A champagne-fuelled jungle is in for a surprise …
Tomas walks into a club in an exclusive resort at the height of the season. All the boys are wearing white shirts, the uniform of party boys, with oversized collars. These are so big they flop down to their waists like some sea creature’s fleshy protrusion. They also sport gigantic watches, weighing down their wrists like anchors. All of them wear sunglasses even though they’re indoors and it’s night.
The girls hobble on skyscraper stilettos like newborn giraffes unsure of their footing. All have breasts so enormous that they have to be supported on mobile trolleys on which they push their appendages about in front of them. Every few minutes, the girls throw back their heads and laugh in unison. They’re alive with pleasure.
The air is thick with smoke and vibrates to the tinny noise of the club sound system. At half-hour intervals the music stops and an uplifting theme from a science-fiction film fills the room. The crowd roars as a giant champagne bottle, a sparkler fizzing from its decapitated neck, is carried through the club. The baying delight at this spectacle belies a reverential awe; who could be so magnificent as to order this €20,000 leviathan? That’s it, follow the bottle: let’s see which table it’s destined for.
The champagne reaches journey’s end. A pack of hyenas in the uniform of white shirts with oversized collars laugh and shout as if to say, ‘Look at us! Look at us!’ or, more particularly, ‘Look at me! Look at me!’ They, too, are alive with pleasure.
Everything now seems in slow motion to Tomas: the music is stifled, like a disc slowing down on a gramophone; the hyenas bay but you can only hear them at half speed; the breast trolleys manoeuvre slowly: blink and they’ve moved – or maybe they haven’t?
Tomas steps into the slow-motion scene, ties his hair into a knot and pulls two guns from under his jacket. One is a crude Chicago-in-the-gangster-days tommy gun making a rat-a-tat-tat noise. The other is a slick modern weapon with a silencer, so all you can hear is the thud of bullets. Moving from left to right, Tomas sprays the room with a look of calm concentration, like a child taking an exam. Everything’s still at half speed, except now the music has stopped altogether and the only sounds are thuds, glass breaking, people falling.
The scene returns to normal, the slow-motion button turned off. The guns have done their work. There’s a curious haze in the room. Glass splinters as survivors try to move, there are moans and sudden bangs as people and objects fall over.
Although the police and medics arrive fast, the resort isn’t set up to deal with an apocalypse and Tomas slips away in no particular hurry.
The next day, Tomas takes himself to an expensive beach club, where he looks out of place in his ragged T-shirt and shorts and Bible-prophet sandals. The manager arches a disapproving eyebrow as he pays the €100 entry fee and goes to find a white sun lounger.
‘Can I have one that’s more pretentious?’ Tomas asks an attendant.
‘Of course, Sir, but only on condition that you make yourself ridiculous.’
‘That’s no problem,’ replies Tomas.
Tomas is conducted to a sunbed ten times the size of the rest. There’s no point to this colossus, which is far less comfortable than a normal lounger on to which you can fit snugly. Tomas slides to the middle, unsheltered from the sun by the umbrella. He strips off his clothes and wraps his lower body in a large white towel. He is already brown from spending so much time outdoors but soon his sinewy chest begins to sizzle in the heat.
‘Can I have a giant umbrella?’ asks Tomas.
‘No,’ the attendant replies, ‘that would put things into proportion and make you look normal.’
Tomas decides to perch on the side. ‘Is this good enough?’ he asks.
‘I’m sorry, Sir,’ the attendant says. ‘You look pathetic and the deal was ridiculous.’
‘OK,’ says Tomas. ‘Bring me an oversized champagne bottle but make sure I can carry it.’
‘Immediately, Sir,’ says the attendant.
Minutes later he returns, carrying a monster bottle. A second attendant brings a glass. ‘I don’t need that,’ says Tomas and waves the glass away.
The bottle is uncorked with a pop and handed to Tomas. The attendants stand to one side as Tomas takes it in his arms.
He ambles over to the pool, watched by the inhabitants of the sun loungers, and kicks off his sandals. ‘Go on,’ shouts Tomas to the attendants. ‘Turn up the music. Turn it up real good.’
The attendants comply: the background Balearic beats rise to a deafening roar. The music also increases in tempo. Tomas didn’t ask for this but now a wave of ridiculousness is gathering its own momentum. Everyone props themselves up to watch.
Because of the speed of the music Tomas can’t segue into the rhythm. He has to jump in and start dancing like a maniacal fool. He shakes the champagne bottle and sprays his audience with a plume of sticky froth. ‘Ha! Ha! Ha!’ he squeals. ‘Ha! Ha! Ha!’ they reply.
‘How’m I doing?’ Tomas asks the attendants.
‘Oh, very well, Sir, you look ridiculous.’
Through all the noise and excitement, Tomas hears an invisible voice in his head. ‘If you’re to experience the full horror of the situation, Tomas,’ it says, ‘you must sacrifice yourself to it Messiah-like.’
The next step up from ridiculous is ludicrous.
Tomas begins a barnyard dance, like an Iowa farmer at the harvest-day ball. This should be performed to music at half the speed of the balearic beats, so his efforts appear all the more absurd. The dance consists of stomping one leg up at a right angle while moving both arms up and down in parallel, with elbows pointing out. The weight is then transferred to the other foot and the process repeated. This is accompanied by a synchronised bobbing of the head in and out, up and down, like a rooster calling the dawn chorus. These jerky movements loosen Tomas’s towel, which falls to the ground, so he carries on his performance naked, his penis flailing. Because the dance is impossible to perform holding an overweight champagne bottle, Tomas drops it; but the bottle is animated by the situation, refuses to smash and floats in the air, a silent spectator of events.
‘Look at me,’ whoops Tomas, ‘I’m having such fun. I’m spraying champagne. I’m dancing. I’m cool, swaying my hips and exposing myself. I’m alive with pleasure.’
‘Ha! Ha! Ha!’ roar the crowd approvingly. They, too, are alive with pleasure.
After his performance, Tomas rests on his tennis-court-sized sun lounger. For some reason it’s grown during his performance. He suspects it has something to do with his rooster imitation. He has pushed ridiculous to the territorial hinterland of ludicrous and the lounger rewards him by swelling to a still more incredible size.
The dangers of melting butter …
The beach-club restaurant is an extravagant array of polished wood tables under white parasols, adorned by the deep purples and subtle pinks of Mediterranean summer flowers. The menu offers grilled fish, huge baskets of crudités, fruits, pasta and wines of every sort.
Because it’s hot, the boys aren’t wearing their full white-shirt uniform; only the collar attached to the neck, which flops down to form two futile wings. You’ve heard of shirts with no collars. Well, these are collars with no shirts. While there’s no sartorial point to them, they define the central characteristic of their owners – uselessness.
The girls are busy trolleying their fake breasts as they move between the tables; trolleys and breasts are accentuated in the daylight. The nightclub trolleys were black, in a way discreet despite their size and function. The beach trolleys are more conspicuous, adorned by large white towels on which morning-tanned breasts flop in gentle repose.
Tomas finds a table and asks for a menu. He’s now re-clothed in his shorts and a fifty-euro souvenir T-shirt featuring the club’s logo, a bucket of sick, which was given to him as a reward for his poolside dance. A trolley-pushing blonde parks at the table beside him to await her collar-wearing beau.
Tomas is about to summon the waiter when the blonde interposes: ‘Waiter! Waiter!’
One immediately appears. ‘Madame?’ he says.
‘My butter’s melting. I insist you do something about it.’
Tomas thinks carefully about this exchange. His brow creases in concentration and he ties his hair back with a band to think. Before even giving her command the blonde has appropriated the butter. The butter is not described with an impersonal ‘the’ but a possessive ‘my’. By virtue of parking her breasts at the table, the butter has become ‘hers’. It may also be that in her language – a special variant of English – every sentence begins with the words ‘I’, ‘me’ or ‘my’.
The use of the present tense ‘is melting’ appears to Tomas to be a lesser offence than the past-tense disaster ‘has melted’. Had the butter committed this capital crime, Tomas imagines the blonde pressing one of her nipples to activate a siren. Immediately a wail fills the restaurant and defensive barriers rise from the sand. The sky fills with helicopter gunships and American voices announce through loud hailers: ‘Attention! The butter has melted. The situation is under control. Do nothing. Stay calm.’
But this catastrophe is averted. The butter is merely melting.
The ‘do something about it’ is a less alarming proposition but opens up more possibilities. The unimaginative response would be to fetch fresh butter. In doing this the waiter would abdicate his responsibility to save the life of the expiring condiment. A compromise could be to move the parasol to shield the butter from the sun’s melting beams. But this might incur the blonde’s wrath. Etiquette demands new butter. She will accept nothing less. And those breasts weren’t constructed to be upset. Tomas speculates that they have nuclear potential. The French Riviera atomised because a waiter fails to bring fresh butter.
Still Tomas isn’t satisfied. One solution is unimaginative, the other defensive. He is urged on by the same invisible voice. ‘Are there no scientific or even futuristic possibilities?’ it asks.
Tomas chides himself for thinking so one-dimensionally. Sometimes the best solution is the least obvious. Bringing fresh butter or moving the parasol is a child’s answer. What about moving the sun or blotting it out altogether?
Of course he realises that this isn’t possible. But in the cause of serving the rich and famous, who are always complaining, every expedient must be considered. It may be that the waiter can’t provide this solution at present. But in a world of eternal return, where events repeat themselves in perpetuity, all he need do is find a way to live for ever, construct a sun-blotting or -moving technology and wait for the incident to recur. An alternative, of course, is time travel. From some future time or life the waiter can voyage back to this moment with the necessary technical apparatus and deal with the situation. Thus …
‘My butter’s melting. I insist you do something about it.’
‘Immediately, madame.’
The waiter produces a pistol from his pocket and fires an almost silent shot between the parasols into the air. Instantly the sea begins to froth and foam. There’s a groaning sound like the girders of a bridge breaking free and a spacecraft with massive distended arms rises from the ocean. Within seconds it has jumped into hyperspace and is barrelling towards the sun.
‘Moved or blotted out, madame?’ the waiter enquires.
‘Moved will do.’
