Tomas

by James Palumbo

  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 ex
tracts 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 a
nd 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.