***
I watched Céline for a while, her adorable face lying on the pillow, her ponytail flopped out behind her, snoring ever so quietly and with that overpoweringly defenseless look which spectacle-wearers can exhibit when not wearing spectacles. The blinking red lights were gone, there would be no more timely Xmas cards or birthday cards to keep them blinking until they break up with their boyfriends, no more adding to the list, just let me be able to keep Céline for as long the ocean’s waves will allow.
I went into the bathroom and called Pedro in the office. I told him I wouldn't be in this morning, I had an important meeting (not a lie). But I would pop in for the afternoon’s staff meeting. No problem, he said, everything had gone well with the Gerona Sol and it will be departing for Morocco at around midday. The Mahon Star would be leaving for Palma as usual this evening and would be loaded to full capacity or very close to it.
I went down to the terrace to have breakfast. I took my laptop with me and I typed out that poem to give later to Céline. She could include this one also in her class's offbeat poetry critique program. It was entitled 'Faith' and it went like this:
I trod on an anthill yesterday,
Down in the field by the lake,
And hundreds of innocent creatures died
Because of my dumb mistake.
And I thought I would hear the survivors
Cursing their stars and their fate,
And wondering why their deities
Were always too lazy or late.
But no, not at all, they had gathered around
And were debating in moderation
What intentions their gods might possibly have
Toward their civilization.
And I heard them discussing the meanings of life,
And how faith was belief without proof.
And the next thing I knew, along came a cow
And flattened them all with her hoof.
And then I ruminated a little about my life. First of all, I would not be mentioning a single word about Jeremy Parker to Céline. She would think I was nuts and take the next plane back to Paris and Rouen and maybe her fiancé. Or ex- cum future fiancé I should say. And we definitely do not want that.
I would carry on here as boss of the Naviera. I would quit Germany and its ghastly climate, central heating for eight months of the year, and buy a house with a pool on Mallorca, on the cliffs somewhere, see how Mr. Brown likes it here.
And there is a two-week chess tournament in Mallorca in October. It starts at around the time of the annual Palma marathon race, and I'll take vacation for that. And my friend Steve will have finished his project in China and be back in Europe in a few weeks' time and he can come visit. And Monika can come visit also, she'll be sad and happy at the same time about Céline and me. Ah, and that reminds me, I will have to drive her car back and return with my Audi. Céline can use the Audi, I'll use my company car. No. I will swap the Audi for some car of her preference. Mallorca is not the place for a machine like the R8. Its only purpose would be to show off. Pomp and ceremony, a vehicle for use by posers and assholes. And I can enjoy playing some slightly risky games on the stock market with part of that money I've got, and…
Some hands were lightly massaging my shoulders. And even without the feel of those beautiful soft breasts pressing into my back, I didn't need to be told whose hands they were. Her way of massaging was a very distinctive one. And if she didn't stop quickly, she would have to wait a little longer for her breakfast. There were certain parts of me, aching or not, which would not survive more than a couple of minutes of this and she knew it; and I knew she knew it, the craven little torturer.
And yes, I am going to put the events of the past few weeks into writing. Every single day of them. Sitting by the pool. And knowing full well that if anyone ever comes across this rambling tale, they are not going to believe a single word of it. Which would make them cynics, at least in this regard, and they would be classifying me as a liar. But there is nothing wrong with that, I am not offended. There is nothing wrong at all, as I have attempted to make clear, in being a cynic. Quite the contrary.
However. However…there are some things they are not allowed to be cynical about. And one of them is their planet and the species to which they belong.
While you have been reading this today, another 1,300 humans were individually murdered by other humans, 360 humans were slaughtered in conflicts (a slack period for conflicts at the moment, and way down on the 40,000 per day in World War II), and 1,000 humans were killed just travelling around their planet. There have been 123,000 abortions, there have been 27,000 divorces, 22,000 women have been raped, we have killed 160 million land animals (plus 270 million marine animals) and 2,700 of us have gone the suicide route and killed ourselves (thereby helping to make up today's total of 150,000 deaths). And plenty of other things have happened today of course, including items of minor import such as 4,500 human females have had their breasts enlarged and another 1,500 have had theirs diminished. Go figure.
And assuming that today has been an average day, that is.
And now you will have to excuse me, I am going to have to forcibly take Céline back up to our room, she will be required to pay the penalty for her nefarious deeds. Except that I know she won't see it that way. It will not be forcibly. She has hungry eyes.
And I would like to leave with a rumination or two.
As a Frenchman once said, or maybe he wrote it: 'Never take life too seriously; in any case you are not going to get out of it alive'.
