ZWEIUNDDREIβIG

Unter Zwei Freunden

"I can't believe it, can you? 'Executive Commandant Markos Wilhelm Schreiber,'…of all the things I've been called in my life, this has to be the best!"

"Don't get too wrapped up in your new name; I've got the same title as you do, remember? If you'll excuse me, I've got the biggest concert of my life to finish preparing for."

"You mean the only concert you've ever given in your life."

"That too."

As nervous as Hermann was, he was actually looking forward to performing, as much as the rest of the pride anticipated finally getting to hear him. Kopa, who also had a part in the afternoon's festivities, was also preoccupied…about whether or not he would be able to sneak in a meal or two or three before the performance. His appetite, since the night Hermann and Markos found him, had not only come back, but had returned several times over. But food was the last thing on Hermann's mind; he was too busy scribbling in his book and conducting an imaginary orchestra to think about eating.

"OK, let's just go over this one more time," he said to Kopa, "we're performing eight songs—

"Nine songs," Kopa interrupted.

"Right, nine songs, and you're singing the seventh."

"No, I'm singing the eighth. Is this a new game? Do I have to add one to every number you say?"

"I would hope not. Otherwise, I'd never be trusted with a dosage chart."

"Do you have any food? I'm starving."

"I don't think so, nothing you're used to, at least. Want a pretzel? I think I've got a few left." Hermann reached into an already opened bag and tossed a pretzel over to Kopa, who sniffed at it and looked confused.

"You eat these?" Kopa asked. "They don't look like anything I've ever seen."

"Yes, they're fairly simple to make, in fact. But on second thought, perhaps we shouldn't be eating these. Salty, dry food isn't good for the voice…I should have known better."

"What about the gazelle my mom and the Outlanders brought back this morning? Could I go have some of that?"

"Not if you want to sound your best. And you shouldn't call them 'Outlanders', they're part of your pride now. You don't refer to Vitani that way, do you?"

"No…but that's what you call them, isn't it? Die Auslander?"

"Not any more I don't; I try to use their names now, when I can remember them. And you probably heard me say 'Aus dem Ausland', 'from the Outlands', not 'Auslander', but I will commend you in that despite never having used either of those words before, your grammar in forming the plurals was completely correct."

"Well, I'm learning from the best."

"Don't, you're going to embarrass me!"

"Who said it was you? Markos speaks German the same as you do." Kopa smiled a wry grin.

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that. Ah—get back here, you're not sneaking off to eat half of that gazelle until we're finished."

"OK, so what can I have, then?"

"Water."

"And what else?"

"More water. Welcome to concert preparation: water, water, and more water. You can eat all you want after we're done."

"But Lied gets to eat all he wants…"

"Who gets to eat what now? What, or who, is 'Lied'?"

"Adila's new cub, that's who. She named him Lied. That means 'song', doesn't it?"

Unbelievable, two cubs with German names in the same week, Hermann thought. "Yes," he said, "that is indeed what it means. I'm curious, how did she come to that decision?"

"Because of you. You're the one who gave her the idea."

"I didn't either."

"Sure you did."

"How? I never even spoke with her about her son's name; all I did was help her through the delivery. And I've got the broken finger to remind me."

"So what? You didn't have to talk to her about it. Songs, music—that's what you do."

"But I'm a physician, not a singer. I 'do' medicine; I sing for enjoyment."

"No," Kopa said, suddenly becoming serious-eyed and philosophical in a way that seemed years beyond him. "Fixing people is your job. Music is what you do."

Hermann didn't try to argue; he knew that Kopa was dead correct, and that anything he would say in response would be positively wrong. "You have a good head on your shoulders, mein Kind," he said. "Very well put indeed. What do you say we go over your part once more?"

"OK, I guess it can't hurt. Count me off."

"Just remember one thing the entire time. And it goes for both of us, not just you."

"What's that?"

"Have fun. Let's get out there and enjoy this the way it's meant to be enjoyed. You make those sixteen short bars your own better than anyone I've ever met."

"Because they're me, right?"

"Exactly, because they're you."

