‘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 magic of modern media …
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 ag
ainst 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.
The fateful day …
… 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.
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