Tomy and the Planet of Lies (8 page)

By now it was around three-thirty in the afternoon and it made no sense to set off now. We said goodbye to the commandant and the two officers from the secret service, promising that we would see them again in Teheran in the Intercontinental Hotel. Although I didn't really have the slightest doubt that some department or other from the secret service would have their eye on us constantly anyway.

We decided a relaxing evening would be the best way to recover from the stresses of the day, but Chantal's continued presence rather spoilt that for me. She had elected to stay with us. Pensively I unpacked the bags from the car and extended our reservation for one more night.

The next day, we met at eight for breakfast. Chantal explained that she would have to leave us as she had to go back to her company in Teheran, but she would meet us there. She gave Tomy a parting kiss, the sort that you only give when something special has happened. Outside a car with a driver and tinted windows was waiting for her. She couldn't—so she told us—come with us, or even go alone. That sort of thing would be impossible for a woman, especially during Ramadan.

Returning to the breakfast table I shuddered.

“Well, little brother how was it?” I asked Tomy.

“The body found it particularly pleasurable,” Tomy smiled, “but the experience was enough for me.”

“
What?
” exclaimed Marc. “You never want to do it again?”

“Probably not, unless this biological mass,” he indicated his body with some disgust, “requires it.”

Marc shook his head and laughed. Then he grasped Tomy's hands and I suddenly realized that it was the first time he had touched him since he had come into being. “You can bet your bottom dollar it will,” he replied with bright eyes.

We set off a short while later, heading in the direction of the town of Kerman on the edge of the Dasht-e Lut desert. On the way, Tomy explained, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, exactly how Chantal had seduced him. In more detail than we really wanted to hear, to be honest. To start with, she had asked him about his past and he had told what he knew. She had also asked him what his name was, and he had answered that he had none, he was just known as Tomy. She believed this about as much as she bought the story of his creation. The only thing she was willing to accept was that he had a special ability to impose his will on other people, and had gone on at some length about PSI abilities. After ‘the deed' he had wanted to tell her about his home planet, but she had just wanted to cuddle and called him “a silly boy with too much imagination.” She had advised him to keep both feet on the ground; otherwise, he was likely to have serious problems. “Are all women like that?” he asked. Marc said no—but I was tempted to say yes.

During the long journey, Marc had also wanted to know whether Tomy was something special on his home planet: maybe rich or highly respected. What did it look like there and did they have traffic problems or environmental issues? Which political system did they prefer and how did love work? Was there war or injustices of distribution; what sort of clothes did they wear and which weapon systems had they developed?

The disillusionment was major. There was none of any of that on Tomy's home world. Neither love nor sex; neither weapons nor traffic systems; neither politics nor clothing. Tomy's planet was a place populated by bodiless entities. The only forms of life were the “intelligent energies.”

“So you don't really exist?” asked Marc incredulously.

“Of course we exist. As individuals, too. We all have personalities—but no bodies.”

“I can't really imagine it,” mused Marc aloud. “You have to be born and die sometime, and in between is a life full of excitement. Where does your ‘intelligent energy' come from?”

Before Tomy—who was again behind the wheel—could answer Marc's question, he had to brake sharply. Oil barrels had been laid across the road in a kind of makeshift roadblock. Vehicles of all kinds, from semi-trailer trucks to jeeps, stood with open doors, trunks, or trailer doors in two queues. Everywhere, drivers were gesticulating, and in cars women sat silently, wrapped from head to toe in dark material. It seemed to be a particularly thorough check, for the men were completely unpacking their cars and opening up every case, bag or tied up package. Worried, I looked for our passports and for anything that looked like a document that we could use for Tomy. In the end, we chose Marc's driving license.

