8. Uptown Funk

[Monday, 22-1-2018 (Cancer): Some of your emotions don't seem to be in place. You lack understanding of your own inner state. Change your view and your perspective, and everything in your life will change too.]

Was yesterday a coincidence? Not if we repeat the experiment get the same unexpected positive result. After breakfast, Shirley takes her Tarot-cards out of her handbag and shuffles the deck. The first card shows two beautiful women, working their charms on a confused man in between them. A winged cupid points his arrow.

"Lovely. The Lovers… Both Pallas and Venus desire you, my dear Watson. You'll need to choose between love and lust.", Shirley says with a mysterious smile. The question mark on my face encourages her to explain what the card means: "This central card represents our next gang member. Our target is a woman, and our mission is to seduce her, so she confesses her crimes. You'll have to dress up and become a handsome, tall, irresistible James Bond, who only needs a wink and a witty remark to get every woman where he wants her."

"Me? When I'm free from work, I only shave once a week because I scare myself to death every time I look in the mirror. I'm only 1,67 metres tall and weigh 56 kilos. I'm no James Bond, Shirley."

"Then you'll have to disguise and become one, my dear Watson. Don't worry. First, we need to know where we can find that woman. The north arm of the Maltese cross shows the direction. Hm. Batons five. It stands for «engage in competition, struggle with competing egos, stress, chaos»… Then three valets (they represent choices). The hands of the cross are all coins. What do you think?"

"I would say: we need to visit the street market, downtown."

"That was also my first impression. Monday is market-day in Villach. That's where all the pretty ladies offer themselves to the highest admirer, so he can reward their beauty with the attention it deserves. Dress up, my dear Watson. You can't go like this."

I'm getting nervous: "Explain it again, please. The cards order me to seduce a beautiful woman? Do you think I'm sexy? I look like that rock star who has Rod Stewart's nose, Freddie Mercury's teeth, and Elton John's hair."

Shirley smiles at me, with that special smile she gives her grandchildren when they visit her on Sunday morning: "Do you know what I see when I look at you? You're an uptown funk, a coward, a chicken. What does an uptown funk need to seduce a downtown lady?"

"Somebody else who can do the job for him?"

"No, my dear Watson."

Suddenly, my stomach has a problem digesting the razor blades I had for breakfast. The steam from the teapot finds my unprotected forehead for the morning reunion. An icy shiver runs up and down my spine like a five-year-old on the moving stairway in a shopping mall. I'm afraid I'll wet my trousers if I don't go to the bathroom urgently… I'm afraid it's already too late. What's wrong with me?

Shirley reveals the secret: "You're afraid. You need a courage transfusion."

Shirley's voice is soft, calm, and cool like a kiss from an Eskimo woman. She takes my hands and puts them on the table, on either side of the Maltese cross of Tarot cards: "Relax. Everything will be alright. You can trust me. I do things like this all the time. Your left hand is to receive; you put it on the table with the palm up, that's it, and I put my right hand on top of it. Your right hand is to give; you put it on top of my left hand, with the palm down, like this. Close your eyes. It will help you feel better, and it will make it easier to feel how wonderful this is. With my right hand, I'm going to give you my courage. I have so much of it that I won't miss a few megatons. But I can't give it to you without your permission. Open the door, invite my courage in, slowly, there's no hurry, it's warm and welcome, you can feel it in my hand, and if you relax and trust me, you can feel how it wants to fill you, make you strong, warm, beautiful…, but there's no space yet, you're still full of fear, anger and frustration, which we'll need to take out, to make room for the courage, and we'll do it with your other hand, your right hand, the hand that gives, but I can't take it away from you, you have to do it yourself, open the tap and let it flow, say goodbye to your fears, clean up your doubts and tell them to leave, dismiss your worries because you will be much happier without them, give them to me, I can handle them easily, I don't have a problem with your problems, I'm not afraid of your fears, that's right, that's how you do it, I can feel how your fears make your hand cold, so let them go, that's it, and in your left hand, you feel the comfortable courage coming in, it's filling your veins, it's running through your entire body, all the way to your heart, so now, I want you to open your heart for me, let the courage enter one of the chambers and stay there forever, because this is a permanent cure, it will grow, become stronger, and one day, it will be so intense that you'll be able to give this same transfusion of courage to somebody else, because that's how we fight the horrors, the demons, and the ghosts of Christmas past, and with this courage, your mission for today will be easy, those ladies won't eat you, on the contrary, they'll better beware you won't eat them, because you're a tiger hunting for pussy, and they're all so delicious… and you're what they want because a woman likes a man to be confident, self-aware, and above all should he make her laugh, so there's nothing you miss for this Kiss-the-Miss-mission, because I gave you all the courage you'll need to feel confident, as you were already funny enough to seduce even the Abbess of the Sisters of Mercy…"

I hardly notice how Shirley takes her hands away. It's amazing. All my fear has disappeared. I can do anything.

