Christ! Should I demand to speak to the U.S. embassy? No—you fool! I was probably on some sort of watch list. I had to stay incognito. That was the goal—incognito.
I looked at the three officials. They were still jabbering away in French. One was holding the bottle of Restorils, another was holding my passport, and the third was scratching his weak Swiss chin, as if he were deciding my fate—or did he just have an itch?
Finally, the chin-scratching Swissman spoke: “You would please repeat your story to us again.”
You would? What was all this would bullshit? Why did these stupid Frogs insist on speaking in some bizarre form of the subjunctive? Everything was based on wishes, and everything was phrased in woulds and shoulds and coulds and mights and maybes. Why couldn’t they just demand that I repeat my story? But nooo! They only wished I would repeat my story! I took a deep breath—but before I began speaking, the door opened and a fourth Customs official entered the room. This Frog, I noticed, had captain’s bars on his shoulders.
In less than a minute the first three officials left the room, wearing the same blank expressions they had come in with. Now I was alone with the captain. He smiled a thin Frog smile at me, then took out a pack of Swiss cigarettes. He lit one up and started calmly blowing smoke rings. Then he did some sort of amazing trick with the smoke—letting a dense cloud of it escape his mouth and then sucking it up right through his own nose in two thick columns. Wow! Even in my current position I found it impressive. I mean, I had never even seen my father do that, and he wrote the book on smoking tricks! I would have to ask him about that if I ever made it out of this room alive.
Finally, after a few more smoke rings and a bit more nasal inhaling, the captain said, “Well, Mr. Belfort, I apologize for any inconvenience you would have suffered from this unfortunate misunderstanding. The stewardess has agreed not to press charges. So you are free to go. Your friends would be waiting for you outside, if you wish to follow me.”
Huh? Could it be that simple? Had the Swiss bankers bailed me out already? Just to speculate! The Wolf of Wall Street—bulletproof, once more!
My mind was relaxed now, free from panic, and it went roaring right back to Franca. I smiled innocently at my new Swiss friend and said, “Since you keep talking about wishes and such, what I would really wish is if somehow you could put me in touch with that stewardess from the plane.” I paused and offered him my Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing smile.
The captain’s face began to harden.
Oh, shit! I lifted my hands, palms facing him, and said, “Of course, only for the purposes of making a formal apology to the young blonde—I mean, the young lady—and perhaps to make some sort of financial restitution, if you know what I mean.” I fought the urge to wink.
The Frog cocked his head to one side and fixed me with a look that so much as said, “You are one demented bastard!” But all he said was, “We would wish you not to contact the stewardess while you are in Switzerland. Apparently she is…how would you say it in English…she is…”
“Traumatized?” I offered.
“Ah, yes—traumatized. This is the word we would use. We would wish that you please do not contact her under any circumstances. I have not the slightest doubt that you will find many desirable women in Switzerland if that is your goal. Apparently you have friends in the right places.” And with that, the Captain of Wishes personally escorted me through Customs, without so much as stamping my passport.
Unlike my plane flight, my limousine ride was quiet and uneventful. That was appropriate. After all, a bit of peace was a welcome respite from this morning’s chaos. My destination was the famed Hotel Le Richemond, purportedly one of the finest hotels in all of Switzerland. In fact, according to my Swiss-banking friends, Le Richemond was a most elegant establishment, a most refined establishment.
But upon my arrival I realized that refined and elegant were Swiss code words for depressing and dumpy. As I entered the lobby I noticed that the place was packed with antique Frog furniture, Louis the XIV, the doorman proudly informed me, from the mid 1700s. But to my discerning eyes, King Louis should have guillotined his interior decorator. There was a floral print on the worn carpeting, a sort of swirling pattern that a blind monkey might paint, if he became inspired to do so. The color scheme was unfamiliar to me too—a combination of dog-piss yellow and regurgitation pink. I was certain that the Frog in charge had spent a fortune on this crap, which, to a nouveau riche Jew like me, was exactly what it was: crap! I wanted new, and bright, and cheery!
Anyway, I took it in stride. I was indebted to my Swiss bankers, after all, so I figured the least I could do was pretend to appreciate their choice of accommodations. And at 16,000 francs per night, or $4,000 U.S., how bad could it be?
The hotel manager, a tall willowy Frog, checked me in and proudly gave me the lowdown of the hotel’s celebrity guest roster, which included none other than Michael Jackson. Fabulous! I thought. Now I hated the place for sure.
A few minutes later I found myself in the Presidential Suite—getting the grand tour from the manager. He was an affable-enough fellow, especially after I gave him his first dose of the Wolf of Wall Street, in the form of a 2,000-franc tip, as thanks for checking me in without alerting Interpol. As he left, he assured me that the finest Swiss prostitutes were merely a phone call away.
I walked over to the terrace and opened a pair of French doors that looked out over Lake Geneva. I watched the geyser in silent awe. It must’ve shot up three…four…no, five hundred feet in the air, at least! What had motivated them to build such a thing? I mean, it was beautiful, but why would they have the world’s tallest geyser in Switzerland?
