The 2084 Precept (19 page)

And these Brits, even if there are women
present, Brit ones or non-Brit ones, they don't care, they are not
even aware of their conduct. And you don't actually need to be able
to understand the language they are speaking, or trying to speak,
in order to know that they are Brits. They couldn't be from
anywhere else. Spread-eagled in their lounge chairs, feet on the
tables, dressed in pathetic jogging outfits, or football club
shirts, or imbecilic T-shirts, some of them with pieces of metal
rammed into their ears, lips, noses and, as we know, other parts of
their anatomy as well, purchased six-packs stacked on the floor
beside them, pale, pasty, ghastly creatures with oversized bellies
and tattoos all over the place, they could only be Brits.
Uneducated, uncouth assholes, basically. The nauseous product of a
socialist revolution. Ask any foreigner.

No wonder the French, the few who are
obliged to go anywhere near England that is, avoid P&O and
travel on their own Sea France, or rather, MyFerryLink. Fewer
Brits, more civilized.

But don't get me wrong. There are indeed
still plenty of pleasant, well brought-up, well-educated Brits, who
can also speak their own language properly. It's just that, if you
ask me, they are now a minority. And to be fair, there
were
some civilized Brits in the bar, survivors of their country's slimy
slide down the slippery socialist slope, please forgive the
uncontrived alliteration. But the younger ones had grown up amidst
all of this shit and so it was normality personified for them,
there was nothing to notice. And as for the older ones, those born
during World War II, or just before or just after, well, they had
had no choice but to become accustomed to it, it was part of their
environment now, they had had no choice but to accept the
situation, this is what their country was made up of nowadays.

There is no point in taking offence, let
alone communicating it. You can't do anything about it. In fact,
just looking at some of that rabble for a second too long could get
you a punch in the face. Or worse. Socialism has triumphed. And who
cares? Not me, I have nothing against the Brits, whichever type
they happen to be, each to his own on this planet, is what I say.
But my personal preference is to take a few strokes sideways before
continuing with my swimming, thus allowing this particular brand of
flotsam to float past me a few meters away.

What the Queen thinks about it all, I don't
know. I can't ask her and she wouldn't risk a comment anyway. That
is the monarchy's job nowadays: not to have any opinions or,
alternatively, not to voice them.

There were no delays docking in Calais and I
was out past the hideous harbor surroundings and onto the road to
Ostend by a quarter to six. Or I should say a quarter to seven now
that we're here on the continent. Or a quarter
of
seven, if
one is from the other side of the big pond. There is a boring speed
limit here in France also, slightly less boring than in the U.K.,
130 kilometers per hour permitted. Unless they restrict the speed
further, as they have done here; it is either 90 or 110 max most of
the way to Belgium. And in Belgium, 120 kilometers per hour is the
maximum, down the long straight road to Brussels, a boring road at
a boring speed, through to Liège, or Lüttich or Luik, depending on
which language you prefer, and finally, at last, into Germany, past
Aachen and heading for Köln—or, if you are a Brit and have a need
to complicate a name, Cologne.

My Audi breathed a sigh of relief and so did
I. Whenever traffic and speed limits permit, I tend to cruise at
between 220 and 240 kilometers per hour in Germany, that's 137 to
150 miles per hour for the Brits. Safe as hell, the German roads
are made for it, their cars are made for it, their slower drivers
don't mess around in the fast lane, and they have the lowest road
death rates in Europe. And even at these speeds I have to keep an
eye on my mirror, oh yes, there is always the occasional Porsche or
whatever coming up behind me. And I like the tire sticker so much
that I have fixed it onto my dashboard: 210 it says, the maximum
speed permitted when using my winter tires.

I continued straight down the A3. Darkness
hit soon after nine o'clock, the non-truck traffic reduced and I
made good time to the Wiesbadener Kreuz. I turned off onto the A66
and arrived home at just before midnight. Home being Okriftel,
about 20 kilometers before you reach Frankfurt. And thanks to some
of the speed limits en route, I still had a good couple of liters
left in the tank.

