West Berlin was draped in gray as the band's limousines rolled through the streets. An unbroken mantle of clouds threatened a downpour, but held onto its bounty like an avaricious politician, turning the last hour of daylight into outright gloom. Faded buildings paraded by. People huddled at bus stops, toying with umbrellas as if certain they would need them at any moment. No smiles.
Vic Standish consulted his watch. In less than twenty hours he would be boarding his Lear jet and be done with this city. Most of that time would be filled playing the gig or holed up in his hotel room, with only one necessary detour in between. He was ready to be gone. In the past two days the Bürgermeister's liaison had shown him and his mates the best the city had to offer, but its façade held too many cracks: The barbed wire and guard turrets were still there at Checkpoint Charlie. A policeman stood at nearly every major intersection. The smear of paint on a brick wall didn't quite conceal the swastika graffiti underneath.
Seated next to Vic, his drummer Lenny was reading a paper containing a bold headline about the deepening crisis in Yugoslavia. The Soviets had just delivered more armaments to the Serbs. The U.S. was contemplating increased air strikes to aid the besieged Islamic enclaves. The United Nations had given up its attempts to mediate.
Saturday, December 2, 1995. The Cold War was casting a frigid shadow. The citizens of West Germany wore haunted, worried faces of stone. Vic had no doubt it was the same a few miles away on the communist side. Their mental photo albums were open--if they were old enough--to pages showing tanks rumbling into Hungary in 1956, into Czechoslovakia in 1968. Closer to home, they were remembering the Wall going up, splitting the city, never to come down.
Vic knew something of what they must be feeling, though as an American, his corresponding memories were of the Cuban Missile Crisis, of umpteen civil defense drills during his teenage years, and of his father building a bomb shelter beneath their house. How had the world become so hostile again? There had been a time, after Nixon went to China, after the Vietnam War ended, after détente, after Jimmy Carter brought Israel and Egypt to the table at Camp David, when people and nations had steered toward a gentler course.
That was in another lifetime, Vic reflected. Back when he owned a different name. Back when he used to tour Europe with his old band. Back when people listened to a different kind of rock'n'roll.
Everything had changed, and trying to recapture the past was futile. In the here and now, he had to concentrate on what was possible. Maybe the music wasn't the same, but at the very least, he could help take the crowd's mind away from the concerns of the moment. Wasn't that his job?
As the quartet of limousines approached the stage entrance of the coliseum, a cluster of several hundred fans cheered and waved banners. VICTORY! GREATEST BAND EVER! said one sign, which brought a wry shake of the head from Vic. Faithfulness was one thing, but exaggeration was another. He remembered a concert in '69 when he and his sidemen had had to sneak in through a maintenance tunnel to get backstage, and even that didn't compare to what he'd witnessed at Beatles and Stones gigs.
Lenny was grinning, though. For him, the adulation was a brand-new experience. The band's fourth album was emptying off the shelves as fast as it could be restocked. The tour was cresting a wave of momentum that would put them in the public consciousness for good. No more one-hit wonders, no more promising journeymen, destined to vanish as soon as someone new came along. Even if the band never cut another track, Victory would not be forgotten.
Vic let a smile nudge the corners of his lips. Yes, it did feel good, didn't it? Even to an old fart who had seen it all before. It set his blood to flowing, made him think of tight young groupie bodies--even though he didn't indulge in the latter's charms anymore--and made his hand itch for the hard, phallic shape of a microphone in his grip.
"We're gonna blow 'em away," Lenny boasted.
"Yeah." Vic accepted it as an obligation. "Let's do it."
)
