VIERUNDDREIβIG

Auf Wiedersehn, leb' wohl

"Hermann?"

"Ja?"

"What was Friedrich like?"

"What was he like? He was a good man, one of the best I've known in all my life, and he taught me just about everything I know. What I don't know is how he managed to do everything that he did, being the Chief of Medicine and all. When you're the Chief, der Chefarzt, of a major hospital in Baden-Würtemburg, everything and then some is on your shoulders."

"What does that word mean? I haven't heard you use it before…is that because it's bad?"

"Which word, 'Chefarzt'? No, it's not a bad word at all; it just means 'Chief of Medicine'. And it's a good bit easier to say, as well. Who knows, maybe I'll have that word in front of my own name some day."

"Was it fun to learn from him? Did he ever get mad at you? Sometimes my mom and dad get mad at me when I don't act like I'm supposed to."

"Yes, it was fun. Being his student was a privilege the likes of which one only gets once in a lifetime. And he could get cross, but he had to be that way. If you make a mistake, that's probably the end of it. If I or any of the other doctors screw up, on the other hand, people wind up in early graves, and that doesn't look good on our record. But it wasn't so much that Friedrich was mad at anyone; he just knew that we were all capable of better work, and didn't want us to settle for anything less."

"Is that why you respect him so much? Because he was a good teacher?"

"That's part of it, but not all of it. Friedrich Ross could teach with the best of them, but at the same time, he also knew how to do something just as important, something which very few other instructors can lay claim to."

"What was that?"

Hermann's eyes went a bit cloudy. "He knew how to be a good friend. Just like someone else I know." It wasn't any mystery to Kopa who this 'someone' was. "There was only one thing he couldn't do that I was aware of," Hermann added. "He couldn't play the piano to save his life. When he sat down at that keyboard, everyone else ran and hid; it sounded like a vulture getting strangled while being dragged over a belt sander."

"Sort of like you when Adila broke your finger?"

"Yes, exactly like…hey! I did not sound like that at all!"

"Sure you didn't."

Hermann saw he wasn't going to win this round. He turned over to get up, but wound up rolling straight onto the revolver under his belt. He had forgotten, of course, that he had taken it with him and that he no longer needed to go about armed in the first place. "Stupid thing," he said. "Old habit, I suppose…you know what they say about those."

Kopa gave him a blank stare.

"You don't know? The expression is 'old habits die hard'." It was the second time, much to Hermann's satisfaction, that he discovered an idiom in English known only to him. "I can't believe I actually brought this with me today," he remarked, turning the shiny silver pistol over a few times in his hand. "With Zira gone, it's all but useless now."

"Useless? Vitani told me you shot a hyena dead with it," Kopa said. "I bet you can't do it again."

"Who would I be to take that bet?" Hermann countered. "There are no hyenas here to begin with!"

"OK then…see that gourd hanging from the tree? Shoot that instead. If you miss, you have to cook dinner and recite a poem for me before I go to sleep. One that I haven't heard yet…and it can't be Heine, either. You always pick him."

"And what's your punishment going to be, Kopa the Confident? What happens if I make the shot?"

"Don't know…I'll think of something, though! Promise!"

Good enough, Hermann thought as he lined up his shot, slowly closing his left eye as he brought the gourd into his sights. He knew he had made harder shots in the past, and had every intention of placing a bullet dead in the middle of his target. And then suddenly, it dawned on him that there would be no better way to spend his last night with Kopa than to carry out exactly what had been outlined in his forfeit. He discreetly aimed to the left, fired, and watched for the result. As expected, nothing happened except for the noise of the shot.

"Oh dear, it seems I've missed." Kopa looked ecstatic, knowing what now awaited him in the evening. "Can I have another shot, just for posterity?"

"Sure," Kopa said, "but that last one was the only shot that counted."

"Just as I hoped." Without further warning, Hermann raised the pistol again, fired, and blew the gourd out of the tree all in the span of a second, not even bothering to steady his aim with his left hand. "A word of advice, Kopa," he said as both turned and headed for home. "Don't ever take bets unless you're absolutely sure you can win. Others might not be as accommodating as I am."

That evening, 1830 hrs.

Out of the corner of his eye, Kopa caught Markos building the framework of a campfire. "You can put the wood down, Markos. Hermann's cooking tonight."

"Hermann? Cooking? But Hermann cannot cook."

"I heard that, you idiot," Hermann shouted as he came around the corner, carrying more wood. "And I'll have you know, I cook just fine."

"What's your definition of 'fine'?" Markos replied, switching into his native language. "Your dinner guests don't need a prescription to go with their meal?"

"You've never complained about my food in the past."

"Yes, because every time I've had it, I was so drunk that a steaming heap of road kill would have looked appetizing."

"That can be arranged," Hermann said, pointing to where a flock of vultures had gathered in the distance to feed on something that had long since given up the ghost. "What do you think this is, anyway…fine dining? We're off the map in the African bush; Kopa's not going to bring you a pan-roasted filet of cod with balsamic glaze and a shot glass of cognac."

