Tomas (12 page)

The star player now takes up position behind his team mate as if supporting him in the goal mouth. He puts his hands on his mate's hips and rocks him in and
out, assisting his gratification. ‘Yeah, Yeah, Yeah,' he groans. Suddenly he bends him forwards and, with a tap of his foot, opens his legs. His team mate continues his rhythmic rocking as if being touched in this way is normal. Moments later his tempo is thrown, as the star player penetrates him from behind.

Rapidly the rest of the squad form up, as if executing a manoeuvre on pitch. A player penetrates the star from behind, offering himself in turn to the next member until a pulsing snake takes shape around the sofa, each man moving to a synchronised beat. The fifteen-year-old is no longer centre field: soon she's sent off altogether as the sodomy circle closes. In its dying moments, the game is played in silence, except for deep-throated grunts and groans.

Eventually a collective exhalation of breath, in place of a final whistle, signifies that play is over. The squad zip up with shouts of, ‘We gave it to her good,' ‘She deserved it,' and, ‘That'll teach the dirty bitch.' They stagger back downstairs, leaving the teenage girl comatose on the sofa. It's been a beautiful game.

The future of architecture
…

Tereza has a surprise for Tomas.

Deities don't usually sneak out of hotels for surprises; they waft about in clouds doing deitific things. But Tomas is a modern Messiah, and soon they're in Tereza's Deux Chevaux on their way to the Bois de Boulogne.

It's late. Tereza parks in a side road. A few moments later, they're at the edge of the park. And there's the surprise.
The fairground's in town. Tereza performs her magic trick and they take their places in the time machine.

‘You choose,' says Tereza.

Tomas thinks. Oceans of possibilities open before him. The dawn of time? The Stone Age? The Dark Ages? Or maybe the years 3000, 4000 or 5000? He chooses modestly. ‘Paris fifteen years from now.'

‘OK,' Tereza replies, ‘strap in.'

Tereza presses some buttons and adjusts a lever. The machine begins to hum. There's a silent clank as the craft slips its mooring and they glide vertically into the air.

The city looks beautiful twinkling in the night. Tomas is in the clouds on a journey through time with the woman he loves.

‘Where to?' Tereza asks.

‘Another fairground,' Tomas replies. ‘Euro Disney.'

The craft floats above the centre of Paris, which is identical to the one they left only minutes before. The business district and outskirts, however, have been rebuilt – ugly offices replaced by buildings of the same size but in the Parisian style. The workplace has been ennobled.

As they reach the suburbs, Tomas and Tereza are shocked. Paris, always small by global standards, now stretches for miles in every direction. It looks about the size of Tokyo. Yet all the architecture is in the traditional French style with tree-lined avenues, squares, parks and public places.

‘This can only mean one thing,' says Tereza.

Tomas looks embarrassed.

They reach their destination. But where's the magic
castle? Has it magicked itself away? On the site of the Haunted House and Space Mountain sits the most beautiful building Tomas and Tereza have ever seen.

The palace is fashioned as a croissant – literally. Most palaces, with their bulky centres and outstretched wings, resemble a croissant to some extent. But this new presidential property has been built as a gigantic replica.

The palace is exquisite. Golden brown, its aura reminds Tomas of Tereza. It falls seamlessly from a high central core to two circling arms with a ribbed exterior. Great curved windows in the roof flood the building with light. A modern Versailles, it makes the original look fussy and old.

In front of the palace, ornamental lawns and fountains fan out on either side of a wide tree-lined boulevard. The craft hovers overhead and Tomas and Tereza gasp at a second wonder.

The boulevard opens on to a space that is dominated by an edifice in the shape of a giant beret. It looks as if it has just been removed from a milliner's box. The rich, textured roof undulates like the creases of the cap; it is a perfect imitation, a million times the size. Like the croissant palace, curved roof windows punch light into its interior. The console of the time machine identifies the royal blue building as the new Parliament of the United States of Europe.

