Berlin

As Sophie Lapierre stepped on the house porch and sat on the wooden swing painted and built by her father, night had long fallen halfway across the world in Europe’s new capital. On this early Sunday morning, Berlin was mostly silent aside from crowds finishing last calls in smoky bars.

Two blocks north of the tall tower, hovering as the new headquarters of the United Nations, hundreds of tourists were roped in the street fighting for the honor of getting a glimpse of a man eating French fries in the dinette. Emilio Sanchez was the world’s most recognizable figure and by far the most respected. His title was President of the United Nations. All in the line holding tickets for a seat knew patrons in the small structure would leave as the man sat. The Berlin franchise of the small Johnny Rockets was made recognizable simply because of this one patron. At the moment, twice-elected obese President Emilio Wamarez Sanchez was finishing a small plastic basket of chili covered fries from the back of his U-shaped booth. That alone was newsworthy.

The American dinette was colorful and hip from any distance. The decor was a throwback to a nostalgic time when Elvis Presley and Marilyn Monroe were walking 5th Avenue. The shiny red leatherette stools flanked a long aluminum counter. Here fountain drinks were still served in large plastic cups and the cupcakes were on purpose saggy. The low quality of the food and the rudeness of the staff made most of the charms of this place. Tall wooden hovering statues were at best politically incorrect. Native American icons held false cigar boxes. Jukeboxes with vinyl records still worked if patrons dared slide coins in them.

The Presidential booth located on the side was the reason why most were here so late. The excitement in the air was palpable as President Emilio Sanchez worked from his designated booth. The overweight Mexican was middle-age and worked from a cluttered table. Between the baskets of fries and the ketchup squirt bottles was a wooden chess board; the game was half played. It laid between crumpled paper envelopes. The President, pen in hand was trying to write something important. His hand-written messages were sealed in many numbered envelopes.

“Darling, you done?” asked the tall waitress to her esteem guest from the back of the counter. The staff enjoyed putting on a show for all to see when the President was there. They often went as far to exchange insults on the food.

“Do I look like I am anywhere close to being done.” His basket was half full. The patrons enjoyed every word of the exchange. Most held phone cameras and were filming live on social media. From the corner of her eye, the waitress saw a little paper scroll out of a printer. She ripped the inch of paper with a twist of the wrist and as she grabbed an empty cup of coffee and the whole warm pot from the burner, she walked over to the President. Towering over him she pushed the table chaos until there was room for the white coffee cup. As she poured, she spilled some on an envelope with the number 133. Emilio looked up and grabbed that envelop. He memorized the number. This wasn’t a coincidence. Nothing about this man was normal or a coincidence.

After reading a chess move from the paper in her hand, she looked down and grabbed a chess piece on the board and moved it throwing the white ball into his half-empty soda cup. “Really?” said the President with a smile looking at the move on the board.

“I guess.” Visibly someone else was playing and printing these moves.

“Really!” repeated the President talking to himself happy to be playing chess while he worked on the envelopes. He grabbed a empty notebook with the other hand. Emilio’s eyes began to move and flutter as the man’s exceptional mind was calculating his next move. Before she had finished to place more creamers from her apron next to his cup, he had his next move. “Bishop C4, no, Jester C4, I must start using that word,” he told her. She memorized the instructions and turned back. Then there was silence in the diner as the door bell rang. Emilio looked up and saw his two best friends push the door open under a flow of flashes from the crowd. First in was a tall man in an officer’s outfit. His hat was tucked under his arm. Following him closely was a short fashionable Chinese man.

“Sir,” said Patrick Martin stopping in front of the table. The Chinese man looked in discuss at the table’s chaos but stayed silent.

Emilio grabbed several of the envelopes, stacked them in a pile and handed them to the tall man. “Give those to Paul. He is waiting for them. Ask him to write them clearly in this notebook and put the book under the seat of the flight out to Mars. Tell him 133 must be implemented on the ship.”

“Implemented?”

“He will know. There is little time, maybe a month.” Emilio looked at the Asian man, “Yes?” he asked knowing very well what was coming next.

“Mister President, you have fifteen meetings tomorrow morning alone. You must go to sleep. It is very late.” The man was expressionless. “And this food is not healthy. You will not be able to sleep with all this coffee. I ordered a salad in your home.”

“It’s decaf Kaï,” yelled the waitress from the register. This seemed to please the man. President Emilio was clearly cherished by everyone in this room. There was more than admiration. The printer spurted more numbers and the lady snapped as if to break the strange dynamic between the President and his personal assistant, “Bishop C5.” Emilio smiled as he moved the piece on the board.

“She likes her bishops... She does.... is she trying to tell me something?” Emilio looked up and saw the television click open as if by magic. There was a breaking news on CNN and he knew someone wanted him to see this. A column of white smoke was rising on Mars from the gigantic canyon.

This was the same column Sophie had seen minutes ago from half way around the world. But Emilio was the President and had ordered a mission there. He alone in the room knew what this meant and it was far from good.

He cringed, nodded his head in disapproval and just whispered to himself. “Shit.”

Everyone in the room heard him and knowing the President, a cold breeze ran up every spine in the room.

Emilio looked at his hand and moved it quickly as if to wave a fly. “Can you see this?”

“What sir?” answered Patrick.

Emilio packed his papers, slapped an old twenty dollar bill on the table and the party left the diner without one more word.