"I would hope not. You drink white wine with fish, not cognac."

"Huh?

"I said, white wine is what you would normally drink with fish. Sauvignon Blanc, Chardonnay, Riesling…you know, the slightly off-white stuff that comes in a tall glass bottle?"

"Have you been reading Wine for Idiots again?"

"No, my father collects it. Couldn't help but pick up a few bits of trivia before I left the house, if for no other reason than to annoy you with them."

"Fine then, you get a point for knowing a useless factoid. How about finding us some wine instead of just babbling on about it?"

"Sure thing; I'll file that right in with your requests for the Laundromat and the nine-hole golf course. And, by the way, cognac is served in a snifter. Not a shot glass." Markos jogged off to retrieve the portions of meat he had prepared earlier that day, leaving Hermann and Kopa alone.

"It's so quiet…so beautiful," Hermann said, taking a long, wistful look around.

"It's only quiet because Markos is inside, and Vitani's taking a nap," Kopa replied matter-of-factly.

"I meant it more in an all-encompassing sense…but you've got a point. Things are never too peaceful when those two are about. But I wouldn't ever change it for all the money in the world, would you?"

"Nope. No way."

"I'm really going to miss this, mein Freund. Chaotic cubs and all."

"But what about Stuttgart? Don't you miss being there, too?"

"Yes, of course. My parents and friends live there, after all; it's my home, and it always will be. But there's no law that says 'home' can't be more than one place. And luckily for Markos and me, we managed to bring a bit of old Deutschland along with us." Hermann gestured to the top of Pride Rock. "Now whenever we come back, we'll never be too far from Germany. And neither will you."

"But I'm not German."

"Nobody's perfect."

When Markos came back with approximately twenty-five portions balanced precariously between his arms, Hermann's instincts told him that his duties as executive chef were no longer limited to two-legged customers. Hermann had originally planned on preparing the evening meal for only himself and his colleague—after all, the others didn't have to cook their food in order to eat it—but it now seemed that events were destined to take an unexpected turn towards a full-scale barbeque.

"You've got to be kidding me," Hermann said aghast, "you actually think we're going to cook all that?"

"No, I think you're going to cook all that. I'm going to sit back and watch."

"You're insane! We're the only two here who can't eat that stuff raw, so why can't everyone else have theirs—

"Because ever since we started grilling meat, it caught on with the others like free beer at Oktoberfest. Ask Kopa if you don't believe me."

"Fine. Kopa, how do you want yours, plain or—

"Cook it!" Kopa said before Hermann could finish. It wasn't what the chef-elect wanted to hear, but as he had lost a fair bet—and entirely of his own volition at that—he didn't have the slightest makings of a leg to stand on.

"Guess you shouldn't have lost that little wager, eh?" Markos chided, loving every minute of Hermann's misery. "You know what I always say, 'Don't ever take a bet unless you're absolutely sure of the consequences'."

"That's funny," Hermann said without turning around to face the addressee, "I have a saying like that as well: 'It's always wise to shut your big mouth before my foot winds up in it'. Get the picture?" Hermann thumped his walking stick into the ground a few times, just to drive home the point.

"Vitani, come quick!" Kopa shouted excitedly. "Cane fight!" Unfortunately for Vitani, though, the promised altercation never materialized past the point of harmless bickering, and she, along with Kopa, was thus left rather disappointed. Around the fire, the rest of the pride was slowly filing in as dinner neared completion and the smell of roasting meat began to waft through the air. Several of the lions, adults as well as cubs, were watching with great interest as Hermann carefully flipped over each steak every few minutes, occasionally tapping the heel of his hand with his right index finger before doing the same to the food.

"What are you doing that for?" Vitani asked. "Does that make it cook?"

"Not quite," Hermann said. "It tells me if the meat is done or not. When it's about as soft as that part of my hand, then it's done. Unfortunately, though, we've only got water to drink," he mused out loud. "All of Markos's wine talk has got me thirsty again, and not for plain old H2O either."

"Actually," Simba said, "we've got something for you. A little good-bye present, as it were; mind you, we don't know exactly what it is, but you of all people can probably tell us." Simba walked into the cave and came back out a moment or two later, carefully carrying something in his mouth. Hermann could tell that it was a bottle of some sort.

"It's wine," Hermann said to Markos, "or at least, a wine bottle. Do you recognize it?"

Markos took the bottle from Simba and looked at the label, gasped, and looked at it again. "Hermann, this is…"

"It's a bottle of wine, from God-only-knows-where."

"It's not just a bottle of wine, it's a Chateau Lafite! Is the cork still all the way down the bottle neck?"

"Yes, and the foil's intact. It hasn't been opened."

"Then my friend, you've quite literally got a thousand Euros in your hands. What I want to know is, what the heck's a vintage Bordeaux doing out here?"

"So do I…Simba, where did you ever get this?"

"Some time ago," Simba explained, "we had a group of people camping about an hour's walk away. I'm not sure where they were from or what they were doing, but they seemed to have lots of nice things, and they always walked around in these strange white coats."

