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.