The ride from Zurich to Inerlakken is a brilliant discovery to those who see it the first time. The deep valleys give way suddenly to a grand scape. The vision of the Alps rising directly from a sparkling lake is spectacular, a near seamless shot of over 5,000 feet to the peaks in some places. The road winds along the western side of the lake, clinging to the wooded hillsides which line the lake shore. I watched the view as much as I could, as it was obscured by the blurred spruces and my limited attention.
I was riding on the driver’s side of a busload of 2-day-excursion tourists, so at least I had the lake-side of the bus. Actually I was driving a bus load of 2-day tourists. Among the international mish-mash was a three piece german metal band called, “DerPhunk” whose manager was apparently more of an entrepreneur than they knew. I expected as much from a man who called himself “Hans Schmitt” so I did my best to look like I didn’t know him when the bickering began.
Schmitt was a tall thin fellow who looked like he had no teeth, even though he’d bear a great, wide smile filled with huge grey chompers after every sentence. His english was quite good even though he pretended it wasn’t, but I could never listen to him for long. I always became distracted by those ugly teeth. Eeech! Nonetheless, his image was consistent, he even wore a camel-colored trench coat (which showed it’s dirt) and a matching fedora.
My german is fairly poor, but I got the impression the boys in the band were expecting a private bus. They were fairly well behaved, but people always tend to think of the bus driver as some type of den mother or something, asking everything from where to pee to where they can buy… well, stuff. I feigned an accent, which I never could quite place, and that was usually enough to keep me out of any prolonged conversations. The fact is though I’m not too proud to drive the bus I still don’t like driving for work, especially when there are other people on the trip. But in this particular case I took a gig to help a friend, for less than usual too. Go figure, huh? I hate working on spec.
He was paying me in cash, which is my preference. For a dash of theatre he paid me half up front, which was just enough for me to arrange – shall we say “acceptable” paperwork to take the trip. When I first met with Hans I wanted to call and ask what kind of friend would hook me up with a bogus outfit like this, but I decided to bite my tongue. I know my pal only as “Nouveau-Hippy,” and the best I could tell was that his little brother was the bass player or something and he wanted to know this Schmitt guy wasn’t going to screw them over too badly.
I knew he would, but that was the favor. Besides, it was fairly simple. All I was supposed to do was show up and do the gig, load up the bus and the gear and take them back to Zurich. It was serendipitous as I had business in Interlakken anyway, and the cash only sweetened the deal for me.
The Hotel du Nord sits across the street from the Interlakken town square. Its vantage is spectacular. The rooms Hans had arranged were surprisingly nice, and in the window of my room the 15,000 foot Eiger was framed like they placed the window first and built the room around it. Outside the window was a small fifth-story veranda with a view back toward town, across the town square. The air was clearer than crystal, and the peak glistened in the sunlight like it was covered with jewels. Interlakken sits only 300 feet above sea level, yet the peak is only 3 miles away.
The town itself sits between two lakes (hence the name) on small plain of about three square miles. The town square is a grass field about the size of 4 football gridirons. It is cornered by the Cornelius (as in Vanderbilt, who needed a place for his daughter to summer), the du Nord and the Casino Grande (which is neither) – all aristocratic hotels built in the 19th century – and the Church of St Ignatius, which was built by monks just after Hannibal and the original horde cleared the way.
I wondered how I was going to find this cat “No-Tech,” and whether or not he was going to be a problem. I knew him by reputation only, as he was sent to me by another friend, a elite hacker known as “LowZero”. I met Z in Toronto at a pawn shop, where I was searching for a telephone to raid for parts, and he was gutting 486’s for the processors. He explained he’d bought 35 surplus 386 motherboards that he’d configured as a neural-net, but the processors weren’t performing to his satisfaction. I was asking him if the management minded him opening their computers when things went awry, and the rest is history. I wasn’t sure why, but this meeting with No-Tech was really important to Zero.
I watched the sky change as darkness fell from my veranda, finishing the last of a bordeaux, white cheese and bread meal I’d picked up at the town grocery. Twenty suisse-francs buys a tasty dinner and a good buzz, and the Alps have some of the most imaginative sunsets in the world. The sky can change rapidly in color, and the sunlight slipping away to the west sends shadows racing up the mountain-sides to the east.