Two men in black uniforms carrying machine pistols sat in a small truck, which was parked to one side. Behind them, on the opposite side of the road were another two. It took ten minutes until we reached the front of the queue. A young officer, speaking in halting English, demanded to see our travel documents. I showed him only my passport to start with, repeating over and over again that we were tourists. In those days, Swiss passports were issued in all four of the country's official languages: German, French, Italian, and Romansh. The officer seemed not to be able to understand any one of them. He leafed through the passport until he reached the visa, which was in writing that he could understand. Without returning it, he indicated Marc, who was sat in back on a case. Marc pretended to be searching for something and then reached out his driving license. The officer frowned, shook his head, and asked: “Your visa?” I had a sense of foreboding. Marc gave him his passport—Tomy was next. Suddenly we heard a loud whistle being blown. Somebody somewhere called out something.

Our officer strode off towards a dark Mercedes, our passports and Marc's driving license still in his hand. He was clutching them firmly in his fingers, almost as if they were trophies. We weren't in a position to drive off anyway, because of the column in front of us and the vehicles now queued up behind us didn't give us any room to maneuver—that was without forgetting the soldiers with the machine pistols. Oh, God! What would happen if they plucked apart the Range Rover and found our pistol? I remembered “Ali's” business card and starting rifling through bags, desperately trying to find it. But to no avail. I broke out in a sweat. Would Tomy be able to help us out of this one?

Suddenly the officer strode back towards our vehicle, a very serious expression on his face. He pressed our passes and Marc's driving license into my hand, barked out a series of orders, and the small truck in front of us pulled out of the way. Then he began waving his arms around like some kind of traffic cop. Tomy understood what was going on and drove out. I watched as the officer gave us a stiff salute as we drove by him. It seemed clear to what had happened. Somewhere in the column lurked our escort. They must have contacted their command post. Obviously, the Iranian secret service was highly efficient.

Around an hour and a half later, we reached a small town called Na'in, or something like that. It wasn't really necessary to note the name. There was only one hotel in town, the Mahmood. Tomy drove the car into a courtyard that was surrounded by a clay wall. I paid 25 dollars in advance at the reception which left an impression of being a completely pigsty. Untidy, filthy, covered in lumps of God-knows-what and shrouded by some sort of disgusting, sweet smell. A silent, bearded man trudged in front of us up a wooden staircase and ushered us into a room containing around eight foul-smelling figures lying snoring on their wooden-slat beds. The disgusting sight brought me back to life.

Cursing loudly in a mix of Swiss-German and English—it was better that the bearded man didn't understand any of it—I demanded another room and waved another ten dollars under his nose. He said nothing—maybe it was something to do with Ramadan—and led us into another room. This one had four empty wooden-slat beds, and no current occupants. As it smelled of urine and the woolen blankets stank and were probably crawling with lice we decided to return to the car and attempted to sleep for a few hours crammed in our seats between the various items of luggage.

We had hardly dropped off when we were woken by an unbelievable commotion, which seemed to come at us from all sides. The square was lit up brightly with neon light; people all around were talking loudly and laughing; somewhere dreadful music was droning out in awful disharmony. Ramadan. It was unbearable. I persuaded my companions to carry on dozing and drove off into the night, taking the main road in the direction of Teheran. It was a journey of 580 kilometers, but at least the road was good.

At around 4 p.m. the next afternoon we drove into the basement parking lot of the Intercontinental. As I showed my credit card to the receptionist and started digging about to find my passport, he gesticulated towards a corner of the room, from which a deputy manager suddenly appeared, greeting us with exaggerated friendliness. They were very proud to welcome us guests, he assured us. The formalities were unnecessary. He waved over a bellboy, who transported our bags up to Rooms 500 to 504. We couldn't shake off the manager, who insisted on personally escorting us to our rooms.

Room 500 turned out to be the presidential suite and included the bedrooms 501 to 504. All of the rooms were joined by connecting doors. In every room was a bowl of fresh fruit and an ice bucket with a bottle of champagne: the beds were wide enough for an entire girl group. The refrigerators were filled, not just with fruit juices and soft drinks, but also with all the major brand-name spirits. All of that in the land of the Ayatollahs, where alcohol was strictly forbidden, or so I thought. And during Ramadan, too. In the living room was an oval conference table with eight leather armchairs, an upholstered suite and a massive oak desk, solid enough for any state president. Marc whistled loudly and waltzed over to the bed, giggling like a school kid. This luxury must cost a fortune, I thought. But as long as I wasn't paying, I didn't really care too much.

