Tomy and the Planet of Lies (10 page)

* * *

After breakfast, at around seven, we packed our stuff into our freshly washed and repaired Rover. I handed in our room key and hoped that we wouldn't be presented with the bill.

Leaving Teheran, we drove on perfect roads through Qazvin, Zanjan, and Tabriz towards the Turkish border. We weren't followed. At the Iranian-Turkish border crossing at Barzangan there was a queue of cars and trucks at least a kilometer long. A German truck driver walking around without a shirt on and clutching a can of warm Coke cursed that this border crossing always added fifteen hours to his journey. Not exactly thrilled by this information, I pulled the car around the endless column and drove up the zigzagged road to the customs house. A uniformed man waved us curtly over. Resolutely I waved our red Swiss passports around as if they were diplomatic passports. The uniformed man escorted me to a desk where an older gentleman was sitting, his tanned, wrinkled forehead reminding me of a barbecue. He flicked through our documents until he reached Tomy's exit visa. His expression relaxed and became friendlier, reverent even. He quickly stamped our passports and wished us a good journey. On the Turkish side of the barrier, we finally felt free…

 

The wastepaper basket in my suite in the Suvretta House in St. Moritz was overflowing with scraps of paper, notes, and computer printouts. I had been writing, scribbling notes, calling people on the phone and typing for four afternoons and three nights solid. I had called Marc and invited him to come here and take a short break in this luxury hotel. Then we wouldn't have to spend so much time on the phone. Marc is one those mountain lads who was put out on the ski slope when he was still in diapers. Now he could ski like a professional––and St. Moritz with its fantastic slopes was a big temptation for him. He accepted my invitation and I was expecting him to arrive that evening.

When I looked out of the window on the left in my room, I could see, behind the snow-laden fir trees, the villa, which once belonged to the Shah of Iran. It was built especially for him and every year he would bring his family to St. Moritz for a holiday. Mario, the barkeeper, told me that the Shah had always come with an enormous entourage of officers, bodyguards, cooks, chambermaids and everything else that you could imagine. The officers had often gotten drunk in the bar, but the Shah himself had never come. “He was in the hotel—often—but never in my bar!” he protested.

And then the religious fanatics had driven him out of the country, a sad chapter in Iranian history, and the western world had closed its doors on the sick Shah—out of fear of the mullahs. Not even the mighty U.S.A. had taken him in. Cowardly western world, I thought. The politicians constantly rattle on about “humanitarian grounds,” but when it comes to the Shah of Iran—who, God knows, was far from being a saint but nevertheless did much for his country—they let him die wretchedly in exile in Egypt.

Many months ago, while waiting behind the Turkish border barrier, I had asked myself the same question that I asked myself later many times. Although I knew the answer, it came back to me now as I sat in my pleasant suite in St. Moritz. Why had we worked for the Iranian secret service? And why had they just let us leave, with so little resistance? By the way—and I suppose this partially answers my questions—since our visit to Iran there hasn't been a single terror attack throughout the whole of Iran.

Good work, Tomy!

In reality, the Iranian secret service had never let us out of their sight. But we didn't realize that until it was too late. And despite despising the secret service and their methods, I hated murderers who blew up women and children even more. I hate those liars, who wrap themselves up in the cloak of their religion, who indoctrinate young children that they will be martyrs and will sit at Allah's right hand, that they are holy warriors and their every need will be tended to in paradise—as if Allah needed their help. Finally, and that was another argument in favor of our action, Tomy wanted to get to know this area of humanity. Quite apart from the fix we were in at the time.

Marc arrived punctually in St. Moritz on the Rhaetian Railway. He took a room next to mine and we wasted no time in wandering down to Mario's bar for an aperitif.

“I've already written 150 pages,” I proudly announced, and then asked him if he could read through what I had written and let me know if I left out or forgotten anything. His first priority, however, was to get out on the ski slopes, which I could well understand: the sky over St. Moritz was a wonderful deep blue and the powdery snow on the piste was perfect. He would proofread my material afterwards, he promised.