I got undressed, got into bed and crashed
out.

I woke up late, very late, such are the
benefits of self-employment. I looked out of my balcony window,
same weather as in the U.K., some cloud, some sun, can't complain.
Today being a Wednesday, my street is deserted, everybody off
working like busy, busy bees somewhere else. Good for them, 38% of
their adult lives (the conscious parts) are spent travelling to
work, working, and travelling back again. And then they get a few
years off to hang around until they die. A wonderful experience
which awaits all of us of course. Is this the purpose of life?
Well, as some of us happen to know—the 10% I mentioned
previously—there is absolutely no purpose to life, so they might
just as well do this as do anything else. And then it's off to join
the baby seals, play the harp, or whatever.

I'm in a really good mood as usual. On top
of that I no longer have to deal with demented asylum escapees. And
the grim German winter weather appears to have disappeared for its
annual four month vacation.

Perhaps I should take the time to explain
why I am living in Okriftel, Germany, a country not particularly
renowned, as you are aware, for its cynical humor, sarcastic humor,
or sophisticated humor of any kind. But you can't have everything,
and there are exceptions anyway, as there are in most things.

The reason I live here is simple. I was
recommended by one Spanish company to another, the latter having a
loss-making subsidiary in Rödelsheim, Germany which manufactured
shoe-making machines. This deal was for a minimum of six months—the
money contractually guaranteed and no overnight resignation clause
in this case. It suited me, so I signed on, travelled over to
Frankfurt—Rödelsheim is a suburb—and looked for an apartment. I
like my peace and quiet, I can always go out and look for noise
whenever I want to, and I like a decent surrounding environment. I
hunted downriver, the river Main that is, and found this small
oasis of a town nestling between the hideous industrial piles
decorating the north bank. I discovered a modern apartment in a
quiet street, two hundred meters to a fantastic park area with lots
of trees and right on the river. Twenty minutes to the airport,
twenty minutes to Rödelheim, and close to the main A3 and A5
autobahns. A great place, neighbors I could talk to, and when the
assignment was finished, I just stayed on. Life's waves again,
taking you wherever they want to.

I didn't have a girlfriend at the moment.
Erika had been great but she had been wanting to build a nest, have
me meet her family, you know how it is. I can't have that, and in
any case she had started suspecting me of this and that while on my
travels. Now… when I have a great woman, I do not go messing around
with another one, it's not fair to her and it's not fair to me, I
get all kinds of guilt psychoses. I can't handle it in bed, I can't
handle it generally, it is just not my thing. But in this case, I
had indeed fallen off the rails. Only once, and only for one night.
I do not like one-nighters, but it had happened, what can you do,
and so you might say that Erika had been justified in her
speculations, albeit unknowingly.

I performed the shit, shave and shower
routine, put on some jeans, pushed my laundry into the washing
machine, picked up the bottle of whiskey and took the stairs down
to the ground floor apartment below. To my neighbor, Frau Müller.
Coming up to fifty I would guess, divorced and wouldn't mind
starting up something with young Mr. O'Donoghue, at least that's my
evaluation of the scene. I wouldn't mind, she was still an
attractive woman, good body, but that would definitely become
another nest thing. And not an honorable thing for me to do anyway
given the age difference, no long-term future in it for her. And so
we remained platonic friends, always a sniff of eroticism in the
air, if you will forgive the first part of that expression, but
just good friends. Down to first names now and talking to each
other with '
du
', a rare enough event in this country. She
occasionally invited me to dinner, she was a good cook, we have to
keep you healthy Peter—yes, and we can guess for what purpose—and
we always helped each other out on this and that.

