Page 24 of Geist Fleisch
“Almost.” The woman placed three glasses on the bar and poured a generous finger of scotch into each before raising one.
After toasting to success, Callum downed his drink swiftly, enjoying the burn of it down his throat, though a taste of home, it was not. “One more thing. Getting in and out of this place? That’s not as easy as you seem to think. I told you about the woman in the mask? She lit me a cigarette and—”
“A psychopomp, or at least, that’s Brigitte’s theory. An emissary between worlds to deliver your invitation. Yet, you were able to get back a second time.”
“Aye, and bloody near bashed my head in trying to get back home.”
Frank acknowledged the point with a nod. “Indeed, we can’t have you doing that again. Brigitte?”
The woman produced an ugly olive-green jacket from behind the bar. “Put this on. Cross to their side the same way you did before, then when you want to get back, tear the buttons off the front and throw them on the ground. We’ll have you back in no time.”
“Buttons? You’re serious?”
“Same goes if you need us to shut down the equipment at any point,” Frank added. “You’ve come back from this place twice already, so we don’t expect major problems. But that jacket is your parachute.”
It felt more uncomfortable on his shoulders than the metaphor, but Callum had never had much use for fashion. With one final check that he was ready, he parted the curtain and stepped into the tiled room. Catching a glance of himself in the mirror was a mistake. His skin seemed even thinner and moretranslucent than last time, and there was no blaming it on the lights. It unnerved him to see the toilet tank, however faint, behind the back of his head, its silver chain catching glints of the dim light. But it also gave him something to focus on as he watched the colour and solidity return to his face bit by bit. He didn’t hear the saxophone in the bar at first. It felt so good to look like flesh again. Flesh.
Fleisch.
A man passed by him, disappearing into the cubicle. He’d arrived. Now what?
He stepped out into the bar, where a half dozen male couples embraced in a tender slow dance. He spied Ferdi, Max and the others at their table, deep in conversation, but something stopped him from joining them.Fleisch?The way Max had said that word. The way Ferdi had told him to leave…
He hadn’t thought about not being welcomed back, nor had he discussed this with Frank, who’d been too excited by the prospect of having an agent in this world to consider whether such a man would be wanted. Indeed, he wasn’t dead yet. Invited or not, this wasn’t his place.
He took a seat in a darkened corner in the bar before any of the men could see him and ordered a beer. The gruff bartender complied, and Callum lifted it to his lips. The bitter, acidic smell filled his nostrils, reminding him that he couldn’t drink the beer in this place, not without Max’s little trick. So, he had no friends and no drink, and no idea when Frank and Brigitte would activate their equipment. He knew how to leave the place, but not what he was supposed to be doing or looking for. Maybe his presence would be enough, or maybe he’d interfered too much already, and sitting here was the best thing he could do.
“Callum?”
He couldn’t hide the shame in his face as Max set a beer down beside his and sat on the neighbouring stool. “Hallo.”
Max smiled and touched his beer, just as he had before.
Callum lifted it to his lips and enjoyed the full, predictable taste of the strong German brew. “Danke.”
“Dein Deutsch wird besser.”
Again, he was lost.Besser?“Better?”
Max laughed. “Ja. Besser.Better.”
Progress, one word at a time.
Callum took a couple more sips of his beer. Still good. What was he supposed to say to a man who spoke almost no English and whose last words to him had been filled with accusation?
“We all right, then?”
“All right?”
“Ah…” Callum wracked his brain. “Ringtug?”
Max laughed again. “Richtig! Ja, ja, genau! Alles gut.”
Callum nodded. He could handle the words that sounded like English, especially with Max’s hand resting on his leg. “StillFleisch.”
Max nodded, rubbing his thigh. “Fleisch. Ist richtig.”
The ghost’s lips again tasted of a sweetness that belied death. Maybe that’s what immortality tasted like. He dismissed the gooey sentiment. Right now, he was content to draw closer to this handsome German boy, exactly the kind he’d hoped to meet in Berlin… only dead. Max had been killed, probably by a Frenchor English bullet, perhaps fired by a man who’d fought alongside Callum’s father. Or maybe… Fate had played worse tricks on him of late.
