Tomy and the Planet of Lies (18 page)

Indeed I did. Although I wouldn't have described what followed next in this impossible story as ‘the rest.' The chaos was just beginning.

 

My plan on the day after we arrived in Ankara was to get rid of the Range Rover and to send my companions back to Switzerland—separately. The most important thing was to avoid remaining in any grouping that made us easy to identify; anything which would make us show up on their computers. So the Rover had to go. Its coloration and Swiss license plate made it unmistakable and it would be immediately associated with our group.

…The previous night, the night after my amazing journey through the universe, Marc had turned up in our suite. He didn't say a thing and it didn't look like anything we could say would restore him to words, so we didn't even try. He just threw himself down onto the double bed next to Tomy. Something unpleasant must have happened between him and Chantal. So it made it all the more easy to part with her the next day. She booked a flight to Paris—Marc didn't even shake her hand. He simply turned away without a word. To me she said: “We'll be seeing one another.” And to Tomy: “You and I in particular.”

…“What did she mean?” I asked him when she was gone. “Don't ask me. I can't make head nor tail of the woman.

…One of these days—whether I want to or not—I'm going to have to get to the bottom of all this.”

…The receptionist in the hotel helped me to contact an international customs agent who helped me to arrange transport to Venice for the Rover. He photocopied my passport and took receipt of the
carnet de passage
, the car's passport. It cost me twelve hundred dollars and I would be able to collect my vehicle from the duty-free harbor in Venice in 12 days' time. In the offices of American Express I collected some more cash and asked about flights to Italy, Austria and Holland. That, in itself, was no problem—except for Marc and Tomy. They didn't want to be separated, at any cost, and insisted on staying together. Again, I thought about the friendship poem by Schiller that had come back to me in the desert of Baluchistan and which I had recited to Marc to distract him from his thirst: “Tis mine your suppliant now to be, Ah, let the band of love—be three!”

…In the foyer of the Sheraton I discovered a prospectus for the Orient Express. A light went on in my head. That was the answer! I had read somewhere or other that the old Orient Express, immortalized by Agatha Christie in her world-famous novel
Murder on the Orient Express
, had been revived by a new company. A luxury train with a stylishly decorated dining car, a piano bar, and immaculate sleeping cabins. My companions were equally enthusiastic when I told them about my idea. They both clapped their hands in delight. Just to throw the bloodhounds off the trail, I booked a flight for Tomy from Ankara to Athens—which he would never use, of course—and one for Marc from Ankara to Zürich. Money thrown out the window for the sake of our own personal safety.

…The next day we rented a car, a brand new Opel, and set off to cover the 370 kilometers to Istanbul. The highway was relatively new and in very good condition, which was good, because I had no intention of stopping anywhere along the way and especially not spending another night in a hotel where we would have to use our passports to register. Luckily, I knew a reliable travel agent in Istanbul, which I had used on earlier visits.

…“The next journey on the Orient Express?” smiled the plump lady with the round face. “The train arrived this morning and is due to leave at 17:04 headed for Thessaloniki and Athens. You require a three-bed cabin? That will be difficult, sir. That combination is usually booked up.”

…“But, Madame,” I insisted, “we're traveling all the way to Switzerland!”

…She managed to find us a cabin and I asked innocently—whereupon Tomy walked out shaking his head—if she could reserve the cabin under the name Baumgartner.

…“But you are well-known here, Mr. von Däniken!”

…Precisely for that reason, I lied. We wanted to travel incognito, I continued, without being molested by obtrusive fans. The manager of the travel agent, a charming Turk with the (how could it be any different?) obligatory mustache arrived and explained that when we came to customs we would have to show our travel documents and fill in our real names anyway.

…“Of course,” I assured him. “All that's important to me is that I can book the cabin under the name Baumgartner. Then I need a written confirmation from the travel agency that we three can use Mr. Baumgartner's cabin because he had to cancel at the last minute. Naturally, I will recompense you for your troubles.”

