Our man in Wroclaw, the madman, the scotch and a lucky break

The snow had been falling steadily for the past three days since our bungled operation at partisan’s hill. The cobbles around the Christmas market now had at least an inch of powder white snow covering them. I walked through the brightly lit stalls, the blaring Christmas songs and the overwhelming smell of bad mulled wine; carefully avoiding the wooden cabin manned by the nuns from the sisters of mercy church, who with a combination of hard selling and an ability to inflict some kind of Christian based shame on me had resulted in my purchasing of 37 ugly wooden Russian dolls. I had been keeping a low profile since the events of the other night; Don Blanco had to put it mildly been less than sympathetic when we had arrived back at the hotel. He had taken one look at me in my soaking wet three piece Tweed and flung his Panama hat to the floor. I had stood there quivering with a mixture of cold and abject fear  as the Don had stormed back and forth along the floor of the hotel lobby before stopping in front of me his eyes wild with rage.

“Signor Sempleton, since i have employed you all you have done is suck those blasted lemon drops and now been swimming, Santa Maria Augusta, Socrates, the next time I see your face it better be giving me some solid information, or?”

The Don had drawn his ivory pistola from his pocket and fired it into the air, sending the glass chandelier above crashing to the floor and the poor hotel manager, who had finally deemed it safe to return to his desk, running for cover again.

The resulting three days had bought no leads as to where Torado might be being held or by whom. I had however enjoyed a lot of lovely grilled and smoked mountain cheese from the stall adjacent to those terrible nuns. I was also very pleased with the lovely table cloth covered in drawings of leaping reindeer that I had bought for mother to place on the Christmas luncheon table. As I walked further into the market past the sizzling Kielbasa sausages, and vats of pickled cabbage, it occurred to me that there was a slight danger that I might bump into Don Blanco doing his Christmas shopping, this would be ill advised as so far I had no new information, so feeling the need for a hot drink and the cover of their smoke filled rooms I ducked into the small café Literacka on the northern side of the Rynek. I nodded at the waitress who returned my greeting with the usual look of disdain I suspected she reserved especially for me, then went on through the glass door to the windowless room full of the smells of different tobaccos coming from the pipes and cigarettes of its patrons. I found my favourite table unoccupied and sank down into the red cushions of the chair and looked at the posters in a language I had still not managed to grasp a single word of, that jostled for position overlapping each other on the tiny wall behind the coat stand. I lit my cigarette and removed the deerstalker as the waitress slammed my espresso and an ashtray down on the small round table and waltzed off. I took in a long deep drag of the burning tobacco and let out a sigh, it felt good to be safely ensconced in the windowless room, away from the screaming children and the smell of the fatty sausages that had filled the December air of the square. Leaning forward I rubbed my shin which still stung from the moment it had hit the immovable velvet encased foot of Gilberto that had sent me crashing into the icy waters of the pond only three nights earlier.

More and more people starting to flood into the room, their loud voices piercing the small clouds of smoke that hung over the tables. The café was the haunt of the intelligentsia, local actors and artists whose voices projected loudly across the room, so one would notice them and the lithe young women draped in their arms.

I decided now would be a good moment to fashion some fictitious report for headquarters back home, being careful to omit any actual facts regarding retired drug lords, secret cults, missing Mexican footballers and fraudulent nuns. I settled on another report concerning the recent scarcity of wild mushrooms at the local market and posed the question to my superiors whether they thought this was a deliberate control tactic by the local government or simply a result of the changing season.

But no sooner had I got my notepad out of the satchel Uncle Gerald had bought for me last Christmas when a familiar face hoved into view. It was my friend the madman from the café in the Jewish quarter. He clasped his hands together with joy at the sight of me and immediately launched into a bizarre monologue

 “Da Vinci, Shakespeare, yes yes writers we are my English friend, what is my pleasure you see it is good to see the snow, when did I see you again, thank you for lighting my smoker it is old good boy”

I had absolutely no idea what he was saying but was sure there were a number of grammatical errors that needed pointing out in the sentence he had just ejected from his mouth. The bespectacled lunatic enthusiastically sat in the matching red armchair facing me and started to pull out sheet after sheet of paper from the dirty old yellow carrier bag he had with him. They seemed to be all covered in scribbles and indecipherable hieroglyphics that looked like they had been written in some unknown archaic tongue. He kept picking up a page, dropping it then picking up another before thrusting it under my nose.

“Shakespeare, look, read is good you see my old boys no?”

My mother had always told me when faced with people gripped by insanity it was best to try and placate them so I did. I held the pages in my hand, under the small light above the table and pretended to read, nodding and murmuring as if deep in thought and appreciation. This performance was clearly unconvincing as the madman angrily snatched the papers from my hand gathered them in a pile and then hurled them into the air across the café. I watched as the white pages flew through the air like giant snowflakes floating down onto the floor, paralyzed by the very British emotion of acute embarrassment. Looking down at the table in front of me I tried to avoid the amused faces of the other patrons and the burning eyes of the madman who was leaping around the room, raving about colonial invaders. As I stared more and more carefully I saw the words written on the last piece of paper still left on the table. Just three words written over and over again.

Torado, boat, Gdansk, Torado, boat, Gdansk, Torado, boat, Gdansk, Torado, boat, Gdansk, Torado, boat, Gdansk ,Torado, boat, Gdansk, Torado, boat, Gdansk, Torado, boat, Gdansk

I leapt up, snatching the sheet of paper, grabbing my lunatic friend who only seconds before I had wished would leave me alone and pressed the paper against his face and shouted.

“Why did you right these words, answer me?”

The madman suddenly started to shake and tremble, his eyes rolling up and down as if he was having some sort of fit, he kept groaning and groaning, the other people in the café shot me disapproving looks as I shook the man, I let go patted his shoulders and helped his trembling body back into the chair.

“Would you like a drink old boy” I asked in a soft manner “Scotch” came the short reply, his head still rocking from side to side maniacally.

I called out to the waitress who was trying to pass our table as swiftly as her little legs could muster.

“Coffee and a Scotch, a large one please”

I sat and watched as the man held the whiskey glass in his hand, just staring at the golden liquid, then in one swift action he moved the glass to his lips and emptied it in one gulp. The Scotch had worked and the shaking and trembling seemed to stop, the people on the surrounding tables lost interest and returned to their conversations.

Holding up the page with the name of the missing Mexican midfielder on it I calmly asked my strange friend what had made him write these words.

Wiping his lips the man just said “Whiskey, more Scotch” Then another and another I sat there patiently watching him empty glass after glass each time with a single gulp. Finally he leant over towards me and pulled me close, I could smell the strong scotch being breathed onto my face; the experience was not in the least bit pleasant by I needed to find out what this man knew.  In hushed tones he started to whisper into my ear.

“At night I never sleep, I am haunted by visions so terrible, then I fall into a trance when I come too, in front of me are these pages”

He pointed to the hundreds of hieroglyphic filled pages that were now spread across the floor of the café.

“Then I spend the hours of daylight drinking to erase the terrifying visions of the previous night”

“And this” I said indicating the word Torado “what does this mean?”

The man’s face took on a look of sadness “I do not know, what any of it means, I cannot understand the words only how I felt before I was taken by the trance.”

Impatiently I asked “When did you write this”

“Last night, it was after my room had filled with the scent of death”

I stood up, folded the piece of paper and slid it inside my breast pocket and put on the deerstalker, leant forward and kissed the man on the forehead. I dropped two hundred Zloty notes in front of him and told the waitress to give him all the Scotch he could drink and took my Tweed jacket from the coat stand.

I hurried across the white blanket covering the market square avoiding the expectant looks of the nuns who were waving Russian dolls in front of my face and made for the team hotel with haste. I had cracked the case.

The beginnings of the Rio Grandé story

Pacito stepped off the yellow rust stained bus, the driver using a strange long metal rod with a tiny talon shaped hook at the end pulled the suitcase from the roof sending it crashing to the ground where it landed with an unceremonious thud. Pacito stood there and watched as the wind kept whipping itself up into a frenzy sending the dust swirling up into the air in small coils, before it deposited the tiny grain like pebbles into the well of his eyes. Rubbing the grit from his eyes to stop the stinging Pacito looked around at an endless dusty red vista that stretched out and out until finally his eyes rested on a range of cold looking grey mountains, what a forsaken land he thought.

