure they have not been harassing the guests,” said Oppenheimer, hoping that we had not.

“Depends what you call ‘harassment,’” I drawled. “We were polite to a lady.”

“Surely you didn’t initiate conversation?” he yapped.

“Ray did, and will you people stop calling everyone Shirley,” I said.

“C’est terrible, eh bien, vraiment, c’est terrible,” muttered the manager.

“M’sier le chef, on se moque le présentateur; au fond, on n’aime pas ce petit casse-cul,” I said.

He beamed at me, and I found myself besieged with a torrent of French and a gallic kiss on each cheek. I bore it stoically, and sorted out that I had named the little asshole quite accurately, and that it was understandable that anyone should have a desire to mock him and that it was intolerable for the upstart to be throwing his weight around, and that it was delightful to meet someone who spoke a civilised language.

You’d have thought I was his long lost brother.

Anyway, we had no more trouble from the management, and were installed in our suites without further ado.

Apart from the bathrooms they were not too infested with marble. Warm wood enclosed us and ensconced us, cradling us in its inviting embrace.  And I was going to find the even more inviting embrace of the deep feather bed very enticing on the way back, no doubt.

The bed had a canopy, and brocade curtains and bed back. Better yet, it had a bookcase included in the panelled side to the bed, a locking cupboard in one panel for small valuables not worth putting in the hotel safe, and a recharge and internet point for one’s phone. On investigating, I discovered a table which popped out, and another cupboard with a couple of pillows and blankets.

I went investigating to find out what else was in the thickness of the walls, and discovered that between the suites a panel swung out to reveal a storage space which was like the wedge of a cake, the floor being circular, but the apartments squared off.

On the other side in the bathroom were spare towels opening onto the suite, and more towels in the cupboard between suites.

You never know when such things might be useful.

I bribed the bellhop outrageously to go and get me certain power tools.

I spent most of the rest of the evening installing a bolt hole through the bed panelling into the cupboard between; and one which was not an obvious cupboard at that.  And having eaten in the excellent private room we had been allotted for dining, I did the same in the bathroom.

I hid the power tool on top of the ornate bed canopy. It was dusty enough to suggest that the maids did not clean often enough; and people don’t look up.

What did we have for dinner? We opened with Bouillabaisse, Coq au vin to follow and some gateau to finish up with layers of delicious.

Sorry, I can’t be more precise than that.

I left a generous tip for the cook and the waiters who had to put up with a private party.

And at least I knew to ask for a nice Sauvignon Blanc with my fish and chicken, and allowed the wine chef to talk me into a light rosé dessert wine to go with the dessert. He was blenching at those of my fellows who had asked for beer. This was Tom, Dick, and Harry, or whatever their names were.

We finished with cheese and biscuits and ridiculous little savoury tarts and vol-au-vents. It really was light enough pastry to fly with the wind.

“What are all these sticks?” asked Elizabeth, suspiciously.

“Celery, carrot, cucumber, and I think cabbage stalks,” I said. “They’re called crudites.”

“Why?” asked Elizabeth. She watched me dip mine into the sauces provided and copied me.

“It means raw, uncooked,” I said. “In its crude or untampered state. Just enjoy.”

“I don’t normally like carrot,” said Elizabeth, sounding surprised.

“You get the best flavour from the finely cut sticks,” I said, quoting Willow.

Yes, she converted me to eating more vegetables. And Auntie had always expected me to eat up my vegetables, and I was too afraid of offending a good landlady – as she was at first – not to do so, and discovered that cabbage had a taste which was not synonymous with washing up water, and that even sprouts are tolerable cooked with enough butter and bacon.[1] I still prefer my cabbage stir fried to being boiled, but I don’t dislike it when done properly.

And yes, I go on a lot about Willow’s cooking, and Auntie’s too. I spent far too many years institutionalised where the air tasted of overboiled green vegetables, and where eating your vegetables was a thing to do to avoid vindictive and creative punishments. If it hadn’t been for Auntie, I’d be like the other institution kids, whose only veg were fries and fried onions.

And that was something I could do with all that money; give a few other kids a leg up.

However, that’s by the way.

