Tomas

by James Palumbo

  ‘Is that wise, commander?’ says the judge. ‘In the few thousand years of man’s civilisation only two people have risen from the dead: Jesus Christ and now Tomas. And you wish to shoot him?’

  The judge must consult his senior judicial colleagues immediately to discuss the situation but he’s apprehensive about leaving the commander in charge. He takes a fateful but necessary decision.

  ‘While I’m away, commander,’ he says, ‘you’re to guard Tomas with your life and follow his instructions in all things. I’m sure you understand.’

  The commander salutes and stands to attention. For him, an order is no sooner given than it’s obeyed.

  Tomas decides to use his new-found powers to test his theory about intelligence and obedience.

  ‘Commander,’ he says, ‘the battalion will parade at six o’clock in the courtyard.’

  Again the commander stands to attention.

  ‘Dressed as ballerinas.’

  The commander’s face remains impassive without a flicker of concern or surprise.

  ‘The tutus are to be pink. You, of course, are the prima ballerina, so yours will be white and especially ruffled. I’ll give further instruction thereafter.’

  Tomas has long held the view that it’s easier to take orders if you’re stupid. Those encumbered with an education tend to be more questioning when told what to do, especially if the orders are venal and pointless – for example, killing other people. Their hearts are just not in it. Others not so burdened do as they’re told and get on with the killing. Of course the corollary is that order takers tend to be braver than their more cerebral counterparts. Naturally, there are exceptions to the rule, but in general only the stupidly brave will follow an order to charge a machine-gun nest in broad daylight across a minefield.

  The battalion parades at the appointed hour in the uniform specified.

  ‘Half the battalion,’ announces Tomas, ‘are female swans. You stand to the left. The remainder are swan catchers. You move to the right.’

  The battalion ranks shuffle in obedience.

  ‘On my command the female swans will flutter their arms and leap into the air. The swan catchers will give chase with exaggerated dramatic gestures. Commander, you will pirouette around the courtyard, holding the back of your wrist to your forehead as if a tragedy is unfolding before you.’

  The soldiers adopt the preparatory ballerina position, heels together with one foot pointing outwards, arms held in front with hands curved.

  Tomas gives the command. ‘Swans, leap!’

  These are battle-hardened soldiers, trained in the deserts of North Africa. To see them leaping and pirouetting, one could easily mistake them for an enthusiastic amateur ballet school, all scoring ‘A’ for effort.

  After the swans have been caught and the commander has given a bravura performance as the vaulting tragic muse, the battalion is dismissed to its barracks. Tomas is left to ruminate on the three points that have defined this historic day.

  First, he’s alive. How and why he has no idea. Having provided his morality lessons he was caught and in a way tried. Sentenced to death, he faced his executioners with Tereza’s beautiful face in mind. He felt nothing but a swirling sensation in his veins, followed by sleep.

  Second, the theory’s right. The stupid do follow orders and he has the additional satisfaction that yesterday’s executioners are today’s leaping pink swans.

  And third, he now has a battalion of the stupidly brave at his command.

  Hank 2: Defining a man’s worth …

  ‘So what’s it going to be?’ Tereza asks. ‘You’re on a plane struck by lightning? Lost in a forest as a child? Ruptured your appendix and almost die?’

  Despite the symphony of oinks and squealing, Hank’s breathing is now calm. His words when they come are clear and measured. The condemned man on the scaffold making his valedictory speech, untroubled by thoughts of hope or reprieve.

  ‘The night before the big day,’ Hank starts, ‘sleep is, of course, impossible. But I’d settle for a sleepless night. Instead I sweat like a sick child with a fever; cheeks burning, hair wet.

  ‘In the early hours I drift off for a few minutes, the sort of sleep that comes from exhaustion. I have the nightmare which first came to me when I was ill as a child. I’m orbiting the moon in a spaceship, unable to return to earth. I go round and round, forever trapped in space. I wake up horrified that this dream keeps returning.

  ‘I shower off the sweat and the nightmare but there’s no way I can eat breakfast. My stomach is a forest of knots. The thought of food is nauseating, laughable.

  ‘I dress with a crisis of indecision over which tie to wear. Which lucky tie? I choose and tie the knot. My neck swells and I pull at my shirt collar but it makes no difference.

