Sheila looks over the menu. “I think I’ll have the lasagne,” she says.
“Lasagne!” Colin exclaims. “You know who else liked lasagne? Hitler, that’s who!”
“Hitler?” Sheila says.
“Yes, Hitler. Actually, it’s the entire reason he joined forces with the Italians during the war, in order to ensure a constant and steady supply of lasagne. He knew they were bollocks in the combat arena, but he needed them to satisfy his culinary desires.”
Sheila checks the menu again. “Maybe I’ll have the pesto and green beans…”
Colin leans forward and puts his elbows on the checkered tablecloth. “Do you know what Hitler ate in the Berghof?”
“The what?”
“His house in Berchtesgaden. Do you know what he ate there?”
“I couldn’t say.”
Colin grins in a slightly wolfish manner. “Lasagne. Do you know what he ate at the Chancellery?”
“Perhaps the veal…” Sheila says, still looking over the menu.
“Lasange,” Colin says. “Do you know what he ate in his bunker?”
Sheila sighs and looks over the top of the menu at Colin. “Lasagne?”
“No!” Colin shouts, pointing at her. “Bratwurst! Italy surrendered in 1943! It was a trick question!”
Sheila signals for the waiter. “Could I have some wine please?”
“Of course, ma’am,” the waiter says. “Would you like to hear what we have in our cellar?”
“Just bring whatever will get me drunk the fastest,” she says.
“Ah, the Wankered Ocelot. A fine choice. I believe we have a box of it shoved up the back of the toilet. I’ll just get my waders on and go take a peek.” The waiter walks off toward the kitchen.
“So,” Sheila says. “Richard’s never mentioned you until he set me up on this date. Have you known him long?”
“Long enough,” Colin says, rolling his eyes. “I swear, you save one person from being gang-raped in a Turkish coffee shop while tripping on a mixture of expired antibiotics and Fox’s Glacier Mints and then you’re best friends for life.”
“You saved Richard from being raped in a coffee shop?”
“Oh no, no. He saved me.” He snorts. “Richard never drinks coffee.”
Sheila notices the waiter come out of the kitchen, wading boots in hand. He sits at one of the empty tables and begins pulling the boots on over his pants and shoes.
“Now I’ve got this life debt hanging over my head I’ve got to worry about. Whenever Richard and I go out, I’m always trying to lure him into some situation where I can save his life, so it’ll all even out. Last month, we went for sushi, and I tried to slip a bit of puffer fish liver onto his nirgiri, but the bastard was too sharp for me. I’m still not sure how it ended up on my California roll, but it wasn’t anything that three weeks in hospital couldn’t cure. Other than a little permanent neurological damage, of course.”
The waiter stomps off in the direction of the toilet.
“Not much gets past old Richard, you know,” Colin continues. “On Monday, I tried to knock him off the curb into traffic, so I could pull him back before he got hit by a lorry, but…” Colin grabs his pant leg and drags his leg out from under the table, revealing the plaster cast that is wrapped around it. “We know how that adventure turned out.” There is exactly one message written in pen on the cast: Sod off, you nonce. Sheila recognizes the handwriting as Richard’s.
Sheila turns to a couple dining at a table beside her and Colin. “Excuse me,” she says, taking one of the couple’s half-full wine glasses. “May I borrow this a moment?” She drains the glass in one fast move, then puts it back, empty, on the table. “Thanks much.”
“I do wish he’d stop fixing me up with all those girls he knows from work, though,” Colin says. “All that talk of insurance and paperwork and indemnity. God, it’s so boring. Makes me want to shoot myself in the mouth, it does.”
“Of course,” says Sheila.
“How do you know Richard?” Colin asks.
“From work,” says Sheila.
“Oh,” says Colin. “Of course.”
The waiter returns, dripping wet from head to toe, holding a plunger in one hand and a large square box with a spigot protruding from it under his arm. “Your wine, ma’am,” he says, dropping the box on the table, rattling the silverware. “It’s slightly moist.”
“I can tell you now,” Sheila says to him, “I’m going to need another.”
The waiter sighs and drops his head. “Of course you will. I should have expected.” He stomps off wetly in the direction of the toilet again.
“Do you know what Hitler drank?” Colin asks. “Exclusively his own urine, filtered through a charcoal bag he kept strapped to his inner thigh, which he would then drink by means of a rubber tube that ran up the back of his uniform and which was hidden beneath his collar. I tell you, there wasn’t much that Werner von Braun couldn’t throw together out of spare Mercedes-Benz parts when he set his mind to it.”
“Waiter!” Sheila shouts.
There is a muffled stream of curses from the direction of the toilet, followed by a loud splash.
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