Tomas (16 page)

This monument to light and space is built on a huge barge in the middle of the bay, accessed by a floating boulevard running off the Croisette. Fine green lines, imitating an onion's skin, rib the opaque white exterior, supporting the superstructure decoratively. Like the as-yet-unbuilt properties in Tomas and Tereza's time travels, the Onion is flooded with light through giant sea-facing windows. These also provide spectacular views to its occupants. But the building is practical as well as magnificent: the twisting peak of the Onion's dome houses the finest restaurant on the coast. Just as its chef garnishes a delicate dish with lemon zest, the Alien completes the Onion with a little touch of his own. Using minimal telekinetic power he sets the Onion in a permanent state of rotation at snail's pace.

Despite these wonders, the new Messiah is required to have more than one residence. He divides his time between an apartment to the rear of the city, the beachside hotels and his rotating palace on the sea. For the Russians are still trying to kill him. One night they almost succeed.

A marsupial mishap and a giant phallu
s …

Tomas is taking Tereza to his favourite restaurant in Le Suquet. This tight pedestrian passage, where two people can barely pass, snakes up a hill to the west of the city and is home to twenty restaurants.

As Tomas and Tereza ascend they are thrown against a wall by a kangaroo. The commotion behind them signifies an accident, and they watch the kangaroo disappear up the hill, its leash trailing in the air.

The prelude to this mishap began several days ago when Boss Olgarv rented a room above one of the restaurants. The problem of transporting a four-hundred-pound kangaroo up the narrow staircase to its new home was solved by means of a powerful Russian sedative. Even stronger Russian hands manhandled the sleeping giant up the stairs.

On waking, the marsupial wasn't happy. Given miles of Australian outback or a cramped room in Cannes in which to jump, the choice was obvious. But the kangaroo was part of a plan which required only one, possibly his final, jump. His loud and malodorous protests were covered by the equally strong exudations from the passageway below. Anyway this is the Mediterranean. Live and let live.

Boss Olgarv's plan was absurdly simple. On the appointed night, he would wait for the diners to throng the narrow street. Then, having brought the kangaroo to the window, he would push the unfortunate animal off the ledge. Its target, Tomas's head, would, according to Boss Olgarv's calculations and the laws of physics, be crushed
like an almond in a nutcracker. The plan also paid tribute to the many assassinations perpetrated by the motherland, in which journalists and other undesirables are despatched using farcical methods that render both the cause of death and the assassin's identity instantly obvious to the world.

Despite the brilliance of the idea it doesn't work. At the critical moment, the sharp-sighted Alien, now acting as the new Messiah's twirling praetorian, notices a large spherical shape – Boss Olgarv's stomach – overhead. Taking no chances, he rotates it immediately. This spooks the marsupial, who changes its appointed trajectory and lands on another spot with powerful legs. Boss Olgarv is caught off guard. His hand, attached to the leash, follows the beast earthwards, as do his arm and body. He lands on his head and is killed instantly, while the kangaroo, after days of dreaming about open spaces, jumps off to find some.

The autopsy, presided over by Judge Reynard, is an unpleasant affair. His detachable stomach, which exploded on impact, is a bloody mess of flesh and gore. But in amongst the guts and blubber the physicians discover a secret compartment, the contents of which are brought immediately to the judge's attention.

The judge spreads a bloodied drawing before Tomas. It's the most bizarre thing they have ever seen. It appears to be of a phallus with gigantic testicles. As they scrape away the muck and grime, the picture becomes clear.

The drawing marked ‘Cocksack' – presumably in homage to Cossack – is of a soldier in a phallus-shaped uniform with his face exposed through a hole cut at the top and his arms through side openings. The phallus doesn't
have feet; its means of locomotion, the judge deduces, must be jumping. The phallus soldier wears a Cossack sword and carries what appears to be a detonator in one hand. But the uniform's most distinctive feature is the pair of enormous testicles that is attached to the front. These are of the same size and design as Boss Olgarv's stomach.

‘Boss Olgarv has created a uniform in his own image,' says the judge. ‘But what function could such giant appendages possibly perform?'