It had been since months since he had felt the shock of receiving the letter informing him of his father’s death, the shock all the more as he had not known there had been a father coupled with the fact that even though he was just hearing of the death it had actually happened 30 years earlier.

His mother had always told him his conception had been the result of one heady night’s passion with a travelling avocado salesman from the mountains. The man had passed through their village one summers day when she was still just a young and naïve girl. Pacito remembered how she would tell him the story as a young boy, she had been tending to the crops in the field that morning when the strange man carrying his large hessian bag full of avocados had stopped removed his hat and wished her a pleasant morning. Her face had gone red with shyness when he offered for her to join him for lunch on the large granite rock by the path. She had accepted the half an avocado he held out in his hand and cautiously sat down beside him, the rest of the afternoon had passed in a blur as she had listened to his fantastical tales of the magical mountain lands he came from by the end she was utterly seduced. He had not been a handsome man but had an air of another world about him, a world she had yearned for in her nightly dreams far away from the tall fields of maize and back breaking labour that filled her days. That night in the tropical rains that had swept across the country that summer she had given herself to him completely, exhausted they had slumped into a deep sleep together behind that same granite rock and she had dreamt that night clearer than ever before of the pink and white blossoms that she imagined fell from those mountain trees into the clear waters of the Rio Grandé. The next morning she had awoken to find herself alone, all that was left of the man was the impression his sleeping body had left in the thick grass beside her, nine months later to that very day Pacito had been born, the boy with the deep blue eyes the colour of the magical mountain lakes her lover had told tale of.

Pacito’s mother had never taken another lover, the shame of the fatherless child forcing her and the baby out of the village to a tiny abandoned Pueblito. There Pacito grew up with only his mother broken hearted and full of shame for company. Everyday under the harsh glare of the sun, Pacito would run around kicking the old leather football he had found in a dark corner of the Pueblito. All the air had long been sucked out of it, many years before he had been born making it as heavy and hard as a rock so it bruised his young soft feet every time he kicked it. But apart from his mother and the cicadas the old leather football would be his only childhood companion.

As Pacito grew older, so his feet grew stronger, the old leather ball no longer caused his feet to bruise but became an extension of them, his mother used to sit on the broken down wooden porch washing the rice with the dirty water from the nearby stream and watch her son with a mixture of wonder and pride as performed acrobatics with the hard and tattered leather ball. By the time Pacito was 15 he had grown tall and strong nourished by his mother’s rustic rice dishes and the days spent chasing the old ball under the hot equatorial sun. Sadness gripped his mother she knew she could no longer keep the boy there, he needed to discover the world, the tiny Pueblito, the old leather ball and the life of solitude would soon not be enough for him, Pacito was becoming a young man.

The following morning before the sun had fully risen, they packed up the few belongings, shut the flimsy door to the Pueblito and set out across the vast plain that surrounded their home. Pacito carried the old leather football under his arm but after a few hundred metres seeing his mother struggling under the weight of the bag of rice and water she was carrying, he set down his own bag, held the ball between his two hands and with all his strength kicked the old leather ball high into the air. He and his mother watched as it rose and rose, it soared above them like the condors he imagined circled the far away mountain tops of faraway lands, it kept rising until finally the ball appeared to reach the sun itself. There it burst into a ball of flames and disappeared. He picked up his mother’s bag, placed an arm around her and on they went.

They had walked for two whole days, when they arrived at the crumbling whitewashed stone structure of the convent Santa Augusta. A jacaranda tree had somehow broken its way through the buildings outer wall, its leaves and branches sprawling over their heads like a cottony umbrella. He sat his mother down under the shade of the tree and opened the flask of water, Pacito had watched as his mother’s hands shaking tried to hold the flask, the water spilling down her chin as she tried to take short, sharp sips, her health was failing fast. He took the flask from her hands and held it to her lips; she drank the water all the time looking into the deep blue eyes of her son. She touched his arm but spoke not a word. He smiled at her kissed her cheek, then helping her up led her by the hand through the gates into the courtyard of the convent. In the far corner of the courtyard a nun was knelt down, tending to an overflowing vegetable patch with an ancient wooden tool, the end of which was bent and buckled by earth and time. The nun seeing the tall young man and the woman got up from her knees and walked across the cobbled stones of the courtyard. She smiled at the young man, a smile that felt so full of love and kindness, it made Pacito’s stomach feel a strange glow of warmth spread it way across it. The woman took his mother’s hands in hers and Pacito watched as his mother fell into the sister’s arms weeping. The nun held her close, looking over the woman’s matted hair into Pacito’s eyes and simply nodded. Wiping the wet from his face, he turned and walked away out of the gates whispering to himself “goodbye mama”.

It had taken Pacito seven more days of walking, first through long dry arid plains that rose up into cold unforgiving mountains; from their peaks he could see a huge brilliant blue expanse far in the distance, in it millions of diamonds glittered back at him. Then he found himself cutting his way through dark, wet and humid rainforests until finally he had arrived at the small sea side port of Labarabcantaro. There he spent his first night in a small tavern full of drunken men, who it turned out were avocado smugglers, whose small vessels filled the harbour. The tavern was a rowdy place, full of these men singing lamentations for forgotten heroes and lost lovers. Women with long flowing multi coloured dresses span like dervishes across the floor, the beads and sequins on the dresses flashing in the candlelight, they stamped their feet and stared at the men with wild eyes. Pacito sat there transfixed.

Early the next morning he walked along the harbour, staring out into the endless blue water, he saw the same faces from the previous night who had been laughing, singing, shouting and weeping but in the daylight they seemed different. Across the faces of them men was a look of melancholy as they loaded the bursting crates of avocados onto their tiny wooden vessels. The same women who had looked so wild and free the night before, stood by the quay watching the men load the boats; they were dressed in sombre black clothes, their long flowing black hair carefully and primly tied up into buns and they wiped away silent tears with small white handkerchiefs. Pacito left the departing men too their grieving women and walked over the bridge that led from the harbour towards wide open green fields. About 500 metres up the road stood a strange structure all alone, it had no roof on it and on the side were the untidily painted words Labarabcantaro football club. Pacito walked inside and onto the lush green pitch, it was a long wide field carefully marked out with white paint, he had never seen such a sight before the whole place felt full of magic. He knelt down and stroked the grass it was soft and damp, he lay down on it pressing his cheek against the soft carpet and heard the sounds of cheers echo inside his ear, this would be his new home.

A grey haired man walked out onto the pitch, carrying a sack full of shiny footballs full of life and air. He saw the sight of the young dark haired man lying on the ground his face pressed against the grassy surface. Pacito looked up to see the man standing over him; he brushed the grass of his cheek and got up looking into the man’s eyes he said “Signor, my name is Pacito, I have no mother, no father, I know nothing of the world except for how to kick a ball, can I stay?”

The man tossed him a football, smiled and said “yes” and there Pacito stayed plying his trade as a footballer for the rest of his career.

Sir Monty and the Lock keeper

The mahogany slipper launch Sir Monty cut its way silently through the dark cloudy green waters of the Thames. It was late November and even the ducks and swans appeared muted by the cold. On the boat were four men in pink cravats and Raffaele Loreal blazers, they were holding champagne glasses and appeared to be toasting something, at least that is what it looked like to the lock keeper who was eyeing them suspiciously, watching the boat draw nearer as he sat by the thrashing weir.

