Tomas (6 page)

The prefect bustles forward and bundles himself into the car, pushing the socialite back into her seat. ‘Mademoiselle, you're correctly undressed. If you'll permit me,' he says.

He removes his hat and holds it at floor level before her. French Prefects of Police never carry fewer than three pairs of female underpants in their caps. He turns to look out of the window. The socialite selects one and the prefect replaces his hat. She emerges once again. Honour is satisfied. The pack is back in business.

Tomas surveys the scene with rising anger. The prefect's right. This is fertile ground for another morality lesson. But there's danger. All that the police interspersed in the crowd need do is wait for the gunman to identify himself, then pounce.

Tomas calculates his attack but something holds him back. His previous sprees, justifiable as they were, now seem to have been so annihilating, so final. Of the magnificent seaside hotel not a brick remains. Tomas wants a momento of his exploits. Even killers can be nostalgic for a souvenir.

He spies the prefect's hat over the sea of heads. It's a fine hat, he thinks. And in the hustle and bustle of the carnival atmosphere it won't be difficult to appropriate and carry away. He approaches from behind and removes the hat with such stealth that it's a full ten seconds before the prefect discovers his loss.

Tomas makes use of this time to leap through the crowd towards freedom. On the point of escape he puts the hat on his head, laughing. But what's this? What's this horror of everything he hates most that permeates his cerebral core? He freezes on the spot.

Within moments he's surrounded by the gendarmerie. It's obvious who he is. The prefect has his man.

The prefect steps through the cordon of officers. The honour of the kill is his. Press and paparazzi now create a second cordon to record the historic moment. ‘What will the prefect say?' the cry goes up. ‘I arrest you in the name of the law'? ‘Killer prepare for justice'? ‘Surrender. Prison awaits'?

‘My hat if you please, monsieur,' the prefect says.

Jungle law and a difficult question
…

In every society in each generation there are a few individuals who stand above their peers in intelligence, integrity, decency and strength. Often, in times of war or national tumult, these great people become leaders and shape history; at other times they achieve high status in politics, the arts or sciences and make a lasting contribution.

Judge Reynard is such a man. In his youth he trained as a doctor and mastered general medicine and rudimentary surgery with ease. He excelled particularly in psychohypnosis. But he yearned for a wider role in life and switched to law. After years of distinguished practice he became a judge and finally head of the judicial system.
In this position he made many improvements, big and small, based on the values of reason, fairness and compassion. He retired as one of the country's foremost men.

Tragically for the judge, he now has a wasting disease. While this doesn't affect his mental capacities, it will in due course kill him. But this is some years away. More immediate is the prospect of Tomas's trial. Shit TV has whipped up such a frenzy of fury against its former star that the Supreme Justices can think of only one man to preside over the judicial process. Judge Reynard comes out of retirement to accept this final commission with grace and a certain weary resignation, subject to a number of conditions that he lays down beforehand. He is fatigued not only by age and illness but also by a lifetime's exposure to the legal system.

The first day of the trial arrives and the court crier orders, ‘Silence.' Judge Reynard's kindly face appears atop the forest of polished wood over which he presides. He looks frail but his darting eyes, which have seen so much, take in every detail.

In accordance with Reynard's pre-trial conditions, an owl represents Tomas in his defence, the prosecutor is a fox and the jury a battery of hens. Despite his good intentions, Reynard didn't forsee the problem that this presents: throughout the proceedings the fox is unable to concentrate on the issue at hand and his orations are littered with inappropriate similes. ‘Judge, you should know that Tomas destroyed the hotel like an animal devouring a roast chicken,' the fox says.

‘Kindly explain to me,' Judge Reynard asks, ‘why destroying the hotel is like eating a chicken?'

‘They both cease to exist, judge,' the fox replies.

This kind of talk is unsettling for the jurors, who decide to keep their heads down and spend the trial knitting cardigans. The hens have no interest in Tomas's adventures and their sole contribution is to emit a congratulatory cluck each time one of their number lays an egg.