The waiter fires another shot. The arms of the spacecraft stretch outward and lock into position at both extremities of the sun. A button is pressed ten thousand miles above earth and they clamp on. Seconds later, the sun has been moved.
‘May I recommend the fish?’ the waiter asks.
‘I need time to think,’ the blonde replies, waving him away. ‘This butter incident has upset me.’
‘Of course, madame,’ the waiter responds. ‘Would it help if I blew my brains out? The butter almost melting was a disaster. It might make you feel better were I to kill myself.’
The blonde fails to answer. She’s exhausted by the drama. The pop of the pistol shots disturbed her imperceptibly, but disturbed her nevertheless. She looks at the butter, which is melting no longer, and remembers that she doesn’t even like butter; why on earth has she gone to all this trouble?
Tomas balances in his mind these solutions to the blonde’s problem. A final possibility occurs to him. He takes out his weapons and sprays the restaurant. He finishes with the blonde, who slumps forward into the butter and ruins it anyway.
Tomas wanders down to the port to seek solace in its azure waters. He’s disappointed that his killing spree has had so little effect. Although word has spread, people continue as normal, unperturbed by the lone gunman who is providing important morality lessons via his annihilating weapons.
Tomas has been sent mad by Shit TV. Shit TV is the biggest media network in world history, with an audience of billions. After years of tedious reality shows – singing competitions, jungle-survival programmes, business-apprentice shoot-outs – people want more. Shit TV is the answer.
Shit TV broadcasts globally twenty-four hours per day. Dozens of shows cover everything that is most base and nasty in the world – trafficking, violence, perversions of every sort; in short, shit: a celebration of the fetid trough of dirty Russian money, footballers abusing adolescent girls and bankers raping the planet. And why not? If the ship’s sinking, let the people watch.
Programmes include ‘Fuck Me for A Lie’, in which pretend film producers trick girls into sex; ‘Fat Ballet: Eat My Fat’, featuring obese dancers who perform before an audience in hysterics and then do something too disgusting to describe; and the ever popular original, ‘Shit TV Show’, of which Tomas is the star.
Shit TV has also achieved a technological breakthrough. Millions of TV sets are fitted with a connecting tube and buttons marked ‘smell’ and ‘shit’. Viewers watching ‘I’m a Raw-Sewage Swimmer’ can heighten their olfactory pleasure by pressing ‘smell’. A surprising number use the ‘shit’ button.
Tomas enjoys cult status worldwide. He’s an object of desire to millions of girls who are obsessed with his Messiah-like looks. Still more boys want to copy his devil-be-damned attitude and hippy-chic style. His job, like his appearance, is simplicity itself. He pitches up with a camera crew at major events – royal weddings, political swearing-ins, football finals. Within full view of the ceremony, event or podium in question he drops his trousers and defecates, to the unbridled joy of a global audience. He then speeds off, trousers and other unpleasantries trailing.
St Paul was converted on the road to Damascus; Tomas in the Emperor Napoleon’s tomb in the centre of Paris on a cloudless summer’s day, at a ceremony to mark the great man’s birthday. Having reconnoitered the chamber meticulously, Tomas leapt forward at the critical moment to perform his act when he was dazzled by a sunbeam streaming into the tomb from a dome window. It was a moment of incandescent light, beauty and joy. An invisible voice inside Tomas’s head told him he’d been called to a higher purpose. The world was tipping into a foul sewer of despond. Drastic, even murderous action was needed to awaken society before it was too late. It would be righteous to take it: although he had erred, even the lowliest may rise, and the sinner become a saint. This was his task: a sacred quest to save the world.
Numbed but certain of his mission, Tomas arrived on the French Riviera a few hours later.
The Russian Great Bear stirs in his wintry lair. Although it’s summer on the French Riviera, he prefers his cave of perpetual cold. He has spent years here healing his wounds, some as deep as the revenge he’s planning.
The beast’s fur is mottled, criss-crossed with scars of war and defeat. His shoulders are stooped and he walks across his lair on stocky legs with an awkward gait; a slow shaggy giant. This only serves to deceive: his strength has returned and he’s fast if he needs to be.
Russia’s loss of the Cold War two decades ago dealt a shattering blow to the Great Bear and sent him into his hibernation of depression and disgrace. There he slept, his pain anaesthetised by the cold. Finally, he woke and began to plot his vengeance from his kingdom of ice and snow.
He recalls the early days of his plan, the seeming impossibility of joining battle with the West once again. Force was useless; in running the arms race Russia had buckled and collapsed. He had to find a more subtle means. But what? Communism was in chaos, everything he believed in swept away by the West’s devastating economic tsunami.
Then it occurred to him. What was the opposite of communism and played the West at its own game? A menace difficult to anticipate and impossible to resist. The answer was so simple that it could be described in a single word. A commodity which after only a few years was already debauching Western values and behaviour.
Money. Russian money and all it brings: envy, the corruption of scruples, social dysfunction. Western bankers accept a Russian rouble without questioning its origin. Oligarchs, the new weapons of war, are welcomed with open arms by society, irrespective of their backgrounds. Yachts, mansions and jetted-in prostitutes are envied as symbols of the Great Bear’s new empire. Previously good people now bow in submission to the vulgarities of Russian taste, behaviour and power.
The beast’s black eyes fix on the boulder that serves as a door to his cave. The rot is set, he thinks, as sure as stone. Soon it will be time for his final plan.
He pads over to the boulder and turns his mind from his great design to a seemingly microscopic issue: reports of a gunman on a killing spree on the French Riviera, the world headquarters of decadent and licentious behaviour, where Russian yachts patrol offshore like battleships and oligarchs command armies of hitmen and hookers. No wonder the gunman, styling himself as a celestial avenger, has chosen this latter-day Sodom and Gomorrah.
Normally, such news would be inconsequential to the Great Bear. A lone killer, clearly mad, touting automatic weapons and a moral message with no hope of success. A few dozen deaths of society types, including some Russians. So what?
But the beast’s long hibernation hasn’t dulled his instincts, if anything the opposite. His senses are as sharp as the cold. For the first time in two decades, he takes a fateful decision. He rolls back the boulder and steps out of his cave. His retinue, camped outside, is shocked. The Great Bear never leaves his lair; his enemies must come to him.
His attendants scatter in fear and confusion. Ignoring the commotion, the Great Bear raises himself high on his hind legs like a predator hoping to catch the scent of blood in the wind. He tilts his head back sharply and with a vertical snout sniffs the snow-and-rain-drenched air with short, sharp breaths which billow puffs of steam above his head. He’s right. Something’s wrong.
Pride comes before a fall …
A helicopter clatters overhead on its descent to the port’s landing pad. Tomas watches as its owner tumbles out. He has a normal trunk but an enormous stomach, which Tomas imagines is detachable. His belly is so big that its top is parallel to his mouth and he has to shout to be heard. Perhaps he has had a treatment at a Swiss clinic to distribute weight only to his stomach. This allows him to eat as much as he wants while leaving him lithe elsewhere. His stomach, being detachable, provides the ultimate in corporal flexibility. Maybe he leaves it on a cot by his bed at night and only brings it out during the day for meals and for show.
The detachable-stomach man pauses on the step of his helicopter. He’s surrounded by journalists and photographers. ‘Boss Olgarv,’ shouts a reporter, ‘are you frightened of the killer?’ Russia’s oligarch-in-chief, arriving to investigate the situation and do a little business, doesn’t reply. Instead he snaps, ‘Wait!’ to the photographers. He flips a mobile to his ear. ‘OK,’ he obliges. The photographers get to work. His imaginary telephone conversation adds to his magnificence. This is the picture he wants, exiting his helicopter, eyes narrowed on the horizon – a man of vision as well as wealth; the world transfixed by what he might be saying: ‘Buy it now, damn it!’ ‘OK, sue the bastards.’ ‘Yes. One hundred million euros, not a euro more.’
The fat Russian walks towards a yacht, mobile still clamped to his ear, photographers calling his name, a small crowd gathered to watch and admire. Tomas is prepared to provide another morality lesson but holds back for a moment out of curiosity. At the raised gangplank of his boat, Boss Olgarv reaches into his pocket. This is it, the climax of the show. He withdraws his hand with a flourish and brandishes a clicker, which he points at the boat. The crowd and press pack fall silent. ‘Click. Click.’ Nothing happens. He shakes it and aims in a different direction. ‘Click. Click.’ And again, ‘Click. Click.’ The gangplank, whose purpose in life is to descend, permitting its owner a magnificent exit, remains stubbornly erect.
A bead of sweat forms on Boss Olgarv’s brow. Someone in the crowd sniggers. The commander of men and worlds can’t command a plank. The finale isn’t going to plan.
As he waits on the dockside, face reddening, an aide calls from the balustrade of the yacht. ‘Boss. We need you on board as soon as possible. The video conference is about to start. The American bankers are waiting.’
‘Idiot,’ he replies, the walls of his cool beginning to crumble. ‘This fucking thing won’t work. Get me on board.’
The aide blanches and disappears, reappearing with an engineer in blue overalls, who attempts to entice the gangplank to obey by way of a manual lever. Disembodied grunts, huffs and puffs and a ‘Fuck!’ float over the yacht rail. The gangplank maintains its phallic posture, as if it has sighted a female gangplank across the harbour and is sending a friendly message.
‘Boss. We must get you on board for the call. We could lose the deal. We’ll use the hoist.’
Boss Olgarv assesses his options. Humiliation, slung on board like a pack animal, or losing a deal? A nanosecond later he beckons for the hoist to be lowered. A mechanical arm emerges from the yacht bow, a harness dangling from it.
‘Put your arms through the straps,’ calls the aide. ‘Secure the belt around your waist, click the safety buckle and we’ll do the rest.’
Boss Olgarv complies. A thousand trumpets sound the collapse of his citadel of self-esteem.
Tomas is mesmerised by the spectacle of this harnessed animal aloft. Even a cow would have more dignity; surrender to its fate, perhaps emitting a moo of complaint. Tomas wants the fat Russian to moo. But God is in his heaven – something better happens.
Halfway to the deck, still dangling in mid-air, the hoist stutters and stops. It’s an industrial machine tested to destruction by Teutonic robots. Perhaps today it senses an ego heavier than any physical burden and gives up. The fat Russian panics.