He put down the ukulele he had been strumming an old tune about mythical footballers on and walked over to the large metal and iron gates at the entrance to the lock. Gripping the cold metal handle he started to turn the wheel and the gates slowly opened, a few willow branches that had been caught in the towering doors started to float into the lock covered in a slimy white film. Sir Monty started to slow down as he reached the gates, steam and smoke spluttering from his stern. The men red faced with slim cigars in their mouths looked at the long straggled hair of the lock keeper, his Hawaiian shirt and chortled. The man at the wheel with short blonde hair looked up at distrustful face stood above him and shouted “lovely day for it keeper, now be a good chap and run along and let us through, we have an important appointment at Lower Bedlake.” The lock keeper just stared back at the grotesque faces of the boats occupants, picked up the ukulele sat down and started to skilfully pick at the instruments tiny strings. The music drifted across the water to the fields on the far bank, where if anyone had been walking by they would have felt like they had suddenly been transported to the Appalachian Trail. The boats captain tapped his Batik Oblique jewel encrusted timepiece with impatience and irritation. “Did you hear me keeper, we are in a hurry now open up these gates at once.” The lock keeper smiled back mischievously and carried on strumming away. The four men got angrier and angrier, one by one they began to disembark the vessel their faces full of indignation. Just as they started to climb the steps the keeper of the river got up, placed down the ukulele, languidly walked over to the gates at the other end and pushed a green button next to the iron turning wheel. The water level started to rapidly drop; the pink cravated men looked back and saw Sir Monty sinking down further and further below them until they were stood at least 20 feet above the small wooden boat. Panicking they tried to board the vessel, the men one by one leapt back onto the boat, Sir Monty rocking violently from side to side as each one of the weighty frames of the men landed back on its deck. Finally it was the turn of the Sir Monty’s skipper he leapt down but mistiming his jump he landed too far to the port side, the boat rocked again and the lock keeper looked on as the man lost his footing, slipped on the rubber hippopotamus and went tumbling overboard into the icy November waters.

The man thrashed about in the water, like a non-amphibian, the lock keeper tossed a life raft into the water, picked up the ukulele and started to play the refrain of “Peddle boat dream” the thrashing man’s friends hauled their sopping skipper out of the water and back into the boat. The man was shivering and yelling “my hippo my hippo where has it gone” the other men tried to console him “never mind Monty we will get you another old chum” someone started the engine and the boat spluttered to life, the lock keeper kept singing and strumming as the four men hurled expletives back at the guardian of the river gates. He returned the abuse with a mournful song that echoed  its way downstream.

Ivory Pistolas

A few minutes later Marek found himself deposited on the marble floor of the lobby that he polished every morning, he had never seen it this up close before. His burgundy uniform was now entirely covered in the fauna of the park at Podwale. Lying on his back and whimpering, he could see and feel the warm sunlight on his face that flooded through the glass roof, then it was gone blocked out by a huge plume of sweet smelling smoke, then an eclipse in the shape of a panama hat and finally a moustached face glaring down at him, with dark eyes that felt as if they were burning into the porters’ head. As Don Blanco looked down at the leaf covered specimen, everyone in the room saw his face turn from that of our jovial benefactor, to the piercing stare that had made him the most feared criminal in all of Los Rio and had earned him the nickname El Diavalo. With one hand he hauled the gibbering man into the small office behind the reception, the hotel manager knowing a little of the legend of Don Blanco silently excused himself and without even glancing at his soon to be former employee, quietly slipped out of the room. El Diavalo turned the weeping porter upside down and holding him by his ankles shook him up and down, out of the porters breast pocket fell a tiny black business card. Don Blanco dropped his quarry unceremoniously to the floor, stooped down and picked the card up, turning it over and over in his gigantico hand. On one side was an emblem of a pink hippopotamus; on the other side of the card written in gold were the numbers 4561302. The Don stuffed the business card in his trouser pocket, reached into his jacket and pulled out an ivory handled pistol; he cocked it back and pointed it at the crumpled figure lying on the floor. Marek eyes had glazed over; he had gone beyond the point of fear and had arrived at a place of complete emptiness and darkness. Don Blanco reached into his other pocket and pulled out a small tin of aniseed lozenges, with his thumb he flicked the tin open and out popped a tiny dark oval shaped sweet which he tossed nonchalantly into his mouth. If the hotel porter had known exactly who the terrifying man standing over him holding the pistol actually was, he would have also known that what he was now witnessing was a ritual that no one had ever lived to tell tale of. Don Blanco’s forefinger slowly started to massage and stroke the trigger, he sucked in deeply to take in the sweet and spiced taste of the lozenge, then just as he was about to fire, he felt a firm arm against his shoulder. He turned around to see the large expressing eyes of Gargagno looking deep into his own, Gargagno closed his eyes and bowed his head a little, despite an almost overwhelming urge to fire the gun, the Don knew what Gargagno was reminding him of; he un cocked the pistol, lowered the gun then placed it back inside his jacket. As he slowly started to walk out of the room he felt Gargagno’s arm gently wrap around him and the pair walked out leaving the hotel porter lying in the foetal position on the floor of his managers’ office.

Every one of us was surprised to see the Don return from the office without having heard the sound of gunshots. In fact Don Blanco, looking rather shamed thanked Gargagno for his kindness and place two delicate kisses on each of the blushing Uruguayans’ cheeks. The bowing of Gargagno’s head in the office had reminded the Don of a promise he had made and that his acceptance into Rio Grandean society had been dependent on him renouncing violence and promising never to take another human life wilfully, for as long as he was given sanctuary amongst the people of Rio Grandé.

Now even in exile any Rio Grandean had to remain true to these principles more than ever.

Gilberto gives chase

A few hours later in the hotel lobby stood a sight that would have left any new arrivals checking in staring in disbelief. In a line were four men, the first was a tall elegant man in a tweed suit and deerstalker who looked rather bemused as if he had just been transported from 19^th century London. Next to him stood a huge black man with, tiny shorts and gigantic feet that were wearing dainty purple velvet slippers.  Then came a short stocky and rather squat looking man who had the look of a psychopath about him, except in one hand he was holding a bunch of wild flowers and the other was clutching a copy of Seven Story Mountain by Thomas Merton. Finally lent awkwardly against a pair of antique wooden crutches was a lithe, dark haired and handsome man, whose left leg was entirely covered by a plaster cast. Facing them stood another huge figure, he was dressed in a fine dessert coloured suit, with a white panama hat, the black ribbon on it matched the colour and thickness of the man’s moustache and out of his mouth came clouds of hot blue smoke, at that very moment Don Blanco looked like a magnificent dragon. The dragon gestured for the men to follow him into a quiet corner of the lobby, The men followed the Englishman trying to get a notebook out of his pocket dropped his new tin of lemon drops onto the floor, he knelt down trying to rescue them as the slid across the lobby. “Please Mr Sempleton, we do not have time to worry about your lemon drops right now” shouted the Don and so with a heavy heart the detective left the sweets that had scattered around the room and walked over to where the others were standing. The Don lowered his voice to a whisper “gentlemen” but before he could utter another word, Gilberto caught sight of Marek the spindly and sneaky hotel porter peering round from behind the aspidistra plant that behind Don Blanco.

Gilberto shouted “look he is a eavesdropper” the sight of the giant Brazilian in the velvet slippers caused Marek to freeze for a split second with a look of abject terror before quickly turning on his heels and running as fast as his twig like legs could carry him made for the hotel entrance. He just made it through the revolving doors, escaping Gilberto’s grasp by millimetres, then out into the quiet avenue that led down to the canal at Podwale. Marek did not dare look back, he turned right and into the park, his feet trampling the leaves that the winter had started to strip from the trees. Marek felt like he was getting away then suddenly he felt a snap in his leg and then he was airborne, floating above the golden carpet of leaves beneath him. The sensation of flight did not last long however, Marek crashed to the ground, rolling amongst the leaves and shrieking in pain with a high pitched shrill. Couples walked past arm and arm looking down at the pitiful man clutching his leg, which blood was trickling down then walked hurriedly by. Any of them who might have stopped to help the injured porter, took one look at the giant defender stood over him and thought better of it. Gilberto put his huge velvet encased foot on the porters’ chest and looked down at his terror filled eyes with a certain sense of satisfaction. After all the swipe he had felled the eavesdropper with, would usually have resulted in a straight red card as well as the anger of his footballing puritan of a manager. But in this case it had been exactly what the situation required. Ignoring the shrill protestations of the hotel porter, Gilberto grabbed him by his burgundy lapels and dragged him along the ground back to the hotel.

Don Polvere Blanco and his brave men

I looked at poor Mr Sempleton and the expression on his face betrayed the same feeling I could sense growing in the pit of my stomach. It was one of intense worry and fear, clearly the only person in the room who thought this was going to be a grandé adventure was the Don himself.