Tereza pulls the craft into a steep climb. Up ahead, down the boulevard that runs from the beret parliament, stands the most magnificent construction of all. It soars three thousand feet into the clouds like a giant standing on a misty mountain top. The three parts of the building,
clove shaped, are balanced around a central opening. The largest clove stands upright, occupying half the space. The second, half the size of the first, slants inwards like a billowing sail; the third, the smallest of the three, protrudes outwards at a precarious angle. The cloves are luminescent grey and look like three sculptures in permanent conversation. Seen together, the true form of this administration building now becomes clear to the time travellers – a giant garlic bulb.

‘This is how architecture should be,' thinks Tomas. ‘Monumental, light, original, patriotic and with a sense of humour.'

Tomas and Tereza are mesmerised. How can France have risen to such heights?

Tomas is clumsy in his wonder and knocks a lever. Instantly the craft lurches with a back-bending jolt and the travellers see a thousand stars in fast motion. There's a bang as if they've hit some space debris. For a moment Tomas thinks he sees two spherical objects with suction pads on the windscreen.

‘Hang on,' says Tereza, ‘we can reach our time and place. But I can't control the landing spot – there's too much chop. We'll just have to chance it.'

The craft begins to vibrate and Tomas clutches his arm rest. The turbulence worsens. But something else is making it unstable. Tomas looks at Tereza. As her hands move over the knobs and levers, he detects an unfamiliar shadow across her face. Fear? He closes his eyes.

An intelligent show for intelligent people
…

Pierre begins his investigation of Tomas's Messiahship by trying to locate the vulture and the buzzard. ‘Apparently,' says a local witness, ‘they've been driven demented by the notion of a lost Serengeti.' Anyway Pierre regards these birds as unreliable witnesses. Would you trust anyone who wanted to eat you?

He then talks to the execution squad of the battalion which Tomas now commands. ‘It's as you would expect, monsieur,' the squad's sergeant explains. ‘We stood in line. The order was given. We're all expert marksmen. And anyway it was impossible to miss, even if only one rifle had been loaded. We took aim and Tomas was shot, as plain as I'm speaking to you now.'

Next he talks to the smoker in the squad, an uncommunicative man. Perhaps he has been traumatised? Pierre attempts to lighten things up. ‘Were I the author of a satirical novel,' he says, ‘I could hardly invent anything more ridiculous than the cigarette.'

The soldier carries on smoking.

‘All those little boxes containing sticks with big warning signs – “Death”, “Cancer”, “You will die” – emblazoned on the side. Yet people continue with the habit. It would be the most abstract part of my satire.'

‘I know,' replies the soldier, ‘but what can I do?'

‘Give up, as I did. I made a promise to do so in return for a good story. With the help of a hypnotherapist it was easy. I'll give you his number. If you're able to shoot a man, you can give up smoking.'

Pierre rushes off to a meeting with one of Shit TV's top stars. His initial good story on the Great Bear and his disturbing plans for the world has mushroomed into several more; consequently Pierre is now a celebrity and Shit TV want him for their own purpose. Although Pierre has no interest in taking part, journalists are taught to be curious.

The star welcomes Pierre in his black and white office. Everything is black and white, even the staff.

‘Hello,' says the star standing up and flashing a smile. ‘How nice of you to come.'

Pierre clasps both hands to his eyes and screams, blinded by the smile.

When his sight returns, he's staring point blank at the star's exposed stomach. His platform shoes raise him four feet into the air; he needs long sticks to walk. He's wearing a white shirt inside a black jacket – but what's the point? All the shirt buttons are undone.

The star manoeuvres himself like a stilt walker to a white sofa, where he sits down, propping his sticks against the wall. He pulls the two sides of his shirt still further apart.

‘Forgive my sunglasses,' says Pierre. ‘My smoking has given me conjunctivitis.' Protected from the perpetual supernova of the star's smile, he sits on the black sofa.

‘No problem,' says the star. ‘I wear sunglasses all the time but mostly at night. We're interested in you as Paris's up-and-coming investigative journalist,' he continues. ‘We're launching a new show that we believe is worthy of your stunning insights and raw intelligence.
It's a retrospective concept, combining several programmes from the past with a new element. One of the contestants has just fallen out and needs to be replaced. There is, however, a small catch.'