"Are you okay?", she asks.

"Am I okay? I'm more okay than I ever was in my life. Where are those hotshot downtown ladies? This uptown funk is going to give it to them. Don't believe me! Just watch…"

I'm good at this. It takes five minutes to shave and shower, four minutes to pick the hottest clothes from the walk-in closet of the Ambassadors teenage son, three minutes to look paralysed at myself in the mirror, two minutes to practise cool looks and confident body language (I'm a natural), and one minute to hear myself say the magic words of self-confidence: "If you're sexy, then flaunt it. I'm too dam hot. I'm so pretty, I gotta kiss myself."

One minute later, I'm back in the kitchen, dressed to kill: "The name is Bond. Wátson Bond. Will you be so kind as to allow me to escort you to our mission for today, Miss? Did anyone ever tell you that you have beautiful eyes?"

Shirley takes my arm and accepts the invitation: "Lovely. It's a pleasure, Mister Bond. How nice to see you so confident. Fifteen minutes ago, you were quite shaken."

It's a test. I pass it with a cute smile, a wink, and a witty remark: "Stirred. Not shaken."

Michelle Pfeiffer, here we come.

* * *

The Villach street market is immense. With so many people, we need to split up. I'm the bait and Shirley is the angler. I connected my earplug with Shirley's spiPhone, and she instructs me from a distance. She's not really helping.

Austria is the most beautiful country in Europe, and (according to my brief, non-scientific investigation) the Austrian women are the most beautiful in Europe too. All the ingredients for irresistible are here: the magnificent nature invites to live an active and healthy life, the fresh and delicious food supplies the best building materials for gorgeous bodies, and the good-humoured Austrian society creates the finishing touch of sunny smiles and bright eyes, which are the best make-up articles for everyone. My sunny smile and bright eyes attract so much attention that I almost feel embarrassed, but I'm a professional on an important mission, and I adapt to the situation.

My first suspect is Romy Schneider (Shirley picks the women and gives them code-names of famous Austrian ladies, so I know on whom to concentrate my glamorous charms). She's a liddle-over-middle-aged woman with dark hair, struggling with a full shopping bag and a heavy sack of potatoes. I give her my kindest look and say: "Pardon me, ma'am, but a lady like you shouldn't hurt herself with such a heavy load. Allow me to take your burden and transport it to your royal carriage."

When I put her shopping bags into the boot of her car, she says: "Oh, Mister Connery. You're wonderful."

I give her one of my experienced winks, and reply: "I know…", with my deep and sexy voice, but right at that moment, when I'm ready to strike, Shirley interrupts: "Abort. She's not what we're looking for."

I feel relaxed and walk the market like I own the place. I give a euro to an accordion player, buy a bag of sweets for a grandmother with troubles of grandchildren, and chat with the sellers about the fruits and vegetables they offer.

A seller of koi carp tries to interest me in his wares. I pick a beautiful one and ask for its price.

"It's 4.000 euros, Sir, but you won't regret it."

"Okay, I take it. But after you've killed and cleaned it, I want you to bake it for me too. I don't like sushi."

Witty remarks and confidence; the trademarks of a well-dressed spy.

Five minutes later, we find a new suspect: Ronja Forcher, a woman in her early twenties with unbelievable blue eyes. She's in serious danger; 50 kilos of slimy Rottweiler with bad breath breaks free and goes for the fresh blutwurst that Ronja just bought for dinner. Without fear, I throw myself between the ferocious jaws and the long legs — short skirts, break a capsule of OC-V 340 (a.k.a. Tumble Tornado, a strong sleeping gas) under the nose of the dog, and save the day.

Ronja almost kisses my feet when she thanks me: "Oh, Mister Craig, you're wonderful…"

"I know…"

But again it's Shirley who interrupts before I can arrest her, search her, and interrogate her: "Leave her alone. She's not the one. Look at 2 o'clock. Mirjam Weichselbraun."

Mirjam is blond, long, with long blond hair, long legs, blond, and if her front is only half as amazing as her behind, I'm sure she's the suspect we're looking for because I can't think of anything else but interrogate this long, blond beauty in her mid-thirties for hours and hours, during a romantic dinner with candles, wine, a walk in the park to count the stars, and—

Yes, Shirley, I'm working, I'm a professional, I'm on a mission, and I'm concentrating on what I need to do instead of admiring Mirjam's behind. I'm sorry.