So don't worry, I tell you. Keep on voting if that's what you like. And why not try Mallorca as a place to live? It is a nice place, a very nice place indeed, and still not completely smothered in concrete, despite their birdbrains' best efforts, flap, flap, to achieve it. And one day they will of course, because, as we know, 'more is better' and they are never going to stop. But they probably won't achieve it before you have finished your voyage to death and all points beyond.
So don't be sad about it. There is absolutely no point.
Just forget everything.
Forget the fact that the human race is so stupid that it thinks it’s intelligent.
Do what I am doing.
Enjoy your time.
Time, after all, is all you've got.
EPILOGUE
It was in the International Herald Tribune a few days after I returned from signing the legal documents in London.
A minor article of minor interest:
London Businessman Killed
Mr. Jeremy Parker, well-known Chairman and CEO of the internationally renowned Obrix group of companies, was shot and killed yesterday morning outside his company's Strand headquarters in central London. Witnesses state there were two killers who fled together on a motorcycle which was subsequently found abandoned close to the Charing Cross underground station and later identified as stolen. Mr. Parker was famous for the rapidity with which he created a thriving global financial and investment empire which has become a powerful and eminent force within its field. Motives for this cold-blooded killing remain a mystery at this stage.
That's all there was. I suppose there was nothing else to report. And considering the nature of the organization which must have done it, and irrespective of the country to which it belonged, there would probably never be anything else to report.
I suppose that Jeremy could have prevented it, but he would have needed to recognize the danger in the first place. And maybe he hadn't. Or maybe he had, but he just didn't care.
Whatever the case, Jeremy Parker had achieved what no man before him had ever achieved. He had engineered a meeting of the leaders of our species to discuss whether it was at all possible for us to stop killing ourselves. And whether there was a way to eradicate our genetic antagonism and belligerence for the long-term. And that, in my book, deserves a gigantic monument. A metaphorical one of course. We cynics regard physical monuments with considerable disdain.
***
&nbs
p; So I had known poor Jeremy for less than two months and now he was gone.
Murdered. A consequence of suspicion and fear.
And whether you are a Christian, a Muslim, a Hindu, an agnostic, an atheist, or one of the many other alternatives open to you, it is a proven fact that Jesus Christ existed and that he was doing his best to try and help us.
And so was Jeremy Parker.
And it is a proven fact that we killed them both, and for the very same reasons.
And, as we also know, Jesus is supposed to have hopped off back home after that and—if we choose to believe our friend Jeremy Parker—that is precisely what he has gone and done as well.
But in my view we should in no way attempt to compare the two events. There are far too many differences. Even small ones, such as Jeremy Parker not having had the opportunity to ask the Christian Bible question (Matthew 27-46): “My God, My God, why hast thou forsaken me?” An opportunity also not made available to those millions of rhesus monkeys as they perished, and continue to perish, in their neck-vices on those cleverly designed human restaurant tables.
And I will never get to learn about the perplexing entanglement of connective events in which I have been so strangely implicated.
I will never even know whether it was simply Jeremy—for reasons unknown—trying to help me with my private life, lots of money and a great girl.
Unless…unless of course…my alien phone were to ring again one day.
And if it were to ring again one day, would it be to tell me that we were to be eradicated, annihilated, that same evening perhaps, or possibly the following morning? Or would it be to re-assert the validity and irrevocability of the 2084 precept and its terms? Another 70 years to go?
Now just a moment there, say my neurons, just hang on a minute, will you? We refuse point blank to contemplate a comparison of the two events. And, in addition, no phone is ever going to ring to inform you about anything at all, not even tomorrow’s weather forecast.
Jeremy Parker's delusions and his extraordinary fantasy world had simply perished at the identical point in time that he himself had. The poor guy had simply been an outrageously deranged lunatic. With certain skills and knowledge, sure enough. And seemingly no longer a danger to himself or to others. But insane nevertheless. Demented. Crazy.
That is what my neurons tell me.
It would be interesting to know what yours tell you.
END
About the Author
Anthony D. Thompson was educated at Lancing College, Sussex, in the United Kingdom. He has a strong dislike of nationalism (or, as some prefer to say, patriotism) and describes himself as a European. Thompson moves among those countries with whose languages he feels most comfortable—Spain, Germany, France, Austria, Switzerland, and the UK—more or less as he pleases.
Divorced, Thompson is the proud father of two daughters and a son. He is worried and angry about the fact that, as the dominant species on this planet, we continue to destroy it, while at the same time being stupid enough to think we’re intelligent.
Thompson lives by this motto: “Life, basically, is time. And if you believe that time is the only thing we humans really possess, then the only logical thing to do is enjoy it.”
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