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  Lenin’s meal, he desired the banana-nut pancakes. He ordered four banana flavored pancakes with fresh bananas on top, chopped pecans and whipped topping ($5.99). When his pancakes arrived he looked back over his shoulder at the picture that was behind him on the wall. I was sure that Lenin would have rather eaten those than the one that were before him. On his plate, he noticed, the bananas and whipped cream didn’t measure up to the perfect ones in the large IHOP photograph.

  Juan and Eva were the next dictators to chime in during my birthday party. Both had been observing the group and had remained quiet throughout most of the night. I had only met the two of them during our encounter at my last party. I was surprised they had returned since they had almost said nothing to me or Murielle. Yet they had sent their RSVP and had returned to the IHOP again for this year’s celebrations.

  “Nicholas, what date were you born? You know what I mean…the day of the week?” Eva asked me. Her Latina good looks and her blonde hair didn’t make her stand out from when she was younger, but she was still a handsome woman. Her husband was also a handsome man. I didn’t know much about the two of them or their country, but I had invited them again. Unlike Murielle and me, they were very much a power couple and it was better not to get in their way even in conversation.

  “I don’t know,” I replied wondering if the waitress would return to refill my wife’s drink.

  “He was born on a Saturday,” said Murielle still waiting for the waitress to return with her Sprite. “I asked his mother once.”

  “Oh yes, a Saturday…I see, those are rather difficult babies,” said Eva.

  “He’s still difficult,” said Murielle, which made Eva laugh.

  “If our unborn child would’ve lived…I’m sure he’d have been born on a Saturday…but such a thing wasn’t meant to happen. The saints are to blame,” said Juan.

  His remark made his wife instantly sad, and the couple barely spoke to anyone else for the rest of the night. The meal they shared together: The International Passport ($6.49). Two eggs, two bacon strips, two pork sausage links and your choice of two same style pancakes. They could’ve had French, Swedish, or buttermilk pancakes. When the waitress mentioned their choices, they both amused at the French, they almost considered the Swedish, but finally they had to resign themselves to the buttermilk pancakes.

  That finally left us with the two most difficult of my birthday dinner guests, Benito and Adolf. Both couldn’t make up their minds what they wanted to eat, and when it was their turn to order, neither one was ready. I thought Juan and Eva were an interesting couple, but they had nothing on Benito and Adolf. Adolf had started to call himself Ad since I last saw him. It worked better for the new image he was trying to build for himself, or least that was what he told all of us.

  “Nobody names their male children Adolf any longer. So I decided to call myself Ad instead. What do you think?”

  I didn’t know what to think. I would’ve thought the obvious choice was to change his haircut and to ultimately cut off his small mustache, but I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to be a rude host. Murielle and I had talked about his style before that night, and we had decided it was fine for a Munich Beer Garden Putsch, but it didn’t work for an average IHOP customer.

  Stalin and Tito hated Benito and Ad. Enough said.

  Benito finally decided on the Old-Fashion Pot Roast ($8.99). It was a big slice of pot roast topped with carrots, onions, and with rich brown gravy. He also decided on the highly recommended mashed potatoes at no extra charge. He and Ad shared a pot of black coffee ($1.98) with no cream and no sugar between the two of them. Ad had the Grilled Liver (starting at $7.59), and he insisted on smothering it with bacon (totaling it out to $8.59). He told everyone it was the right of the German people.

  After everyone had eaten, the wait staff came and along with my guests sung ‘Happy Birthday’ to me. Several of the other customers joined in on the singing, and I was pleased. Of course there was cake and candles. I should’ve mentioned more about them in this story, but I haven’t.

  Murielle leaned over and kissed me, and said, “Happy Birthday, Nicholas.” I kissed her back.