‘It's kind of you to think of me,' says Pierre. ‘But I'm not at all sure. What do I have to do?'

‘You're going to love this. You're in a jungle with other contestants, where you perform tasks like eating live bugs, swimming in rivers with crocodiles and putting your head down a snake hole.'

‘But that's moronic,' Pierre protests.

‘Are you joking?' replies the star. ‘To eat a plate of worms requires great powers of concentration, stamina and endurance. This is an intelligent show for intelligent people.'

‘Go on,' says Pierre.

‘While you're doing these tasks,' the star continues, pulling his trousers up over his stomach, ‘a delightful TV chef shouts pleasantries at you.'

‘What's the point of that?' asks Pierre.

‘It's to encourage the contestants,' replies the star. ‘To create positive energy and a happy atmosphere. When your head's in a viper's nest, the chef will be shouting “Are you all right? Can I help you?” with a beautiful cadence.'

‘I see,' says Pierre, ‘but is there any point to the chef? Shouldn't there be a food element?'

‘No, you don't understand; food's irrelevant, like cooking programmes on TV. They're not about food, they're about the chef being nice and wonderfully mannered.'

‘So what happens next?' asks Pierre.

‘OK,' replies the star, pulling his trousers right up to his armpits. ‘Now picture the scene. All the contestants have done their tasks and are covered in filth. You form a line in the jungle and the chef walks up and down shouting, “I do hope you're OK,” inches from your face.'

‘Suddenly I appear out of nowhere and referee a singing competition, the rules of which are that you must make as big a fool of yourself as possible. The more clichéd, awful and talentless you are, the better you do. The viewers then vote for someone to take a shot at the top prize, taking delight in the knowledge that the recipient will never be heard of again and spend the rest of his or her life a crushed soul.'

‘And how do you win the top prize?' asks Pierre.

‘There are two steps,' replies the star.

‘Which are?'

‘Isn't step one obvious?' replies the star. ‘What do you think the delightful TV chef is there for? Eat his shit.'

‘And step two?' asks Pierre dumfounded.

‘Surely you can guess?' the star replies, surprised.

‘Eat your own shit?' suggests Pierre.

‘That's disgusting!' says the star. ‘Eat yourself. Not a vital organ, but a toe, finger or slice of flesh. The more you eat – we're hoping for a leg for a man and a breast for a woman – the bigger the prize. Of course an anaesthetic will be used for the amputation and the body part you choose will be cooked any way you wish by the chef.'

‘So let me get this right,' says Pierre. ‘I'm to participate in a slug-eating competition in the jungle, overseen by a polite chef, culminating in an abusive game that poses as a
singing competition. And if I win I get to eat the chef's shit, followed by one of my body parts cooked in front of me, with a guarantee that I will be depressed for the rest of my life?'

‘That's right,' says the star, pulling his trousers to just below his chin.

‘And what's the catch ?' Pierre asks, stupefied by the conversation.

‘Oh – you have to pass yourself off as a teenage girl,' the star replies.

‘What?' says Pierre.

‘Yes, the contestant who's fallen out is an eighteen-year-old soap star, so we need to replace her.'

‘But look at me. I'm an overweight journalist in my mid forties. How could I possibly pass for a teenage soap queen?' Pierre asks, exasperated.

‘Oh, don't worry about that,' says the star. ‘Our audience is intelligent but not that intelligent. Think it over.'

As Pierre leaves the office he hears a yell from the white sofa. It is reported later that the star pulled his trousers over his mouth and asphyxiated himself.

In the dark with something scary
…

Sometimes, in the dark, it's difficult to tell whether you're alive or dead. If you're in pain, you're probably alive – unless hell exists. Otherwise, the trick is to find the nearest light. This provides a beacon of hope until programming can be resumed. For Tomas and Tereza this is a red flash on the dead control panel before them.

There's no protocol for the evacuation of a crashed time machine; so Tomas and Tereza follow custom and instinct. Although there's no danger of combustion, the time travellers decraft. Perhaps the problem is best solved standing up.