"They must have been researchers of some kind…rich, well-funded ones, from the sounds of it! And the white coats were just lab wear, nothing too strange about it; I've even got one myself. But how did you know they were here if they were camping a full hour away?"

"We could smell what they were eating for dinner. Whatever it was, it was good, and there was lots of it! They never saw me, of course, but I saw them, and every time I came to see what they were up to, they were eating and drinking and having a good time. When they finally left after a month or so, this was just lying on the ground where the campsite was. They must have forgotten it; maybe it fell out of a suitcase without them knowing."

"Ask him if it's been kept inside out of the sun," Markos said, already licking his lips in anticipation.

"Have you kept it inside and cool since you found it?" Hermann asked.

"Yes, I just put it in a corner, near where I sleep at night. It hasn't moved since."

"Markos, it's cherry," Hermann said.

"Well what are you waiting for?" Markos immediately replied. "Open it!"

Using his pocketknife, Hermann cut the foil away and managed to wrest the cork from the bottle as the last of the steaks finished cooking. Markos ran inside and retrieved the pair of glasses, and soon the whole pride was seated around the fire enjoying the fruits of their honored guest's labor.

"Are you going to taste that sometime this year?" Hermann scolded, watching Markos swirling the wine around in his glass as Kopa tore into a piece of meat. "You're supposed to drink the wine, not play with it."

"Of course I am, but with a bottle this good, you have to smell the wine, embrace the wine…be the wine…"

"Nerd."

"Neophyte."

"What exactly is this 'wine' stuff?" Simba asked Hermann.

"It's what Kopa does whenever I beat him at tag," Vitani interrupted.

"I do not!" Kopa shot back.

"Do so!"

"Do not!"

"Kopa, Vitani, ruhig, bitte!" Hermann pleaded. "I was going to say that wine, w-i-n-e, without the 'h', is a drink made out of grapes."

"There's no danger of you getting stuck up a tree in an hour, is there?" Simba asked, knowing that most things classified by Hermann or Markos as 'drinks' were apt to carry along some interesting side effects.

"No, hardly," Hermann said. "It's rather low in alcohol, and besides, that whole tree business is Markos's area of expertise."

"What's it smell like?"

"Let's see…there's a definite earth tone underpinning and a bit of red fruit, maybe a touch of oak here and there as well. What you do think?"

Simba took a quick sniff and wrinkled his nose. "Rotten grapes."

Fine, all the more for me, Hermann thought has he poured himself another glass. "So, what's the consensus?" he said. "Does my grilling measure up?"

"Do you hear anyone talking?" Simba asked.

"No."

"Then I'd say the consensus is positive."

It took everyone a long time to finish everything that Hermann had cooked—perhaps one hour, perhaps two, but nobody was interested in counting. Together, Hermann and Markos managed to polish off the Chateau Lafite with no ill effects, while many of their dinner guests wondered silently how on Earth either of them could drink something that smelled to them, for all intents and purposes, like fruit that had been left to rot. Hermann thought for a moment about explaining the basics of viticulture, if for no other reason than to pseudo-justify his choice of beverage that evening, but he soon realized after finishing his last bite of meat that the darkness of night had descended, and that he, along with most of the others, was incredibly full and incredibly tired. Still, he and Markos had enough energy for one last round of farewells.

"Come back soon, OK?" Nala said, standing next to her mate and looking sorrowful as Markos put the last of his clothes into a suitcase. "Have a good trip back to Germany; we'll keep the concert hall and the bed set up for you. Kopa will just have to share for as many nights as you decide to stay."

"Vielen Dank. I promise, I'll come back as soon as things settle themselves a bit at work. We're going to have a long road in front of us, now that Friedrich's gone. They'll probably want me to recite kaddish at his funeral."

"You'll do fine," Simba reassured him. "Just remember, as long as you keep your teacher close to your heart, he's not really gone."

"Again, thank you…I won't ever forget that. And Adila, take care of yourself, and don't let Vitani and Wolfgang teach Lied too many ways of making mischief."

"I will," Adila said. "Sorry about breaking your finger, by the way."

"No worries. It's mostly healed anyway."

"Good, I'm glad. Say goodbye to Hermann, Lied." Hermann gave a small wave, but Lied immediately tried to hide himself under his mother's front leg. "Kids," Adila laughed, "human or lion, they must be all the same: shy as can be at first, and then suddenly you can't buy a second's worth of silence."

"I know. I have a coworker who's rather like that."

Hermann had many more words that night, with just about every lion and cub in the pride. Every sentence was a fight to keep his composure, even though he had promised everybody that he would be back as soon as he could manage the trip. The accolades and commendations given to him would stick in his head for a long time thereafter, but out of all the speeches, thanks and displays of gratitude, the words he would remember best numbered only four in total. They came as the very last thing he heard before falling asleep, shortly after he had crawled on one leg into his sleeping bag (which, to no-one's surprise, was already partially occupied), recited one last poem, and clicked off his flashlight as Kopa nestled in next to him:

"Ich liebe dich, Hermann."