  I had paid the bill, and I left a generous tip. Everyone but Benito headed out the door after they wished me a happy birthday and ate their slices of chocolate cake. Benito couldn’t decide if wanted an extra dessert. Finally, Murielle and I gave up, and we had to leave him sitting there all by himself. When we finally made it out to the parking lot, I was surprised to see Pol. He had remembered my birthday, and I felt bad for not inviting him. He had even brought me a gift, and I told him I would un-wrap it when I got home. I felt bad for days about that incident because I knew I could’ve been a better friend to the guy.

  “That wasn’t so bad,” said Murielle. I gave her the keys to our car. I hadn’t been drinking, but after so much excitement I knew it was better if I didn’t drive.

  “So, can we invite them again on your birthday?”

  Murielle laughed and said, “Dictators on All Saints Day? I don’t think so. I’d still prefer the saints to the dictators. At least I do, on my own birthday.”

  My birthday was almost over. My beautiful wife drove me back to our house. Her birthday would be the next one we’d celebrate, on November 1st. On that night, she would prefer to invite all of her saints, but during the rest of the year Murielle liked to spend her time with me, her own personal dictator.

  “Do you think our baby will be born on a Saturday?” she asked. She looked over to see that I had remembered to put on my seatbelt.

  “A baby?” I asked, in return I reached over to touch my wife’s arm as she drove away from the restaurant.

  “I think it will be…if the baby is as difficult as its father…I’m sure it will be born on a Saturday.”

  “The saints be praised,” I said.

  Chapter 34

  Fallen Hero

  We’ve fallen from our heavenly perch into this earthly prison.

  There are one are one hundred and fifty two of us unexploded bombs here in the land of big pretzels and big beers, but we don’t partake in the bounty because we’re the enemies.

  The Nazis are our evil adversaries, and nothing changes because we’re here in this camp.

  I killed the Nazis when I saw their cities through my bombsight. I had twelve missions in the Jenny Lee before I arrived and now it’ll be 13. When I see the 17’s coming back from Berlin, my heart is glad. I wish I was up there returning to England, but I’m here.

  There’s something worse than the Nazis at this camp, and that’s the traitor working with them. Our senior allied commander is a collaborator. I’ve seen him scheming with the Kommandant, and I’ve seen him kissing the camp secretary. I’ve seen him bribe the guards, eat their food, and ride in their cars.

  I know what to do with a traitor, and it feels no different than dropping those bombs. This time, I’ll kill the enemy with my own hands. We’re at war and sometimes traitors wear the same uniform.

  I do it.

  Lining us up for the midnight roll call, they’ve discovered his body. “The Colonel is dead,” says the sergeant to his commander.

  “I don’t believe it. Who would kill him? He was so…” says the German Colonel adjusting his eyepiece and not finding the right words. “We’ll find the murderer even if we must put them all into the cooler. Show me the body, Sergeant, and tell me what you know.”

  Next, I’m going to kill his fellow collaborators. First, I’m going to kill the Frenchman and then the Englishman. Finally, I’ll kill his two American friends. The enemy is all around, and I’ll kill them until I can escape this Stalag, and I can find my way back into the sky on the wings of a paper crane.

  Tell me what you know.

  I hear Sergeant Schultz say to the Colonel as they go inside the barracks to look at Hogan’s body, “I know nothing.”

  Chapter 35

  Girl Wrestler

  All her preparations for the match start with her
hair

  because that’s how she had always begun her twelve years.

   

  Her mother was the first to work the brush against her head,

  making sure each strand held its place.

  She would tell her stories of Mexico, when she was a little girl.

  Her mother rode a horse to school and lived on a ranch,

  but that was before the land had to be sold.

   

  When her older sister took over and managed her hair,

  she told her about the boys who would wink and smile at her in school.

  If the teacher wasn’t looking, some of the boys would touch her.

  The brush always pulled harder when she got to that part of the story.

   

  She attended the same school now;

  mother and sister would sit on the bleachers before her match.

  Sometimes mother would cry, sometimes her sister would wave,

  but they were always there to watch her wrestle the boys.

   

  Her coach would stand by her when she finished her ponytail.