"But aren't they technically about someone's girlfriend packing up and leaving him, and not about being brave and getting better after—

"A detail, Kopa…a minor, unimportant detail."

"Hey Sterlitz, can you help me with the concert arrangements?"

"What does Markos want?" Kopa asked. "I didn't catch it."

"I'm not sure," Hermann said. "I'll go see; you keep at this for just a bit longer."

"Ah, so glad you showed up," Markos said when Hermann walked outside. "I was beginning to think you'd leave all of the work for me."

"What is it you need me for?"

"Just a bit of rearranging here and there. I've set things up so that you and Kopa are in front of this wall, under the overhang. As long as your top notes don't bring the whole cliff down, the sound should be projected outward. There's no acoustical tuning, obviously, and we've got a stack of rocks for a music stand, but given where we are, it's not at all a bad set-up."

"Why would my voice start a rockslide? Isn't that your specialty?"

"Actually," Markos laughed, "in all seriousness, as many times as you've told me that I could stand in Stuttgart and attract vultures flying over Berlin, that whole deal about cracking glasses and such doesn't have anything to do with how well or poorly someone sings. It's all physics; if your voice happens to match the resonant frequency of something, you get vibrations, and if those vibrations become strong enough, voila, broken glass. Skill's got nothing to do with it."

Hermann looked up, rather uneasily, at the rocks overhead. "How likely is it for the two of us to, as you say, 'match the resonant frequency' of that overhang and cause it to drop rather unceremoniously onto us?"

"Remote. I'd hedge my bets on winning the lottery first. Even if you do match the frequency, you'd need to create vibrations on par with an earthquake to bring it down, and the human voice just can't produce that strong of a sound."

"So why did you bother getting me all concerned about it?"

"I've got to keep things interesting around here, don't I? You're more fun when I keep you on your toes."

Hermann started to walk away, clearing away debris as he went. Under his breath, Markos started mumbling:

"Speaking of toes, maybe I shouldn't tell him about his dress shoes until he—

"What?" Hermann interrupted, proving that he had heard every word. "What about my shoes? What's happened to them?"

"Nothing, it's nothing," Markos replied in a desperate attempt at redirection, "help me pick up these stray sticks and leaves. We can't have you performing in a dirty—

"Markos, tell me what happened to my shoes right this instant."

"All right already! Wolfgang got into your suitcase while you were out walking this morning, and when I came inside for a drink, he was chewing on the shoes, OK? Don't shoot the messenger; I didn't have anything to do with it."

"But that pair of shoes was two hundred and fifty Euros! The salesman even custom fit them for me."

"I know. I own a pair myself."

"So are you saying they're completely ruined?"

"Pretty much. I told him to stop; I said 'Wolfgang, put those down at once, Hermann's going to be furious,' but of course he didn't understand me. I forgot, just because he has a German name, it doesn't mean he understands the language. And by the time I repeated myself in what English I could, your shoes were history."

"Anything else I should know about?"

"Yes. He said they tasted delicious."

That afternoon

"And now it gives me great pleasure to present our own Hermann Wolfgang Sterlitz, concert baritone, performing Robert Schumann's Liederkreis von Heine!" Simba's announcement started a wave of cheering from outside, where nobody, the king himself included, knew that there would be two performers that day instead of one.

"That's our signal," Hermann said. "Are you ready?"

"Ready when you are," Kopa replied. "Did my dad pronounce the name of the piece correctly?"

"Yes, he did."

"Good. He's been practicing."

Together, Hermann and Kopa walked out into the sunlight. Hermann was once again dressed to the nines, save for one minor detail: along with his dark gray trousers, necktie and gray university jacket was a bright white pair of running shoes. The majority of the surprised looks from the audience, however, came not from Hermann's ill-matching footwear but from Kopa's choice of concert attire, namely the bowtie that Markos had worn to the previous day's induction ceremony.