Monika didn't work on Wednesdays and she
would probably be taking a couple of days off while I was here, as
she usually did. I rang the bell. She opened the door wearing
T-shirt and jeans, no bra, and nor did she need one. Seductive is
the word for it, a ploy certain to produce immediate and
uncontrollable reactions in a certain region of the male anatomy.
That is the way it is. We males are subjected to non-stop sexual
pressure, we are tempted at the drop of every female hat. This is
because we are erotically debauched, there is no other explanation
for it. And there is no need to change the situation either, we are
happy to suffer thirty times a day lusting after thirty female
somethings passing us by and which we will never be able to
have—'have' being a word with several powerful connotations as you
know. And as for those males whose lives are not so stressful,
well…let us feel sorry for them.

We gave each other the usual kisses on each
cheek, and as usual she squashed her breasts up against me, just
enough to keep it civilized, no more, and at the same time just
enough to stir me up—if you will allow the expression. A
knowledgeable lady, our Monika, no doubt about it. Thank God,
Mohammed or any of the others for women like this.

"Peter," she cried in her Bavarian accent.
"Welcome back, the return of the warrior! I heard you moving around
upstairs, so I went out and bought your fridge basics and I have
made us some coffee. It's all ready, I'll just go and fix it."

I took my eyes off her breasts and placed
them on her face, not that she hadn't noticed. She had a nice face,
big round brown eyes, a slightly crooked nose, brown hair cut in a
way that made her look a bit school-girlish, very little make-up.
She must have been a man-killer back in the day.

"A bottle of malt for Monika," I said with a
smile and handed it over. But just in time. Just in time because a
large dog came bounding through the kitchen door, skidded its way
along the polished wood floor, leapt up at me, front paws hammering
onto my chest, and started to smother me in dog kisses.

This dog is my dog. His name is Mr. Brown.
He is a fair-sized dog. He got his name from the color of his coat,
which is dark brown, Vandyke brown. And he has a Vandyke beard and
yes, I could have called him Vandyke but I didn't. And he likes
chocolate. Not that he gets much, but always when I return from a
trip. Something he is well aware of, needless to say. Monika looks
after him whenever I am away on assignments, which is a lot. She
loves dogs and, like all Germans, loves going for long walks
whatever the weather and irrespective of the temperatures. And Mr.
Brown stops her feeling too lonely I think. She has a fair number
of acquaintances but the difference is that Mr. Brown is her
friend, and so am I.

I calmed Mr. Brown down, not difficult to
do, he is generally a peaceful, pensive, philosophical kind of dog
given to long ruminations on his large mat in my living room. I say
generally, because there are exceptions. It would, for example, be
easier to try to calm down Hitler when it's time for a walk.

Monika brought the coffee, gave me my mail,
and we sat there and chatted about this and that and everything
else. I did my best to keep my eyes off her breasts, she could tell
what an effort it was, women like her are not idiots. I gave her
some money for the dog food and some more for cleaning my flat,
four hours a week she does even when I'm not here, I like things
clean, and in any case you can't put a price on the way she takes
care of Mr. Brown. She doesn't know it yet but I am going to send
her on a week's holiday to Corsica this summer. It’s a nice enough
island when they're not throwing bombs at each other, which they do
whenever a few of them have the occasional urge to separate
themselves from France. Monika doesn't have much money and let's
face it—I am an honest man—the only cost to me is a day's work
after tax.

I told her I planned to be travelling back
to London on the Saturday, have an easy Sunday there with no travel
stress before finding out what United Fasteners' plans for me were,
if any. I told her I was buying her lunch tomorrow, she loves to go
out and I'm the only man she has to accompany her. Not that that is
why I do it, she is a great woman, good to look at as well as I
have pointed out, and I enjoy her company as much as she does
mine—mine and Mr. Brown's, he always goes with us. I had good
feelings just being with her—cynics are not cynical all of the
time.

I went back to my flat, gave Mr. Brown half
of his chocolate and grabbed his lead. I never actually use it,
which produces haughty stares from the local passers-by. There is a
tiny little policeman embedded in every single one of them, if you
ask me. It is
gesetzlich verboten
not to have the dog on a
leash, but my dog is a peaceful dog, so who cares. Well, they do.
So I just give them a haughty stare back, one of my long
disparaging ones; a powerful weapon indeed, but a peaceful one for
all that.