I strongly suspected that this meal was by way of being ‘the condemned man ate a hearty last meal.’ Well, we were due breakfast, but it would likely be very French, and confined to fruit, pastries, and coffee.

I jandered off to see the chef.

Of course, the guests are not supposed to enter his hallowed domain, but a healthy tip gets an interview with the man himself.

“I was wondering what the ‘Extreme’ contestants were going to have for breakfast,” I asked.

“I was going to provide scrambled eggs, some bacon and also pain au chocolate, croissants, fruit, and coffee,” he said.

I brightened.

“Oh, that’ll suit most of us,” I said. “I had been going to ask for an omelette.”

He brightened.

“An omelette shall you have; an omelette to die for.”

I hoped not.

“We’ll be some days without food. Could you make it a Spanish omelette?” I asked, hopefully.

“It shall be so!” he cried. “Pierre! Peel me two dozen potatoes and boil them to just underdone!” he called to some menial.

I thanked him materially.

We might be glad of it.

 

oOoOo

 

Breakfast was greeted with enthusiasm as soon as the first taste had been made.

“This isn’t omelette, it’s divine,” said Dave.

“Omelette is supposed to be divine,” I said. “I’ll teach you how to cook a good bachelor omelette when this is over. Even my wife can’t fault my omelettes and she’s an amazing cook.”

“I suppose you don’t let her have a career,” said Elizabeth.

“What a strange thing to say,” I said. “She’s the clever one of the two of us; she writes code for security systems.”

“Elizabeth is hung up on you being a sexy hunk,” said Julie. “She assumes you have muscles between the ears and in the attitude.”

“We got off to a bad start,” I said, equably. “What she doesn’t realise is that like Dave, I’m henpecked, but unlike Dave, my wife does so lovingly and I adore it. If she forbade me to do this, I’d obey. But this is my first, last, and only foray into ‘Extreme’ because we are hoping to start a family, and it would be irresponsible of a family man to do something that could get him killed.”

Elizabeth was burning.

“I always seem to be apologising to you,” she said.

I shrugged.

“Think nothing of it; you’re proving yourself in a competition which is, by its nature, mostly male, because where you score, in endurance, is not tested as thoroughly. Which is why you and Julie have every chance of placing well in this last one. You don’t need to have the jitters.”

She gave me a slightly bitter smile.

“I do, all the same,” she said.  “I have a little sister; she’s paralysed after a climbing accident we were both involved in. It wasn’t my fault, but I encouraged her to go so I feel that it was my fault. And this is the only way I can hope to get enough for an operation.”

“Right,” I said. “The rest of us who hang out of you, will we all pledge a proportion of our fee for surviving to Elizabeth for her sister? I knew you were driven even though not enjoying it, and now we know why, we can help.”

“I’m not going to,” said Tom [or Dick, or Harry, I never specified which was which.]

“You weren’t asked,” I said.

“I think I speak for us all when I say we’re in,” said Dave. “I’ve had an offer to manage a junk shop with an option to buy; so I’ve got a job after this. And cocking a snoot at Norah has been the best thing ever.”

Ray and Julie nodded.

Elizabeth came over all tearful.

“Now then!” I said. “You need to be at your best. And they don’t drop us hugely far apart so we can maybe co-operate if we all find each other.”

She nodded.

“I saw what you did to make a sling, and I’ve been practising.... with another item of clothing. If I’m allowed to keep that.”

“There was a woman last year, and she got to keep her bra,” said Julie. “What a brilliant idea!”

“Remember, this location has been approved by the SPCA, so we don’t have to worry about any bears having helpless cubs; they wouldn’t permit it,” I said. “In case anyone freezes in a fit of conscience before taking down a bear.”

“Jay, mate, none of us was considering being able to take down a bear,” said Dave. “A sling is surely not enough?”

“I was going to make a spear,” I said. “Bear meat is good eating too.”

“Hell, I hope we end up close to Mr. Survival,” said Dave, fervently.

And then we were being collected, and taken to a place where we stripped to our basics and, wrapped for a brief while in blankets, were transported to our destination by helicopter.

 

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[1] Author’s note; I like sprouts, but Cobra was used to them boiled to death in Juvie Hall.