Free Tomas by James Palumbo

apart, smoking and looking at the sky. He catches fragments of speech from the large crowd gathered on the other side of the courtyard wall.
    Eventually there’s a call to order and Tomas emerges from a concealed door. The Shit TV cameras whir into action, every angle covered. Tomas wears a billowing white shirt with puffed-up sleeves, like an olden-day pirate’s, with loose black trousers. The bearing of his head and half-smile on his lips betray private triumph. He managed to extract just enough toothpaste from the almost defuncttube to complete his ablutions. He’s clean as well as confident.
    Tomas is escorted to the courtyard wall. It’s one of those fine old terracotta-coloured Mediterranean walls which has seen much use over the centuries. The sergeant offers Tomas the opportunity to speak and a blindfold. He politely declines both.
    Tomas straightens his back, legs apart, placing his right foot forward. He clasps his hands behind him, his left hand holding his right wrist. His free palm is held loose, open. He pulls his shoulders back sharply, then slackens them so they come to a comfortable position somewhere between standing to attention and standing at ease. He raises his chin so that his head is pointing up, his eyes over the line of the firing squad. Finally, he lowers his eyes just a fraction, until they are level with the soldiers’ heads.
    The order to ready the line is given. Tomas takes a deep breath.
    â€˜Present!’ rings out in the now silent air.
    â€˜Aim!’
    Tomas thinks of his golden angel and the first moment he saw her, when time stood still.
    There’s a bang, squawk and furious fluttering of feathers. The buzzard has neck-bobbed his own hat and the vulture’s off simultaneously. They flap about in the dust arguing over ownership.
    The tension is broken. But Tomas doesn’t mind. He was beginning to find the situation pompous. Better for there to be a comic touch at the end.
    â€˜Fire!’
    The crowd gives a tremendous roar. Millions of network viewers leap up in unison to cheer. And far away in an icy lair the Great Bear smiles silently.

Paris
    Pigs can fly
…
    A little known fact about pigs is that they can jump. Not high enough to warrant establishing a porcine Olympics, but to an altitude that is quite impressive given the pig’s physiognomy and more than sufficient for the purpose Tereza has in mind.
    Why, it may be asked, do pigs jump? The answer is simple. Food. The word was invented for them. Given the prospect of food a pig will go to any lengths, including vaulting into the atmosphere, to eat. And what food ensures maximum lift in an airborne pig? Truffles.
    Tereza’s quest for truffle-jumping pigs involves only a minor detour to Provence on her return to Paris from the Riviera. She strikes a bargain with a local farmer, which includes the provision of a pig-beating staff, and sets off down the motorway with a truck-load of squealing aviators.
    On arrival in the capital she meets with an artist friend who has agreed to lend her his studio on the Left Bank. This is attached to a garage via an automatic roller shutter, through which Tereza herds her new friends.
    Over the next few days Tereza makes frenzied preparations. First, the studio is plastered floor to ceiling with black plastic sheets, creating the impression of the insideof a square dustbin. Next, she installs lava lamps and other psychedelic light effects, transforming the dustbin into a disco for slow dancers. Finally, she hires a motorised builder’s hoist with all the accoutrements. The hoist, used mainly for transporting bricks to first-floor level, consists of a platform attached to a mechanical arm, which is operated by an impressive array of levers.
    Tereza also acquires a harness similar to the one that was defeated by Boss Olgarv. But Tereza’s version is guaranteed by the Japanese cousins of the Teutonic robots. It will perform any task required.
    Tereza