Twisting, turning. ‘No, Boss. No.’ Flailing, failing. ‘Boss. Stop. No.’ The safety buckle surrenders its captive and the azure waters welcome an unfamiliar creature into their enveloping depths.
Brilliant bankers at their best…
The crowd rushes to the water’s edge.
Cameras train on a bobbing head and there is a tropical rainstorm of clicks. But what’s this spherical object floating nearby?
‘It’s his stomach,’ a cry goes up. ‘He’s got a detachable stomach. Look, it’s so fat it’s floating.’
Even though he’s half submerged, Tomas sees the look of horror on Boss Olgarv’s face. If only the depths would swallow him up. But this is all too much fun, so the depths decide not to.
Boss Olgarv makes another rapid calculation. Under maritime law, a salvaging party can lay claim to a stricken vessel, jettisoned cargo containers and any random object floating on the surface of the water.
‘Save my stomach!’ he shrieks. ‘Leave me. Hoist it up. Do it.’
What presence of mind to save his stomach, thinks Tomas.
Since the stomach is now unencumbered by its owner’s ego, the hoist decides to cooperate and the stomach flops with a dramatic flourish on to the deck, the survivor of an ocean disaster. The next problem is how to board without his stomach in full view of the world’s press. There’s only one possibility other than time travel. He must swim round to the seaward side of the yacht, which, owing to its vastness, will take precious minutes.
‘Boss, the call must start now,’ shouts his aide in desperation.
‘Improvise, fuck you,’ comes the reply as he sets off on his journey, unsupported by the dirigible ballast of his belly.
Moments later, the aide is in a video-conference room addressing a screen of smart-looking American bankers.
‘Gentlemen, good afternoon,’ he begins. ‘We’re having some technical problems at this end. The camera’s been knocked by the pitch of the boat and you’ll only be able to see part of the Boss.’
‘No problem,’ the chief banker replies.
‘Also,’ continues the aide, ‘we’ll lose sound in a few moments, so he’ll signal his wishes to you by way of bodily movement.’
‘OK, no problem.’
The aide steps to one side and the bankers recognise Boss Olgarv’s stomach propped up in a chair at the conference table. It fills the screen impressively.
‘Boss Olgarv, good afternoon to you,’ says the chief banker. ‘We’ve been studying the acquisition opportunity and feel it makes a lot of sense; it’s a good fit. We advise you to go ahead; our fee will be two per cent of the deal.’
The aide breaths a sigh of relief. A few years ago, the Boss acquired for nothing a big-scale retailer in Russia catering for teenage girls. Now it’s magically worth billions. The bankers have recommended that he buys a complementary business. He sneaks behind the stomach and wobbles it to signal assent.
‘That’s great news, Boss,’ says the chief banker. ‘We’ll start the paperwork. Just a moment, please, we need to go offline for a minute.’
Again the stomach wobbles.
The chief banker pushes the mute on his conference phone and turns to his team. ‘Boys, there’s something going on here. Back me up.’
‘Sorry about that, Boss,’ he continues. ‘We’d like your take on another good fit. It’s … er … a slaughter business, countrywide, with dozens of processing units. We’ve been thinking – say a teenage girl buys a pink skirt, matching jacket and some pretty accessories, she gets a coupon at the sales counter for one of the slaughterhouses. She goes to the nearest one, hands in her coupon and gets a big chunk of bloody meat or – we don’t want to overdo it on the giveaways – maybe some intestines or stinking offal. She takes the bonus gift home along with her pretty pink outfit and everyone’s a winner. The slaughter business is a steal and we’ll only charge you a ten-per-cent fee. What do you think?’
Panic rises in the aide’s chest. He shakes the stomach from behind. But is this a ‘yes’ shake or a ‘no’ shake? And isn’t it reasonable for the bankers to assume that any shake is a ‘yes’ shake, since the stomach has already given the first deal its vibrating assent?
‘Fantastic, Boss,’ says the senior banker. ‘We’ll take that as a yes – legally recorded on video, of course – and get on with the paperwork. If you don’t mind, Hank has another pitch for you.’
The aide attempts another shake as if to convey a ‘no’ but the banking pack is in its stride, closing fast on its disembodied prey.
‘This one’s a bit left of centre, Boss,’ starts Hank, ‘but hear me out … What we do is go along to some waste-processing plants and buy a whole lot of raw sewage – just as much as we can get our hands on. Then we send off to plants in other countries for their shit. After that, we do some deals in underdeveloped countries that pipe sewage into the sea or rivers to get hold of their shit and we buy as much of it as possible. Finally we at the bank save all our own shit just for you. So here’s the deal. After twelve months or so you’ve got this massive pile of shit, probably the biggest pile of shit ever in the history of the world. And our fee will be fifty per cent of all the money we spend to buy the shit, so that’s a great deal for you. What do you think?’
The aide knows he must do something to halt this madness and the destruction of his boss’s fortune. Summoning all his strength he gives the stomach a gigantic heave; it wobbles and falls off the chair.
A cheer goes up from the bankers.
‘That’s great news, Boss,’ says the chief banker. ‘We never thought we’d knock you off your chair. Let’s get the money transferred straight away. Have a great day!’
That night, uninformed of events, Boss Olgarv goes to bed. He detaches his stomach and pats it goodnight on its sleeping cot. It’s not been a good day but – hey – was it so bad? A few embarrassing photos and a dip in the sea?
In his dreams he’s back in the ocean, swimming to the seaward side of his yacht. The sky darkens and the sea turns to shit and blood, infested by the innards of dead animals. On the horizon his aide paddles furiously, deaf to his plaintive cries.
Producers, a party and a peanut …
Tomas is cheered by the fat Russian’s watery baptism and feels like a party. This is easy: the film festival is on and the city is infested with international glitterati who have the same idea.
Getting invited to a party requires mastering three magic words: ‘I’m a producer.’ Tomas practises in front of the mirror.
‘I’m a peanut,’ he says to himself out loud.
‘No, that’s not quite right,’ the invisible voice tells him. ‘Try again.’
‘You’re a peanut,’ he affirms with confidence.
‘Come on, Tomas. That’s even worse. Let’s get back on track.’
‘I could be a producer,’ he tries.
‘Present tense, Tomas, present tense, not future conditional.’
‘I’m a producer.’
Bingo! In no time at all, Tomas has learnt the magic art. He rushes from his room to try it on a stranger in the hotel bar.
‘I’m a producer,’ he says flawlessly.
‘Great,’ replies the stranger. ‘There’s a party tonight. Here’s the address. See you there.’
Tomas arrives at the party vibrating with joy at his new profession. He performs the three-word magic trick on the first few people he meets and only one is addressed as a peanut. This is an impressive result. Word spreads quickly. Tomas is a producer.
In this new capacity, Tomas finds a number of people – for some reason all girls – who wish to be produced. He joins a table of three potentials who, in thoughtful anticipation of a sudden audition, which might involve a costume change, wear an absolute minimum of clothing. There are also three boys at the table. They’re producers too. Two are muscular-looking, tanned with white teeth, and appear to be producers of epic romance films; the third is scrawny, with a long face and scruffy clothing – perhaps he produces scarecrow movies?
The dynamic, therefore, is that all three girls wish to be produced – but by only two of the boys. And since a producer is only capable of practising his magic art on one producee at any one time, there’s a problem. The girl who fails to win the favour of the two epic-romance producers will end up in a scarecrow movie.
The conversation ranges over the producers’ production credits – none – and the producees’ acting experience – also none. But the evening is pregnant with promise. The girls lock legs, arms, eyes and expressions with the epic-romance boys.
‘Oh yes, that movie’s in the bag,’ says one.
‘There’s no question, I’ve got that script,’ says the other.
As the producers are on the verge of deciding which of the producees to produce the scarecrow interjects, ‘I don’t like the food here.’
A cold drizzle descends on the table. How could this be of any interest to his fellow artists? Silly old scarecrow. Go off and scare some crows.
‘No, I don’t like it at all,’ he continues, unaffected by the indifference of his professional colleagues. ‘It’s much better on my boat. My cook’s excellent.’
In unison, the three producees turn to face him like soldiers on parade. They stand to attention.
‘If one of you girls would be interested in joining me? Or perhaps all of you?’
There’s a bang, a puff of smoke, and the two epic-romance producers cease to exist. In a heartbeat, to feature in a scarecrow movie becomes a grail of indescribable holiness to the three producees. Before, they were blind. Hallelujah! Now they can see.
Tomas raises a cynical eyebrow. He suspects it may be time for a further morality lesson. But perhaps his recent annihilation sprees were a little pre-emptory. Besides, he’s enjoying watching the ebb and flow of the dance floor. He decides to ask the invisible voice for a translation of the scarecrow’s conversation before taking a decision. Thus:
SCARECROW:
I don’t like the food here.
TRANSLATION:
I’m making an anodyne warm-up comment before getting on to what I really want to say.
SCARECROW:
No, I don’t like it all.
TRANSLATION:
I’m creating further anodyne tension to lend greater weight to what’s about to come.
It’s much better on my boat.
TRANSLATION:
I’m rich.
SCARECROW:
My cook’s excellent.
TRANSLATION:
I’m very rich.
SCARECROW:
If one of you girls would be interested in joining me?
TRANSLATION:
I want to fuck you.
SCARECROW:
Or perhaps all of you?
TRANSLATION:
I want to fuck you all.
Tomas suspected as much. His biceps bulge as he reaches for his heavy weapons. Just as he loads, he catches a glimpse of something golden across the dance floor. He pockets his guns. As the dance floor pulses to and fro, he catches another glimpse and, a few seconds later, another. Something draws him towards this ethereal glow and he stands up to investigate.
Everything is again in slow motion. The dancers perform their tribal moves at quarter speed; the disco lights are feeble, the music a muddy drone. As Tomas advances, a magic corridor opens up between the dancers and he catches frequent glimpses of the shining thing. Now he has an almost clear view. At last he reaches the end of the corridor. And there she is.
Tomas can’t breathe. When his breath returns it’s painful. His body is infused with an electric shock that sends tingles to his extremities. His heart literally aches.