  He would tell her to use her legs,

  so the boys couldn’t stop her aggressive moves.

  She always liked to use her hands.

  Conceding to the boys and letting them touch her on the red mat.

   

  Finishing her ponytail was only a step.

  She needed to pin it up carefully so her headgear would stay.

  Her coach would help her finish getting it on her head,

  the referee would wait before he’d call the boy and girl out.

  Ready to wrestle and only three short periods to find her win.

  Chapter 36

  Everything is Clear

  Hold the cans. Make a confession.

  Who are we?

  Everyone gets audited.

  Resistance leaves our bodies.

  We hope everything is clear.

  The Commodore smiles.

   

  Chapter 37

  Five Voice Mail Messages

  Message One:

  “Juan, this is your mother. I know you are at work now, but your Grandmother says her wristwatch isn’t working, and she wants you to take it to the jewelers to get a new battery. Call me.”

   

  Message Two:

  “Juan, this is your mother. Can you please call me before you go to lunch? Okay, I took the watch away from your grandmother. I know you said the watch has a battery, but I’m sorry you’re wrong. If your grandmother would watch less television and moved around during the day her watch wouldn’t stop working. I decided to take it from her and wear it myself. I’ll show her it’ll work if she moves more, but she has to get up out of her chair from time to time.”

   

  Message Three:

  “Juan, this is your mother. I am going to have to go to the jewelers myself since you won’t call me back. The battery is definitely dead on your grandmother’s watch, but now she says her TV isn’t working either. Your grandmother says all the channels are showing the same program over and over again. She wants you to call the cable company, and she says you know the number. I can only deal with one of your Grandmother’s problems at a time.

  Juan, hold on a second.

  Momma, Mr. Wells died a long time ago. That’s only a foolish daytime television…”

   

  Message Four:

  “Juan, this is your mother. The deputy sheriff wouldn’t let me drive your father’s car on Interstate 19, and I had to turn around and come home. He said there’s no place to go north of the airport. Juan, what does that mean? I couldn’t make him understand about your Grandmother’s watch. He said there are Tripods from Mars here in Tucson. Have you ever heard anything so crazy? Can you call me soon? Juan, please come home, it is getting late.”

   

  Message Five:

  “Juan, this is your mother…”

   

  Chapter 38

  Tourists of Apocalypse

  “You are such a kidder. Of course they had seat belts. All cars had seat belts, especially race cars. Who would’ve got into them without some sort of protection?” asked Margot brushing the bangs of her brown hair out of her eyes. She was French, sort of. She was a typical EU girl. It depended on the week. Like most EU girls, some weeks she was French, some weeks English, and some weeks she was Polish, etc. That week Margot had decided she was definitely French.

  “At this time drivers thought it was preferable to be thrown from a race car than risk sitting in it when it caught fire,” I say in guide-speak. It had always been a hard habit of mine to break. I was a typical EU boy, leather racing jacket, and skinny jeans. My hair too long and it’s in my eyes. Some weeks I was a tour guide, sort of. Some weeks I played bass in a band, and sometimes I got to go on dates. Life wasn’t so bad, and when I needed some money I could use my personal Time-Fi to make some quick Euros in a pinch. Mostly as a guide, time-hiking Shrine-Pilgrims to the usual-common time-shrines like the House of the Wax-Lady, Jim Morrison’s slumber party in Paris, and the Pope’s winter flat at Warsaw. Those were always the popular places, but I also had another sightsee, it was the one I enjoyed the most, my own tour, my own special collection of Grand Disasters.

  Sure, I go to the Canary Islands for the ‘77 disaster when a KLM 747 struck a Pan Am 747 on the runway at Los Rodeos Airport. The two 747s collided when the KLM Jumbo tried to takeoff in the fog. Also time-spike them to the Chunnel, underneath the English Channel, where two Gen-III Lev trains struck each other head-on after they were accidentally routed onto the same track. The survivors had to walk away from the crash while they were still under the English Channel. However my favorite disaster is at the 24 hour race at Le Mans from the middle of the twentieth century.