  ‘At work, it’s like no other day. It’s as if you’re on a beach holiday when one day, for no reason, it snows. We all know each other but no one makes eye contact. It’s too dangerous. It would give too much away.

  ‘Chuck’s called up first. When he returns I pretend not to look but I can’t help sneaking a glimpse. There’s a half smile on his face, which tells me nothing. Or maybe everything? Or nothing and everything? Who the fuck knows? Chuck sits at his desk and makes a silent phone call to his wife.

  ‘A comic thought pops into my head. Shit TV should screen a series of hushed-voice phone calls, everything people don’t want others to hear: whispered secrets; doleful confessions; bad news; excruciating revelations; embarrassing results. It would achieve top ratings. People love other people’s pain. The misfortune of others is even more satisfying than your own success.

  ‘I know I’m going to be called up sometime after lunch. But even though I’ve trained for it, like a sky diver making a jump, I’m not ready. “It’s your turn, Hank. Secure your parachute. Jump!” But I’m not jumping. I’m going up in a lift.

  ‘The lift door closes with a finality that says: “This could be your last journey up. Or maybe there’ll be more. You’ll know in five minutes.”

  ‘ “Go straight in, Hank,” says my boss’s secretary. I put my hand on the door handle. I breathe in and out hard. Whatever happens I mustn’t show how I feel. This is it. I push the door and go in.

  ‘ “Hank, come in,” says my boss. “Sit down,” and then, “Sit down,” again. That’s two “Sit downs”. Is that as in, “Relax, it’s all OK”? Or as in, “I’ve got some bad news for you, you’d better sit down (twice)”? I sit down.

  ‘ “It’s been a great year,” says my boss. That’s an OK start but the words “for you” added at the end would’ve been better. The first sentence tells you a lot. Maybe everything. I adjust my expectations to my upper-middle level.

  ‘ “Your bonus is $3,000,000.” That’s it. A lightning flash. No preamble beyond the introductory five-word banality. Then three words followed by a number which defines my worth as a man.

  ‘I make a rapid calculation as my boss makes some ceremonial pleasantries. $3,000,000, less forty per cent tax leaves $1,800,000, divided by two for sterling leaves £900,000 net. I wanted £1,000,000 but it’s not bad. And the bank’s been clever. I’m fed but left hungry for more.

  ‘My boss wraps up and I don’t display a flicker of emotion. I say “thank you”, shake hands and leave the room.

  ‘I exhale and close my eyes, leaning against the lift on my way down. The show’s over. The walls of my world remain intact. But I still maintain the outer pretence. It’s my turn to make a half-smile and silent phone call. I can see without looking that the office is watching. They’d pay $1,000 each to hear the secret I whisper to my wife.

  ‘I now relax and think about my £900,000. It’s in my account already. One thought warms me like a nip of brandy on a cold day. My boss could’ve said, “Your bonus is $1,000,000.” Finito. Game over. Although I’d dress up my job at a new bank, everyone would know. And then it would be downhill all the way; my misfortune providing pleasure to others.’

  Tereza looks at the
‘box’. The electrode connected to Hank’s head is still in place. Why the delay? Seconds later a light flashes. It’s green.

  The dangers of deity…

  Tomasmania is spreading,’ reports Shit TV’s news bulletin, ‘and all things French are now in fashion. We’re hearing of ranchers in Australia demanding delicate sauces with their dinners and Kazakhstani miners scenting their fingertips with Eau pour L’Homme. After two millennia, the new Messiah has arrived. And he’s French.

  ‘This just in,’ the bulletin continues. The screen flashes to a picture of the White House lawn. It’s thronged with dignitaries, officials and the press pack in the usual sombre dress of those attending a president. A trumpet sounds, but it’s not the blast of modern brass. It has the ring of something else – eighteenth-century France. The White House doors fly open and the American President appears, dressed as Louis XIV. He’s wearing full court dress of white stockings, billowing skirt and a fabulous brocade jacket. His face is whitened, with rouge spots on each cheek, and he wears a gigantic wig, supported from behind by a servant with a stick. He walks in high-heeled shoes with silver buckles with the decorum of the Sun King himself, making exaggerated gestures. When the camera pans in, he produces a handkerchief from a ruffled sleeve and waves it at the audience.