She is beautiful beyond words; brown-blonde hair falling unstyled over a wide face, oval brown eyes and a full mouth. She wears a cropped vest over a short tight skirt. She has no bra and he can see the outline of perfect pert breasts.
The glow he noticed across the room is a Mediterranean tan. Although light, it has a magical effect and she radiates like gold. Her legs are smooth and oiled, and she stands with her feet apart, pointing outwards. Her arms hang loose with fingers interlocked before her like a schoolgirl waiting. Her head is lowered but her eyes fix on Tomas.
The slow-motion button is turned off and the club resumes its normal tempo. But in their soporific state, the partygoers have sensed the drama: all eyes are now on Tomas. The music stops and the disco lights swivel to illuminate him standing before his golden angel.
He’s in love and everyone knows it.
A microphone appears inches from Tomas’s gaping mouth. The first words of his love are to be witnessed by the club, in fact, the whole city. Unbeknownst to the partygoers, speakers sprout mushroom-like across street corners to relay his opening profession of faith in real time.
He shifts from one foot to the other. The club is graveyard still. The whole of the French Riviera holds its breath.
‘You’re a peanut,’ Tomas says.
Truth hurts …
‘Falling in love wasn’t part of the plan,’ the invisible voice tells Tomas. But what can he do? The whole point of plans is that they work. Or is it that they don’t?
Despite his inauspicious start, Tereza meets Tomas the next day. The street cafe with views over the busy seafront is a perfect setting. They can sit and talk and watch the world go by.
The cafe is busy on this bright Mediterranean afternoon. The waiters stand in a group by the serving area.
‘May we please order?’ Tomas raises a hand. The waiters look the other way. ‘Service?’ he mutters feebly.
After several attempts, a waiter comes over and fixes his gaze above Tomas’s head, as if he were wearing a silly hat. The waiter doesn’t speak but his bored eyes say a bad-tempered ‘Yes?’
‘Thank you,’ says Tomas. ‘If we could please … ’
The waiter’s eyes cut him off. To communicate orally would be to show interest, effort, respect. The waiter puts an arm on his hip, slouches a shoulder and says through his eyes, ‘Look, there are rules if you want to be here.’
Tomas nods.
‘You can either not be served at all,’ the speaking eyes continue, ‘or I serve you and I’m rude. Alternatively I serve you and you wait a long time. With options two or three – the service options – I bang the plates down loudly.’
Tereza shifts in her chair. ‘Is there an option where you’re a bit rude and the waiting time is cut in half?’ she asks.
‘Are you mad?’ the eyes flash back. ‘Everyone would choose that. You’ll be asking me to bang the plates down nicely next. What on earth do you think this place is? By the way, a Coke costs twenty euros, including ice that has no cooling effect and a slice of lemon that tastes of soap.’
Tomas and Tereza choose the rude option – with plates banging – and settle down to talk.
Tereza is even more beautiful in the daylight. She wears a tight-fitting white beach dress and beaded sandals. Her hair is tied up at the back, a few strands falling round her face, and she sports oversized sunglasses.
‘Where do we start?’ she asks Tomas.
‘Let’s try an experiment,’ he replies. ‘When people meet they lie, in order to have sex as quickly as possible. The experiment is not to lie. It’s more interesting and original, don’t you think?’
‘So truth is important?’ she asks.
‘Yes,’ he replies. ‘But not in a prudish way. Truth because everyone else lies, so let’s not.’
Tereza takes off her sunglasses to look at him unfiltered and reveals a bruise beneath her beautiful eye. She puts the left arm of the glasses into her mouth to think.
‘For example,’ says Tomas, ‘where did you get that bruise? Most girls would make up a story. Will you?’
‘I don’t know you,’ Tereza replies.
‘Then my experiment isn’t going to work. Which is a relief in a way – I can now start lying to have sex with you.’ He leans forward and fixes Tereza with a stare. Now his eyes are speaking – it must be contagious. ‘Give it a try, Tereza,’ they say.
She takes a moment to examine him. From the club she remembers his height – well over six foot – and the way he moves: an easy glide, strong arms held loose, effortlessly relaxed. Close up, his unkempt appearance contradicts his sharp speech and quick questions. It’s clear that the stubble on his high-boned cheeks isn’t for effect; he has simply forgotten to shave. His shoulder-length hair – thick, brown and slightly curly – also defies form and shape and falls around his face where it pleases. Similarly, the eclectic ensemble worn loosely on his hard thin frame shows that he doesn’t care about clothes or, Tereza suspects, any material possessions. Most of all she is struck by the expression in his black eyes; at once penetrating and otherworldly.
‘OK,’ Tereza replies. ‘I’ve never finished a relationship before starting it. That’s original don’t you think?’
Tomas leans back in his chair to listen.
‘Last night after we met at the club,’ Tereza says, ‘I went back to the hotel with my date, an American banker called Hank.’ She pauses and decides to continue.
‘He’d just closed a big deal, selling a whole lot of shit to some fat Russian guy – can you believe it? He was tanked up on champagne and cocaine, so by the time we got to the hotel, what with his shit deal, the champagne and the cocaine he was buzzing.’
Tomas remains unmoving in his chair.
‘So he wants to do this new thing. He gets me to undress and lie spreadeagled on the bed. He strips off and crouches on all fours in front of the bed where he can see me.’ Tereza pauses again, continues quickly as if she is about to take medicine and wants to get it over with.
‘He pulls out a rasher of bacon and rolls it into a ball, which he ties with a piece of string. He pushes another piece of string through the middle of the ball and makes a knot to hold it. He gives me one end and tells me to pull when he says. He swallows the ball, gags and just stops himself from being sick.’
Tereza’s momentum is now unstoppable. Even while speaking she thinks, ‘Well, you asked for it.’
Hank starts to pleasure himself, watching me on the bed. Because he’s drunk and wasted, this takes some time. I’m also drunk and I see Hank turn into a pig, then back into Hank, then into a pig again. Hank cum pig, on all fours in front of me, masturbating, with a bacon ball attached to a string down his throat.
Eventually he reaches his climax and with an urgent ‘Urrgghh’ signals me to pull the string. I do it hard. Instantly he vomits. His body contorts from the double sensation of climaxing and vomiting simultaneously. It’s revolting. The alternation between Hank and pig stops and only the pig remains.
I’m disgusted and pull back. My look is as plain as daylight. The pig takes offence, lunges forward and smashes a trotter across my face. I fall off the bed on to my back, more stunned than hurt. I close my eyes to catch my breath.
‘When I open them there’s a pink sphere floating inches above my face. It’s the pig’s arse. It’s squatting over me. Before I have time to move, it relieves itself on me, grunting and snorting. It’s over in seconds and there I am on the floor spitting foulness from my mouth. The pig trots off. I hear a door slam and I know it has left.’
Tereza leans forward and using her eyes says, ‘How’s that for the truth?’
Kaaboom! Tomas’s heart is shattered. He begins to shake, his black eyes fill with tears.
‘But,’ he says, ‘you’re an angel. A golden angel.’
‘No,’ Tereza replies, ‘I’m not golden, I’m faded grey. And I’m not an angel, I’m a prostitute.’
Things are rarely what they seem …
They stare at each other, eyes unspeaking, for a long time. The truth torpedo has scored a direct hit and Tomas is sunk. Tereza decides to launch a rescue mission.
‘We’ve done your experiment. Now I’ve got a question for you,’ she says.
Tomas doesn’t reply, verbally or visually.
‘What’s the difference between a prostitute and a girl who marries for money?’
Tomas remains adrift.
‘OK,’ Tereza continues, ‘let me give you a clue. At the bottom of the chain there’s the fifty-euro street hooker. Then come the phone-booth dialup girls. After that are the internet “escorts”, and next models who’ll be your “friend” for two thousand euros. But the biggest beast in the jungle is the girl who marries for money.’
‘There’s no difference, then,’ Tomas says. ‘They’re all prostitutes.’
‘Wrong,’ Tereza replies. ‘With a prostitute, you know what you’re getting. With the girl who marries for money, you’re in trouble.’
‘Fine,’ says Tomas. ‘Prostitution is a nobler profession than gold digging. So what? Most people live normal lives.’
‘Do they?’ Tereza replies. ‘What about all the quick grabbing for happiness, the thoughtless coupling, the selfish and stupid unions, the “Look at me! Look at me on my wedding-day!”? And then what? Disappointment, deception, separation.’
‘So it’s better to be a prostitute than get divorced?’ he asks.
‘I’m going to show you a secret,’ Tereza replies. ‘You can work it out. But first we’ve got to choose some people.’
Tomas gives a shrug like a child refusing to play.
Tereza looks around the cafe. ‘OK. I choose the grandfather sitting over there with his grandson, the Euro couple and the old lady by herself in the corner.’
By now it’s getting dark. Tereza guides Tomas along the seafront towards a spit of land at the end of the city. From afar they see the twinkling lights of a funfair. Soon they can hear merry-go-round music.
They walk through the Ferris wheels, shooting galleries and candy-floss stalls. Tomas again experiences everything in slow motion, the colours smudged, the music dulled. They sit on a bench at the water’s edge. There Tomas in his desolation and Tereza in her fatigue fall asleep.
When they wake, the fairground is closed, the bright lights and tinkling music extinguished. Tereza takes Tomas by the hand and leads him to a spaceship attraction with ‘The Ride of Your Life’ painted in big letters on its side.
Tereza stops in front of the spaceship and stretches out her arms. Steam billows as a door opens and a beam of light illuminates a ramp on to which she steps. Amazed, Tomas follows.
‘This,’ she says, ‘is a time machine. Here’s how it works.’ She sits in a pilot seat and signals to Tomas to take the one beside her. Before them is a console of buttons, knobs, levers and a giant screen.
‘It’s easy to use,’ Tereza continues. ‘You just plug in what you want to see and the machine does the rest. Look.’
Tomas sees a picture of the grandfather sitting with his grandson in the cafe a few hours earlier. Tereza presses a button and Tomas hears the old man say, ‘You know, Ludovicio, all you’ve got in this world is your honour. This is sacred.’
Tereza moves a dial and a picture of the grandfather as a young man is displayed. He’s in an orchard comforting a girl. ‘I hate him,’ she tells the young man. ‘He comes home late every night. Your brother is a drunk and a bum. Sometimes he smells of other women. I can’t take it.’