…After this I counted out 300 dollars onto the desk. A hundred dollars extra for each of us, I thought, this was going to be the most expensive trip that I ever take on the Orient Express. As it turned out, it's the only one I've ever taken.

…As I was convinced that there was no level to which the secret police wouldn't stoop in terms of dirty tricks, we agreed to all board the train separately. I suggest to my friends that they try out a small restaurant that I had once visited with Ercan on the banks of the Bosporus. I took myself off in another direction, strolling through one of the many bazaars, arriving on the platform just a few minutes before the train was due to depart. Tomy and Marc were already waiting for me in our cabin.

…I immediately pulled the curtain closed and the train slowly pulled out of the station, steaming along the Bosporus past the Topkapi Palace and the ancient city wall. It made its way through the Istanbul suburbs before leaving the city behind it and in less than two hours we were at the border crossing at Ipsala. Twice I was filled with anxiety: the first time when the Turkish border police came and checked our passports and then again as the Greek police did the same a short while later. Then the train clattered on its way once more. As we saw the city sign for Ferrai we all hugged each other in relief: we were finally in Greece!

…The journey to Switzerland took several days, but nothing happened to arouse our suspicions. Every night before we went to bed we stuck adhesive tape over the keyhole and along the bottom of the door. In this amateur manner we intended to hinder any attempts to spray poison into the cabin, but fortunately nothing happened. Either the “service” was waiting for a better opportunity, or they really had lost sight of us. Our conversations during the journey inevitably turned to the subject of Tomy. How were we going to introduce him? I expected no great problems with Elisabeth: she would catch on quickly and play along. But what about my brothers and sisters? They knew, after all, that I didn't have any illegitimate brother, especially from our long-dead father. How would I explain Tomy in the office?

Marc didn't take it so seriously and laughed: “Ha! Just imagine, you turn up with a guy who looks just like you, only a lot younger and better looking!”

…Tomy announced in a matter-of-fact way that he wasn't planning on being a burden to us for long. He still wanted to visit a few people and all he needed was a safe place to lie down while he did it.

…“Who do you want to visit?” asked Marc, genuinely interested.

…“I'm thinking of scientists, maybe one or the other religious leader, maybe even one of your most hypocritical species: the politician. Although a couple of those should be plenty…”

…I interrupted him.

…“I don't understand,” I said. “You already comprehend everything. You know the universe and all its interconnections, which I also got to see, thanks to you...”

…It didn't sound too cheery.

…“Not so fast, big brother,” Tomy broke in. “I still don‘t know how mankind thinks; what makes humans tick; why they are the way they are. But I don't believe in forcing anyone to do anything against their wills: I will ask for permission first.”

…“You'll only be disappointed!” I said darkly, “My fellow humans are generally egocentric, self-opinionated, know-it-alls, and—as you already suspect—a bunch of liars. I can't imagine how that could benefit your home world.”

…“You didn't turn out so bad,” Tomy grinned at me. “Your opinions and your specialist knowledge will enrich my society. Just imagine a computer that has stored enormous amounts of knowledge and has also developed its own emotions. But the computer isn't omniscient. Every new piece of knowledge is precious to it, because it brings the computer more opportunities for exchanging ideas, thoughts, and concepts. It makes it, so to speak, wiser and more knowledgeable.”

…I had an idea of what he meant, so I said nothing.

* * *

We disembarked from the Orient Express in Lausanne, an old city clinging to the mountainside on the banks of Lake Geneva, and took a Swiss train. I called Elisabeth. She was overjoyed to hear that we had got back safely and offered to cook Marc and me a special meal that evening.

…“Not tonight, my dear,” I insisted. “We should go out to eat: I want to be alone with you. And bring your car, will you? Mine is still on a cruise!”

…She knew me well enough not to ask too many questions.

As soon as the train reached Solothurn, we took a taxi to the Hotel Krone. The Krone, as the locals call it was situated in the center of the medieval baroque town. At some point in history Napoleon is said to have stopped the night in the hotel. I booked a single room for Tomy and asked him to wait in his room until I called for him. Marc was picked up by his mother, who hugged and kissed him in floods of tears of joy and thanked me countless times for bringing him back safely.