“And do you remember how they wanted to kill us?” Marc blurted out after his third glass of white wine. Although he was now more than 22 years old, he was still the same spontaneous young man. His constantly hoarse voice and his cheerful expression remained unmistakable.

“As if I could forget!” I replied, “If it hadn't for Tomy, we wouldn't be sitting here now.”

“And, God, that bitch Chantal!” Marc continued, “The most calculating, cold-blooded, lying she-devil that I have ever met…”

“You're still young,” I said, with more than a touch of irony. He clenched his fists: “She misused me, made a fool of me…”

“You shouldn't speak ill of the dead—if you can't say something good, then it's best not to say anything at all,” I said soothingly, although I, too, had often wished that I could have strangled her.

“I can't think of a single good thing to say about the woman,” Marc insisted.

“Apart from the sex…”

“It was only twice, Erich. Honestly! Back in the Sheraton in Ankara. God! I could really kick myself for that!”

I had known the whole time. Chantal had tried to get Marc to come over to her side, the side of the service. And to throw Tomy to the lions. Marc may not have been able to resist his hormones, but he had remained stubbornly faithful when it came to betraying his new friend Tomy.

Tomy, Tomy! Where was he now? Marc chuckled. For the first twenty-four hours of Tomy's existence he had hated him, had even wanted to kill him. But after the first takeover, he had begun to love him. “Does it make you gay if you adore another man?” he wanted to know.

“Rubbish!” I said dismissively. “And certainly not when it comes to Tomy. He had special qualities. I admire him too.”

“And anyway, it wasn't Tomy's body you adored, but the person inside,” I continued.

“Do you remember that first takeover in our hotel room? On that big, broad bed in the Intercontinental?” Marc asked. “Remember the way we hugged each other afterwards and danced around the bed?”

As if I could forget. Now Marc explained to me how Tomy had not just taken over his ego, but had also granted him a small insight into his own personal being.

“It was amazing! I could feel a kind of infinite benevolence and an intoxicating feeling of happiness. And on top of that, there was a kind of massive download of knowledge—as if I had understood ten thousand books at once. Erich, it was indescribable. Man, I'd just love to have that experience again!”

Marc asked me if I had called out to Tomy again. Of course I had—many times in fact—but I hadn't had any answer.

The next evening, sitting next to an open fire, Marc read through the first 150 pages of this report. He had little to add to my recollections, so we talked about our experiences together until the early hours. There was no need to take notes: I left a small tape running the whole time.

 

We decided to take a midday break in a small town called Doğubeyazıt at the foot of Mount Ararat. Strictly speaking, the mountain is called Agri Daği and its 5165-meter high peak is covered in snow the whole year round. This legendary mountain lies at a politically delicate location, where three countries meet: Turkey, Iran, and what was then the Soviet Union, now Armenia. I asked Tomy if he knew the story of Noah's Ark. Of course, his biblical knowledge encompassed everything I had learned up until the age of twenty-two, he reminded me, so he knew of the supposed relationship between Noah and this mountain. I explained how Noah, in the 601st year and 27th day of his life had stranded his Ark on this very peak.

“And?” Tomy and Marc enquired simultaneously, “Have you found his Ark then?”

“It's not that simple, not least because the political situation,” I explained. “Every time a group of researchers has believed it has found traces of the Ark, they disappear back into the ice. The Armenians consider the mountain to be a holy site. They tell how a Kurdish shepherd boy once found the Ark while searching for a lost sheep. After hearing what he thought was the sheep's bell up around the snow line, he had climbed up higher to investigate. Night fell quicker than he was expecting, catching him completely by surprise, so he crawled into a small cave washed round by melted water from the glacier and went to sleep. As day broke, he awoke to find a crack in the glacier a little more than 40 meters from where he had been sleeping. From out of this fissure the frozen faces of many different animals stared out at him, including a camel, two bears, two sheep, two goats, a pair of each one including gazelles and lions. The lad couldn't believe what he was seeing and was sure this must be some kind of waking dream. He rubbed his eyes and clambered a little way higher up the side of the fissure. There he found large, gray-brown stones arranged in strange patterns. As he got closer to them, he realized that these were not stones but old timbers which resembled the bow of a ship.”