Now it was my turn to be the focus of our generous benefactor’s attention.

“Robbiati, detectivo Sempleton is going to require assistance in this perilous task, I obviously will take care of all financial needs, but our fine Englishman will not be able to undertake this mission alone.”

“So tell me Rolando, who are your two toughest, strongest and most unbreakable players as Signor Sempleton is going to need constant protection and companions with the ability to use physical persuasion to encourage informants to talk.”

The only two players who I knew would be both, brave and strong enough to undertake such a task, were the swarthy Uruguayan midfielder Gargagno and the defensive enforcer Gilberto, who had already proved today that he was still the most formidable of opponents even with those giant feet encase in a pair of velvet slippers.

The Don clasped his huge hands together, “so it is decided” emerging from behind a cloud of blue smoke. “Gilberto and Gargagno will assist, protect and accompany Signor Sempleton during his investigation.”

From the doorway came a cough, everyone looked round and there leaning on his crutches was Suarez. “I will go too”

Both Don Blanco and I knew there would be no dissuading the graceful forward, he was after all Torado’s closest friend and the destruction of his beloved Mirabela and his broken leg meant there was now nothing to distract him from obsessing about his friends disappearance.

Besides I thought unusually for a footballer, Suarez was a master tactician with a brilliantly deductive mind. Something which as I watched the good natured Englishman struggle to work out which button went with which hole in his ridiculous tweed jacket , our esteemed detective might be severely lacking in.

Rio Grandé meet our man in Wroclaw

Robbiati meets our man in Wroclaw

I followed Don Blanco into the hotel bar, sat in the sponge armchair was a ridiculous looking man in a deerstalker hat and tweed suit, with a garish tartan tie. He had pink macaroon crumbs all down the front of his jacket, which he started to anxiously brush off as we approached. I was left in absolutely no doubt that this man was English and wondered if he was actually as stupid as he looked. He quickly sprung to his feet and shook the Dons hand, who turned to me and said

 “Allow me to introduce to my Grandé friend Signor Robbiati.”

 The man stuck his hand out and in the most perfectly clipped English accent said.

 “My pleasure, it is an honour to meet you Signor Robbiati my name is Mr Sempleton.”

 I thanked him and the three of us sat down, as usual the rest of the conversation was directed by Don Blanco, who no matter wherever he was would always leave everyone in the least doubt as to who was in charge. He carefully explained that in his opinion, which was the only opinion in the room that mattered, Torado had indeed been kidnapped and that Gilberto’s stolen boots and Suarez’s bicycle accident were certainly somehow related to this heinous crime. It was his theory that the persons behind this crime, were part of some powerful cabal, whose symbol was that of some strange pink animal and that they were hell bent on the total annihilation of Rio Grandé and everything their magico players represented. He told us that at first he had suspected it could be the work of agents under the instruction of Rio Grande’s new despotic ruler. So with this in mind he had dispatched a team of six trusted aides to uncover any information of a plot back home. After two days they had reported back to him that their beloved homeland had fallen into a desperate malaise, the locals were afraid to speak above a whisper, the new regime was running the country with an iron claw, creating an atmosphere of terror among the inhabitants of this previously peaceful nation.

They had carried on investigating for two weeks, but could not conclusively confirm any direct involvement by the new regime. However there was strong evidence that pointed to a shadowy group who had allegedly financed general Sarsaparilla’s rise to power and that the forcing of Rio Grandé into exile was just the first stage of some dastardly plan.

Inspectore Comorossa had telephoned Don Blanco moments before boarding the private jet the Don had sent to extract them; he told Don Blanco that he had managed to compile a lengthy dossier that on his return he hoped would shed more light on Torado’s kidnap and also about much darker events that would come to pass. The only problem was the private jet containing the six investigators sent at Don Blanco’s behest never made it back to Poland.

The plane had just disappeared, vanished into thin air somewhere off Bermuda. There had been no distress call, no wreckage found, nothing just “POOF” roared Don Blanco, his roar causing both of us to jump out of our chairs. The English detective tipped his tea all down the front of his tweed jacket and dropped his hat into the jug of the milk, which crashed off the table, its contents emptying out on to the Don’s lap. The roar had been so loud that the elderly barkeeper dropped the tray of champagne glasses she had been tentatively carrying across the room and the sound of breaking glass echoed around the cavernous room causing us to jump up with fright again, everyone except for Don Blanco that was. Who just as if oblivious to everything, calmly reached into his pocket, pulled out one of his huge cigars, popped it into his mouth, before lighting it and disappearing behind a cloud of smoke.

The Don dabbed at the milk stain on his lap and turned to me.

“Well Mr Sempleton, now you know everything, do you choose to accept this potentially deadly task?”

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, not able to tell if the wetness under my arms was coming from the spilt Yorkshire Gold or from a nervous sweat. All the talk of military juntas, vanishing jets and secret cabals, made me feel unsure if I was the man for such a complex and dangerous case. But to be honest I was more terrified about what might happen to me if I refused the Don’s request, so trying deeply not to sound shaky and consumed by fear, I replied.

“I would be happy to accept Signor Blanco.”

“Magnifico” roared the baritone voice of the Don, “it will be a grandé adventure detectivo Sempleton.”

Don Blanco’s Men

I looked at poor Mr Sempleton and the expression on his face betrayed the same feeling I could sense growing in the pit of my stomach. It was one of intense worry and fear, clearly the only person in the room who thought this was going to be a grandé adventure was the Don himself.

Now it was my turn to be the focus of our generous benefactor’s attention.

“Robbiati, detectivo Sempleton is going to require assistance in this perilous task, I obviously will take care of all financial needs, but our fine Englishman will not be able to undertake this mission alone.”

“So tell me Rolando, who are your two toughest, strongest and most unbreakable players as Signor Sempleton is going to need constant protection and companions with the ability to use physical persuasion to encourage informants to talk.”

The only two players who I knew would be both, brave and strong enough to undertake such a task, were the swarthy Uruguayan midfielder Gargagno and the defensive enforcer Gilberto, who had already proved today that he was still the most formidable of opponents even with those giant feet encase in a pair of velvet slippers.

The Don clasped his huge hands together, “so it is decided” emerging from behind a cloud of blue smoke. “Gilberto and Gargagno will assist, protect and accompany Signor Sempleton during his investigation.”

From the doorway came a cough, everyone looked round and there leaning on his crutches was Suarez. “I will go too”

Both Don Blanco and I knew there would be no dissuading the graceful forward, he was after all Torado’s closest friend and the destruction of his beloved Mirabela and his broken leg meant there was now nothing to distract him from obsessing about his friends disappearance.

Besides I thought unusually for a footballer, Suarez was a master tactician with a brilliantly deductive mind. Something which as I watched the good natured Englishman struggle to work out which button went with which hole in his ridiculous tweed jacket , our esteemed detective might be severely lacking in.

Our Man in Wroclaw meets Rio Grandé

I sat in the virtually empty bar of the hotel; the friendly old lady gently placed the teapot on the table, with a jug of milk and a ramekin of sugar

 “Yorkshire gold Mr Sempleton, dobra? Signor Blanco and Robbiati will be along shortly”

I thanked her then straightened my tie ;( I had decided for such an important meeting my family tartan would be appropriate.) Before pouring myself some tea and finish the file on the history of Rio Grande that Don Blanco had got his secretary to type out for me. It had been an entertaining read and I had to say I was a fan of his secretary’s writing style, very floral I thought. The tea was excellent and had been accompanied by some delightful macaroons which I wolfed down, as I had forgotten to have breakfast in the excitement of a second meeting with the Don. I started to wonder what it was exactly he required of me, whatever it was he had told me that money was no object. Why had he contacted me? I thought for a second that maybe he had read my advert, but in it I had given no personal information and Signor Blanco already seemed to know everything about me, even the unfortunate incident with Mrs Jiggins and the Battenberg. I had stayed true to my word and kept my first meeting with the Don secret, omitting it from my daily report to headquarters, which I suspected they hadn’t even bothered to read anyway.

I stuffed the last macaroon into my mouth, the sweet rose scented cream exploding over my taste buds, as I bit down.