  ‘The American President has reacted to the craze for all things French and given it a twist. In reality singing shows it’s called “making the song your own”. People love it.’

  Tomas arrives in Paris and, with the help of the judge and his battalion, commandeers a hotel in the Place Vendôme. Where previously a uniformed doorman would greet visitors with a raised hat, Tomas’s battalion now guards the hotel with automatic weapons. The soldiers swarm the vicinity, dressed in military fatigues with commemorative pink armbands, to ensure Tomas’s total security. Again one might consider the wheel of fortune’s rapid turn. From executioners to pink ballerinas and now loyal-unto-death bodyguards. A soldier’s heart, once given, is unbiddable. And imagine the prestige of guarding the new Messiah.

  Despite the need for security, Tomas slips out of the hotel in disguise to meet Tereza in the Tuilleries gardens nearby. As ever, his heart skips when he sees her. The northern light accentuates the golden aura, which is what Tomas most associates with Tereza. Her simple beauty takes his breath away.

  ‘Well, I was shot, almost eaten and drowned,’ Tomas says, as lightly as someone might say, ‘I’ve been shopping and had a coffee.’ ‘How about you?’

  Tereza touches Tomas’s face. He’s definitely real. But it would be a cliché to interrogate him as the rest of the world is now doing. She’s always made a virtue of not following the crowd.

  ‘Hank’s a media star,’ she says. ‘He had an epiphany and confessed the sins of his profession, which our friends at Shit TV happened to televise. And Pierre, whom I met at your trial, has become a celebrated journalist, after having discovered that something is brewing in Russia.’

  From golden to avenging angel. He’s delighted.

  ‘Tomas, you need help with what’s happened,’ she continues, ‘Pierre can ask questions. He’s trained in these matters. I’ve asked him to join us.’

  As they wait for him to arrive, a stranger approaches carrying an umbrella. ‘Odd,’ thinks Tomas, ‘on a sunny day.’ Something in the back of his mind triggers a memory; he recognises the stranger’s face but the rest of him looks so … thin.

  Boss Olgarv, minus his detachable stomach, is now parallel with them. As he passes, he jabs the umbrella at Tomas, who jumps out of the way. ‘Excuse me,’ the Russian says.

  Tomas and Tereza look at each other, bemused. They expect him to pass on but instead he turns and jabs at Tomas again. ‘Hey!’ shouts Tomas, once more avoiding the thrust.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Boss Olgarv repeats.

  ‘Watch what you’re doing,’ says Tomas. But the Russian ignores him and lunges again. This time, he only just misses and Tomas has no choice but to take off at a run.

  Tereza watches Tomas being chased around the fountains of the Tuilleries gardens by a strange Russian jabbing an umbrella at him with an apologetic ‘Excuse me’ after each thrust. The stranger’s intention clearly isn’t benign; he appears to be a special type of murderer, bizarrely asking for forgiveness after each failed attempt. Although an assassin by profession, perhaps he’s polite by nature? Or maybe it’s part of his trade? For politeness disarms and can be dangerous.

  As Pierre arrives in the Tuilleries gardens, a cylindrical object propped up against a wall catches his eye. It’s Boss Olgarv’s stomach. He stops to investigate and discovers a compartment containing two dart racks – ‘truth’ and ‘death’. There is a ‘death’ dart missing. Presumably, it is attached to Boss Olgarv’s umbrella. Pierre takes two ‘truth’ darts and hides behind the wall.

  Eventually Tomas, who’s fit, disappears around a corner and Boss Olgarv, exhausted, comes to retrieve his stomach. As he bends over to clip it in place Pierre sticks a truth dart in his thigh. Once again Boss Olgarv provides material for a story.

  Later Pierre meets Tomas and Tereza. Pierre nods awkwardly, unsure of the protocol on meeting a possible deity. He gives Tomas the second ‘truth’ dart. ‘One of these marked “death” was meant for you,’ Pierre says.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Tomas, putting the dart in his pocket. ‘One day I’ll use it. But for now I understand you intend to ask some questions on my behalf. Please, if I can be of any help … ’

  ‘I will of course interrogate your executioners in detail,’ Pierre replies, ‘but for the moment I’ll only trouble you with a few questions, if I may. Do you believe in miracles?’