…Alone at last, I wandered over to a quiet table in the corner of the restaurant and waited tensely for Elisabeth. I had to introduce her to Tomy, but as gently as possible. I thought about her as I sat there. She was a good woman. Kishon might have said: “The best wife of all.” I met her in a small tearoom in Zürich in an age when jukeboxes still reigned. Back then, in 1959, I was always putting on records by Frank Sinatra or Dean Martin and Elisabeth aroused my curiosity by choosing a song called “Chanson d'amour.” The whole bar roared out the refrain, now well known all around the world: “Ra-ta-ta-ta- da!” Elisabeth was from a town in North Rhine-Westphalia in Germany and was doing an apprenticeship in a bar in Zürich. Her parents in faraway Westphalia ran a small farm and I admired them both.

People of few words, generous and industrious, they were. At that time, I was working as a waiter in a five-star hotel and the tearoom where I met Elisabeth was the favorite hangout for me and my group of friends. The love between Elisabeth and I blossomed very quickly and we soon decided to marry. That happened on July 20, 1960. That was 27 years ago, and I have often wondered since then if she would have married me if she had known what she was letting herself in for. How many waiters end up as controversial writers? Elisabeth—who I soon started calling Ebet—remained a rock and helped me through all the ups and downs of my career with stoical patience. But now she would have a real test of her character, I thought. And I had to explain a second Erich, who was thirty years younger!

…After she had greeted each “me,” drank an aperitif and asked the usual questions, she looked me straight in the eyes and asked, “OK, Erich, what's bothering you? Why the cloak and dagger routine?”

…“Oh, Ebet!” I began, “I really do have a quite unique problem! Something which happened to me in the desert of Baluchistan and I don't know quite how to tell you about it…”

…“Did you get an Arab girl into trouble?” she interrupted, her eyes glinting dangerously.

…“Heavens, no! What are you thinking? No, my problem has nothing to do with sex; rather it's a young man. A 22-year-old man, to be precise.”

…Now Ebet looked at me extremely skeptically. Yet I could feel her relief that my problem had nothing to do with infidelity.

…“Have you adopted someone?” she asked.

…“Ebet, really!” I said. “How on earth would I end up adopting anybody in the middle of a desert? What would I want with a 22-year-old Arab?”

…“I know you, Erich, with your compassion! But now stop beating around the bush and tell me whatever it is you want to tell me!”

…“Please, Ebet. Don't interrupt and you will understand everything.”

…I slowly told her the story of what had happened, leaving nothing out. About how Tomy came into being, his work with the Iranian secret service, the sabotage on our Range Rover on Nemrut Daği, Ercan's death in the underground city and even our trip on the Orient Express.

…At the end of my description, she remarked dryly: “A good story; it would make a great novel. But you could have told me all this at home.”

…“Ebet!” I pleaded and held out my hand. “Tomy is
here
, two floors up; above this very restaurant!”

…“Then show me this wonder boy!”

…I took the elevator up to the second floor, told Tomy what he had to do, and returned with him to Elisabeth who remained waiting at our table. She looked up just as we were approaching and her spoon, which she had just loaded with mousse au
chocolat
, clattered from her hand to the floor. She held on fast to the edge of the table with both hands, as if she were afraid that she might fall otherwise. And then we were standing next to her. She took a deep breath and looked closely at Tomy. He stood there, like a well-behaved schoolboy, with his hands clasped behind his back.

…“Erich?” she murmured questioningly, and then twice more, drawn out, “Erich? Erich?”

…Tomy smiled my sweetest smile from thirty years ago. He exuded an overpowering charm. Elisabeth rubbed her sweating palms on the white tablecloth and Tomy, clearly master of this situation, held out his hand to her:

…“Grüezi,” he said, using the traditional Swiss greeting. “I'm sorry if I startled you or upset you in any way. But this is the only body I have. Your husband kindly gave me the name Tomy.”