On the stage, I turned to look. A huge, glaring spotlight was practically putting my eyes out. Adrift and disembodied were the masks, masks, masks, all pointed in my direction. And below it were the boots, boots, boots, stamping in a colored rippling haze of lights, ready, I was sure, to kick the daylights out of me.
What? No mention of tables, tables, tables?
Though he'd intended to recite a poem he learned when he was six, "The Brave Hec at the Battle of the Blim," Gris is struck with stage fright and can't remember the words. He almost tells an old Apparatus joke about two agents who thought the other was female until ending up in bed together, but decides he shouldn't advertise the fact that he's part of a murderous paramilitary group. In desperation, Gris falls back on bird calls.
Yes, the fact that Gris occasionally blasts songbirds for sport has become a plot point of sorts.
Gris whistles and chirps the calls of the "mountain thriller," "meadow warbler," and "marsh hen," while his audience stares in silence. Fear gives way to frustrated annoyance, and Gris glowers at them before declaring "Well, the birds like it!"
And that leaves everyone in side-slapping, foot-stomping, rip-roaring laughter. Gris scurries back to the safety of his table while someone from another party gets up to play a "sonic-light drum." And like the teenage fans of Dave Chappelle who drove the comedian to an early retirement by endlessly, mindlessly repeating the line "I'm Rick James, bitch!", the audience ends every subsequent performance by asking "did the birds like it?"
It's only then that Gris, a trained covert operative, notices the balcony with the reporters and TV cameras on it, scouting for rising stars or filming filler to air in the event of a slow news day. The Apparatus of course hates the press, and one of Lombar Hisst's sayings is "The victims have no right to know." Gris is understandably uneasy with the thought of being filmed, as his party includes a worlds-famous actress, a playboy commando supposedly on a secret mission, and a convicted murderess working for a not-quite-secret government agency, but then the spotlight hits his table again - it's time for another performance.
The next four pages are all Heller and Krak dancing. It's just as exciting as it sounds. They get up and do the "Manco Mancho," the "nursery folk dance of Manco!" which involves holding a cloth in your teeth. This evolves into a form of dance-Capoeira as the two work combat exercises into their routine. And then there's gymnastics, and cartwheels, and it all culminates in a magic act as Heller flourishes a sheet and the Countess disappears, popping up at their table while Heller theatrically searches for her in the sheet. How droll. The audience goes bonkers, of course, that's our hero up there.
The chapter ends with Heller ordering another round of drinks, while Gris nervously eyes the cameras, fearing retribution from his ruthless boss.
Back to Chapter Three
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