The young man’s consoling hand strays to the girl’s breast. They lock eyes and he lowers her to the ground.
Tomas looks at Tereza, stunned.
‘Press this button and the machine adds some touches of its own,’ she says. ‘Look, the Euro couple.’
The screen shows them at their first meeting a few years ago. They’re at a club, in a crowd that is alive with pleasure. They have sex that night.
A fabulous wedding appears on the screen. The church is decorated with flowers, the congregation magnificent. The ceremony begins. A groomsman a few rows from the back starts playing with his BlackBerry. Soon all the bankers in the congregation are playing with their BlackBerries.
The bride turns to her groom to speak the sacred words. To her horror, he too is playing with a BlackBerry. She spins around, seeking consolation from the congregation, but all the men have turned into hedges, playing Black-Berrys with their leafy hands. She tries to remonstrate with her groom but he is now a hedge as well.
A few years later, they see the bride explaining to her children why their father has left home. The children cry.
‘Finally,’ says Tereza, ‘the old lady.’
There she is on screen, a beautiful girl escorted by a smooth-looking type, the sort that plays the cad in an old movie. He’s a count with limitless family estates, or so he says. They marry and after years of living a half-life together he dies. But he’s not a count, he’s a cad. And there aren’t estates, only debts.
Worst of all, waiters whose purpose is to be rude now feel sorry for her. ‘Your usual table, countess?’ they ask, and forget to bring the bill.
‘You see, Tomas,’ Tereza says, ‘we all have our stories. At least in mine there are no children crying and all the waiters are rude.’
Tomas looks at her amazed. His eyes are speaking again. ‘I love you,’ they say.
A modern-day Little Red Riding Hood …
A single shot rings out and echoes around the hills. Moments earlier, the pretty girl had been flying in a circle, her father’s strong arms holding her aloft and swinging her around. ‘You’re an angel,’ he says, ‘you can fly, fly away.’
Now she tumbles hard to the ground, her father slumped beside her. Instantly she enters another world. This hasn’t happened. Her father, the foundation of her life, fallen? He must be playing. A red stain seeps across his shirt. Within seconds it’s soaked. The pretty girl’s breath comes hard and fast. She squats on all fours like an animal and is violently sick. As she lifts up her head, spittle drooling from her mouth, she sees it on the hillside.
The black wolf puts down his rifle and stands up on his hind legs like a man. He’s big, over six foot, with an arched back that bends him forwards. Even from a distance she can see his long snout and snarling mouth, the hideous distended tongue lolling between the fangs. His ears are massive pricked-up triangles and his eyes miniature black beads. As he returns her gaze, he slowly raises his front legs before him like a demon about to cast a spell.
The pretty girl stands up to face her father’s murderer. Another random shot, another senseless death in the killing fields around Sarajevo. Now she feels she’s slipping from another world into a dream, or rather a nightmare. For the wolf, with exaggerated slowness, arches his shoulders and tilts his snout towards the sky; then he straightens to an upright position, moving one leg forward with an overpronounced step. He repeats this strange manoeuvre, still at a snail’s pace, with his front legs outstretched before him like arms, claws clenching and unclenching, eyes fixed on the pretty girl. His intent is clear. He’s coming to get her.
The bubble bursts. This isn’t another world, a dream or a nightmare. It’s death, real and sadistic, carried on slow legs down the hill. The pretty girl runs to her house.
She knows she can’t wield her father’s revolver kept under his bed, but perhaps there’s another way of using it. Strangely, in this moment of panic and horror, an idea forms. She hauls the gun from the floor and hides it on top of the mattress beneath a sheet.
Through the window she sees the wolf coming; moments later, she hears his howl. The monster is announcing his mission, which is understood all too clearly by the pretty girl. She knows what she must do: she strips naked.
The sound of the front door opening announces the wolf’s arrival; seconds later, she hears his claws on the stairs. The beast is now in the doorway, staring at her. This is it. She can faint and die. Or stay conscious and maybe live. With a supernatural effort, she gestures to the wolf to lie on the bed. He will have her anyway. She offers to pleasure him in return for a merciful end.
The wolf lies on his bent back, his coarse legs sticking up stiffly. His grotesque form is nothing compared to his stench. His coat crawls, more putrid than a sewer. The pretty girl only just manages to swallow her bile as her hands fumble for the revolver.
The first shot, fired from the gun lying on its side on the mattress, catches the beast in the thigh. He emits an insane shriek and leaps vertically into the air. As he lands on his back, the second, third and fourth shots perforate his groin. He howls in agony holding his shattered parts and rolls off the bed.
She can kill him now. His head is inches from the gun’s mouth and there are two shots left. All she need do is tilt the barrel towards him. Without hesitation, she abandons the gun and runs out of the house.
Days later she’s in a bus travelling west, her face, like her heart, set in rock. She’ll now do whatever it takes to rise from this mire of blood and horror. But at this moment a single thought rises above the rest in the churning waters of her anguish and despair. A regret more painful than an open wound; that the wolf’s agony before death was so short.
And the pretty girl’s name? Tereza.
Every hotel has its secrets …
Tomas’s brain is a soup. He needs time to reflect. On leaving university a few years ago he had no thought beyond getting rich. He joined the money herd in a trancelike plod towards green pastures. The main options were banking, media (dominated by Shit TV), working for a rich Russian or getting involved with football, the last two being one and the same. Shit TV was chosen for the anodyne reasons that he didn’t want to cut his hair and he wished to continue his prankster university days for as long as possible.
Now, in his mid twenties, Tomas hears an invisible voice and at last becomes a man. But the transition leaves him confused, a condition not helped by meeting Tereza and taking his trip in the time machine. For the world is more rotten than he thought, and nothing is what it seems.
He sits in the hotel lobby to calm down and recalibrate. ‘At least this building,’ he thinks, ‘an inanimate object, with foundations, rooms and a roof, is what it seems.’
Perhaps if he fixes on a simple physical reality, he can then consider more complex human issues.
There’s something laughing at him. It’s the invisible voice. ‘So you think this hotel is what it seems?’ it says.
‘Well it’s not a dancing elephant,’ Tomas replies.
The invisible voice continues to laugh. ‘You need some help. I’m going to introduce you to my friend, the invisible eye.’ Tomas sits back to await the introduction.
The concierge sees Tomas across the lobby. He has been sitting with no purpose for some time. The concierge comes over to investigate. ‘Does Sir need anything?’
‘That’s very kind,’ Tomas replies. ‘No, thank you very much.’
But the concierge is unconvinced. He’s trained to sense what patrons may want but are unable to say. ‘Perhaps Sir would like some companionship?’
Tomas imagines the concierge stripping off his frock coat and cravat to reveal a Hawaiian patterned shirt and shorts underneath. ‘Come on, Sir, let’s go,’ he cries in the voice of a child arriving at a seaside town after a long car journey. They run out of the hotel together laughing. ‘Beat you to the ice-cream van, Sir,’ the concierge says. But this isn’t the companionship on offer.
He waves the concierge away.
‘Perhaps later?’ the concierge says.
As he returns to the front desk, an overweight businessman in a suit and tie arrives to check in. He’s a convention delegate. Although his conference is about to start, he’s keen to get to his room. The invisible voice introduces the invisible eye to Tomas who can suddenly see from wherever the eye may be floating. The eye follows the delegate upstairs and sees him fling his shoulder bag on to the bed and head straight for the television. ‘These things are so damn difficult to use,’ the businessman says to himself.
He presses the ‘guest services’ button and ‘channels’ comes up. He scrolls through ‘information’, ‘news’, ‘sports’ and ‘kids’ and fixes on ‘movies’. He presses the ‘select’ button. He moves the cursor through ‘action’, ‘drama’ and ‘comedy’ and rests it on ‘adult’. He pushes ‘select’. Before him is a cornucopia of eastern European, Asian and Latino possibilities. His heart begins to race.
He arrives for the conference half an hour late knowing his secretary will smooth over the unidentified ‘guest service’ on his expenses claim. She understands the need of a grown man on a business trip to watch a fragment of film at two forty-five in the afternoon.
The invisible eye floats through the wall to the room next door. A scruffy-looking traveller has timed his departure well. His minibar has just been checked: he tells the receptionist that he wants his bill in five minutes. He empties the alcoholic contents of the minibar into his carry bag, where the midget bottles jingle against the soaps, sachets of shampoo and other toiletries he has already removed. A hotel blanket is folded on top to cover his shame.
At reception he is asked, ‘Has Sir had anything from the minibar?’
‘Nothing,’ he replies. His bill is printed with a short but impressive whirr. ‘So what?’ he thinks as he declines the concierge’s offer of help with his bag, ‘I’m never coming here again.’
The invisible eye continues its spectral progress and sees a pretty undermaid surrender to the embrace of the hotel manager – soon she’ll be a full maid; a married man removes his identification mark as a girlfriend opens the bedroom door; a street-corner type, a friend of the concierge, delivers an envelope containing something that is not available on the hotel menu to one of the suites.
‘Now for the grand finale,’ the invisible voice says to Tomas.
Tomas remains motionless, sitting in the lobby with a view of the hotel bar. It’s dusk and the hotel guests are gathering at the watering hole. The invisible eye comes to rest on Tomas’s forehead and provides him with a special perspective.
The men are monkeys, chimpanzees and other swinging animals. The girls are storks, stilts and various long-legged birds. As the drinking starts they circle each other cautiously. An orang-utan catches the eye of a flamingo. He ‘ooh – oohs’, she squawks. Moments later they come together.
A dance starts. An ape begins to waltz with a harrier. A gibbon bows to an ostrich before conducting her to the dance floor. Soon all is a swirl of colours, feathers, beaks and fur. Then the music stops and Tomas sees the animals paired off in separate hotel rooms, missions accomplished.
The concierge distracts Tomas from his reverie. The invisible eye vanishes. ‘I feel sure Sir would be interested to make the acquaintance of a most charming young lady.’
Tomas blinks, signifying nothing.
‘She’s a recent arrival in our little paradise. An exquisite sun-burnished beauty. Adorable. Very popular with the clients. I can arrange an introduction within the hour. Her name is Tereza.’