Mirjam is hiding her tears behind her hands. The criminal who caused her all that pain doesn't seem to care. He's asking for it. Any real gentleman would treat such a lady with respect. Being such a gentleman, I'm going in.

"I beg your pardon, ma'am, Sir, but a gentleman like me can't stand it to see a woman crying. Is there anything I can do to help?"

The mafia boss looks at me like I'm some kind of uptown funk who just pissed in his beer: "Get lost. And you too, Miss. I have work to do."

I offer Mirjam my shoulder to cry on. After just one look in my gorgeous eyes, she accepts my generous offer with both hands, drying her salty tears on the lapels of my 1.600-euro satin jacket: "Oh, Mister Brosnan… It's horrible… This man, this…"

I give her my clean handkerchief, so she can wipe her tears and blow her nose: "Don't cry, Miss. I'm sure it's all a Miss Understanding. This gentleman wants to do everything he can, to solve this matter."

This gentleman doesn't even wait for Miss Understanding to tidy up: "The lady wants to bring back the garment she bought last week, but she doesn't have the ticket, and that sign over there is clear too: we don't change worn garments, and we don't give you your money back."

I'm glad we're not negotiating with the kidnapper of Mirjam's daughter: "Is that garment big enough to cause so much sadness?"

Mirjam puts her hand up to show the big garment we're talking about. It's not big at all. It's rather small. In fact, it's hardly anything. As I had a clear view of her from behind, I can't even imagine how such a small piece of underwear can cover such a glorious behind. But I do understand why such an article can't be changed or returned after using it: "For a gentleman, this is not worth crying for. It would be an honour and a pleasure for me to return you the money, even without seeing the ticket, Miss."

Mirjam falls into my arms and whispers in my ear: "Oh, Mister Brosnan, you're wonderful…"

Even before I can say: "I know…", Shirley shouts in my earplug: "Abort mission. I've found her. Thirty metres ahead. Do you see that market booth with the sign «Gabriela Serfaus – Antipasti»? It's her. I'm positive."

I'm struggling to escape from Mirjam's hugs and kisses. I can't even look ahead. All I can see is Shirley. She buys a red rose from a flower booth, talks for a second to a little boy, gives him the rose, and points at something thirty metres behind my back. Mirjam is now at the point where she tries to strangle me with her once-worn panties while she growls in my ear and bites my earlobe.

"Please, Miss… I'm a married man."

"Once I'm finished with you, you'll file for a divorce. Hmmm. I LOVE self-confident men…"

I have no choice. My hand finds another capsule of Tumble Tornado in my pocket and breaks it under her nose while I keep my breath. I try to catch her, take her in my big strong arms like a real James Bond would do, but I'm just strong enough to drag her two market booths to my left, where a woman earns her living by selling pillows and cushions for garden furniture. I leave my Sleeping Beauty there, as a living and snoring advertisement for the high-quality merchandise, and hurry back to Shirley.

"What's up? Did I miss anything?"

Right at that moment, the boy returns to receive his reward (a chocolate bar from Shirley's handbag) in exchange for the information she was after: "She said it's not her birthday today. It was three weeks ago. And she doesn't like red roses from anonymous lovers. Do you want the rose back?"

Shirley strikes him through his hair and says: "No, dear. You better give it to your mother and tell her she has a wonderful boy."

When the boy runs away, she turns to me: "Capricorn. That's what I thought. She's well organized, which indicates a responsible, disciplined character and good manners. Do you see how the corners of her mouth point downward? It shows her unforgiving nature, also a Capricorn characteristic. Bitterness is her motive: the world pissed her off, and she wants revenge. She has the profile of a serial killer, my dear Watson. Seduce her and make her confess."

I don't understand. There's no stunning beauty near Gabriela's market booth.

"I don't see her… What's her code-name?"

Shirley looks surprised: "Are you blind? She's impossible to miss."

"Do you mean…"

Shirley nods briefly.

"Do you mean the woman behind the stand? You want me to seduce Gabriela Serfaus? Is she our target?"

"Yes, of course. What did you think?"

"It's better to drug her, kidnap her to an abandoned warehouse, and torture her for months until she sings. I can't seduce that woman, Shirley."

While she keeps her eyes on Gabriela, Shirley lays her hand on my arm and whispers: "Look at her. Look at her eyes, her body language, the way she feels. This is no woman who can be broken by torture. Torture is her middle name. She's been tortured her entire life, by her family, by her friends, by everyone. Gabriela wasn't born a criminal; she's been made one, moulded by the hate of the world she lived in. If you want to make her confess, you'll have to seduce her."