I could hear music wafting across the valley like a smell. Quiet and rhythmic, it seemed to be the tempo of the night seeping into the slow little city. I picked up my things and set off for the gig. It was walking distance, so I started into the evening. The sign over the hotel door said something about closed and 23:00, so I stopped to pick up a night key from the desk attendant. Before I left I asked, “Vo ist der Eishalle?”(that’s pronounced as in, “fargin ice-hole”)
She pointed toward the music I’d heard earlier, confirming my suspicions. “Danke, mien Frau,” I said, then I stepped out the door and turned toward the sound, away from town directly toward the Eiger, whose peak still glowed pink in the last bit of sunlight. The slow pounding of the kick drum and the drone of the bass guitar made a good beacon though the streets which meander here and there – I didn’t think I’d taken the shortest route when I found it.
The Eishalle is a large hockey rink sized thing with one of those half-cylinder designs, Like a huge soda can cut in down the middle and laid on its side. I strolled to the door with the biggest guards. They were standing quietly amongst six or seven musician-types and their hangers on. I approached the one who was smiling.
“Vo ist ‘der Phunk’?” I asked.
“Der Phunk?” he replied, “Du bist tu?”
“Ich bin der, uh…” Trouble here was I don’t speak german or suisse. Only a minor problem though. “I don’t know, sound mixer. You know, twisten knobben?” I made little knob wiggling movements with both hands.
“Ah,” he said, “für der Phunk, yah?
“Yah, yah für Der Phunk.”
He nodded to the other guard who’d moved to the door. He opened it and motioned for me to move inside. I slipped past him into the hall, which was already dark except for the flashing that lit the band playing some droning music which sounded like someone beating a bagpipe with a golf club.
I wandered through the backstage until I found the catering area. I found the band stuffing themselves with free brats, all of them except for the guitarist. He was sitting in the corner, noodling on his unplugged electric guitar.
He was a short-ish man with oriental features. I guessed his age to be late twenties, making him somewhat older than his bandmates. I strolled up to introduce myself, but he didn’t see me coming.
“Your guys look hungry,” I said.
He looked up from his strings. “They’re always hungry,” he said, “if they were half as good at playing music as they are at eating we wouldn’t be stuck here doing this bullshit wiener-fest.” He smiled as he recognized me. “Aren’t you the bus driver?”
“Not today,” I said, “I’m your audio engineer today.”
“I hope you mix better than you drive.”
“Thanks,” I replied as I extended my hand for him to shake, “They call me Trouble.”
His smile grew wider, so that he looked something like a rock-n-roll Buddha. “That doesn’t help my confidence.” He took my hand warmly. “I’m Scooter. But you can call me No-Tech.”
My contact had proved quite easy to find. Now all I had to do was find a way to get his parcel, whatever it was, back to Zero in Canada. That and make sure these guys got paid. This sort of work is always unpredictable, but it pays well. And I don’t have a time clock, at least not one of the traditional type.
He reached into his duffel and produced a small packet of cigarillos.
“Cuban?” he offered, “can’t get any better than these.”
“No thanks, I don’t smoke.”
“Me neither. I think they look much cooler than gum though.” His expression changed slightly and he said, “I really want you to have these. Really. Why don’t you take the whole pack?” He flipped the pack toward me, and I caught it against my chest.
I opened its lid and discovered why. I pulled one of the smokes out and said, “Okay, why not.” It fit nicely in my hand, not too big, and I stuffed the pack into my jacket. “How long are these good?” I asked.
“Not long,” he replied, “but I hear you’re inventive.”
“I can be.” I looked back at the band, who were ogling a blonde-haired girl that was delivering several bottles of beer to their table. “When are we going on?”
“About 15 minutes,” said Shmitt, who had walked up behind me. “Let’s go boys. Schnell, schnell!” Der Phunk scrambled to it’s collective feet and began a chattering shuffle out the door. “And you, driver, get out front. The sound company guy is about to start without you.”
“Okay then,” I said, “Catch you later, Scooter.”
“Yes you will,” he said as he disappeared out the door, “Yes you will….”