Ignoring the concierge, Tomas walks out of the hotel into the night. He crosses the street that separates the hotel from the beach and stands on the seaside promenade facing the building. Its magnificent turn-of-the-century facade, with elegant balconies and massive masonry, is lit up by outdoor lamps and moonlight.
He stretches out his arms and focuses on the ornate frontage. Through a window he sees the back of an ape bent between two thin pink legs spread akimbo in the air. On the balcony next door an aging producer is practising his magic arts on a beautiful young producee. Above them is the silhouette of a man in a bathrobe who is introducing himself for the first time to three girls in party dresses.
Tomas concentrates on the rhythm of the hotel: the voices, noises and heartbeats of those inside. He picks up an irregular pulse. Slowly this increases in volume and begins to synchronise into a single beating note. Stretching the palms of his hands upwards, he raises his arms to chest height. The beat doubles in time and volume. A green energy emanates from the hotel like a creeping mist and locks on to his outstretched arms.
He begins to shake. The energy is strong, almost overpowering. The beat rises to a fever pitch. He tilts the palms of his hands downwards and focuses the energy on to the hotel’s foundations. There is a deafening roar like a dam bursting and the hotel begins to smoke and vibrate. Tomas’s body stiffens as if in shock. He is shaking uncontrollably.
Tomas raises his arms higher and the hotel lifts off the ground with a terrible groan. He clenches his teeth in a spasm of pain and the building rises above its seaside mooring. Tomas is convulsed by a river of sweat; not an inch of his body remains dry. He lets out a scream, like some monstrous thing caught in a pit of horror and despair, and the hotel soars high above the city. It hovers for a moment just beneath the cloud line and then disappears into space.
How to catch a killer …
Tomas’s morality lessons don’t go unnoticed by the Prefect of Police. The first two incidents, although regrettable, don’t warrant disturbing his routine. What with his siesta, his mistress and the constant need to adjust his fine prefect’s hat, often in the reflection of street windows, the prefect’s a busy man. But a large envelope from Boss Olgarv, the fact that the beachside hotel was his favourite clandestine meeting place, and duty, in that order, require the prefect to investigate the disappearance of the hotel.
The loss of the hotel ruins the symmetry of the beachfront; it’s as if a front tooth’s been wrenched from a mouth. The crater left behind is difficult to explain. The prefect removes his hat to scratch his head.
‘Theories, gentlemen?’ he asks his squad.
‘A madman, prefect,’ a detective replies, ‘possessed of a technology that extracts all matter leaving only a hole. We must call in the guard, tanks on the streets, sharpshooters, roadblocks, searchlights …’
‘Thank you, detective,’ the prefect says. He replaces his hat and makes a mental note to adjust it at the first opportunity. ‘Gentleman, I declare a street carnival,’ he announces. His colleagues shuffle their feet, confused. ‘Our killer is drawn to people with colour and no purpose. We’ll set him a trap. Make the arrangements.’
For the next few days, carnival fever infects the Riviera. Posters at street corners and seaplanes dragging carnival banners in their wake proclaim the arrival of the great day.
But the prefect knows that a little local colour won’t be enough to catch his man. He must provide an irresistible target.
As carnival day approaches, word spreads that a famous socialite will be appearing. The press pack froths into a frenzy. While most socialites do rudimentary jobs or good works alongside their socialising, the one promised at the carnival is distinguished above all others. She’s famous for nothing. Her uselessness is so pure that it transcends the meaning of the word.
Over the years journalists and detectives have searched high and low for a single meaningful point to her existence; the highest mountains have been climbed, the deepest gorges explored in pursuit of a clue. But not a scintilla of a redeeming feature has been discovered. She is the crowned queen of futility.
The prefect’s plan is, however, still more ingenious. While holding his hat, lest the force of his revelation knocks it from his head, he whispers a secret to a favoured paparazzo. The prefect, whose profession it is to know all things, has it on good faith that the socialite, in defiance of all rules of taste and custom, is planning to wear a certain article of under-clothing on carnival night. More daringly still, this sartorial faux pas will become immediately apparent when she steps from her car.
In polite society socialites never wear underclothing. To de-car unexposed is unthinkable. But the socialite’s genius transcends these strictures. This is her plan. Let the world prepare.
The slavering press hounds become rabid. Although they’re only dogs, they understand the possibilities presented by the planned sartorial mishap. And just as the prefect intended, news of the carnival, the socialite and her unorthodox dressing habits reaches far and wide.
On carnival day the city is quivering with excitement. The army of paparazzi dogs forms a menacing rampart of camera lenses, all six feet long. If a time-travelling Roman legion materialised at this moment, the general in charge would surrender on the spot.
The socialite’s car pulls up. A storm of clicks ensues. The driver walks round to the passenger door and touches the handle. The press pack howls, a torrent of saliva despoils the flowery sidewalk. They’re no longer dogs, they’re wolves and it’s a full moon tonight.
The door opens and a giraffe stiletto appears at the edge of the car. A full leg comes into view. This is it. Man’s first step on the moon. A star going supernova. The socialite’s private area unexposed.
But what’s this? A female triangle? A pall of disappointment descends on the pack and they lower their weapons. Now would be a good moment for the time-travelling Romans to attack.
The prefect bustles forward and bundles himself into the car, pushing the socialite back into her seat. ‘Mademoiselle, you’re correctly undressed. If you’ll permit me,’ he says.
He removes his hat and holds it at floor level before her. French Prefects of Police never carry fewer than three pairs of female underpants in their caps. He turns to look out of the window. The socialite selects one and the prefect replaces his hat. She emerges once again. Honour is satisfied. The pack is back in business.
Tomas surveys the scene with rising anger. The prefect’s right. This is fertile ground for another morality lesson. But there’s danger. All that the police interspersed in the crowd need do is wait for the gunman to identify himself, then pounce.
Tomas calculates his attack but something holds him back. His previous sprees, justifiable as they were, now seem to have been so annihilating, so final. Of the magnificent seaside hotel not a brick remains. Tomas wants a momento of his exploits. Even killers can be nostalgic for a souvenir.
He spies the prefect’s hat over the sea of heads. It’s a fine hat, he thinks. And in the hustle and bustle of the carnival atmosphere it won’t be difficult to appropriate and carry away. He approaches from behind and removes the hat with such stealth that it’s a full ten seconds before the prefect discovers his loss.
Tomas makes use of this time to leap through the crowd towards freedom. On the point of escape he puts the hat on his head, laughing. But what’s this? What’s this horror of everything he hates most that permeates his cerebral core? He freezes on the spot.
Within moments he’s surrounded by the gendarmerie. It’s obvious who he is. The prefect has his man.
The prefect steps through the cordon of officers. The honour of the kill is his. Press and paparazzi now create a second cordon to record the historic moment. ‘What will the prefect say?’ the cry goes up. ‘I arrest you in the name of the law’? ‘Killer prepare for justice’? ‘Surrender. Prison awaits’?
‘My hat if you please, monsieur,’ the prefect says.
Jungle law and a difficult question …
In every society in each generation there are a few individuals who stand above their peers in intelligence, integrity, decency and strength. Often, in times of war or national tumult, these great people become leaders and shape history; at other times they achieve high status in politics, the arts or sciences and make a lasting contribution.
Judge Reynard is such a man. In his youth he trained as a doctor and mastered general medicine and rudimentary surgery with ease. He excelled particularly in psychohypnosis. But he yearned for a wider role in life and switched to law. After years of distinguished practice he became a judge and finally head of the judicial system. In this position he made many improvements, big and small, based on the values of reason, fairness and compassion. He retired as one of the country’s foremost men.
Tragically for the judge, he now has a wasting disease. While this doesn’t affect his mental capacities, it will in due course kill him. But this is some years away. More immediate is the prospect of Tomas’s trial. Shit TV has whipped up such a frenzy of fury against its former star that the Supreme Justices can think of only one man to preside over the judicial process. Judge Reynard comes out of retirement to accept this final commission with grace and a certain weary resignation, subject to a number of conditions that he lays down beforehand. He is fatigued not only by age and illness but also by a lifetime’s exposure to the legal system.
The first day of the trial arrives and the court crier orders, ‘Silence.’ Judge Reynard’s kindly face appears atop the forest of polished wood over which he presides. He looks frail but his darting eyes, which have seen so much, take in every detail.
In accordance with Reynard’s pre-trial conditions, an owl represents Tomas in his defence, the prosecutor is a fox and the jury a battery of hens. Despite his good intentions, Reynard didn’t forsee the problem that this presents: throughout the proceedings the fox is unable to concentrate on the issue at hand and his orations are littered with inappropriate similes. ‘Judge, you should know that Tomas destroyed the hotel like an animal devouring a roast chicken,’ the fox says.
‘Kindly explain to me,’ Judge Reynard asks, ‘why destroying the hotel is like eating a chicken?’
‘They both cease to exist, judge,’ the fox replies.
This kind of talk is unsettling for the jurors, who decide to keep their heads down and spend the trial knitting cardigans. The hens have no interest in Tomas’s adventures and their sole contribution is to emit a congratulatory cluck each time one of their number lays an egg.
The owl is similarly unhelpful. The judge selected this bird on the basis of its reputation for wisdom. But throughout the trial he merely looks around the room wide-eyed, making rapid head movements and dilating his pupils. It seems to Tomas that he wants to eat a mouse, a worthier occupation than randomly collapsing into hysterical laughter, which is the behaviour of the pack of hyenas that occupies the public gallery.
Reynard has to concede that his attempt to interest animals and birds in the law isn’t a success. But this, he feels, is as nothing compared to the real problem. Why is it that the law is so slow? Can justice only be done weighed down by a mighty anchor? The judge has spent his career wading knee-deep in muddy fields of cumbersome procedures, long discussions on the precise meaning of a single word, pompous speeches from lawyers seeking to impress. If only everyone would resort to inappropriate chicken similes. If there isn’t a better way, surely there must be a faster one.
Reynard knows that to attach a mechanical engine to the wind-powered legal ship of state, judges must have more power. He has no wish for power for himself, rather the opposite; in his twilight years he looks forward to resting unburdened by worldly worries. But judges see so much human behaviour that they can tell, within hours if not minutes, whether a case has merit or an individual has guilt written all over his or her face. There must be a means of making justice swift as well as sure.
