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I’m on the verge of tears by the time we arrive at Zyklon Bar since I’m positive we won’t get seated, but the table is good and the relief washes over me in an awesome wave. Anglin knows the maître d’ and though we made our reservations from a cab only minutes ago we’re immediately led past the overcrowded bar into the red, brightly lit main dining room and seated at an excellent table for four.
Things seem to be going smoothly. The maître d’ has sent over four complimentary Bellinis but we order drinks anyway. Skrewdriver are playing “White Rider” through the speakers, our waitress is a little Finngolian hardbody and even weev and Azzmador seem relaxed though they hate the place.
The maître d’ stops by to say hello to Anglin, then notices we don’t have our complimentary Bellinis and runs off before any of us can stop him. I’m not sure how Anglin knows the management so well, and it slightly pisses me off, but I decide to even up the score a little bit by showing everyone my souvenir from Poland. I pull it out of my gazelleskin shoulder bag and slap it on the table, waiting for reactions.
“What’s that?” Anglin says, not apathetically.
“New Jewfat soap.” I try to act casual about it but I’m smiling proudly. “What do you think?”
“Whoa,” Anglin says, lifting it up, fingering its edges, genuinely impressed. “Very nice.” He hands it to weev.
“Picked it up from Auschwitz-Birkenau last week,” I mention.
“Cool coloring,” weev says, studying the soap closely.
“That’s beta-carotene,” I point out. “And the lettering is something called Sephardic Rail.”
“Sephardic Rail?” Azzmador asks.
“Yeah. Not bad, huh?”
“It is very cool, Bateman,” Anglin says guardedly, “but that’s nothing…”
He unravels a swastika-patterned handkerchief and pulls something out. “Look at this.”
We all lean over and inspect Anglin’s soap and weev quietly says, “That’s really nice.” A brief spasm of jealousy courses through me when I notice the elegance of its hues, the homogeneity of its fat globules.
I clench my fist as Anglin says, smugly, “Made from a Hungarian hook-nose at the turn of the century…” He turns to me. “What do you think?”
“Nice,” I croak, but manage to nod, as the waiter brings us four Red Bulls.
“Jesus,” weev says, holding the soap up to the light, ignoring the new drinks. “This is really super. How’d a nitwit like you get so tasteful?”
I’m looking at Anglin’s soap and then at mine and cannot believe that weev actually likes Anglin’s better. Dizzy, I sip my drink then take a deep breath.
“But wait,” weev says. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet…” He pulls his out of an inside coat pocket and slowly, dramatically turns it over for our inspection and says, “Mine.”
Even I have to admit it’s magnificent.
Suddenly the restaurant seems far away, hushed, the noise distant, a meaningless hum, compared to this soap, and we all hear weev’s words: “Extracted from the arse of Germany’s holiest rabbi.”
“Holy shit,” Anglin exclaims. “I’ve never seen…”
“Nice, very nice,” I have to admit. “But wait. Let’s see Azzmador’s soap.”
Azzmador pulls it out and though he’s acting nonchalant, no-one can ignore its subtle off-white coloring, the tasteful thickness of it. Oh my God, it even has runic scripting.
“Nice, huh?” Azzmador’s tone suggests he realizes I’m jealous. “Yeah,” I say offhandedly, giving weev the soap like I don’t give a shit, but I’m finding it hard to swallow. “Who’d you buy it from?”
“Didn’t,” Azzmador says. “Gassed the kike myself. Processed his fat using a rendering machine I purchased from Dolce & Gabbana.”
A silent awe seizes the table. Azzmador looks smug. Anglin turns away, e-cigarette in hand. My jealousy is becoming harder to suppress.
“Is something wrong, Patrick?” weev says. “You’re sweating.”
Without uttering a word, I rise from my chair and head towards the exit.
“Where are you going?” Azzmador says. “It’s only 9pm.”
Regaining my composure, I turn back to the table. “I have to return some SS paraphernalia,” I say, then leave while buttoning-up my double-breasted plaid wool coat by Valentino Couture ($1,488).