Don Blanco attends training

Suarez was sat on the side-lines with a glum expression across his face, even the Moomin book I had lent him had done little to alleviate the overwhelming despair he felt at the loss of Mirabela and the broken leg that was preventing him from taking part in training. I shouted at Gilberto who despite still wearing the velvet slippers was at that moment doing untold damage to Chicarrito’s, the little Mexicans shins as he scythed him down yet again. The petite striker was leaping up and down like a deranged frog, clasping his shin and screaming “ayayayayayayaya”. On the right wing the Argentinian powerhouse Pastore appeared to have abandoned training in favour of leaning against the wire fence that surrounded the compound to blow kisses at the bevy of long legged blonde beauties that came every day to watch him train, in the hope that the cards they were holding up with their phone numbers on, scrawled in scarlet lipstick would catch his eye. The sight of Don Blanco striding across the pitch put a quick end to Pastore’s flirting and he returned to his position on the right wing, with an embarrassed look on his face. Don Blanco carried on walking across the pitch winking and calling to the Rio Grandé players, Gonzalo launched the ball high into the air and before it hit the ground it was met by the powerful head of the Don and nestled into the back of the net past the prone figure of Rodriquez the Chilean goalkeeper. Don Blanco celebrated by affectionately pinching Acosta on the bottom, before walking over to the bench where I was stood. He sat down by Suarez and pulled him close into a fatherly embrace, tears started to run down Suarez cheek, Don Blanco gently stroked the Uruguayan forwards dark hair with his enormous hand. The disappearance of Torado, the crumpling of Mirabela and the broken leg had taken a heavy toll on the player who was like a son to Don Blanco. The Don kissed the forward on either cheek then stood up and shook my hand.

“This is a bad business my friend, first our enforced exile, then Torado and now look at our poor Suarez.”

I agreed, it felt like misfortune was stalking us at every turn and I hoped that our generous patron Don Blanco on what, or as I began to suspect more and more who, was behind this ill wind that was sweeping across Rio Grandé.

“There is somebody I would like you to meet” said the Don “I believe he may be able to help us.”

Then out of nowhere pulled up Signor Blanco’s beloved 1960’s white Lincoln, behind the wheel was his trusted driver Charles the tall Ivorian “ good day Signor Robbiati, it is bad, bad, very bad business all of this” Charles always said everything with the grinning expression of a man who was truly at peace.

I slid onto the plush camel back seat of the Lincoln and the car gently purring pulled away. Don Blanco leant forward and pushed a button, out from a compartment in the floor rose a vintage record player, there was a crackle and then the sounds of an African kora, Charles tapped his hands on the steering wheel and started to sing, while the Don’s face disappeared behind a plume of blue cigar smoke, the car ambling its way along in rhythm to the music.

Our man in Wroclaw and Don Polvere Blanco

I entered the large building, a monolith of communist architecture that dominated the south western corner of the city’s main square. The building was impressive, certainly not beautiful like the other pastel coloured chocolate boxes that occupied the rest of the Rynek but impressive nonetheless. The grey concrete structure had a large green neon sign halfway up that flashed on and off, the words Said Bank BPL, below the sign hung a huge white banner with a photograph of some Latino matinee idol (a strange choice for a Polish bank I thought), clutching a suitcase full of cash, the cash I suspected he was paid for being the face of the bank.

I stepped into the foyer; it was all elegant white marble and gold light fittings, behind the desk was a tired looking security guard who seemed to be struggling to stay awake and appeared to be blissfully unaware of my presence. I adjusted my deerstalker and gave a cough hoping to rouse him from his slumber this seemed to have little effect, in fact his head had now disappeared under the desk and the snoring noise coming from the other side of the foyer suggested he had fallen into a deep sleep.

Then out of nowhere a fist slammed down on the security guards desk, he leapt up rubbing his eyes and his cap fell off his head. The fist belonged to a smartly dressed, dark haired man with an amiable face. The security guard appeared to be mumbling some sort of apology; the man just waved his hand and walked over to me. He was wearing red rimmed glasses and appeared slightly amused by my tweed three piece suit and matching hat, he stuck out a hand and greeted me in a jovial manner “Mr Sempleton I presume?” I took my hat off and bowed slightly “at your service” he laughed “my name is Rafal would you like to follow me my employer has been expecting you” 

He barked an instruction at the confused looking security guard, who pressed a button and a large glass door slid open. I followed him up a short flight of stairs, into another almost identical foyer where there was some strange Kafkaesque machine. It looked like some strange type of elevator. One half of it was perpetually moving upwards the other down to some underground lair maybe; the strangest thing was that the machine never stopped. Every so often some kind of cubicle flashed past upwards or downwards, it looked truly terrifying. The cubicles racing past my eyes looked like wardrobes without doors. The foyer was filling up with people in black suits; they would stand alongside me then suddenly without warning fling themselves into these wardrobes as they flashed past. From the expression on my new acquaintances face I understood that I was going to have to participate in this death defying act. “We will be going up to the fifth floor Mr Sempleton”

 I took a long deep breath and as one of the wardrobes started to hove into view, I closed my eyes and leapt forward, I crashed into the back of the fast moving wardrobe, fell over, my deerstalker slipped down over my eyes and out of my pocket fell my entire supply of lemon drops which scattered across the floor of the travelling wardrobe. I finally managed to get to my feet just in time to see my chaperone calmly step out of the speeding wardrobe onto the fifth floor. I froze for a second as the marble floor and Rafal started to disappear below me, then closing my eyes again I leapt out. I felt a sharp pain in my head and the cold marble floor on my cheek as I lay there sprawled out face first, staring at the smartly polished black shoes of my guide. He looked down at me, clearly trying not to laugh and gently helped me up with his hand before walking over to the entrance to the elevator of death to retrieve my now crumpled deerstalker.

I stood up and tried to place the crushed hat on my head as best I could, and muttered something about health and safety procedures and that in Great Britain such a death trap of a machine would have been long consigned to the past. As I followed Rafal down the long hallway, I thought about the strange phone call I had received that had bought me to this building. I had been sitting in a café drawing pictures of mushrooms for headquarters when my agency issue telephone had started to bleep. The only people who had the number to my phone was mother and headquarters, I looked down at the number but had not recognised it. Now in the event of this happening I had been informed by my superiors not to answer under any circumstances and immediately report the number to HQ. I thought about this, but then decided to answer as I was becoming increasingly bored with my posting here and was eager to get myself embroiled in some kind of adventure.

On the other end of the phone was the soft voice of a woman, who spoke excellent English with the faintest lilt of what I thought, could be a Spanish accent. Her name was Mariella and that her client requested my presence at the banks head office at noon tomorrow. I had found her voice slightly intoxicating and imagining that I might get the chance to meet this dusky sounding beauty, I had agreed without hesitation.

We reached the end of the hallway where there stood two huge ornate doors, with intricate gold leaf carvings across them. Rafal opened both doors, the way you usually only see in the movies, gestured for me to enter, but did not follow and silently melted away back into the hallway. I walked in to the massive room; on one side were just windows that reached from the floor to the white stucco ceiling, from these windows I could see the grand square below. The room had an air of old Havana gentleman’s club about it. This was reinforced by the moustached black haired man, dressed in an elegant dessert coloured suit and matching Panama hat. Above him were huge rising cumulus clouds of thick cigar smoke. The room felt hot and humid as if I had been lifted up and plunged deep into the tropics. The man in the hat and the thick moustache although clearly aware of presence, just carried on staring out of the window and slowly drawing on his cigar.

From the armchair where he was sat came a smooth, deep Latin drawl “Signor Sempleton do you know why I have summoned you here today”

I felt a twinge of irritation I after all was one of our majesty’s trusted loyal servants and did not like the idea of being summoned by anyone apart from my direct superiors. I considered pointing this out but settled for a simple “no sir, I do not” protocol and all that.

“That is good, that means you have not informed your superiors back in England, which also means you have done no research about me, you Signor Sempleton are a man with an open mind, that is good, foolish but open minded.”

“I would have preferred wise and open minded but you will do fine.”

