Tomas (13 page)

And it is a problem. For as their eyes adjust to the enveloping gloom they realise that they appear to be trapped. In a tomb.

Action-movie makers like to put the hero in an impossible situation. Just as you think things can't get worse, the director twists the knife. Suspended on a rope above a ravine, the hero looks down. What does he see? Crocodiles!

But Tomas and Tereza can't see, they can only hear. The sound chills their bones. It is the squelch of tentacles on a marble floor.

Moonbeams stream in through windows beneath a dome. Tomas puts a protective arm around Tereza but neither the illumination nor the embrace helps. The sound is getting louder and coming closer.

‘Who's there?' Tomas's voice rings in the air.

Although a possible deity, Tomas still has human frailties. The question is as futile for him as it is helpful to the approaching menace. He has now provided his coordinates in the dark.

Tereza tightens her hold on Tomas. The squelching stops and they inch around the side of the craft. The moon comes out fully, flooding their sepulchral surroundings. There before them, illuminated by a beam, is the squelch maker. It's tall, round and looking at them.

‘Shit,' mutters the second Messiah.Tomas's deitific word hangs in the air. The Alien squelches a step forward and smiles. This only helps a little: is the human smile recognised as a sign of friendship across the Galaxy? For all Tomas knows, the alien equivalent is a prelude to a ray-gun attack.

Tomas shows his mettle as a man, if not a deity, and approaches the Alien.

The Alien is seven feet tall to Tomas's six and is entirely round. Round head, round trunk, round arms, round legs. His eyes are two big spheres, which blink continuously like the owl's at Tomas's trial; his arms, with their three-fingered hands, stretch down to his round knees. Circular suction pads at the end of the spherical feet that Tomas had noticed on the craft's screen account for the squelching sound. The Alien, clad in a silver suit that might be considered fashionable on earth, now raises a pad in salutation. His round-mouthed smile widens.

Although they can't be sure, Tomas and Tereza are flooded with relief. Aliens come in all shapes and sizes – but this one seems friendly.

‘We must have picked him up when we bumped the lever,' says Tereza. ‘God knows how many galaxies we travelled through. He was probably just out for a walk. I feel sorry for him.'

As the echo of her words fades in the tomb, the most extraordinary thing happens – the Alien rotates. Very fast, in the wink of an eye, he twirls on the spot, smile fixed, eyes blinking. Thirty seconds later the same thing happens. And again. Every thirty seconds, a mini whirlwind.

Further enquiry into this circular rotating curiosity must wait: the more pressing matter is how to prevent this tomb from becoming their own. Tomas gestures to the Alien to remain where he is and takes Tereza by the hand to explore their prison.

Off the chamber beneath the impressive dome radiate chapels. Tomas reads the names – La Salle, Duroc – of two of the tomb's inhabitants. Rounding a corner he sees another – Gratien – and then a monument representing sentinels guarding the body of their leader, Bugeaud. By the banners and martial symbols Tomas deduces that this isn't an ordinary tomb. It's for the military and houses the bones of the fallen brave.

Moving farther he discovers a Joseph and then a Jerome. Moments later he connects the names.

‘I can't believe this,' he says to Tereza. ‘Do you know who was served by Bugeaud and Duroc? The man Gratien and La Salle fought beside? Whose brothers were Joseph and Jerome?'

Tereza gives him a blank stare.

‘We can only be in one place,' Tomas says. ‘Napoleon's tomb.'

Hank 3: The marooned man's flare
…

What's this fascination we have with fallen people? The convicted fraudster walks into a restaurant to be greeted by bowing waiters and a reverential silence. The drug-addict singer with foul manners is cheered in the street. The impeached president leaves office to applause and a waving crowd. Is it the thrill of proximity to something bad or the wish to taste it ourselves?

Hank's fall from grace has a predictable consequence. He's a hero. His confession turns him into a repository of wisdom on all things business and banking. Now he stands in the conference room of his bank, to answer questions from his admiring peers. He deals with the basics first.

‘How should you dress for success?' asks an enthusiastic young banker, who is wearing a yellow tie and red braces.

‘Not like you,' Hank replies, ‘people see you coming. You're saying too much. White or blue shirt. Blue or grey trousers. Blue tie. Even a fancy watch gives you away.'

‘So once I look the part,' says the banker, trying to cover his embarrassment with another question, ‘what attitude do I take? Tough? Direct? Listening? Subtle?'

‘Anyone with just one gear's a loser,' Hank replies, ‘especially the always-tough boss. That's the ultimate cliché. Worse, it's predictable. You've got to adjust to every situation. If the other side's aggressive, shut up. It can disarm. Don't get into a shouting match – it leads nowhere. If you know what you want, play the tough guy. If you're not sure, dissemble. Sometimes crack a joke. Other times play dumb.'

‘Then it's OK to lie?' another banker asks.

Hank pauses. The reconstructed man needn't hold back. He wallows in his candour.

‘Truth in business today isn't absolute. It's not a question of truth or lie. Right or wrong. Truth is elastic. It bends.'

‘Give us an example,' asks the same questioner.

‘A deal has become expensive,' Hank replies, ‘you need to pile on more debt to get it done. What do you do? Advise your client not to go ahead? Then what happens to your bonus? So you don't lie. But you don't exactly shout “Stop!” Remember, it's your job to do deals. You tell me: how many have you done that didn't work out for your clients?'

‘But that's not illegal,' says the questioner. ‘It's not wrong.'

‘Like a grown man sitting all day in front of a bank of screens, all to the end of making money for himself. Better not to think about right or wrong.'

‘OK, once you've got your dress straight and learned the subtleties of truth,' asks another questioner, ‘what's the biggest weakness to look for in the other side?'

