Wild About Larry Read online

Larry is standing at a lectern in the centre of an old circular assembly room, his hands gripping either side of the desktop. He is unkempt and dressed in ragged robes. Rings of heavily armed, sombre looking men are sitting around him. It seems they are not receiving him cordially, and a well of muttering erupts into a cacophony of booing and jeering. Somebody somewhere fires a gun up in the air. Larry holds out his hands and motions the crowd to sit down and calm down, which eventually they do. Then he opens his mouth, and after a brief moment during which his lips move without speaking, he says in his strange accent “Listen mates. I know you're all feeling a bit crook about the stunts that crowd of rorting pollies have been pulling round here in Bullshit Palace but, you know, you're making me feel about as welcome as a fart in a phone box”.

  Someone yells “What do you think this is Larry? Bush week?”

  The rest murmur their agreement. Another shouts “Who's rooting this croc Larry? 'Cos it looks like you're just holding the tail!”

  Everyone except Larry laughs. “Hold on a sec, sports!” he shouts back. “I may be about as handy as shit on a stick at this public speaking malarkey and I ain't much cop at big noting myself, but I'll take anyone on when it comes to sinking nectar down me gurgler! Who's up for a drinking compo then?”

  One of the men stands up, holds his rifle aloft and shouts “You can sign me up for that one Larry!”

  Then gradually, one by one, more men rise in a similar fashion until eventually the whole mob is on its feet, chanting Larry's name. Larry draws his sword, points it towards the door and cries “Last one down to the boozer gets the shout in!”

  He marches outside triumphantly with everyone else trailing behind him.

  A long time ago the remote island of South Jefesta was at the centre of the Siminite empire. But generations of hard fought glorious success were followed by generations of corruption, neglect and decay, and its people now find themselves living in a third world state. Once they wrestled with the rest of mankind and ruled over them with a rod of gold. Today however, a mob of religious zealots and warmongering politicians squabble over the scraps that remain and fight amongst themselves. At the heart of this constant struggle is a battle of wills. The zealots are determined to ensure the immoral unbelievers of the outside world stay outside by keeping all borders sealed, whereas the warmongers are desperate to take what they consider to be their rightful seat at the world’s table, to be feared and respected in equal measure. Consequently, each political party spends much of their time spying on the other, and when they’re not spying on each other they’re spying on everyone else.

  Although one might expect such opposite views to lead to political breakdown and perhaps even civil war, both sides are aware they must present some semblance of a functioning marriage. So life becomes a long series of tiring compromises. For instance, the government has recently invested heavily in producing a website, yet nobody on the island is allowed access to the internet.

  The Siminite people themselves only add fuel to this confusion with their own contradictory attitudes. For a start, most of them don’t care about the outside world one way or the other. They’re far more interested in ignoring their own shortcomings. For instance, they bitterly complain about their poor standard of living, yet stubbornly cling to the old, anti-materialistic religion which dominates and retards their lives. And although they proclaim a lionhearted love for liberty, they remain happiest living in a state of controlled fear, like a herd of gazelles grazing on an African plain beneath the gaze of predators. To achieve their preferred state they have sold their hopes to their scheming rulers for the bargain price that nobody actually trusts their own family, let alone outsiders, and hope is spread thinly on the ground. Sometimes it seems the only thing which binds and blinds both government and people is a timeless animosity towards the Semonite people, their only near neighbours on the much larger island of North Jefesta.

 

  However, you shouldn’t make the mistake of presuming this is some form of evil dictatorship. For as long as anyone can remember, these people have overwhelmingly chosen this system and this lifestyle by casting their votes in freely conducted and uncorrupted elections held every four years.

  The native Siminite language is old and at times struggles to cope with modern articulation, so the meaning of words can be ambiguous. For instance, the same word is used for the English words assume and conclude, because in South Jefestan culture they normally mean pretty much the same thing. Similarly, the direct English translation for the Siminite word for a government ministry or department is the word execution, as a derivative of the word executive, and thus, in English, government ministers are called Executioners.

  The warmongers are currently the elected power, and a number of their Executioners have recently grown tired of the parochial attitude of their citizens towards the outside world, and decided to act. They reasoned that the reason for the lack of change was that when given a choice, people simply cling on to the familiar past rather than embrace an unfamiliar future. Thus the obvious solution to this problem was to remove the choice but, given public sensitivities, it was decided this would be best achieved gradually by stealth. Neither the religious opposition nor the populace at large would be fully aware of how their lives were being altered for the better by their betters.

  These Executioners were keen to implement their grand plan in a manner which avoided giving direct power to individuals, so a number of secret committees were created. Each of these then formed a number of secret sub-committees in order to dilute not just responsibility but also accountability. These in turn set up sub-sub-committees and boldly ordered their members to prepare the nation for a glorious future. Sub-sub-committee 24.23.17.82 (Education – Foreign Languages), formed by the Execution of Education, was the first to return with a proposal for how this grand future might be created.