With these troubling thoughts in mind, the judge decides to take the unusual step of appropriating all roles – except that of defence, of course, which he gives to Tomas – to himself. He realises that this is impermissible under the rules of law, not to mention unconstitutional and an infringement of Tomas’s human rights. It’s also likely to invalidate the proceedings and any decision he makes. But over years of practice Reynard has formed a certain view of the judicial system, which now, in this valedictory moment, he wants to challenge. He’s also old and distinguished and – who knows? – perhaps the action he takes will set a precedent, always popular with lawyers, or even change the system for good. He turns to speak to Tomas.
‘Monsieur,’ he says, ‘are you content for me to take a somewhat unorthodox approach in these proceedings? I will determine your innocence or guilt and you have my word I’ll be both quick and fair.’
‘I’d be delighted to submit to your justice, judge,’ says Tomas, ‘and waive any right to an appeal, on condition that you oblige me by answering a simple question.’
‘A most irregular request,’ thinks the judge, a smile playing on his lips. But he wants things to be irregular; sometimes systems clogged with the detritus of custom and habit need to be deconstructed in order to be reconstructed better, stronger and faster.
‘Proceed,’ says the judge. As he speaks, a soft jungle light diffuses the courtroom. Insect song explodes and green shoots appear. An elephant ambles into the court swishing his trunk. He looks thoughtfully at the judge, then raises his tail: thick pats of excrement splatter the floor. The hyenas laugh hysterically. A family of monkeys swings overhead. The voices of a hundred animals echo through the court. ‘This is the way it should be,’ thinks the judge. ‘No more self-serving lawyers. Natural law. Justice in the raw.’ He nods to Tomas.
‘If you could travel back in time, perhaps by way of a time machine,’ says Tomas, ‘and assassinate the dictators of the last century who were responsible for millions of deaths, would you?’
There’s a furious shriek followed by a symphony of clucking from the jury. The fox has stolen over and put the forehen’s thigh in his mouth.
‘It’s illegal to take life,’ the judge says. ‘Both according to God and our… ’
‘If you’ll forgive me, judge,’ Tomas interrupts. ‘You’re a man of immense lucidity and brilliance. You agreed to consider a question which requires a simple yes or no answer. If a single bullet from the barrel of a gun could save the lives of tens of millions, not to mention averting untold misery and the destruction of property, would you pull the trigger?’
The judge gives a throat-clearing ‘harrump’ and considers his judicial robe’s sleeve.
‘Judge, may I be permitted to ask a further question by way of clarification and to help you consider the first?’
The judge gives a silent nod.
‘There are a number of men alive today who are without question evil. They brutalise their countries, commit acts of repression and torture, and wallow in stolen riches. The human suffering they cause is incalculable. Were it in your power summarily to execute these men, would you?’
And as the judge again seeks inspiration from his sleeve, jungle drums erupt and a troupe of primitives in grotesque masks gyrates into the court. They leap manically around the room, menacing the occupants with shaking spears and thrusting loins.
‘My point, judge,’ Tomas shouts above the noise, ‘is simple. I cannot claim to be a heroic assassin of evil people in history – although I have recently discovered a time machine and a possibility occurs to me. Neither have I dispensed justice to certain dictators and other evil people, alive today, who deserve not to be. I have, however, provided some morality lessons to a certain class of people who think, act and care only for themselves; whose lives add nothing to the sum of human existence. It may be that these lessons have no effect. Alternatively, it’s possible they might be thought-provoking to some. Finally, there’s a chance they could result in something good, in which case they may have been worthwhile.’
‘Twit-twoo,’ the owl says by way of affirmation, and falls off his perch.
The next day Tereza is sandwiched between a journalist who introduces himself as Pierre and Boss Olgarv in the public gallery in court.
‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’ Tereza asks Pierre. He checks his notepad and pencil behind his ear. He tilts his head to look at his jacket – yes, it’s untidy and has a cigarette burn. He feels his shirt collar; the top button’s undone and his tie’s off centre – again, all fine.
‘I’m sure I haven’t,’ he replies.
Tereza points to his shirt.
‘Why, what’s the matter?’ he thinks. His shirt’s creased and bunched up around his protruding belly at the waistband – all as it should be.
‘Where’s the coffee stain?’ says Tereza.
‘Damn. I always forget something. I was in such a rush from the socialite story, I forgot to spill coffee on my shirt this morning.’
‘That’s OK,’ says Tereza handing him her eyeliner. Pierre dabs a smudge on his shirt. Close up this looks suspect. But from afar, the view of most people, the mark makes a passable imitation of a coffee stain.
‘Forgive the omission, mademoiselle,’ says Pierre.
‘Think nothing of it,’ replies Tereza. ‘I’m sure your stories are eloquent.’
‘Alas, mademoiselle, eloquence isn’t permitted,’ replies Pierre. ‘Take this story for example – a killer, guided by an invisible voice, attempts to save the world by providing morality lessons to society; he is possibly possessed of a lethal technology or even supernatural powers. It’s perfect. I could write pages. But my editor’s only interested in socialites and underpants.’
‘Oh,’ says Tereza. ‘And what did you write?’
‘I’ve got it here, if you’re interested,’ says Pierre, producing the front page of the previous day’s newspaper. It features a big colour photograph of the socialite disembarking from her car below the headline ‘Socialite – Pants!’ An introductory line follows: ‘From our reporter at the carnival …’ And then the full story – ‘The socialite got out of her car. She wore underpants.’
‘It’s sold millions,’ says Pierre.
Tereza still doesn’t understand. ‘But won’t your exposure of Tomas’s mind and the myriad sociological issues this case involves delight your readers?’
‘Alas, mademoiselle, my art has been reduced to large photographs of thin triangles described by small words,’ replies Pierre.
His telephone rings. He answers, holds his hand over the mouthpiece and whispers, ‘Excuse me, mademoiselle, it’s my editor.’ A look of pained concentration comes over his face. ‘No, Sir, he’s not yet in court,’ he says to the disembodied voice. ‘Will he be covered in blood and shouting, “Death to socialites”? Presumably not, Sir, prisoners in court are normally clean and not permitted lethal weapons.’ He pauses to listen. ‘No, Sir, Tomas has said nothing about underpants. Of course, I’ll try my best. Goodbye, Sir.’
Pierre sighs and turns to Tereza.
‘My editor already has tomorrow’s headline,’ he says. ‘It reads “Socialite and Pants … Again!” All I must do is provide a few words to connect Tomas with the socialite’s underpants and voilà – my editor has his cover.’
‘And you have my sympathies,’ says Tereza.
‘Mademoiselle, you’re kind. I would give up smoking for a single good story.’
As if by magic, Pierre’s single good story materialises. Boss Olgarv is jealous of his conversation with the pretty lady. Why doesn’t she notice something about him and engage him in a discussion? Surely she desires him? All women do. Why, whenever he’s dancing on his yacht all the girls crowd around him in a frenzy of excitement.
‘Get me the Chief Bear,’ he shouts into his mobile. Boss Olgarv has learnt the impressive mobile-phone-call trick. The ensuing conversation, about the ‘threat neutralised’ and the ‘plan proceeding’, is ignored by Tereza, who doesn’t even glance in his direction, but noted in detail by Pierre. Clearly the Russians are up to something. An article on Russia’s new-found militancy forms in his head.
The court crier calls for order and Judge Reynard, looking strained and white, ascends his judicial throne. From this vantage point, his gaze sweeps the court: he notices two brown ears, seemingly detached from any head, sticking up vertically from behind the jury box.
‘Good morning, Mr Prosecutor,’ the judge says.
The court settles and Judge Reynard raises his hand to speak.
‘I regret to inform you that I have some repellent news which goes against every legal principle and shocks me to the core.’ Turning to Tomas, he continues. ‘A certain media network whose raison d’être is vile to any sane person – although not, it seems, to most of the world – has conducted a campaign of hate and vilification against you. Apparently, it is offended by your repudiation of the values it espouses. Disassociating itself from you isn’t enough. It has gone a step further.’
The judge pauses, then continues. ‘The network has collected a petition of millions of signatures, the force of which appears irresistible. The Supreme Justices have considered the situation and are more concerned about the social disorder that would result from resisting this demand than the implications of capitulation to the network.’
There is a hushed silence in court, disturbed only by the clicking sound of the hens’ knitting needles. The owl’s pupils dilate.
‘In short,’ the judge continues, ‘the petition seeks your death – televised live on the network, of course. It seems that there is no hope for natural law. We must submit to the magic of modern media. As for me, I was most interested by our discussion yesterday and feel sure that it would have led somewhere. But the matter is out of my hands. I cannot abdicate responsibility for overseeing what now must be: to leave it to someone else would only burden another conscience. I am ill and will die soon. I will therefore expedite this matter as best I can. Tomas, you have my deepest sympathies. Please speak, if you will.’
‘That’s most gracious of you, judge,’ says Tomas. ‘May I burden you with a condemned man’s request?’
‘Of course,’ says the judge.
‘You will recall my question about perpetrating a small evil to achieve a greater good?’ says Tomas.
‘I do,’ replies the judge.
‘Have you yet had an opportunity, judge, to consider whether you would pull the trigger?’ Tomas asks.
Judge Reynard wishes to answer according to his conscience. But he’s the most senior lawyer in the land; he can give only a sanitised response. However, Reynard is a talented man. He, too, has learned to speak with his eyes. He leans forward across his bench and fixes Tomas with a stare.
‘Yes, with joy in my heart,’ his eyes say.
Life’s lesson learnt at last …
‘If there’s one thing I could bequeath to humanity,’ says Tomas, ‘it would be a law, rigorously enforced, that once a year everyone in the world should spend one night in a cell imagining they’re to be executed in the morning.’
Tomas is alone in his cell the night before the fateful day, trying to squeeze toothpaste from an anorexic tube, with only the invisible voice for company. If at this moment the invisible voice transformed into a visible face, Tomas would note a quizzical look on its brow.