‘Bullshitting about money,' Hank replies almost before he's finished the question. ‘Like trying to fuck girls by showing off about your car or bonus. Only losers slip money messages into the conversation, whether it's business or personal. They're usually lying, anyway. It's the biggest sign of weakness. Strong guys never mention money.'

‘And the biggest killer?'

‘Not taking risks. You can read every business cliché about setting goals, hiring the best, striving for excellence. But at the end of the day it's all about taking risks, the bigger the better. Even if you fail. Everyone's the same. You've got to be different. “Me too” people die. Risk takers survive.'

‘And how do you do that?'

‘Go mad,' Hank says, shaking his head like a lunatic.
‘Think beyond your wildest dreams. Take your ideas to a crazy place. Then pan back to something more realistic. I guarantee you'll have pushed your thinking further.'

‘And how does that apply to us bankers?' asks the chief banker, who sold Boss Olgarv the slaughterhouse business.

‘It doesn't,' Hank replies. ‘We think we take risks but we don't. Or rather can't. It's not our money. What's the worst thing that can happen to a banker? He gets fired for making a mistake. And to a risk taker? He goes bust or loses his house. We're not in the arena covered in filth, sweat and blood. We're the pond dwellers. The ones who feed off other people's bits. We're there to organise the show, then sit back and watch.'

‘Come on, Hank,' says the chief banker. ‘We're better than that. We also give back. What about the charity events we hold? And the good causes we work with?'

‘Boom or bust bankers worldwide earn vast sums,' Hank replies. ‘We give only the tiniest amount and its not systematic.'

‘So what are you suggesting,' asks another questioner, ‘that bankers should tithe?'

‘That's exactly what I'm saying,' Hank replies. ‘Imagine what that money together with our work ethic could achieve. Just think if each bank adopted a charity, school or hospital, and it became part of our daily business to support that institution; to use our skills to make it a centre of excellence. Once we succeeded with one we'd move on to another. Think of the public reaction. We'd go from being pariahs to philanthropists overnight.'

‘That's idealistic,' the chief banker replies; ‘there are always issues, local politics, complexities.'

‘Nothing compared to the deals we do,' Hank replies. ‘Within a decade, we could become the most powerful lobby in the world. Our enterprise skills could focus on difficult areas, eradicate problems. We're capable of making a difference in whole sectors, on a national scale. Why should we do it just as bankers, to grab money for ourselves? Why not do it as philanthropists and influencers? We have the talent but not the will.'

‘Our job's finance, not management,' another banker says.

‘Why not?' says Hank. ‘Finance; ideas; organisation: it's all the same. Take a small-sized African country whose GDP is less than the average bank's profits. It's corrupt, inefficient and has a myriad of social and political troubles. But there is potential in its resources, geographic position and people. The bank, which has thousands of bankers, assigns just a few hundred to work full time for this country. The problems are enormous, the corruption intractable, but the bank uses its power, influence and knowhow to make a difference. It might take years, but in the end there would be a result.'

Hank pauses, reflecting on the apparent impossibility of his message.

‘In history,' he continues, ‘bankers ran whole countries or communities: the Medici in Florence; the financiers in Venice. Their motivation was just as much civic as it was commercial; they built fabulous cities and endowed schools, hospitals and charities that still endure today. We
live in a fast, ruthless, money-mad world. We need to return to these values; to a mindset where the banking class systematically thinks and acts like the financiers of old. So our epitaph will be: they were great bankers, made money and lived happy lives, but also did incredible things for others.'

‘It'll never happen, Hank,' says the chief banker. ‘The days of bankers behaving like that are over. Anyway, you sound moralising and quaint.'

‘Maybe you're right,' Hank replies. ‘But sometimes the best that you can do in life is send up a flare, like the man marooned. However remote the island, someone might just see its light in the sky.'

The greatest Frenchman of all time
…

The Emperor Napoleon lies in the tomb of Les Invalides in the middle of Paris, surrounded by his generals and brothers. His body is interred in an elaborate encasement of six coffins built from different materials, including mahogany, ebony and oak, one inside the other. The outer coffin, of red porphyry, sits on a green granite pedestal surrounded by twelve statues of victory under a window-lit dome.

Tomas and Tereza walk around the magnificent sarcophagus and Tomas touches its lip in awe.

‘The night before my execution,' he says, ‘I found a perspective on life at last. It was my dying wish to discuss it with a great man in history.' He pauses before continuing. ‘You said your machine could raise the dead.'

‘It could,' she replies, ‘but I'm not sure after the crash. The button you need is the red one on the console that's still lit.'

‘This is the greatest opportunity of my life,' Tomas says. ‘We must try.'

Tereza considers the proposition. ‘I understand,' she says, ‘but let's practise on his brothers and generals. If Napoleon is to return it must be in one piece.'

Tomas and Tereza go back to the machine, followed by the Alien. In the crisis of thinking themselves entombed, they'd almost forgotten him. Now he squelches along behind them, twirling like a happy puppy.

Tereza enters the names – Bugeaud, Duroc, Gratien, La Salle, Joseph and Jerome – into the console and gives Tomas the honour of pushing the red button. They hurry back to the domed area with the Alien in tow.

Nothing happens. The tomb is dark and silent. At intervals light beams illuminate the scene as clouds pass from the moon's surface. Tomas's face creases in concentration and then disappointment. A clumsy slip has cheated him of his date with destiny. The Alien senses the atmosphere and squelches over to them in solidarity.

Above the sound of tentacles on marble, sharper noises echo in the shadows: of boots, jangling spurs and swords. And moments later six figures, impeccable in full military dress, emerge from the darkness and stand in a semi-circle before them.