The owl is similarly unhelpful. The judge selected this bird on the basis of its reputation for wisdom. But throughout the trial he merely looks around the room wide-eyed, making rapid head movements and dilating his pupils. It seems to Tomas that he wants to eat a mouse, a worthier occupation than randomly collapsing into hysterical laughter, which is the behaviour of the pack of hyenas that occupies the public gallery.

Reynard has to concede that his attempt to interest animals and birds in the law isn't a success. But this, he feels, is as nothing compared to the real problem. Why is it that the law is so slow? Can justice only be done weighed down by a mighty anchor? The judge has spent his career wading knee-deep in muddy fields of cumbersome procedures, long discussions on the precise meaning of a single word, pompous speeches from lawyers seeking to impress. If only everyone would resort to inappropriate chicken similes. If there isn't a better way, surely there must be a faster one.

Reynard knows that to attach a mechanical engine to the wind-powered legal ship of state, judges must have
more power. He has no wish for power for himself, rather the opposite; in his twilight years he looks forward to resting unburdened by worldly worries. But judges see so much human behaviour that they can tell, within hours if not minutes, whether a case has merit or an individual has guilt written all over his or her face. There must be a means of making justice swift as well as sure.

With these troubling thoughts in mind, the judge decides to take the unusual step of appropriating all roles – except that of defence, of course, which he gives to Tomas – to himself. He realises that this is impermissible under the rules of law, not to mention unconstitutional and an infringement of Tomas's human rights. It's also likely to invalidate the proceedings and any decision he makes. But over years of practice Reynard has formed a certain view of the judicial system, which now, in this valedictory moment, he wants to challenge. He's also old and distinguished and – who knows? – perhaps the action he takes will set a precedent, always popular with lawyers, or even change the system for good. He turns to speak to Tomas.

‘Monsieur,' he says, ‘are you content for me to take a somewhat unorthodox approach in these proceedings? I will determine your innocence or guilt and you have my word I'll be both quick and fair.'

‘I'd be delighted to submit to your justice, judge,' says Tomas, ‘and waive any right to an appeal, on condition that you oblige me by answering a simple question.'

‘A most irregular request,' thinks the judge, a smile playing on his lips. But he wants things to be irregular; sometimes systems clogged with the detritus of custom and
habit need to be deconstructed in order to be reconstructed better, stronger and faster.

‘Proceed,' says the judge. As he speaks, a soft jungle light diffuses the courtroom. Insect song explodes and green shoots appear. An elephant ambles into the court swishing his trunk. He looks thoughtfully at the judge, then raises his tail: thick pats of excrement splatter the floor. The hyenas laugh hysterically. A family of monkeys swings overhead. The voices of a hundred animals echo through the court. ‘This is the way it should be,' thinks the judge. ‘No more self-serving lawyers. Natural law. Justice in the raw.' He nods to Tomas.

‘If you could travel back in time, perhaps by way of a time machine,' says Tomas, ‘and assassinate the dictators of the last century who were responsible for millions of deaths, would you?'

There's a furious shriek followed by a symphony of clucking from the jury. The fox has stolen over and put the forehen's thigh in his mouth.

‘It's illegal to take life,' the judge says. ‘Both according to God and our… '

‘If you'll forgive me, judge,' Tomas interrupts. ‘You're a man of immense lucidity and brilliance. You agreed to consider a question which requires a simple yes or no answer. If a single bullet from the barrel of a gun could save the lives of tens of millions, not to mention averting untold misery and the destruction of property, would you pull the trigger?'

The judge gives a throat-clearing ‘harrump' and considers his judicial robe's sleeve.

‘Judge, may I be permitted to ask a further question by way of clarification and to help you consider the first?'

The judge gives a silent nod.

‘There are a number of men alive today who are without question evil. They brutalise their countries, commit acts of repression and torture, and wallow in stolen riches. The human suffering they cause is incalculable. Were it in your power summarily to execute these men, would you?'

And as the judge again seeks inspiration from his sleeve, jungle drums erupt and a troupe of primitives in grotesque masks gyrates into the court. They leap manically around the room, menacing the occupants with shaking spears and thrusting loins.