‘It wouldn’t be a play-acting or token law. There’d also be a drug to induce a “this is the last night of my life” feeling in everyone. People’s imagination of their deaths has to be real – if that’s possible? After the night is over and the drug has worn off, people realise that they’re not going to die. But they can remember exactly how they felt when they thought they were, sitting alone in their cell.’
The invisible voice’s imaginary visible face continues to furrow.
‘And how’s this going to help the world?’ the invisible voice asks.
‘Since I won’t need a toothbrush after tomorrow,’ Tomas replies, ‘it doesn’t matter about toothpaste tonight. At last, a perspective on life. Imagine a world where once a year everyone has a compulsory moment of self-realisation.’
The invisible voice had always wanted to exist, but when this wasn’t possible he applied to be a spirit. At least he could materialise every so often to frighten people. But this wasn’t to be, either; the invisible voice found himself last in the visible-voice queue. ‘I’m sorry,’ said his maker. ‘There are no more visible voices left, you’re going to have to stay invisible. But be quick, the next step down is mute invisible voice.’
The invisible voice knows that because he doesn’t exist he of course has a better understanding of life than Tomas. It stands to reason that the best thing for self-realisation is death. When alive, you blunder about confusing trivia with important things, but as Tomas has just discovered, on the brink of death you acquire a new perspective. It’s only in death that you truly understand life.
‘I wish I could have discussed this with a great man in history,’ says Tomas. ‘Instead of excreting in Napoleon’s tomb, I should have communed with his spirit. What a fool I’ve been. I wonder whether Tereza’s time machine can be used to raise the dead?’
‘Of course it can,’ says Tereza from the door of the cell. ‘There’s a special button.’
She comes to sit on the bed with Tomas, making her final visit. She takes his hands in hers. ‘But let’s not worry about that now. Although you did those things, I know you’re a good man, Tomas. Think about that tomorrow,’ she says.
‘I’m not sure that a good man thinking he’s good helps when it comes to dying,’ Tomas replies. ‘If anything, it’s the opposite – he’s sad about all the good things he’s leaving behind. It’s probably easier if you’re bad – then you’ve got no regrets.’
‘So what will you think about?’ says Tereza.
‘That’s easy,’ Tomas replies. ‘Your beautiful face. Dying’s easy if you have a single happy thought to fix in your mind. You just keep on thinking it right to the end.’
Russia and the West explained …
‘Russia’s history is written in blood,’ begins Pierre’s article beneath the headline: ‘Russia: The Great Bear Awakes’.
This isn’t intended as an insult to the land of Tchaikovsky and Prokofiev, merely a statement of fact. Over the centuries it’s been a brutal place. Whereas other nations make war on their neighbours, Russia specialises in slaughtering its own people. From the annihilation of the peasants under the Tsars to the tens of millions killed by the great dictator of the last century. Why is this?
In the largest country on earth, whole areas live in abject backwardness, untouched by the civilising hand of time, let alone television. We scoff at Russian alcoholism and take them for a nation of drunks. But this ignores a harsher truth. The Russian winter is so cold that there’s no other way to keep warm. Cut off and freezing, what should the Russian masses resort to – mathematical theorems?
After the victory of the West in the Cold War, the Great Bear retreated to its wintry lair to lick its wounds. But a bear shamed isn’t a bear tamed. So what stirs now in the dark forest of the Russian night?
One thing we know. Animals, like people, don’t change. The bear born in the wild won’t come knocking on the door one day, asking to sit by the fire like a domestic cat. The only means of entry he understands is the sort of force that leaves the door swinging on its hinges.
But force in the twenty-first century lacks subtlety. It’s a big thing that can be spotted and squashed. And although animals don’t change, they can be trained. What’s needed are some new tricks. It seems that the Great Bear has learnt some.
For example, the new Great Bear understands sun-shifting technology. If the sun is melting your butter, why move the butter? Why not the sun? If the Constitution prevents you from continuing in office, why move the Constitution? Why not the country? In the past, Great Bears pawed and mauled. You could hear them from miles away. This one is an altogether more dangerous beast.
The West can react in three ways to the tidal wave of Russian money flooding its shores. First, revulsion: ‘Where does this come from? Is that blood? Sorry – we only take American Express.’ Second, disdain, the old European way: ‘OK, you can come in, but you must stand at the back. And don’t speak.’ And third, slavish acceptance; the West’s actual choice. An avalanche of bankers, jewellers, estate agents and other purveyors of finery, all tripping over themselves to be of service. Why roar yourself hoarse, when all you need do is throw some meat into the arena? Then, you can watch previously virtuous animals make a spectacle of themselves.
Of course, the West had its oversized-collar wearers and dancers with champagne bottles before the Russians arrived. But how much more pendulous are the collars and heavy the bottles now that they’re here? What else would you expect? If you’re inclined to this behaviour, the arrival of a five-hundred-foot yacht packed with eighteen-year-old ‘producees’ will have only one effect.
So where does this leave us? And what next? We don’t know. But of one thing we can be sure. The winter hibernation is over. The Great Bear is awake and he has a plan. History has taught us that once his paw’s in the honey pot, he’ll want to eat the hive.
… dawns bright and early with a cloudless sky and just a hint of chill in the breeze. It’s one of those beautiful Mediterranean dawns where, although the sun’s still low in the sky, you can sense the heat ready to explode into the day.
Judge Reynard, as good as his word, takes charge of all the arrangements. As distasteful as it is, he interviews each soldier in the local battalion to select an execution squad of six. He asks each man to consult his conscience, to put aside scruples of honour and duty when considering the matter at hand. To some he says, ‘Close your eyes, my son, search your heart.’ Shit TV’s determined to deliver justice rough, but Reynard attempts to smooth the edges.
After the squad has been selected the judge gives the men a conscience-easing speech. ‘Soldiers,’ he says. ‘Only five of the rifles will be loaded. One will contain a blank. Rifles will be selected at random. Never forget – you could be the man innocent of taking life.’
With the squad in place, Reynard makes meticulous preparations with the doctor in attendance, and a buzzard and a vulture who will take charge of the corpse. These sorry-looking carrion-eaters wear Dickensian top hats with black funeral ribbons hanging from the back. Their long necks jerk constantly; each time they do so their hats fall off.
Tomas is offered a final meal of his choice. He finds this an intriguing prospect. How could someone about to die possibly be hungry or even able to eat? He has heard of executees requesting elaborate final dinners but to what end? It seems incongruous to eat food if you’ll be unable to digest it.
He decides to take leave of the invisible voice in his cell.
‘Forgive my failure, my invisible friend,’ says Tomas. ‘What a wasted, thoughtless and money-obsessed life I led before you called me to a higher purpose. But even then I blundered. I thought that eliminating some melting-butter complainers and dancers with champagne bottles, people who exist only to satisfy themselves, would send a message. But my efforts were as chaff in the wind. I ask you though, what could I do? I’m not a Messiah. I have no magic or miracles. And now I’m to die like them, a great nothing: the worst death of all.’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ replies the invisible voice. ‘You can try again after you’re dead.’
‘That’s a fine idea,’ says Tomas, ‘but never having been alive, I fear you don’t understand what it is to be dead. After I’m shot, I regret I won’t be very good at anything.’
‘Nonsense,’ says the invisible voice.
Tomas has always been intrigued by the expression ‘late for your own funeral’. Partly because it is, of course, impossible. But mostly because he has spent his life challenging the natural order of things, and it appeals to him to attempt to do the same in death. Being late for his own funeral would also facilitate another expression he likes, ‘going out with a bang’. At least this much is guaranteed.
Tomas realises that he can’t cheat his date with destiny. But he can be late. Playing on the judge’s indulgence and the lack of protocol for an execution in Europe in the early twenty-first century, Tomas takes his time to dress and prepare. Without wishing to disavow his recent epiphany on the irrelevance of all things in the face of death, he now misses his toothpaste. He wishes to face his executioners with fresh breath as well as a straight back.
Tomas writes a final note to Tereza. In it he reminds her of the conversation they had at the cafe about the half measures people take in their lives. Tereza used the expression ‘quick grabbing for happiness’. Now, on the brink of death, he understands a single simple point – that life is short, too short for compromise. He urges her to take up the sword of his morality lessons where he left off, and suggests Hank as her first pupil.
Meanwhile, the firing squad lingers in the courtyard unsure what to do. No behaviour seems appropriate or inappropriate. A group of four stand talking in hushed voices emitting an occasional forced laugh. Another sits by himself on the steps leading to the barracks, hands clasped, head down in silent thought. The sixth member of the squad stands apart, smoking and looking at the sky. He catches fragments of speech from the large crowd gathered on the other side of the courtyard wall.
Eventually there’s a call to order and Tomas emerges from a concealed door. The Shit TV cameras whir into action, every angle covered. Tomas wears a billowing white shirt with puffed-up sleeves, like an olden-day pirate’s, with loose black trousers. The bearing of his head and half-smile on his lips betray private triumph. He managed to extract just enough toothpaste from the almost defunct tube to complete his ablutions. He’s clean as well as confident.
Tomas is escorted to the courtyard wall. It’s one of those fine old terracotta-coloured Mediterranean walls which has seen much use over the centuries. The sergeant offers Tomas the opportunity to speak and a blindfold. He politely declines both.
Tomas straightens his back, legs apart, placing his right foot forward. He clasps his hands behind him, his left hand holding his right wrist. His free palm is held loose, open. He pulls his shoulders back sharply, then slackens them so they come to a comfortable position somewhere between standing to attention and standing at ease. He raises his chin so that his head is pointing up, his eyes over the line of the firing squad. Finally, he lowers his eyes just a fraction, until they are level with the soldiers’ heads.
The order to ready the line is given. Tomas takes a deep breath.
‘Present!’ rings out in the now silent air.
‘Aim!’
Tomas thinks of his golden angel and the first moment he saw her, when time stood still.
There’s a bang, squawk and furious fluttering of feathers. The buzzard has neck-bobbed his own hat and the vulture’s off simultaneously. They flap about in the dust arguing over ownership.
The tension is broken. But Tomas doesn’t mind. He was beginning to find the situation pompous. Better for there to be a comic touch at the end.
‘Fire!’
The crowd gives a tremendous roar. Millions of network viewers leap up in unison to cheer. And far away in an icy lair the Great Bear smiles silently.