Just then the phone rang. It was an odd ring: three short bursts, then absolute silence, three short bursts, then absolute silence. Fucking Frogs! Even their phones were annoying! God, how I missed America! Cheeseburgers with ketchup! Frosted Flakes! Barbecued chicken! I was scared to look at the room-service menu. Why was the rest of the world so backward, compared to America? And why did they call us Ugly Americans?
By now I had reached the phone—Jesus! What a sad piece of equipment. Must be an original prototype of some sort. It was off-white and looked like it belonged in the home of Fred and Wilma Flintstone!
I reached over and grabbed the ancient phone. “What’s going on, Dan?”
“Dan?” snapped the accusing Duchess.
“Oh, Nae! Hi, sweetie! How ya doing, love-bug? I thought it was Danny.”
“No, it’s your other wife. How was your flight?”
Oh, Jesus! Did she already know? She couldn’t! Or could she? The Duchess had a sixth sense for these sorts of things. But this was too quick, even for her! Or had there been an article? No—not enough time had lapsed between my groping episode and the next edition of the New York Post. Such a relief—but only for a thousandth of a second! Then, a terrible dark thought: Cable News Network! CNN! I had seen this sort of thing happen during the Gulf War. That bastard Ted Turner had some sort of crazy system worked out where he could report the news as it was actually happening, in real time! Maybe the stewardess had gone public!
“Hello!” sputtered the blond prosecutor. “Aren’t you gonna answer me?”
“Oh—it was uneventful. Just the way it should be. Know what I mean?”
A long pause.
Jesus! The Duchess was testing me, waiting for me to crack under the weight of her silence! She was devious, my wife! Maybe I should start laying the blame on Danny, in anticipation.
But then she said, “Oh, that’s good, sweetie. How was the service in first class? You meet any cute stewardesses on the plane? Come on, you can tell me! I won’t get jealous.” She giggled.
Unbelievable! Had I married the Amazing Kreskin? “No, no,” I replied, “they were nothing special. Germans, I think. One of them was big enough to kick my ass. Anyway, I slept most of the way. I even missed the meal.”
That seemed to sadden the Duchess. “Ohhhhh, that’s too bad, baby. You must be starving! How was it going through Customs—any problems?”
Jesus! I had to end this phone call instantly! “Pretty smooth, for the most part. A few questions—just typical stuff. Anyway, they didn’t even stamp my passport.” Then, a strategic subject change: “But more importantly, how’s little Channy doing?”
“Oh, she’s fine. But the baby nurse is driving me crazy! She never gets off the stupid phone. I think she might be calling Jamaica. Anyway, I found two marine biologists who’ll come to work for us full-time. They said they can get the algae out of the pond by lining the bottom with some type of bacteria. Whaddaya think?”
“How much?” I asked, not anxious to hear the response.
“Ninety thousand a year—for both of them. They’re a husband-and-wife team. They seem nice.”
“Okay, that sounds pretty reasonable. Where did you find—” Just then, a knock at the door. “Hold on a second, sweetie. It must be room service. I’ll be right back.” I put the phone down on the bed and walked over to the door and opened it—what the hell! I looked up…and up…and wow! A six-foot-tall black-skinned woman, at my own door! An Ethiopian, by the looks of her. My mind started racing. Such smooth young skin she had! Such a warm, lubricious smile! And what a set of legs! They were a mile long! Was I really that short? Well—whatever. She was gorgeous. And she also happened to be wearing a black minidress the size of a loincloth. “Can I help you?” I asked quizzically.
“Hello” was all she said.
My suspicions were confirmed. It was a black hooker straight from Ethiopia, who could only say hello and good-bye! My favorite! I motioned her into the room and led her over to the bed. She sat down. I sat down next to her. I slowly leaned back and put my right elbow on the bed and leaned my cheek on the palm of my hand—OH, FUCK! MY WIFE! THE DUCHESS! SHIT! I quickly put a forefinger to my lips and prayed that this woman understood the international sign language known to all hookers, which in this particular instance translated into: “Shut the f**k up, you whore! My wife’s on the phone, and if she hears a female voice in the room, I’m in deep shit and you’re not getting a tip!”
Thankfully, she nodded.
With that, I picked up the phone and explained to the Duchess that there was nothing worse in the world than cold eggs Benedict. She was sympathetic and told me that she loved me unconditionally. I hung on this word for all it was worth. Then I told her that I loved her too, and that I missed her and that I couldn’t live without her, all of which was true.
And just like that, a terrible wave of sadness came over me. How could I feel those things for my wife and still do the things I did? What was wrong with me? This wasn’t normal behavior for any man. Even for a man of power—no, especially for a man of power! It was one thing to have an occasional marital indiscretion; that was to be expected. But there had to be some line, and I…well, I chose not to finish the thought.
I took a deep breath and tried to drive the negativity out of my head, but it was difficult. I loved my wife. She was a good girl, despite breaking up my first marriage. But I was just as much to blame for that.