  At that time, the 24 hour driving contest had been raced at Le Mans for 50 years. They had just started racing there again after the war, and in 1955, Le Mans was the track where the best drivers and the fastest cars wanted to compete. While the speed of the cars had increased, the track hadn’t been changed over the years to accommodate the faster vehicles.

  I knew I was chewing on the scenery for Margot’s benefit, hamming it up for her, and I knew my role. I had rehearsed for this, and I had brought girls to this place, to this time, before. This is the event that has always made girls impressionable. Fast cars, death, and bloodied spectators, it’s all the more batter for the cake, and an evening with Margot would be my icing. I had bookmarked this spike of time from the past. I had been here before, many times. I know what will happen.

  I describe the cars, the drivers, and the place to her. I love Le Mans, and I have even seen the race in my own time. Margot was also interested, and she has my hand. The Mercedes team has a new car for this contest. I point it out to Margot. The cars that are competing as they drive by, there’s Mercedes, Jaguar, Ferrari, Aston Martin, and Maserati. All the cars are breaking records and each lap they are going faster than the lap before. Margot is excited, and I remember being just as excited the first time I was here.

  The first two hours of the race pass as quickly as the cars, and I’m even caught up in the moment. I’m brought out of the instant when I see the silver Mercedes. The German built race car was a 300 SLR, and it’s big and powerful. When it roars by it catches the eye of everyone in the stands.

  “That car is so close,” says Margot, her eyes follow the silver Mercedes, and she has to shout when she talks to me. “I can feel it. It’s so commanding, Henri.”

  I smile, but I know what will happen, and I know we are standing in the section of the stands where we can observe everything.

  The Mercedes again, and I know its driver Pierre Levegh will die soon. The 300 SLR races by, but I know its flaw, it has an Achilles’ heel. While many of the cars have disk brakes, Levegh’s car still has the older drum style ones, and I know they won’t help the driver when he needs them on his next lap.

  Levegh
is known as The Bishop because he is older and sterner than most of the drivers. He’s a typical European of his time, said to have excelled in ice skating, hockey, and tennis. He once even led Le Mans after driving twenty-three hours straight, but a gear-shifting error caused the man to ruin his chances for winning in the final minutes of the race. Levegh was a genuine old-European Frenchman.

  “This is wonderful. I have never felt so alive,” says Margot. Her eyes stays focused on the track, and I knew she’s enjoying herself.

  “Watch the Mercedes when it comes by again,” I say.

  “Why?” she asks, but before I could answer her question. The cars will soon complete another lap, and I don’t have time to answer her as other engines from the slower cars drown out my voice.

  Levegh’s Mercedes follows the green Jaguar. Both cars are trying to enter the pits at the same time, but there’s a problem. It’s a slower Austin-Healey 100 that’s in both cars path. The Jaguar driver has to put on his brakes, but I’ve seen it before. The Mercedes can’t slow down fast enough, both the Jaguar and the Mercedes are traveling at over 250 Kph, and there’s no time for Levegh to get his car safely out of the way of the quicker braking Jaguar or the even slower traveling Austin-Healy.

  I don’t react, but Margot does when the Mercedes quickly maneuvers out of the way of the Jaguar. I hear Margot cry out, and I know she’s shocked by what she is seeing.

  Levegh still doesn’t have control of the car as it cuts across the racetrack to the other side. There’s a mound of earth in his path. The car is launched when it strikes it. The racecar flies into the air and it continues into the spectator stands on the other side of the track. The Mercedes somersaults and I can see the fuel tank behind Levegh start to break apart and it catches fire before the car hits the crowd. I know 83 of those spectators will die.

  Margot’s hand moves away from mine, and then she holds both of them up to her face, and by that time the fire has become uncontrollable. Margot has looked away; she’s turns her back to me. After awhile, I put my hand on her shoulder, and she asks, “Henri, this is what you want me to see?”