Tomas Page 2

  The beast’s fur is mottled, criss-crossed with scars of war and defeat. His shoulders are stooped and he walks across his lair on stocky legs with an awkward gait; a slow shaggy giant. This only serves to deceive: his strength has returned and he’s fast if he needs to be.

  Russia’s loss of the Cold War two decades ago dealt a shattering blow to the Great Bear and sent him into his hibernation of depression and disgrace. There he slept, his pain anaesthetised by the cold. Finally, he woke and began to plot his vengeance from his kingdom of ice and snow.

  He recalls the early days of his plan, the seeming impossibility of joining battle with the West once again. Force was useless; in running the arms race Russia had buckled and collapsed. He had to find a more subtle means. But what? Communism was in chaos, everything he believed in swept away by the West’s devastating economic tsunami.

  Then it occurred to him. What was the opposite of communism and played the West at its own game? A menace difficult to anticipate and impossible to resist. The answer was so simple that it could be described in a single word. A commodity which after only a few years was already debauching Western values and behaviour.

  Money. Russian money and all it brings: envy, the corruption of scruples, social dysfunction. Western bankers accept a Russian rouble without questioning its origin. Oligarchs, the new weapons of war, are welcomed with open arms by society, irrespective of their backgrounds. Yachts, mansions and jetted-in prostitutes are envied as symbols of the Great Bear’s new empire. Previously good people now bow in submission to the vulgarities of Russian taste, behaviour and power.

  The beast’s black eyes fix on the boulder that serves as a door to his cave. The rot is set, he thinks, as sure as stone. Soon it will be time for his final plan.

  He pads over to the boulder and turns his mind from his great design to a seemingly microscopic issue: reports of a gunman on a killing spree on the French Riviera, the world headquarters of decadent and licentious behaviour, where Russian yachts patrol offshore like battleships and oligarchs command armies of hitmen and hookers. No wonder the gunman, styling himself as a celestial avenger, has chosen this latter-day Sodom and Gomorrah.

  Normally, such news would be inconsequential to the Great Bear. A lone killer, clearly mad, touting automatic weapons and a moral message with no hope of success. A few dozen deaths of society types, including some Russians. So what?

  But the beast’s long hibernation hasn’t dulled his instincts, if anything the opposite. His senses are as sharp as the cold. For the first time in two decades, he takes a fateful decision. He rolls back the boulder and steps out of his cave. His retinue, camped outside, is shocked. The Great Bear never leaves his lair; his enemies must come to him.

  His attendants scatter in fear and confusion. Ignoring the commotion, the Great Bear raises himself high on his hind legs like a predator hoping to catch the scent of blood in the wind. He tilts his head back sharply and with a vertical snout sniffs the snow-and-rain-drenched air with short, sharp breaths which billow puffs of steam above his head. He’s right. Something’s wrong.

  Pride comes before a fall …

  A helicopter clatters overhead on its descent to the port’s landing pad. Tomas watches as its owner tumbles out. He has a normal trunk but an enormous stomach, which Tomas imagines is detachable. His belly is so big that its top is parallel to his mouth and he has to shout to be heard. Perhaps he has had a treatment at a Swiss clinic to distribute weight only to his stomach. This allows him to eat as much as he wants while leaving him lithe elsewhere. His stomach, being detachable, provides the ultimate in corporal flexibility. Maybe he leaves it on a cot by his bed at night and only brings it out during the day for meals and for show.

  The detachable-stomach man pauses on the step of his helicopter. He’s surrounded by journalists and photographers. ‘Boss Olgarv,’ shouts a reporter, ‘are you frightened of the killer?’ Russia’s oligarch-in-chief, arriving to investigate the situation and do a little business, doesn’t reply. Instead he snaps, ‘Wait!’ to the photographers. He flips a mobile to his ear. ‘OK,’ he obliges. The photographers get to work. His imaginary telephone conversation adds to his magnificence. This is the picture he wants, exiting his helicopter, eyes narrowed on the horizon – a man of vision as well as wealth; the world transfixed by what he might be saying: ‘Buy it now, damn it!’ ‘OK, sue the bastards.’ ‘Yes. One hundred million euros, not a euro more.’