  ‘I don’t,’ Tomas replies. ‘And I can’t explain what’s happened. But I do believe in the miracle of ideas. Maybe my corpse was somehow indoctrinated by my beliefs and came back to life.’

  Pierre considers the proposition of an ideology so strong that it transcends death.

  ‘I can assure you of one thing,’ Pierre says, ‘everyone wants it to be a miracle. The press for their headlines; Shit TV so that they can devise some perverse take on it. The truth is incidental.’

  As Tomas ruminates on man’s capacity for self-delusion, Pierre asks, ‘The incident in the gardens – has anything else strange happened?’

  A light goes on in Tomas’s head. The umbrella assassin is the yacht-owning Russian who was also in his soup dream.

  ‘This bears close investigation,’ says Pierre. ‘Whether you’re the second Messiah or not, one thing’s for sure. The Russians are trying to kill you.’

  A beautiful game …

  Boss Olgarv is depressed. Pierre’s second article, ‘The Great Bear and the Hawk’, leaves him in need of vodka and oblivion.

  Why is the Russian Great Bear such a great friend of the Iranian Hawk’s? Is it geographical proximity? Why do these predatory animals hunt together?

  We know that the game of international détente is played according to certain rules. For example, you never say what you feel and always calculate what you do. The Great Bear and the Hawk dispense with such niceties. If an individual needs to be eliminated, it is done. Hang the consequences. If a country deserves to be annihilated, say it. Invaded? Do it. To hell with everyone else.

  Sharing such martial qualities, it is unsurprising that these allies have established a physical link. I can now reveal that a pipeline exists between these nations, hidden beneath vast deserts and windswept tundra. Its purpose? To carry oil.

  The reason for the Great Bear’s indulgence of the Hawk’s flights of fancy is now clear. It’s being fed. While it prefers honey, oil can buy a lot of this.

  As we know, the Russian beast is currently flooding the West with sticky stuff; soon we’ll all be stuck. The Hawk’s pipeline provides an invaluable resource. But what does he receive in return?

  Technology, information, knowhow; all with nuclear potential. And the result of a launch against the West? A triumph for the Hawk, disaster for the West and of little consequence to t
he Great Bear. So let the Hawk have his toys.

  Where does this end? Even the biggest honey reservoir will eventually run dry, and the Great Bear needs an ocean to execute his final plan. Read on as we attempt to discover how far and deep the pipeline runs.

  Boss Olgarv decides to throw a party to cheer himself up and invites his football team.

  But this isn’t his only largesse. ‘Kick a ball around a field. Here’s £100,000 per week.’ Imagine the tears of outrage from the player offered only £95,000. ‘An insult!’ he cries.

  Still, perhaps this money mountain creates some greater good? If mansions, cars and diamond ear studs are categorised as such. But the footballer’s ultimate trophy is, of course, his wife. In acquiring one, the strict rules of cliché apply: lack of singing talent, trolley-borne breasts and vulgar wedding arrangements are the most important. Detailed sub-rules govern these. Nuptials must be immortalised in the pages of a sponsoring pressdog publication. What girl doesn’t dream of a six-foot camera lens inches from her nose at the moment she says, ‘I do’?

  But the rules don’t stop there. Miles of forest must be destroyed in the cause of reporting – in photographs for those who can’t read – the continuing alliance of two brilliant minds in our glorious culture.

  Back to the party, which, like football, is a game of two halves.

  The rules for the first are easy and obvious. To get drunk. This is performed as speedily as a pass down the field. That accomplished, the team trots on to the pitch for the second half. At this particular party, it plays flawlessly.

  ‘You up for it?’ says a star player to his team mate. ‘If you’re game?’ comes the reply. And then together, ‘Come on lads.’

  They’re sitting with four of their team mates at a table with three girls. One is young – just fifteen – and exquisite. Long black hair framing an oval face; rosebud mouth; soft skin; the lithe body of a dancer: all the prerequisites for a good time. She sits shyly with her eyes cast down, hands on her lap. The star player gives her a cocktail containing his own special ingredient.