A while ago, I had spoken with Tomy about what we were to do next. I had told him about atrocities carried out by murderous bands of terrorists and he was interested in learning about this side of humanity.

“Aren't you afraid that something will happen to you?” I asked.

“My life-form knows nothing about this state of affairs,” he replied casually.

“But what happens if you get killed; if someone shoots you down unexpectedly or poisons you?” I persisted.

“Then I'll just jump into you, Erich, or if needs be into Marc, and if neither of you are available, then into someone else.”

Marc took Tomy's face in both his hands and insisted he could come in any time he liked. I recalled the moment after Tomy's creation when Marc had thrown the can opener down at Tomy's feet and Tomy had stated simply: “He doesn't like me.” That seemed to have changed, thank God. Understandingly, Tomy said that it would be easier for us and avoid panic and racing hearts if we were to prepare our egos for a friendly takeover.

“How?” asked Marc.

“Lay on the bed,” said Tomy and Marc did as instructed. He stretched out, shoes and all, on the heavy bedspread and made himself comfortable. Tomy sat down next to him, asking only that he slide over a bit to make room for him, and if it was OK for him to touch him.

“Dumb question!” said Marc. “Be my guest!”

Almost tenderly, Tomy stroked Marc's temple with the back of his finger. I was perched on the other edge of the bed and watched as Tomy suddenly went very pale. The blood in his body seemed to stand still. Marc let out a series of short sighs: ah…ehh…ehh… ooh. Then Tomy's body keeled over next to him. Marc grinned and said in a voice filled with wonderment, “It worked! He's in me! Fantastic! Unbelievable!” Marc appeared as if transformed: he was absolutely bursting with enthusiasm.

Although I was aware of how the process worked, I was, nevertheless, astounded and astonished. In front of my very eyes, something supernatural had just occurred. Hypnotism was nothing compared to this. On a whim, I touched both of their cheeks. Tomy's felt slightly cool and damp, but Marc was completely normal.

“Who am I talking to now?” I asked.

“To me,” answered Marc's hoarse voice and he laughed mischievously. “With me, too,” echoed the same voice right after. Two consciousnesses occupying the same body––without becoming schizophrenic. “Come back,” I said to Marc, but meaning Tomy. Marc slid to the head of the bed and lay back. The whole thing seemed to be great fun for him. Slowly Tomy's pasty face began to regain its former color. He puffed a couple of times, moved his arms and legs around a bit, and then sat himself on the edge of the bed. The two looked at each and then began to laugh. They hugged like little children and laughed again, then jumped down from the bed and danced around on the rug. The two had really connected; I was very relieved about that. But now I worried about whatever nastiness the secret service had in mind for us. What we'd experienced up to now could hardly be the end of it.

We decided to take a siesta and slept for about three hours. After waking, we freshened up and went down to the hotel bar where we ordered three glasses of wine.

“No alcohol!” protested the barkeeper, “Ramadan!”

Sometime later, an elegantly dressed man sat down next to me. He wore a dark jacket, white shirt with a yellow-green tie, and grey-blue pants. He was with the ‘service,' he informed me, getting straight to the point. We would be collected at ten o'clock the following morning. “All three of us?” I asked.

“Yes, all three,” he confirmed.

“Where are we going to?” I wanted to know, but the elegant man simply shrugged his shoulders.

* * *

They brought us to a large villa in the middle of a park. Probably facilities belonging to the former Shah. We met with “Omar Sharif,” “Ali,” and three other stiff-looking, unfriendly, and morose men. They were all introduced, but as usual I forgot the names immediately afterwards. One of them was leafing through a stack of black and white photographs of male faces. He asked me how it worked. I replied that Tomy required pictures of the current surroundings of the subject, if possible pictures of the building and the direction of the target from our location. The whole experiment—I used the word intentionally—could only be carried out in our presence. We needed a broad bed, like in our hotel suite, as we required bodily contact. For this white lie, Tomy chastised me with a barely perceptible pitying shake of the head.