Marc and Tomy had listened the whole while in rapt silence, but now came the first question: “And why hasn't someone gone up there to check out the story?”

“Many have tried,” I answered, “but listen to how the story continues. The shepherd boy knew nothing of the story of Noah's Ark. That evening, as he returned to his village, he excitedly told his story of the ship buried in the ice. The devout Moslems there didn't laugh at his tale and the village holy man praised Allah, who had given this poor boy the honor of discovering Noah's Ark. A few weeks later, when the weather had improved, four men from the village took the shepherd boy back up to the glacier, but the lad couldn't find the spot. The ice had shifted and the position of fissure had changed completely.”

“What? That's it?” Tomy asked, as if he thought I was pulling his leg. “Hasn't anyone been able to find this Ark since then? Something that is so important for your culture?”

It was a long story, and I knew it because I had been on the quest myself at one point. And I warned my companions, but they absolutely wanted to know more about Mount Ararat. So be it. We were sitting under the shade of some trees in a Turkish restaurant; the owner and his family turned out to be very willing hosts. Peppers stuffed with rice, raw carrots, and cucumber sticks were all brought to our table. Then came charbroiled lamb, burnt chicken (which I particularly liked), some kind of chopped meat, braised onions, and spicy chilies. From between the trees, we had a wonderful view of Ararat's snow-capped peak. At this altitude, the land was in bloom; children with wide eyes and dirty aprons watched us while we ate, whispered, giggled, and then scattered, screeching with laughter. I knew from personal experience that children—from Egypt to Turkey—always needed ballpoint pens, so we gave them all we could spare; keeping only a couple for ourselves. I asked the restaurant owner if the children could sing for us. Shyly at first, but then louder and louder, the children's voices warbled a song with a chorus that sounded something like “La- di jahara rashiri all wish el maja …” After the singing was over, I continued my story:

“So, hearken unto me, ye unknowing children, and hear the unbelievable tale of the Mountain of Ararat!” Marc and Tomy laughed at this and toasted me with their glasses of mineral water.

“It was back in the year of 1887, when a group, led by Abbot Nouri, I think his name was, climbed up the mountain. The abbot was the head of a small Christian community around sixty kilometers away from here. A few days later, he reported to journalists that he had walked through the interior of the ship, measured it and the data corresponded exactly to those given in the Bible. Of course, the journalists wanted to know why he had brought no proof with him, but the abbot, a reverent believer of every word in the Bible, defended himself by declaring that the Ark is a holy relic and no one should take anything away from it. He wanted to climb the mountain again, a while later, but died of a heart attack before he could make the attempt.

“Some years later, around 1916—in the middle of the First World War—a Russian pilot, Captain Roskowitzky, claimed that he had seen a great ship embedded in the southern side of the glacier. Czar Nicholas immediately commissioned an expedition of one hundred men to pinpoint the location and collect evidence. The expedition allegedly did indeed find the Ark; they even measured and photographed it. But, returning triumphantly to St. Petersburg with all his evidence in a leather briefcase, the leader of the expedition was captured by enemy forces and never heard from again.”

Now we sat eating our lunch in the shadow of that mysterious mountain which so resolutely refuses to reveal its secrets. I could have told many more stories about the mountain, for in the last few decades there had been several more expeditions. Not even one had managed to bring back any convincing evidence. But I didn't get any further: the restaurant where we were sitting was right by the main road and cars flitted by in both directions, including a dark-colored Mercedes that stood out as much for the honking of its horn as for its excessive speed. Two minutes later, the same car drove back on the other side of the road and came to a standstill next to our Range Rover. A slimly built man who we didn't know climbed out of the car, his eyes obscured by dark sunglasses. He was wearing dark pants and a white shirt, wet patches under the arms. Then, from the other side of the car, a face we knew all too well emerged—Chantal.