"Thanks for the introduction, Simba." Hermann took up a spot in front of the pride. He could hear a faint echo from his footsteps, and surmised that Markos had indeed gotten the set-up correct: all sounds would be naturally projected out and away from the singer to the audience…including mistakes. Hermann tried his best to not let his mind wander too far down that road as he set his book on the stack of rocks, carefully, so as not to upset the balance, and opened it to the required page. Ready to go, he thought as he scanned the faces watching him, save for the all-important disclaimer.

"Meine Damen und Herren, thank you all for coming to this afternoon's performance of Robert Schumann's Opus twenty-four, Liederkreis von Heine," Hermann said, speaking and feeling as if he were standing on the podium of the Waldbuhne. "There will be a brief pause between the seventh and eighth songs, but please hold any applause until the completion of the entire piece…and no flash photography, Markos." Despite the bowtie around his neck and Hermann's mention of the "brief pause," the hints at Kopa's upcoming involvement still went over everyone else's heads.

OK, Hermann thought, taking in a deep breath and knowing that one cub in particular would be listening to and watching everything he did. Here goes nothing.

Morgens steh' ich auf und frage:

Kommt feins Liebchen heut…

In the back of his mind, Hermann knew that without an accompanying piano, the piece didn't sound nearly as good as it could have, but he also knew that nobody in the audience, save for Markos, would know that a piano part existed, or that there even was such a thing as a piano in the first place. For the most part, when his eyes were lifted up from the music, Hermann saw a mixture of contented smiles and utter amazement, both of which he took to be good signs. Rather quickly, however, his self-consciousness evaporated, and he began to pay almost no attention to the actual faces of those who were watching him: the rock backdrop transformed into a wooden wall inlaid with ornate organ pipes; a nearby boulder next to a tree became a Steinway Grand complete with accompanist; the sun was replaced by a sparkling crystal chandelier. So absorbed was Hermann in his own little world that he almost forgot to stop after the seventh of the nine songs in order to cede the podium to someone else. When Kopa walked up to sing his short part, Hermann knelt down on his good leg for a quick word.

"You'll do great," he said, straightening out the bow tie. "Break a leg."

"You want me to break one of my legs? Why?"

"I…I didn't mean that literally. Especially since I'm fresh out of aspirin."

"What do I do if I mess up?"

"Nothing at all. Nobody will ever know." Kopa didn't seem convinced. "Want to know a secret?"

"Okay, what is it?"

"I've already made two mistakes, perhaps three even. Did you notice?"

"No. I didn't."

"Case closed. Now go do your stuff."

As Kopa took a last look at the open book, which Hermann had already placed at ground level for him, he heard a familiar voice speaking in the back of his mind:

"It sounds like you. It is you. Herr Schumann would be proud, that I can say for sure."

Whatever nervousness there was in his expression immediately disappeared. He looked first at his mother, then at his father, and finally at Hermann, who gave an encouraging nod of the head.

"Anfangs wollt ich fast verzagen,"

Now crescendo, Hermann mouthed silently from behind the semicircle of watchers.

"Und ich glaubt ich trüg es nie,"

Even more!

"Und ich hab es doch getragen,"

OK, bring it back down...

"Aber fragt mich nur nicht, wie?"

And ritard through the ending...

"Nicht, wie?"

The last note slowly reverberated away. Ah, screw it, Hermann thought, remembering how he had instructed the pride earlier to not say anything until the performance was completely through. "Bravo, Kopa!" he shouted, touching off a wave of congratulations and cheers. When Simba and Nala both turned and looked his way, Hermann realized, contrary to what he had assumed, that he was not the only one with tears in his eyes.

Midnight

"Hermann, it's Markos…wake up, will you?"

"The crocodile has my credit card…"

I know what will get him up in a hurry, Markos thought. "Hey, Hermann," he whispered, "I have beer. And it's free."

"Where? Where?" Hermann sat bolt upright. "Not cool, Schreiber. Not cool at all. What time is it?"

Markos looked at the shiny gold watch on his left wrist. "As best as I can tell, it's twelve AM, one minute, twenty-eight seconds."

"All right, so why are you…wait a second, since when do you have a watch? Out of the two of us, I'm the only person who wears any sort of timepiece; you haven't worn a watch since the day I met you. Where did that one come from?"