Tomas looks at another drawing that shows a cut-away section. ‘The testicles appear to be huge containers of some sort,' he says. ‘Look, there's a tube running up the soldier's back to the top of his head and a pumping mechanism. And the whole thing's connected to a detonator.' He turns grey. He has just survived a third assassination attempt. Now this, a Cocksack soldier, probably a prototype for millions, featuring a device to spread all manner of evil.

Reynard, too, understands the implications. ‘Tomas,' he says. ‘You've achieved a lot. But sermons won't work against this enemy. We must consider something more drastic.'

‘Very well,' says Tomas. ‘I'll raise the Emperor.'

The fable of the fence
…

Tomas finds the great man in a beautiful wooded glade by the sea, a few kilometres from Cannes. Two hundred years ago, Napoleon landed here with a handful of followers to reclaim his crown. Sunlight filters through the trees, illuminating the Emperor and making dappled patterns on the ground.

Napoleon is leaning against a small section of fence in the middle of a group of people to whom he appears to be giving orders. But these aren't followers, they're students. And the Emperor's not giving orders, he's teaching. Napoleon looks up as Tomas enters the glade.

‘Forgive my intrusion, Sir,' Tomas says, embarrassed. ‘I've come to seek your counsel.'

‘Think nothing of it,' Napoleon replies. ‘Please, join us.'

A space is made for Tomas and he sits cross-legged on the ground like a school child. He looks confused.

‘What do you think we do in the hereafter?' asks Napoleon. ‘Sleep?' He sweeps his arms in a wide gesture. Tomas glances around the glade. ‘No, each develops his skill; there are artisans, cooks, athletes, even poets. Thankfully, there's not much need for generalship, so I teach.'

‘May I enquire which subject?' Tomas asks. Napoleon looks at his pupils, amused.

‘There's only one subject,' he replies. ‘Once you've mastered it, there's no further need for teachers. You can then learn anything you wish by yourself.'

Tomas's gazes at him helplessly.

‘Come, Tomas. Guess.'

He continues to stare blankly, quite at a loss. ‘Philosophy?' he mumbles weakly.

‘Very well,' says Napoleon. ‘Let me help you. In the temporal world there are thousands of educational symbols and mottos. Shields with Latin words I find difficult to understand. Mortar boards and academic gowns, the purpose of which is unclear to me. Fine sayings: “Receive the
light that you may give it forth”; “Not only intelligence, but also virtue”; “Wisdom and knowledge shall be the stability of thy times.”

‘Here, there is only one educational symbol – the fence. This doesn't manifest itself as a logo or motto but as a physical presence, which students see each day.'

‘And what does the fence represent?' Tomas asks.

‘The worst possible thing in life – or death,' Napoleon replies. ‘Mediocrity; those who strive for nothing. Fence-sitters who think of nothing beyond their base needs – sex, money, alcohol. People who won't defend a friend or principle at all costs, who are the first to drift away in a fight. People who are stuck, who settle for second best and are incapable of mental mobility – of enquiry, discovery or wonder – whose domain is the sofa and, worse still, the fence.'

‘So being sent to sit on the fence is like standing in the corner?'

‘That is not its purpose. The corner is a form of punishment. The fence is a symbol of mediocrity, which students in the afterlife are taught to repudiate. It's enough that it's there.'

‘But not all people are able,' Tomas argues; ‘most live ordinary lives.'

‘Ability and role in life have nothing to do with it. You can be an exceptional street cleaner but a mediocre political leader,' Napoleon replies.

‘How can a mediocrity lead a nation?'

‘Very easily. Let's say that the leader, when elected, inherits a strong stable country. The time calls for small
incremental improvements to the nation's wellbeing. It's not glamorous, but he needs to focus on the details in areas like health, education, law and order and ensure prudence and safety in the nation's finances. But he's a glory seeker. He talks about his legacy, and wishes to feel the hand of history on his shoulder. He doesn't understand that it's fortune's wheel, not the individual, which determines greatness; that glory isn't given to every leader. If the times call for a great deed, so be it. If not, it's a disaster to seek it out.