I look at Shirley: "Have you gone mad?"

She's serious: "You're the spy. All your life, you've trained to seduce long-legged, big-breasted, gorgeous women. Her breasts are titanic. Forget she's ugly, fat, and short-legged. Imagine. Inside her blue coverall, she's a fine frame, covered with 150 kilos of disguise. When you look into her eyes, try not to see how both look another way. Go to her and seduce her like she's the most beautiful woman you've ever met. Make her feel like a woman, desired, adored, loved…"

"But…"

"DON'T BUT ME! Stop looking for excuses. Start working on solutions. You said you hated discrimination, right? Then show it to me. Treat every woman the same way. Don't make a difference between good-looking people and ugly ones. And check your mirror now and then: you're not Roger Moore either."

What can I do? Shirley is right. If you're gay, you can become famous; if you're black, you can become President; if you're a woman, you can become a millionaire; but if you're fat and ugly, everybody treats you like dirt. Everybody, except me. I'm brave. Shirley just gave me a courage transfusion. I can do this. I can be friendly, warm, overwhelming, I'm dressed to kill, I'm irresistible, and this girl is mine…

"Hi…"

"Do you want to buy something? We have sweet pecan nuts with Moroccan flower honey. Juicy Greek raisins? A little bunch of intense lavender from the Provence, perhaps? They smell so nice."

"It's… I… I mean…"

"Have you lost your tongue?"

"Can you find it for me? I mean… I don't want to be the next #metoo story, but… Do you see my grandma over there? She doesn't stop telling me that I don't know how to dress… All the time, she pushes me to be someone else. She tells the whole world I'm ugly and dumb, and I will never find a girl, and things like that… And now she saw you, and she keeps telling me I should talk to you, you are nice and still single, which I don't believe, of course, because every nice girl I meet is always married, and granny makes fun of me all the time, telling all over town I've never been kissed, and…

» I give you 100 euros if you give me a small kiss, just to show her she's wrong, that ugly boys like me can have a life too, and be happy and—"

Gabriela grabs me by the back of my head and ends my stupid monologue by planting her mouth on mine, like a hostile soldier plants his flag on the highest hill in his enemy's territory, firmly and determined, not lustful or loving, not tender and sweet, but much more intense, a kiss that contains all her tears from the past, all her memories of being ignored, all the pain of being laughed at, all the loneliness of her childhood, all the lost hope of her adolescence, a large sad kiss that never seems to end, so full of miserable emotions that I have no choice but respond, by closing my eyes, by letting my hand pass gently through her short, rat-eaten hair, making sure there are no flees or lice or other illegal inhabitants that want to cross the border, by kissing her back, by putting my arms around her, by making her solid rock of tense muscles relax into an overwhelming emotion of warmth and softness, by letting her feel that everything is alright now, that she can wipe away all those bitter tears of the aperitif of life, because now is the moment when the antipasti are being served, sweet as pecan nuts with Moroccan flower honey, juicy as Greek raisins, with the intense perfume of lavender from the Provence, holding her in his strong arms, and he promises her that he will not let her go until this seven-course dinner is over, and she promises him back, that he'll pay the check, like a real royal gentleman, and she melts like an iceberg in global warming, and she smells like strawberry fields, and she tastes fresh like peppermint, and her lips are full and soft, and at that moment, there's a complete new sensation entering the stage, the tip of her tongue, not a hungry and horny SWAT-team, going in for a breath-taking deep-throat aggressive takeover, but gentle and curious, exploring the curves of my lips, looking shyly around the corner, where she finds the Ivory Guard, my last line of defence, and she's afraid to go too far, afraid to find a lonely grumpy philosopher who hadn't left his damp cold cave since he was eight years old, when he was let out for just a brief moment, whilst the girl next door shouted names at him, but her curiosity is bigger than her fear, and she breaks through the white wall to see who's hiding behind it, and finally they meet, like two puppy dogs, first prudent and cautious, touching noses, but then confident and playful, enjoying each other's company, two souls of the same kind, sharing experiences, and warmth, and body fluids, as a laugh, clear as Christmas snow, which makes her tears disappear before they hit the floor, and there's electricity, a laser show, music coming from everywhere, I don't want this to stop, but this kiss already lasts longer than most marriages, and I must start breathing or I will faint, and she saves my life by letting me go, and I manage not to fall on the ground, and while I look her in the eye, I whisper: "That was wonderful. I've never been kissed like that.", and she holds me in her strong arms like she will never let me go again, and she takes a deep breath and looks at me, with her sad, grey eyes, whispering: "That's one hundred euros.", and I confess my deepest feelings for her, I will never let her go either, as I click the handcuffs on our wrists, and say: "You are under arrest. You have the right to call a lawyer, you have the right to remain silent, you will spend the rest of your life in jail, and if you ever kiss me like that again, I'll tell the world about it. Rostov! I've never been kissed like that in my life. Why did you ever join that Sieben Gänge gang? Why did you ever decide to take the highway of crime and hate? The mountain path of love is so beautiful. Any man would kill to have a woman like you."