  The fat Russian walks towards a yacht, mobile still clamped to his ear, photographers calling his name, a small crowd gathered to watch and admire. Tomas is prepared to provide another morality lesson but holds back for a moment out of curiosity. At the raised gangplank of his boat, Boss Olgarv reaches into his pocket. This is it, the climax of the show. He withdraws his hand with a flourish and brandishes a clicker, which he points at the boat. The crowd and press pack fall silent. ‘Click. Click.’ Nothing happens. He shakes it and aims in a different direction. ‘Click. Click.’ And again, ‘Click. Click.’ The gangplank, whose purpose in life is to descend, permitting its owner a magnificent exit, remains stubbornly erect.

  A bead of sweat forms on Boss Olgarv’s brow. Someone in the crowd sniggers. The commander of men and worlds can’t command a plank. The finale isn’t going to plan.

  As he waits on the dockside, face reddening, an aide calls from the balustrade of the yacht. ‘Boss. We need you on board as soon as possible. The video conference is about to start. The American bankers are waiting.’

  ‘Idiot,’ he replies, the walls of his cool beginning to crumble. ‘This fucking thing won’t work. Get me on board.’

  The aide blanches and disappears, reappearing with an engineer in blue overalls, who attempts to entice the gangplank to obey by way of a manual lever. Disembodied grunts, huffs and puffs and a ‘Fuck!’ float over the yacht rail. The gangplank maintains its phallic posture, as if it has sighted a female gangplank across the harbour and is sending a friendly message.

  ‘Boss. We must get you on board for the call. We could lose the deal. We’ll use the hoist.’

  Boss Olgarv assesses his options. Humiliation, slung on board like a pack animal, or losing a deal? A nanosecond later he beckons for the hoist to be lowered. A mechanical arm emerges from the yacht bow, a harness dangling from it.

  ‘Put your arms through the straps,’ calls the aide. ‘Secure the belt around your waist, click the safety buckle and we’ll do the rest.’

  Boss Olgarv complies. A thousand trumpets sound the collapse of his citadel of self-esteem.

  Tomas is mesmerised by the spectacle of this harnessed animal aloft. Even a cow would have more dignity; surrender to its fate, perhaps emitting a moo of complaint. Tomas wants the fat Russian to moo. But God is in his heaven – something better happens.

  Halfway to the deck, still dangling in mid-air, the hoist stutters and stops. It’s an industrial machine tested to destruction by Teutonic robots. Perhaps today it senses an ego heavier than any physical burden and gives up. The fat Russian panics.

  Twisting, turning. ‘No, Boss. No.’ Flailing, failing. ‘Boss. Stop. No.’ The safety buckle surrenders its captive and the azure waters welcome an unfamiliar creature into their enveloping depths.

  Brilliant bankers at their best…

  The crowd rushes to the water’s edge.

  Cameras train on a bobbing head and there is a tropical rainstorm of clicks. But what’s this spherical object floating nearby?

  ‘It’s his stomach,’ a cry goes up. ‘He’s got a detachable stomach. Look, it’s so fat it’s floating.’

  Even though he’s half submerged, Tomas sees the look of horror on Boss Olgarv’s face. If only the depths would swallow him up. But this is all too much fun, so the depths decide not to.

  Boss Olgarv makes another rapid calculation. Under maritime law, a salvaging party can lay claim to a stricken vessel, jettisoned cargo containers and any random object floating on the surface of the water.

  ‘Save my stomach!�
� he shrieks. ‘Leave me. Hoist it up. Do it.’

  What presence of mind to save his stomach, thinks Tomas.

  Since the stomach is now unencumbered by its owner’s ego, the hoist decides to cooperate and the stomach flops with a dramatic flourish on to the deck, the survivor of an ocean disaster. The next problem is how to board without his stomach in full view of the world’s press. There’s only one possibility other than time travel. He must swim round to the seaward side of the yacht, which, owing to its vastness, will take precious minutes.

  ‘Boss, the call must start now,’ shouts his aide in desperation.

  ‘Improvise, fuck you,’ comes the reply as he sets off on his journey, unsupported by the dirigible ballast of his belly.

  Moments later, the aide is in a video-conference room addressing a screen of smart-looking American bankers.