‘So instead of concentrating on the basics, he becomes entangled in foreign adventures in the name of making the world a better place. When they go wrong, he speaks with the serpent tongue of a lawyer justifying what he's done. But excuses aren't good enough – it's his job not to make mistakes. And since these were caused by his glory-seeking in the first place, it's so much the worse. Instead of the epitaph “Here lies a great man”, he's given “Here lies a mediocrity”.'

‘I understand,' says Tomas, ‘how the glory seeker is mediocre. But what about ordinary people? How do you free yourself once stuck on the fence?'

‘ “Stuck” is a short way of saying “mediocre”,' Napoleon replies. ‘The answer is self-realisation. Look at your situation. Are you trapped in a job, relationship, home or way of thinking? Do you confuse trivia with what is important? Are you bad tempered about small things? “Disaster! My dinner's late.” Do you feel the light fading and your waist expanding? If the answer is “Yes”, then you need to take some risks and be prepared to fail.'

‘That's easier said than done.'

‘Is it? Can't you send out a hundred CVs; try harder or finish with your girlfriend; buy a one-way ticket out of town; retrain; go to night school; emigrate; think, discover, internet your way to a different life? Isn't effort rewarded, and trying always worth it? Anything but the twilight world of bitterness, prejudice, alcohol and bad language.'

‘And if you're a lifelong mediocrity?' asks Tomas.

‘Priests will tell you,' Napoleon replies, ‘that sins can be forgiven and wrongs righted. You might be glued to the fence for a lifetime. But one day, just before the end, decide not to be just another echo on the wind.'

That night, Tomas dreams that he's in an arena, surrounded by a cheering crowd. Trumpets sound, the Emperor arrives and the games begin. Huge iron gates swing open and a hundred collar wearers riding mobile fences charge at him. In their haste, their collars get caught in the fence sections; they trip and fall in a heap. Next, an army of trolley wheelers wielding fence posts attempts to run him down. The trolleys are made for style, not speed – their wheels detach and Tomas bounces against soft flesh. Finally, a thousand leviathan champagne bottles lined up on top of a fence fire their corks simultaneously. Tomas uses his magic trick of slowing time and the corks stop in the air and fall to the ground. He wins the first round.

Trumpets sound again. Out of nowhere, a Russian yacht with a nasty rotating propeller materialises and advances on Tomas. This looks like trouble. Then an even bigger oligarch boat appears to join the attack. Double
trouble. What's this? A still larger Soviet battleship, that has been converted into a floating palace with savage motor blades, is bearing down on him as well. Tomas is just about to be shredded when the cry goes up, ‘Yours is bigger than mine,' and again, ‘Yours is bigger than mine.' The boats forget about Tomas and start chasing each other around the arena with ever increasing velocity. And the result? A delicious yacht soup, which the crowd drinks. Tomas wins again.

Napoleon summons Tomas. ‘To the victor the spoils,' he says. ‘Ask any question you wish.'

‘What is needed to defeat the Cocksack army?'

‘Power,' the Emperor replies.

Tomas wakes up and shakes Tereza from her sleep. ‘Being the new Messiah isn't enough. The presidential election's soon. You're going to stand.'

‘And how do you propose I become President of the Republic?'

‘With the help of my enemies.'

The ultimate aphrodisiac
…

There are many types of aphrodisiac, from foods and potions to candlelit dinners by the sea. Some people think of oysters when the word is mentioned, others of mind-changing substances. It is generally agreed, however, that the most succulent fruits on the aphrodisiac tree are power and money. Of these, power is the more delicious.

Presidents of the Republic have made liberal and un-subtle use of this potent balm since time began. The
current incumbent, a believer in tradition, is no exception. He's so confident about the supernatural effect of his four magic words that he throws caution to the wind whenever he uses them.

‘I am the President,' he says, as one might say: ‘It's a nice day'; ‘You're a woman'; or, ‘There's a nose on my face.' Whereas these statements might be answered with a simple, ‘Yes, I agree,' the ‘I am the President' aphrodisiac, put through the translator, takes on a different meaning. It always elicits the desired response. Thus …

STATEMENT
:

I am the President.

TRANSLATION
:

Fuck me immediately.