Summoned, foolish I did not like the images these words were conjuring up in my head. The man stood up, it took him a good few seconds to fully straighten up and it was only then that I noticed how huge he was, at least 6ft 7 I thought. He walked over to me in the languid manner of a man with all the time in the world. He stuck out a huge olive hand

 “Pleased to meet you Mr Sempleton, I am Don Polvere Blanco; I expect you are wondering how I already know your name?”

Don Blanco seemed to be a man who was not too interested in my answer, the question was purely rhetorical.

“Allow me to explain, I am or rather was a very powerful man Signor Sempleton and in my previous line of business, it paid to know everything and everyone, a habit I still keep today.”

I had absolutely no idea what this moustached giant was talking about but his elegant clothes combined with the thick cigar smoke created an air of mystery that utterly intoxicated me. I would have accepted the job he was about to offer me right there and then without knowing anymore about this magnificent specimen of a man. After all I was starting to tire of investigating different species of mushrooms.

We sat down in two plush red armchairs and over the next hour Don Blanco eloquently told me about his past and the reason that I had been summoned to his plush office on that cold November morning.

For twenty years if you had walked into any bar, shop or café in most Latin American countries and spoken aloud the name Don Polvere Blanco, you would have seen a collective shudder grip hold of the people in the room, followed by silence and bowed heads. He was the most feared drug lord in all of Los Rio, it was even rumoured that on every last Sunday of the month the Don would hold a lunch at his gigantico hacienda that was attended by all local heads of state, if they knew what was good for them. He was regarded as charming, cruel, generous and ruthless all in equal measure, a man never to be crossed.

For two decades his word was law until one night he mysteriously disappeared without trace. Some said he had been killed by an Americano death squad under the direct orders of George whoosh the American president. Others suspected his disappearance was the work of a rival drug cartel who had buried his body deep in the jungle. There was also speculation that the Don had simply retired to some tiny tropical island to live out his days in luxury. The truth was even more fantastical, Don Blanco had always been a huge lover of the beautiful game and on one day having heard tales of a magical village football team that lived and played high in the Rio Grandean Mountains; he had ordered his pilot to fly him there by jet to attend their match in the coppa della Ballone.

It was rumoured, a rumour which the Don himself confirmed to me, that at some point during the second half of the match, he had undergone some kind of spiritual epiphany. Locals speculated that this epiphany had coincided with the very moment their gifted midfielder and captain Aromga had deftly volleyed the ball from 30 yards out into the roof of the oppositions net. The Don had spent the rest of the match in a ecstasy like trance. After the game had finished he had turned to his pilot, telling him he would transfer 5 million denaridos into his account and that the pilot could keep the private jet as he would no longer require its services.

Don Blanco had finally found home, he promptly renounced his former life of violence and corruption and was whole heartedly accepted into society as an honouree Rio Grandean.

The Don got to his feet and walked slowly over to the long windows and looked out at the workers in the square who were busily erecting the small wooden cabins for the soon to be opened Christmas market. Without turning round to look at me he spoke these words.

“ Mr Sempleton I love all of those players as if they were my own children, the children I was never able to have, they are in grave danger Signor Sempleton and it is up to you to save them. My secretary will give you all the details you need.”

Then as if on cue Rafal arrived in the room and let me back out down the long hallway. A few minutes later I found myself back in the square, clutching a large folder and wondering what I had just got myself into.

Oak Panels, cucumbers and smoked Salmon

In an elegant oak panelled room, that suggested a former colonial grandeur, stood a large oval mahogany table, around it was six intricately carved willow chairs, and in these chairs sat four men and two women. The men wore elegant white linen suits with a pink badge emblazoned on the breast pocket. The ladies had on flowing aqua marine gowns and in they wore crowns of pink flowers in their hair. The men were all in their fifties and sixties but the women were much younger, with smooth skin that was framed by the expensive jewels that clung to their ample chests.

From the ceiling above the table, hung a two oars, crossing over each other in the shape of a crucifix, the blades of the oars were a vivid pink, underneath them rose the tall blonde moustached figure of a man, he stood up to address his audience. He must have been in his early sixties, his face was red and his paunch bulged out of his trousers from many years of over indulgence, everything about him exuded wealth and privilege. He looked down and stoked the small Pomeranian he held in his arms, then he lent down and carefully placed the tiny dog into the handbag of the lady who was sat to the left of him, she placed the handbag with the miniature dog inside on her lap and looked up at the man with a coy smile.

He straightened his jacket, smoothing it over his ever expanding stomach.  The faces at the table stared back at him eagerly awaiting his speech. The man gave a cough to clear his throat.

“Now then, onto today’s agenda, as I am sure you all know, next moth we are being graced with a visit from our beloved queen. It had been decided at our August conference that we would present her with a painting of our orders island temple by the famous local artist Don Hamiltino, “oooh looveely” said the youngest woman.  “Yes of course dear, but as a matter of prudence I have been doing little digging into our esteemed Mr Hamiltino and it has come to my attention that he is a known socialist sympathiser. In fact only last year he and his wife received six Russian guests at their lovely riverside cottage. So with this in mind I have decided that instead my wife Hilary will present our majesty with one of her delightful watercolours” he turned to the young woman to his left “won’t you darling?” The pretty young lady nodded and blushed just a little.

The man adjusted his jacket once again before resuming his speech. “Finally before we adjourn for luncheon, let me just say that our plans in Poland our proceeding just as we envisaged.”

A loud applause echoed around the oak room and as if the noise was a cue, the large polished wooden doors opened and in rushed a dozen young blonde waiters and waitresses carrying huge silver trays laden with Smoked Salmon, cucumber sandwiches and scones. Jugs of an orangey pink drink topped with mint and strawberries were placed down on the table and the room erupted into chatter.

Our man in Wroclaw report number 3

Things are going very slowly here in Wroclaw, it seems to me that no industry is safe now from the huge economic disaster sweeping across Europe, knocking us down like dominoes; even the espionage business is unsettlingly quiet. HQ doesn’t seem to be remotely interested if they receive my daily updates or not I am starting to feel like a forgotten man.

I have been waiting for over three months now for new instructions from headquarters on how to proceed, say what you like about the cold war but at least it made for a booming business for us in the spy world but the bloody European union put a stop to all that. The other day out of pure desperation for something to do, I placed an advert in the Wroclaw international the local English language paper advertising my services as a specialist in industrial espionage but have yet to receive a response. Well that is not entirely true, only yesterday I received a call regarding the disappearance of a punnet of wild mushrooms, I was just about to call the number the lady had left for me, when I  received a message telling me the missing mushrooms had been located, in the bath of all places. It had turned out that the lady’s husband, a mountain man was a mushroom fetishist, which is apparently quite a common ailment in the mountainous regions of the Sudetys, she had come home walked into the bathroom and found him completely naked, sat in the bath smothering himself in a mixture of Ceps, girolles and pied de moutons, case closed. What I needed was something I could really get my teeth into a proper case, something more than naked men and mushrooms, not that I am passing judgment, in fact If I didn’t only have a shower, I would be off down to the market to load up on mushrooms and give it a try, when in Rome and all that.

Gilberto the velvet slippers and the mystery of the pink Hippopotamus

As Gilberto arrived at the training ground he was greeted by incredulous looks from his team mates, he was not in the least bit surprised by these looks after all he was wearing purple velvet slippers knitted by his grandmother. Mouche let out a laugh and said something about ruby slippers and the wizard of oz. Gilberto took great pains in explaining to Mouche that they were not ruby but a deep purple and that as far as he could remember Dorothy’s slippers were not made of the same soft velvet as his. As the mirth and amusement amongst the team began to die down, Gargagno asked the question that was on everyone’s lips. “Gillo, why an earth have you come to training in your slippers?” Gilberto then proceeded to tell everyone, that when he had gone back to his room after breakfast this morning to collect his things for training, he had noticed that his favourite boots were not where he had left them.  He had then walked over opened his suitcase only to discover his 15 spare pairs of boots were missing too.  Now for most of the other Rio Grande players this would have been an annoyance but no more as they could have just borrowed a team mate’s spare pair, but for Gilberto it was a big problem. You see Gilberto’s ability as a defensive enforcer was partly aided by the fact that the huge Brazilian had size 17 feet. These mighty feet required him to have his boots especially made for him by old bocanegro the master shoemaker of old El Salvador and now all 16 pairs had been stolen. This was why the Brazilian now stood in front of his fellow players with his gigantico feet encased in the ridiculous purple velvet slippers his blind grandmaman had made for him last Christmas.