  ‘Gentlemen, good afternoon,’ he begins. ‘We’re having some technical problems at this end. The camera’s been knocked by the pitch of the boat and you’ll only be able to see part of the Boss.’

  ‘No problem,’ the chief banker replies.

  ‘Also,’ continues the aide, ‘we’ll lose sound in a few moments, so he’ll signal his wishes to you by way of bodily movement.’

  ‘OK, no problem.’

  The aide steps to one side and the bankers recognise Boss Olgarv’s stomach propped up in a chair at the conference table. It fills the screen impressively.

  ‘Boss Olgarv, good afternoon to you,’ says the chief banker. ‘We’ve been studying the acquisition opportunity and feel it makes a lot of sense; it’s a good fit. We advise you to go ahead; our fee will be two per cent of the deal.’

  The aide breaths a sigh of relief. A few years ago, the Boss acquired for nothing a big-scale retailer in Russia catering for teenage girls. Now it’s magically worth billions. The bankers have recommended that he buys a complementary business. He sneaks behind the stomach and wobbles it to signal assent.

  ‘That’s great news, Boss,’ says the chief banker. ‘We’ll start the paperwork. Just a moment, please, we need to go offline for a minute.’

  Again the stomach wobbles.

  The chief banker pushes the mute on his conference phone and turns to his team. ‘Boys, there’s something going on here. Back me up.’

  ‘Sorry about that, Boss,’ he continues. ‘We’d like your take on another good fit. It’s … er … a slaughter business, countrywide, with dozens of processing units. We’ve been thinking – say a teenage girl buys a pink skirt, matching jacket and some pretty accessories, she gets a coupon at the sales counter for one of the slaughterhouses. She goes to the nearest one, hands in her coupon and gets a big chunk of bloody meat or – we don’t want to overdo it on the giveaways – maybe some intestines or stinking offal. She takes the bonus gift home along with her pretty pink outfit and everyone’s a winner. The slaughter business is a steal and we’ll only charge you a ten-per-cent fee. What do you think?’

  Panic rises in the aide’s chest. He shakes the stomach from behind. But is this a ‘yes’ shake or a ‘no’ shake? And isn’t it reasonable for the bankers to assume that any shake is a ‘yes’ shake, since the stomach has already given the first deal its vibrating assent?

  ‘Fantastic, Boss,’ says the senior banker. ‘We’ll take that as a yes – legally recorded on video, of course – and get on with the paperwork. If you don’t mind, Hank has another pitch for you.’

  The aide attempts another shake as if to convey a ‘no’ but the banking pack is in its stride, closing fast on its disembodied prey.

  ‘This one’s a bit left of centre, Boss,’ starts Hank, ‘but hear me out … What we do is go along to some waste-processing plants and buy a whole lot of raw sewage – just as much as we can get our hands on. Then we send off to plants in other countries for their shit. After that, we do some deals in underdeveloped countries that pipe sewage into the sea or rivers to get hold of their shit and we buy as much of it as possible. Finally we at the bank save all our own shit just for you. So here’s the deal. After twelve months or so you’ve got this massive pile of shit, probably the biggest pile of shit ever in the history of the world. And our fee will be fifty per cent of all the money we spend to buy the shit, so that’s a great deal for you. What do you think?’

  The aide knows he must do something to halt this madness and the destruction of his boss’s fortune. Summoning all his strength he gives the stomach a gigantic heave; it wobbles and falls off the chair.

  A cheer goes up from the bankers.

  ‘That’s great news, Boss,’ says the chief banker. ‘We never thought we’d knock you off your chair. Let’s get the money transferred straight away. Have a great day!’

  That night, uninformed of events, Boss Olgarv goes to bed. He detaches his stomach and pats it goodnight on its sleeping cot. It’s not been a good day but – hey – was it so bad? A few embarrassing photos and a dip in the sea?

  In his dreams he’s back in the ocean, swimming to the seaward side of his yacht. The sky darkens and the sea turns to shit and blood, infested by the innards of dead animals. On the horizon his aide paddles furiously, deaf to his plaintive cries.

  Producers, a party and a peanut …

  Tomas is cheered by the fat Russian’s watery baptism and feels like a party. This is easy: the film festival is on and the city is infested with international glitterati who have the same idea.

