How To Destroy The Universe

The evil twin

As I walked to the hotel, I realised that I was hungry. So instead of going back, I decided to walk into the city and find a place to eat. I didn't feel like showing up at a hotel right now. Mister K. might be looking for me there.

I entered the narrow streets and saw a small Italian-looking place called Pedroccio. I went to that place and nodded to the waitress. The waitress nodded back in a polite manner. I took a seat in the farthest corner and pretended to look at the menu.

In five minutes, the water – a middle-aged woman wearing an apron – spoke to me with a heavy French accent.

'What do you want, sir?'

'I'll have a lasagna and tea. And some wine. If that's okay.'

'Sure, do you want tea first or the wine?'

'Bring everything together,' I said, trying to get rid of her.

'Certainly, sir.'

When she left and I was left alone, I looked around. The place I was sitting in was definitely not authentic Swiss. In fact, it wasn't even in the city, but rather trapped in a narrow alley between the two large streets of Geneva. I thought about walking to another, more authentic restaurant (isn't it weird to have Italian food in Switzerland?) but quickly decided against it. The less I walked – the less probability was there that I would meet that psycho.

I'll call the police if I see him again, I decided. Beside me was a poster of some Italian guy with a moustache, holding a can of tomatoes. The guy suspiciously looked like that Stanley Doyle which made me think, again, of that mysterious mister K. I tried to not think about him anymore and instead, focus on why I came to Switzerland in the first place.

To get the fucking photos.

While I waited for the order, I opened my notebook where I had the local number of Doyle's secretary and dialled that number in my phone.

Three rings went by sounding different than they sounded back in America. I heard this happened when you called somebody by 'roaming.'

Finally, the rings broke off and a hoarse voice of a middle-aged American woman came through:

'Yes, this is Margaret Green. Who is this?'

'Hi, uhh, this is Jack. We spoke on the phone earlier. From the New Observer?'

'Oh, right. The reporter who forgets to take the photos of people he interviews. I remember, alright. What do you want?'

Was this the roaming transmission, or did her voice sound more aloof now? As if she didn't want to talk to me anymore? I thought but decided to pay no attention.

'Well, I am in Geneva right now. And as we discussed on the phone, I'd like to arrange a photo session with Stanley. It shouldn't take more than fifteen minutes of his invaluable time–'

'What? Fifteen minutes? What are you planning to do in fifteen minutes? Paint a picture of him in watercolours? Young man, do you know how busy Mr. Doyle is?'

'I guess yes, I mean I just wanted to–'

'No, you don't! And you know why? Because you reporters have no real job. You waste your time and everybody else's. You are parasites to the Earth!'

This was a bit unexpected.

'Alright, Mrs. Green. Can we please arrange a date and time that's convenient for Mr. Doyle? I'll be leaving Switzerland in three days.'

'So what? You want us to follow your agenda? This was your mistake, remember!'

'I remember, Mrs. Green, and I really need these photos taken. It would really-really help me if you could arrange a time and date with Mr. Doyle.'

I tried to sound as calm as I could, given the sudden unforeseen explosion on Margaret's part. That seemed to work quite well because after a short pause she said:

'I am sorry that I said all those things. I am not feeling quite well these days. The doctors gave me pills and they're not working.'

It felt like talking to another person.

'What, are you sick?'

'Yes, bipolar disorder. That's what they say. I can be a bit offensive at times.'

Of course I know what a bipolar disorder is, you stupid bitch. Now I don't give a fuck about your problems, I just need the goddamn photos!

'It would really help me if we could have those p–'

'Yes, yes. I remember. The photos. Of course. Let me see what I can do. Can you hold?'

'Certainly.'

'I'll be back in a sec.'

The music started playing on the other side of the line. I sat motionless at my table, staring at the picture of an Italian Stanley Doyle holding a can of chopped tomatoes. What a day.

'Here's your lasagna, sir. Your tea. And wine,' said the waitress, putting my food on table.

I nodded and politely smiled to her.

'Is there anything else I can help you with?'

'Yes, please bring me the check. Immediately.'

'Of course, sir.'

The waitress left. I put the phone on speaker mode and lay it on the able. Then I cut my lasagna in four pieces and put one in my mouth. It felt hot and burnt my tongue. As I was reaching for the wine to alleviate the pain, I heard the phone crackle, so I hurried to pick it up.

'Yes? Yes? I am here, Mrs. Green.'

I took a large gulp of wine.

'Yeah, Jack. So here's the thing. There are no slots available this week in Mr. Doyle's packed schedule. He doesn't like to be disturbed while working at the CERN. And after that he has a conference in Berlin and another one in London. Listen, if you can't do your job properly as a reporter, that's not my fault. Goodbye, I have no interest in speaking with you anymore.'

Again, it felt like Margaret was consumed by an evil twin.

'Margaret, wait!' I yelled in the phone but it was too late. The line had been disconnected.

'What the fuck is going on?' I asked my lasagna.

No answer followed, so I decided to eat it.