Despite my protestations Gilberto insisted on playing, so the training match went ahead. The Brazilian defender manfully trying to fulfil his role as the commanding centre back in the velvet slippers. The willowy young winger Acosta and the petite striker Chicarrito were making the most of this rarest of opportunities to exact some revenge on those giant feet of Gilberto’s, that had so often felled them with almost bone shattering tackles. After about half an hour I had to call Gilberto over and tell him to sit out the rest of the training session as little Chicarrito kept jumping up and down on his unprotected feet; which incidentally must be made of a similar material to stone as when he sat down next to me and José with a look of dejection I examined his feet which seemed to have been barely marked by the studs of Acosta and Chicarrito.

 As I sat there watching the rest of the team going about their training in the usual light hearted manner of true Rio Grandean’s, my mind started to be taken over with thoughts of the strange and unfortunate events that had befallen the team since our arrival in this new land. The rice fight at Tumski Bridge, Pastore’s constant whoring, then the worrying behaviour of Torado that had preceded his disappearance and now the theft of Gilberto’s handmade boots. I was sure there could not be one man in Poland outside of the team who could know about the unearthly size of Gilberto’s feet. I got the sense that there were strange and dark forces as work; maybe it was the work of covert agents sent by the new military junta that had forced us to flee our beloved mountain paradise of Rio Grande. Finding it impossible to shake of these disturbing thoughts, I decided to leave my able assistant José in charge of the rest of the training session, bade good day to Gilberto and headed back to the team hotel. Walking back I decided that the only answer was to write a letter to the one man who could help unravel this mystery, Don Polvere Blanco the retired drug lord of old El Cantino. I heard through the grapevine that he had followed us in exile to Europe and was currently residing in a small Pueblito near Grenada. If anyone would have more news from the homeland it would be him Don Blanco was a man who kept his ear to the ground.

That day the letter had to wait.

 As I walked through the doors at the entrance of our hotel, I noticed the paint was peeling off the frames, I wondered why no one had repainted them? Surely the entrance to any hotel should be kept looking fresh, clean and inviting; I considered pointing this out to Marek the skinny and shifty looking bell boy who was charging towards me with a look of determination on his face. As he approached I saw he was clasping a large brown Manila envelope in his clammy hand. “Mr Mr Signor Robbiati a letter for you tak”  I thanked him taking the letter, which was  encountering some resistance from the grip of his greasy hands, he stood there looking back at me with what I could only describe as a creepy sense of satisfaction smeared across his narrow face. Then I realised that he was waiting for something, I dug into my trouser pocket and pulled out a 10 Zloty note and placed it in his damp hand. He bowed and then scuttled off, to harass some other poor guest in another part of the hotel. I did not like him one bit, he was a fawner and a eavesdropper, you could find the quietest, darkest most deserted corner of the hotel and within a minute there he would be lurking over your shoulder. I almost half expected to see him first thing in the morning as I sat on the toilet, handing me the toilet paper with an inane grin, the thought made me shudder.

My attention was drawn back to the brown envelope I was holding in my hand, turning it over in my hand I noticed it had a very distinct smell to it, that I could not quite place, it reminded me of some sort of fruit cocktail I had once tried as a teenager, that had resulted in a night of vomiting. Now what was that drink called, it had a very English name which escaped me for the time being. Turning it over in my hand I noticed the letter had my name and the address of the hotel neatly typed in pink.

I was disturbed by the sensation of someone looking over my shoulder and turned to see that the delightful Marek had returned, he winked at me and pointed at the writing on the envelope “written in pink Mr Robbiati, maybe from a lovely lady, no sir?” I smiled as thinly as water back at him and decided to head to the hotel bar to escape his unwanted attentions.

The hotel bar was as equally unimpressive as the peeling doors that led to the lobby, it consisted of two Formica tables, six wooden chairs and one spongy armchair that reminded me of the sort you might find in an old peoples home. Its only redeeming features were its emptiness and the pleasant elderly woman who manned the bar, although her age did add to the whole feeling of a retirement home that hung over the room.

The lady silently walked over to me, smiled and placed down my usual Espresso on the ugly blue table, then returned to her task of polishing the six bottles of alcohol that stood looking rather embarrassed on the shelf behind the makeshift bar. She pulled another bottle down and started the rigorous polishing process that filled most of her working day. I watched her nimbly turning the bottle over in her hand until the label was facing me. The liquid was a sort of ruby red and the label was white with red writing on it that said Pimms No 1. That’s it that was what the smell had reminded me of, I lifted the envelope back up towards my nose and there was the same smell Pimms!!

I examined the writing again on the envelope.

Master Robbiati

Pod Pielonioum hotel, Chobrego Street, Wroclaw, Polonia

In the top right hand corner there were six stamps all with the British Queen Elizabeth on them, then underneath a postage stamp, London SW7. I carefully opened the letter and pulled out a white card that was about the same size and thickness as an invitation, it only had one word written on it TORADO, in the same red as the liquid in the white labelled bottle I had watched the old lady polishing at the bar, the liquid rolling up and down the bottle as she gently rolled it in her hands between two white glass cloths.

Below the word TORADO was a large pink symbol of a hippopotamus, nothing else!!

The crumpling of Mirabela and the tears of Suarez

Suarez stuck his legs out on either side of Mirabela as he hurtled down the bumpy path along the banks of the odra, he could feel the late autumn breeze tickling the hairs on his legs, where the gusts of wind made the bottom of his trousers flap.

 In the weeks that had followed since the beginning of this wonderful friendship, he and Mirabela had spent many hours of every day exploring the city together, discovering old run down streets that had been forgotten by the city’s grand development plans, small pockets of green allotments sprouted out from behind these old tenement buildings, neat, tidy and abundant patches of soil carefully tended to by old ladies in floral headscarves. Suarez and Mirabela would stop by them to admire the ladies who worked so tirelessly around the fruit trees that were now laden with their ripe golden pears and apples. In turn the ladies would stop their work for a second, wiping the soil from their hands to look at the handsome young Latin man leaning on the beautiful blue bicycle, then pluck the ripest pear from the tree and toss it over to Suarez with a flirtatious smile. He would wink back at them then take a huge bite into the pear, the sweet juice running down his chin onto Mirabela’s elegant blue frame, then down onto here glistening metal chain, lubricating her gears and then they would be off again the sweet juice from the pear making Mirabela’s wheels spin faster than ever in delight.

They would turn left back up towards Podwale then into the park, Suarez gently stroking her bell; she would let out a shrill giggle as they glided over the carpet of yellow and red leaves that covered the path. Suarez would gently move Mirabela’s white handlebars and before they knew it there jutting up in the distance was the magnificent tower of the cathedral at Tumski, framed by the late afternoon sun that was suspended in the sky behind it. Picking up pace the pair would send confused looking tourists scattering back to the pavements as they flashed past them on the bridge. Suarez would wave at the bearded old man who sat on the bronze horse at the entrance to the park by the opera house. As soon as they entered the small circular green that surrounded the fountain, the dozing security guard would jump out of his deck chair to give chase at this flagrant disregard of the parks rules. Suarez and Mirabela would race round and round the fountain, the sour face of the park ranger getting redder and redder as he followed after them in hot pursuit. They would let him get almost close enough that if he stretched out his hand he could almost touch Mirabela’s mudguard before speeding up leaving him grasping at thin air. Overcome with dizziness he would collapse back into his deck chair, hurling expletives at the pair as they rode off laughing. Riding past Boleslaw the brave who was still sat on his unmoving horse, they would turn down onto the wide avenue that led to the grande shopping mall, Suarez would wink and wave at the line of pretty girls stood outside the designer clothes shops, they would cheer, shout and giggle back as Suarez and Mirabela wheels glistening drifted past. A short cut through the small street behind the Hotel Monopole found them whizzing past the painfully slow progressing construction of the new opera house, ignoring the lights Suarez would shoot across the busy intersection pedalling faster and faster as if possessed by the spirit of a long departed tour de France champion before cycling past the shining synagogue in the Jewish quarter. Here they would slow down to a more pedestrian pace, reflecting the  languid nature of the district before freewheeling down the glass sided bridge that led to the old railway station where they had first met. Suarez would alight from his steed and then carefully wheel Mirabela into the now empty market place, they would walk along the dusty abandoned railway track until Mirabela’s wheels would stop turning as they reached the spot where the old lady’s stall had been, then Suarez would gently pull out the azure blue bicycles stand with his famed right foot before getting down onto his knees by a rotten wooden strut of the railway to say a prayer in memory of the kind woman and her beloved Pawel.

