Destruction cometh; and they shall seek peace, and there shall be none.
—Ezekiel 7:25
Late July 1914
Johan daydreamed of Lorelei’s long journey back to Vienna. She stared from her sleeper carriage into the early dusk. Her copy of The Arabian Nights sat in the bottom of her trunk, never to be opened again. It nestled next to a bottle of ylang-ylang, which would not be sidelined for nearly as long. This need not have bothered him, for—as he would discover one day—her fidelity to him, as sturdy as a lover could ever wish for, would never be breached.
Miles to the west, Johan Thoms sat in a wicker chair on a patio of the hospital. He stared out into the incessant summer rain, toward a fuzzy horizon of forest and hills, and clutched a kit bag to his snug sky-blue-and-white striped pajamas. He scanned the bag’s contents. Nurse One, Angelface, had brought it to him that morning at his request. For days now he had continued to scan the newspapers for any mention of his name, or his picture, but there had been none. To inquire into the matter, however, would be tantamount to revealing his identity. He had gauged the full extent of the bag’s contents and the opportunities they afforded him. He had formulated a plan to leave the hospital as soon as he was fit and take a boat west to Italy, where anonymity was more likely. Late July was upon them. Vienna’s declaration of demands had been made. Belgrade’s response, despite being conciliatory beyond any expert’s expectations, had been rejected out of hand.
All bets were placed. The die was cast.
The Russians waded in with their Serbian bedfellows.
When he read of this development, while on the toilet with his pajama bottoms around his ankles, Johan crumpled. He was found there in an unsightly, unholy mess an hour later by his own ward mate’s unfortunate daughter, Josephine. More feces followed. Wilhelm II’s bowels unloaded over the Russians. France’s pact with Moscow brought them in. This process was accelerated and magnified by alleged Gallic-led activity in a neutral Belgium and by accusations of subterfuge and bombings on Teutonic soil. It was, indeed, silly season for the agent provocateur. The fifth column thrived like a virulent summer flu.
By early August ’14, the British had prevaricated for weeks. The Germans had presumed that this would end in an abstention from Westminster. London tossed a coin.
Heads!
“Heads it is, old boy. Jolly hockey sticks! What what! Get kitted out, Tommy. Let’s go bash the Bosch!”
Johan was found twitching and writhing under his bed in a deep psychotic ditch. He was pulled out (from under the bed, not from the psychotic ditch) by two burly, unshaven, square-jawed, stale-breathed orderlies. He clutched a cross and a newspaper, drooling, much to the delight of the syphilitic, deranged Mickey, who victoriously yelled, “He’s coming to me in the Old JimJam Club!”
Les jeux étaient faits. You’ve made your bed, young man. Want to lie under it?
* * *
In the black of night, Johan felt a cold hand on the side of his temple. The owner of the tiny, bony paw said nothing. Johan started to mumble, as if speaking in tongues. He knew little afterward of the subject matter of which he spoke to the owner of the small, cold mitt. The hand dried Johan’s brow, and then positioned the silver crucifix centrally on his chest. Johan thought he felt an arm stretch out halfway across him and give the softest of hugs.
* * *
The frail, shy young bag of bones in the bed next to Johan continued to watch his only friend. He was as sensitive as a Sicilian seismograph, and his agile young brain pondered a next move.