  Getting invited to a party requires mastering three magic words: ‘I’m a producer.’ Tomas practises in front of the mirror.

  ‘I’m a peanut,’ he says to himself out loud.

  ‘No, that’s not quite right,’ the invisible voice tells him. ‘Try again.’

  ‘You’re a peanut,’ he affirms with confidence.

  ‘Come on, Tomas. That’s even worse. Let’s get back on track.’

  ‘I could be a producer,’ he tries.

  ‘Present tense, Tomas, present tense, not future conditional.’

  ‘I’m a producer.’

  Bingo! In no time at all, Tomas has learnt the magic art. He rushes from his room to try it on a stranger in the hotel bar.

  ‘I’m a producer,’ he says flawlessly.

  ‘Great,’ replies the stranger. ‘There’s a party tonight. Here’s the address. See you there.’

  Tomas arrives at the party vibrating with joy at his new profession. He performs the three-word magic trick on the first few people he meets and only one is addressed as a peanut. This is an impressive result. Word spreads quickly. Tomas is a producer.

  In this new capacity, Tomas finds a number of people – for some reason all girls – who wish to be produced. He joins a table of three potentials who, in thoughtful anticipation of a sudden audition, which might involve a costume change, wear an absolute minimum of clothing. There are also three boys at the table. They’re producers too. Two are muscular-looking, tanned with white teeth, and appear to be producers of epic romance films; the third is scrawny, with a long face and scruffy clothing – perhaps he produces scarecrow movies?

  The dynamic, therefore, is that all three girls wish to be produced – but by only two of the boys. And since a producer is only capable of practising his magic art on one producee at any one time, there’s a problem. The girl who fails to win the favour of the two epic-romance producers will end up in a scarecrow movie.

  The conversation ranges over the producers’ production credits – none – and the producees’ acting experience – also none. But the evening is pregnant with promise. The girls lock legs, arms, eyes and expressions with the epic-romance boys.

  ‘Oh yes, that movie’s in the bag,’ says one.

  ‘There’s no question, I’ve got that script,’ says the other.

  As the producers are on the verge of deciding which of the producees to produce the scarecrow interjects, ‘I don’t like the food here.’

  A cold drizzle descends on the table. How could this be of any interest to his fellow artists? Silly old scarecrow. Go off and s
care some crows.

  ‘No, I don’t like it at all,’ he continues, unaffected by the indifference of his professional colleagues. ‘It’s much better on my boat. My cook’s excellent.’

  In unison, the three producees turn to face him like soldiers on parade. They stand to attention.

  ‘If one of you girls would be interested in joining me? Or perhaps all of you?’

  There’s a bang, a puff of smoke, and the two epic-romance producers cease to exist. In a heartbeat, to feature in a scarecrow movie becomes a grail of indescribable holiness to the three producees. Before, they were blind. Hallelujah! Now they can see.

  Tomas raises a cynical eyebrow. He suspects it may be time for a further morality lesson. But perhaps his recent annihilation sprees were a little pre-emptory. Besides, he’s enjoying watching the ebb and flow of the dance floor. He decides to ask the invisible voice for a translation of the scarecrow’s conversation before taking a decision. Thus:

  SCARECROW:

  I don’t like the food here.

  TRANSLATION:

  I’m making an anodyne warm-up comment before getting on to what I really want to say.

  SCARECROW:

  No, I don’t like it all.

  TRANSLATION:

  I’m creating further anodyne tension to lend greater weight to what’s about to come.

  SCARECROW:

  It’s much better on my boat.

  TRANSLATION:

  I’m rich.

  SCARECROW:

  My cook’s excellent.

  TRANSLATION:

  I’m very rich.

  SCARECROW:

  If one of you girls would be interested in joining me?

  TRANSLATION:

  I want to fuck you.

  SCARECROW:

  Or perhaps all of you?

  TRANSLATION:

  I want to fuck you all.

  Tomas suspected as much. His biceps bulge as he reaches for his heavy weapons. Just as he loads, he catches a glimpse of something golden across the dance floor. He pockets his guns. As the dance floor pulses to and fro, he catches another glimpse and, a few seconds later, another. Something draws him towards this ethereal glow and he stands up to investigate.