A little tear runs over her cheek: "I never knew… It just happened… The Sieben Gänge gang gave me a chance for revenge. You don't know how it is. You don't know how men are, how people treat a fat and ugly woman like me. I've never been kissed in my life. Until now… I never knew…"

"You know now, dear." Shirley had all the time in the world to come close and hear her last words: "You better come with us. I know a place where you can give all the love you have in you, and nobody will ever treat you badly."

Gabriella breaks loose. With her free hand, she grabs hands full of pecan nuts with Moroccan flower honey and stuffs them into her mouth: "I'm not going to jail. I'd rather eat myself to death."

She's strong. I can't hold her. I'm a flyweight. She's an elephantweight. I can't stop her. But I must; I've never tasted pecan nuts with Moroccan flower honey in my life and she's eating them all… I have one chance: I can break a capsule of Tumble Tornado under her nose, make her sleep like a rose, but Shirley and I can never lift her and transport her. I need something better, and I need it fast, but nothing comes up…

Shirley stays cool: "Don't you know you get pimples when you eat too much Moroccan flower honey? And pecan nuts contain minerals that make your hair dull. It's better to eat Californian walnuts. They make your hair shiny and strong, they are excellent for your blood pressure, and they taste like a spring morning. I happen to have a pack of Californian walnuts in my bag, and I might even share them with you, if you like…"

Shirley holds up her prize and saves the day: Gabriela stops eating, turns around, and looks at Shirley with small eyes.

Shirley smiles: "You have to be lovely, though. You have to calm down and come with us. Nobody will hurt you. Nobody will put you in jail. On the contrary: our people are dying to meet you and all your delicious antipasti. If you promise to be nice, we'll help you pack your stuff and go with you to the Twilight Zone."

"If I do, you give me the walnuts? The full bag?"

"These nuts are to share, dear. Playing together, sharing together. That's what I always say. If you promise to be a nice girl, you'll get your share of the fun and your share of the nuts. Do we have a deal?"

We have a deal. Californian walnuts… Nobody can resist them. They are excellent for your health too: the former Californian governor ordered that walnuts weren't food; they had to be sold as medicine. I help to pack the merchandise in boxes and store them in the back of Gabriela's minivan. I want my share of those nuts too…

An hour later, at lunchtime, Gabriela serves the people from the Twilight Zone their antipasti: "These pecan nuts are excellent for your blood pressure. The Moroccan flower honey gives you the most beautiful cutis, and it isn't bad for your teeth either."

"I love these peanuts." - "They're not peanuts, Resi. They're pecan nuts." - "You're nuts." - "I've just heard that's excellent for my health. I prefer being nuts than being normal like you." - "I'm not normal. If I were normal, I would walk better." - "You should try some of these Greek raisins; they do miracles when you have arthritis." - "Have you tried those walnuts? They look like little brains." - "You're allergic to intelligence, Traudi. You better give your walnuts to me." - "Miss Gabriela, I'm on a diet. Can I get a kiss instead?" - "Of course, Mister Frans. Do you want it on your nose or on your forehead?"

Shirley and I watch how the old-timers love their lunch. Both Michaela and Gabriela seem to enjoy the show. It's an easy win: feeding hungry people satisfies everybody.

"I admire how you drain the evil out of two notorious criminals, Shirley. Every judge in the world would hide those women in the darkest cellar she can find, but you place them in the spotlights and let them shine. The residents love them."

Shirley nods: "A cellar wouldn't work. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that."

"I'm glad we work as a team here. Thanks to your courage transfusion, and thanks to my qualities as a ladies' man, we've successfully completed this mission. I'm looking forward to tomorrow."

Shirley cuts it off: "A ladies' man? You? Look at yourself. Your shoes are too flashy. You're wearing the trousers of a waiter. The knees hanging on your chest prove that your t-shirt belongs to a woman. You're wearing a silver necklace, a bracelet with pearls, and gold-rimmed shades. In January! You have a black bandana on your head with a white Panama hat on top of it and, to make the big picture even more beautiful, you're wearing a silk chewing-gum-pink jacket. You don't know how to dress, my dear Watson. You're definitely not a Leo."