That day as he and Mirabela left the deserted station, instead of taking their usual route back to the hotel; Suarez turned his elegant lady toward the bridge that led directly to the north of the city, an area which he and Mirabela had yet to explore. The bridge was full of traffic so as soon as they crossed the huge grey metal construction he turned Mirabela into a small cobbled road, that ran parallel with the river, this part of the city seemed to be a strange combination of forgotten tenements every so often interrupted by a brightly coloured renovated townhouse, these renovations seemed to be dotted around this whole part of the city in no particular order. You would see a row of crumbling buildings, then suddenly a gleaming and freshly painted building would step out from the row, as if it felt proud in its new clothes. The streets seemed quieter than the on the southern side of the city and there was Suarez thought, a touch of melancholy to the place. They rode further North past the small park at Macieja and up through the wide avenue of Chobrego street until the rode finally curved around and back on itself, here Mirabela’s smooth wheels swung them into a tiny side street with a row of small yellow houses.  At the far end of the street Was an elderly black man, he was carrying what looked like a saxophone case and was staggering in an awkward manner. As they glided past him, Suarez turned back to look at the man, he looked like the famous jazz musician Sonny Rollins, down his face were running a steady stream of tears. Suarez slowed Mirabela down, the the man did something unexpected, with all his might he flung the saxophone case into the middle of the street almost clipping Mirabela’s back wheel before sinking down to his knees in what looked like prayer. Suarez cycled toward the case he was about to lean over and retrieve it, when suddenly out of nowhere, came an unearthly screech of tyres then before either Suarez or Mirabela could work out in what direction the thunderous noise had come from, the van was upon them.

 Suarez felt an almost electric pain shoot up the ride side of his leg as he was tossed into the air, Mirabela clattered to the floor, a few seconds later Suarez landed abruptly beside her, wincing with pain. The van came to a halt and two doors slid open, out of it emerged four very tall blonde men. They stood over the wounded pair, Mirabela crumpled and her bell emitting a low whimpering noise felt one of the men place a foot on her handlebars, they started to bend making her whimpers become more desperate. The tallest of the men walked around the prostrate pair lying broken on the ground with a look of satisfaction. Then he gestured toward the man who looked like Sonny Rollins, the other three giants picked him up and threw him into the van. Without a word the tallest blonde man pulled a toy pink hippopotamus out of his breast pocket and placed it down between Suarez and Mirabela, then turned and climbed back into the van and sped off.

Suarez lay on his back staring up at the sky, greyness had started to swallow up the sun, he could hear Mirabela’s whimpers beside him becoming fainter with every breath, trying to ignore the pain in his leg he rolled over and started to caress her soft white saddle, her cries became quieter and quieter until finally there was silence, at that moment Suarez started to weep.

The taking of Torado part 2

Torado felt his body thud up and down every few seconds, throwing his back up before it crushed back down onto the hard yet itchy surface he was lying on. The claustrophobic space he found himself occupying was full of the stale and sickly smell of the same beer he had been so carelessly pouring down his throat only a few hours earlier. It was hot wherever he was and difficult to breathe, a sense of nausea kept overwhelming him, forcing involuntary retches out of his throat. It was the same feeling of nausea he had used to get when taking the long journey by car as a little child to his granpapapas avocado farm. Torado tried to look around but everything was completely black he couldn’t see even a glimpse of light coming from anywhere, trying to move he felt his head smash against something hard and metallic that did little to improve the thudding pain marching across his head, wriggling and writhing about like some kind of mal coordinated slug, it became apparent to Torado that his hands and legs were welded together by something, tape, rope maybe he thought? Then again thud, thud, thud he was flung back up into the air repeatedly and deposited back down onto the hard floor with a spine shattering crash. He was sure that wherever he was, he was moving but not of his own accord and to where god only knew.  Torado was in fact bound by rope and currently inhabiting the boot of a non-descript 1990s Ford estate car and the thuds that kept reverberating through his spine, were the pot holes that dotted the narrow country lane that led up into the mountains and the episcopal town of Kudowa.

Opening his eyes Torado looked around, he could feel a heavy ache across the whole of his back, his mouth was so dry he could feel his tongues rubbing roughly like sandpaper against the inside of his mouth, which tasted stale and unpleasant, he swallowed trying to summon some saliva to calm the rawness of his throat and mouth. The décor of the room was equally unsmoothing to his stinging eyes although reasonably bare its furniture was all a hideous salmon pink that made Torado remember the socks of the men. On the wall hung one sole painting of a grotesque pink hippopotamus with the beadiest of eyes. Torado realising that he had regained the use of his limbs and the intense burning in his groin reminded him that it was a very long time since he had last urinated made his way towards the two doors at the other side of the room. He opened the right had door which revealed a tiny bathroom complete with a horrifying pink toilet and sink. He stood over the toilet and felt an immense sense of relief as a jet of urine came out splashing all over the salmon pink seat, conscientiously he wiped it off with the toilet tissue that hung on the holder, which was of course salmon pink!!

He walked back into the bedroom and wondered what had happened to his clothes, as he was completely naked, what the hell was going on? Who had taken his clothes and where in “dio de rio” was he? Torado opened the door that was next to the bathroom; it was a wardrobe and inside on a solitary hanger was a jump suit. It reminded him of the prison clothes that the convicts had worn when working on the chain gang to construct the railway line across the Rio Grandean mountain pass, except instead of black and white stripes this jumpsuit was a hideous pink and on its breast was the embossed figure of a hippopotamus. He took it down from the hanger and hung it over his arm and walked back towards the pink duvet covered bed. The material of the jumpsuit was rough and cheaply made thought Torado but the embossed figure of the hippo was as soft as silk when he touched it. Shivering from the cold, Torado decided that he had little choice but to put this monstrous article of clothing on, he climbed into the legs of the jumpsuit and pulled his arms into the suit, he bulled the front together and started to do up the buttons, the cloth felt rough and uncomfortable and made his shivering skin itch but it felt warm.

Wrapping his arms around his body to try and warm up Torado sat down on the salmon bedspread and stared at the child like painting of the hippopotamus that hung crookedly on the wall opposite him. After a few minutes he snapped out of the trance he had fallen into whilst staring at the painting, got up and tried to find a way out of the gaudily decorated room. As he walked around the room he noticed that the only two doors appeared to be the ones that led to the bathroom and wardrobe respectively. There seemed to be no other apparent exit from the pink cell he found himself in. Torado started to feel scared and anxious, running into the tiny bathroom he could find no other door that might allow him to escape the room, he walked out and opened the door to the wardrobe, climbed inside and desperately started scratching and banging on the dark wooden panels at the back of it out of hope more than anything else, but they did not move, just echoed back the sound of Torado’s fist hammering against them. He fell to the floor and huge droplets of tears started to run down his face, leaving dark wet spots on the pink jumpsuit, that seemed to spread out until the joined into one huge damp circle almost in the same shape as his heart that the wet cloth now clung to. It was at that point that Torado first noticed the tiny window high above the bed. He pulled himself up from the floor and ran across the room and leapt onto the small pink covered bed and with all his strength clinging onto the tiny window ledge lifted himself up so he could just about peer out. Hundreds and hundreds of feet below there lay a tiny town square, covered in tables and chairs with café umbrellas advertising many different brands of beer, that made Torado feel an overwhelming urge for alcohol. The square looked like one you would find in any small town except for the fact that as Torado stared down at the toy like square below, there was not a single soul to be seen.