‘My point, judge,' Tomas shouts above the noise, ‘is simple. I cannot claim to be a heroic assassin of evil people in history – although I have recently discovered a time machine and a possibility occurs to me. Neither have I dispensed justice to certain dictators and other evil people, alive today, who deserve not to be. I have, however, provided some morality lessons to a certain class of people who think, act and care only for themselves; whose lives add nothing to the sum of human existence. It may be that these lessons have no effect. Alternatively, it's possible they might be thought-provoking to some. Finally, there's a chance they could result in something good, in which case they may have been worthwhile.'

‘Twit-twoo,' the owl says by way of affirmation, and falls off his perch.

The magic of modern media
…

The next day Tereza is sandwiched between a journalist who introduces himself as Pierre and Boss Olgarv in the public gallery in court.

‘Haven't you forgotten something?' Tereza asks Pierre. He checks his notepad and pencil behind his ear. He tilts his head to look at his jacket – yes, it's untidy and has a cigarette burn. He feels his shirt collar; the top button's undone and his tie's off centre – again, all fine.

‘I'm sure I haven't,' he replies.

Tereza points to his shirt.

‘Why, what's the matter?' he thinks. His shirt's creased and bunched up around his protruding belly at the waistband – all as it should be.

‘Where's the coffee stain?' says Tereza.

‘Damn. I always forget something. I was in such a rush from the socialite story, I forgot to spill coffee on my shirt this morning.'

‘That's OK,' says Tereza handing him her eyeliner. Pierre dabs a smudge on his shirt. Close up this looks suspect. But from afar, the view of most people, the mark makes a passable imitation of a coffee stain.

‘Forgive the omission, mademoiselle,' says Pierre.

‘Think nothing of it,' replies Tereza. ‘I'm sure your stories are eloquent.'

‘Alas, mademoiselle, eloquence isn't permitted,' replies Pierre. ‘Take this story for example – a killer, guided by an invisible voice, attempts to save the world by providing morality lessons to society; he is possibly possessed of a
lethal technology or even supernatural powers. It's perfect. I could write pages. But my editor's only interested in socialites and underpants.'

‘Oh,' says Tereza. ‘And what did you write?'

‘I've got it here, if you're interested,' says Pierre, producing the front page of the previous day's newspaper. It features a big colour photograph of the socialite disembarking from her car below the headline ‘Socialite – Pants!' An introductory line follows: ‘From our reporter at the carnival …' And then the full story – ‘The socialite got out of her car. She wore underpants.'

‘It's sold millions,' says Pierre.

Tereza still doesn't understand. ‘But won't your exposure of Tomas's mind and the myriad sociological issues this case involves delight your readers?'

‘Alas, mademoiselle, my art has been reduced to large photographs of thin triangles described by small words,' replies Pierre.

His telephone rings. He answers, holds his hand over the mouthpiece and whispers, ‘Excuse me, mademoiselle, it's my editor.' A look of pained concentration comes over his face. ‘No, Sir, he's not yet in court,' he says to the disembodied voice. ‘Will he be covered in blood and shouting, “Death to socialites”? Presumably not, Sir, prisoners in court are normally clean and not permitted lethal weapons.' He pauses to listen. ‘No, Sir, Tomas has said nothing about underpants. Of course, I'll try my best. Goodbye, Sir.'

Pierre sighs and turns to Tereza.

‘My editor already has tomorrow's headline,' he says.
‘It reads “Socialite and Pants … Again!” All I must do is provide a few words to connect Tomas with the socialite's underpants and
voilà
– my editor has his cover.'

‘And you have my sympathies,' says Tereza.

‘Mademoiselle, you're kind. I would give up smoking for a single good story.'

As if by magic, Pierre's single good story materialises. Boss Olgarv is jealous of his conversation with the pretty lady. Why doesn't she notice something about him and engage him in a discussion? Surely she desires him? All women do. Why, whenever he's dancing on his yacht all the girls crowd around him in a frenzy of excitement.