"Don't worry about it. You should go and check on Kopa, I think he's—

When Markos pointed across the room, Hermann grabbed him by the arm. "Let me see that. Why, you thieving rat, that's my watch! Did you take this off me when I was asleep?"

"Maybe?"

"And did you honestly expect that I wouldn't ever find out you had it?"

"I think I need to call a lawyer."

"Give me that; ugh, it's probably contaminated now. This watch is a family heirloom, do you realize that? Look, right there on the clasp, it says 'R. D. S.': Richard Dietrich Sterlitz, better known as my grandfather. Since when do you go about swiping antiques off of your colleagues?"

"Better than swiping mouthwash from the neighborhood drugstore."

"I told you a thousand times, I forgot it was in my pocket! So what did you wake me up for? This had better me important."

"I'll leave that for you to decide." Markos pointed across to where Kopa was sleeping, moving his legs as if he were running and occasionally rolling from one side to the other.

"What's to decide?" Hermann asked. "It's Kopa, asleep, having a dream. By my own admission, I roll around like that all the time when I'm asleep."

"I've never seen you do that in your sleep. Then again, I haven't been stalking you at night."

"Relax, Markos. He's dreaming. Now clam up and go back to—

"No…stop…no!"

"Did you just say that?"

"Do I ever speak English to you?"

"No."

"Does my voice sound exactly like Kopa's?"

"That's a negative."

"Then why are you asking me such a ridiculous question?"

"Don't…stop…"

"Maybe the two of us should stop arguing and wake him up before it gets any worse?"

"Brilliant, Sterlitz."

"Well get a move on then," Hermann said. "You can get around easier than I can." Kopa was still tossing and turning. "It's doesn't look like anything that Executive Commandant M.W. Schreiber can't fix. Drag your duly-appointed tuchus out of bed, it won't kill you."

"Nor would it kill you," Markos groaned as he started to get out of his sleeping bag, but then stopped as fast as he had started. "On second thought," he said, "you do it. Remember when he came to after you spent all night working on him, and I was the first thing he saw? That scream could have touched off an earthquake."

"Perhaps so, but the nearest fault line's hundreds of miles away. I don't think we're in any immediate danger." Markos narrowed his eyes into a scornful expression. "Fine, I see your point. Where's the cane?"

"It's next to your bed."

Hermann rolled onto all fours, picked his cane up from the floor, and wearily hoisted himself to his feet. Still half-asleep, he lumbered over to the other side of the cave, knelt back down, and shook Kopa awake as gently as he could. Hermann could tell that whatever was going through Kopa's head, it was not of the pleasant variety.

"Help! She's going to…Hermann? You?"

"Yes, me. Was ist?"

"Zira! She's here! Where is she, you can't let her—

"She's dead, Kopa. Ist tot, und nicht wieder zurückkomme. Markos shot her, remember?"

"But I just saw her! Why would I see her if she wasn't here? You can't let her get me! Where's your gun? Where's Roberto?"

"Listen to me, there's no need for that. It was just a dream, and we don't need to go wake up Roberto. Zira's not here, I promise."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because if she were alive, I wouldn't be here talking to you. Thanks to Markos, however, I'm still breathing, and she's buzzard bait. Do you want to take a stroll outside? Sometimes it helps to walk around a bit and clear the mind; that's what I always did when I was young. The stars ought to be incredible tonight."

"No! Geh nicht! Don't leave me in here!" Kopa managed to wake up his parents with his plea to Hermann.

"Kopa, what's wrong?" Simba asked.

"Alles unter Kontrol," Hermann quickly said. "I've got it, don't worry."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," Hermann replied, feeling a tap on his shoulder. "Markos, what now?"

"You're not going to get anywhere going on and on about 'clearing the mind'. So stop being a doctor and talk to him—

"But I am a doctor."

"Yes, thank you, Captain Obvious. We all know that."

"So then what am I supposed to sound like?"

If you let me finish, I'd tell you. Stop talking like a doctor, and talk to him as a friend. There, the oracle has spoken…good night!"

"That's it? You're going back to sleep now?" He didn't receive an answer; Kopa was still huddled up in a ball, nervously looking around and jumping at every noise he heard. I guess this one really is all on me, Hermann thought. "Kopa, komm her zu mir, bitte. Come over here."

Kopa slowly uncurled himself, looked first to his left and then to his right, and finally sprinted over to Hermann and dove headlong under the sheets. "I've seen cannonballs move slower than that," Hermann mused aloud as he got back into his bed, making sure he didn't squish the other occupant with his legs as he did so. "Can you come out of there for a moment?" he asked.

"You promise she's not here?" a muffled voice replied.

"I promise, you're completely safe. And furthermore, it's much better for you to breathe in fresh oxygen than the smell of my disgusting feet. They haven't been washed in days." Kopa carefully stuck his head out, the rest of him still glued to Hermann's side. "She's not here," Hermann found himself saying over and over again, partially for his own sake as well as Kopa's. After a minute or two, blessed reality finally began to sink back in.

"Calmed down a bit? You were wound tighter than a top for a moment there."

"Yeah, I'm OK. Thinking Zira was still alive, that she was about to get me…pretty dumb, huh?"

"No, not really. Pretty commonplace, if you ask me." Hermann stopped himself before he launched full-on into a discussion on the effects of PTSD; it was all he could do to keep the medical professional in him from taking over the controls. "In fact, I had a dream like yours as well, not too long ago. I was in the hospital when the bomb exploded. I saw Friedrich pick up the package…it was the worst dream I've ever had in my life. That was why I couldn't sleep for those few days after I found out about the bombing; it's why I kept taking walks outside."

"Really? I didn't think you got scared by those kinds of things."

"Not scared as much as…disturbed. Thrown out of equilibrium, if you will, if I wasn't already."

"Huh? Was that German or English?"

"I'm not sure myself."

Kopa turned over and looked up at the ceiling. "Do you have to leave in two days?" he asked. "Do you have to go back to Germany?"

"For a certain period of time, yes," Hermann answered. "But I'll be back as soon as I can. And if you ever get scared at night again, just think of all the good times we've already had. That's certainly what I'll be doing if that hospital dream rears its ugly head. Try it…put all those other, bad images out of your mind, and think of something good." Kopa flipped all the way onto his back, still looking vacantly upward. "What are you thinking of?"

"I'm in Stuttgart, with you," Kopa said. "You and I are doing your rounds together."

"I see, so you're a doctor now?"

"Yeah, I have a white coat just like yours, and a gray jacket with three red bars, and—

"Three red bars? So not only are you a Stuttgart alumnus, you also graduated in top-notch standing. What's your professional specialty then? What field do you work in?"

"'Field'? What do you mean?"

"Most doctors specialize in specific area; Markos and I are general internists, for example, my friend Karl is a gastroenterologist, Ludwig and Amelia work in radiology—

"I do what you do. That's my specialty."

"Got it, so you're an internist like I am.

"Right, one of those…the best one in all of Germany!"

"The best in the country, are you?"

"Uh-huh, and I sing to everybody too, just like you did when I was hurt," Kopa added. "Just to make sure they don't get too scared." His eyes started to droop.

"So not only do your patients survive and return home happy and healthy, they also go out and buy the complete works of Mozart on CD and began studying to enter conservatory," Hermann said with a shared laugh between himself and Kopa. "But there's one question that's bugging me: how would you ever hold a chart?"

"You carry it for me," Kopa answered. "Or I hold it in my mouth if your hands are too full."

Hermann smiled again as a new vision of Kopa began to form in his mind: a lion cub who, as the evolving description became more refined, acquired a white lab coat complete with name lettering, a mahogany desk with business cards, a medical diploma on the wall in a brand new office, a secretary to take notes and receive phone calls. "I'm sure you'd be an excellent doctor," Hermann said. "You've got the heart for it in you, and that's ninety percent of the job. The other ten percent is just memorization and technicalities."

"It could happen." Kopa closed his eyes and nestled his head into the crook of Hermann's arm. "We'd be the best…two doctors…Germany's ever seen."