  Due to the web of secrecy surrounding the plan, nobody was aware that Doctor Kaslik Wirliv was the only member of this particular sub-sub-committee. Because he wasn’t a state official – he was a history professor - he hadn’t been invited to attend any of the secret meetings, so he was equally unaware he had any part to play in this sub-sub-committee.

  When he received the note bearing the Execution seal he assumed it was just another piece of petty bureaucracy and without bothering to open it, he passed it on to a luckless student to carry out whatever onerous task was required. When the completed work was returned to him he sent it back to the Execution of Education without bothering to read this either. He was far more interested in preparing for the imminent arrival of some recently discovered ancient manuscripts. His own passion lay in the art of tenderly translating and dissecting such objects. He was on an intellectual quest to find and complete the missing sections of the holy Book of Edification and Understanding, written by the prophet Baqra. That there were known to be missing sections in the holy book was also a secret, by the way.

  The proposal Dr Wirliv didn’t see has itself been translated from Siminite and reproduced below:

  CLASSIFIED EXTREMELY SENSITIVE

  PROPOSAL 24.23.17.82-01

  Objective

  Presently the only language spoken by the population of South Jefesta is ancient Siminite. The overall objective of proposal 24.23.17.82 is to galvanise our country and its people by replacing our native tongue with a modern vocabulary, so we may better communicate with the outside world. It has been decided by committee that the most desirable language in current usage be chosen to perform this task. Proposal 24.23.17.56 targets a date, yet to be specified, by which a percentage of the population, yet to be specified, will have mastery of the chosen foreign language to a level of proficiency yet to be specified.

  The objective of this report is to propose which foreign language should be taught to a minimum standard when this directive comes into force, and how to achieve the target within the required time frame.

  Supporting Evidence

  It can be supported
that English is the most widely spoken language in the outside world. It can also be supported that Mr William Shakespeare is the most revered writer in the English language.

  Conclusion

  It is concluded that English should be the standard foreign language taught to our people, and in order to achieve the required proficiency within the targeted time frame, the words of William Shakespeare should be taught to every citizen of South Jefesta. It is likely this objective will be met with resistance amongst the general public, so it is assumed it will be implemented covertly by introducing the new language into mass forms of entertainment at a politically expedient moment in time.

 

  One Great Guide, One True Faith, One South Jefesta.

  As is common in South Jefesta, nobody claimed authorship of the document. This is because it is a widely held belief that while knowledge may be power, power is in reality nothing but trouble and is to be avoided whenever possible. It is also convenient if the author is a student sensing an opportunity for a prank.

  The returned proposal was created with a security level of EXTREMELY SENSITIVE. This is also a common practise because it means the document doesn’t officially exist. Thus it avoids the unpleasantness of rigorous assessment and criticism from one's peers, and speeds up the implementation process. This particular proposal was quickly ratified by the Council Sub-Committee 24.23.17 (Education – Languages) and stamped with the seal of The Great Guide.

  The likelihood of such a grand vision for the future resulting in all Siminites speaking 16th century English verse appears to have been overlooked, alongside the obvious argument that a new fangled language would be of little benefit to most of the population anyway. But this didn’t stop Council Sub-Committee 24.23.17 from heartily congratulating itself on a job well done. For having built a nonsensical proposal and fuelled it with bogus arguments, nobody was going to have to take responsibility for failure when it inevitably spiralled out of control. In the meantime everyone was going to have to learn Shakespeare.

  Thus one morning a young man stood on centre stage in a dark, deserted theatre in the capital city of South Jefesta. The empty auditorium was filled with a sleepy stillness, broken only by a beam of light projected down from the ceiling, through the particles of musty dust and onto his face. He cleared his throat, stared into the distance and nervously coughed as he composed himself. Then he began to speak.

  “To be…. or not to be?” He asked.

  He paused in an overly deliberate manner, his widening eyes scanning the rows and aisles of vacant seats for a response.

  “That… is the quostion”. He shrugged.

  “Stop!” yelled the single member of the audience, an elderly looking man with balding hair and grey beard who was sitting in the front row. “Humvat, can you please tell me what a quostion is?”

  “Well Kinbus, with all your knowledge of languages I’m surprised you don’t know.” Humvat replied languidly. “Quostion is the English word for when you ask somebody about something”.

  “The word you should be using is question you baboon arsed idiot! You’ll have to work much harder on your English, much harder. And while you’re at it will you please put the rhythm, expression and cadence I’ve been trying to teach you into your performance? You should be convincing me that when I look up at the stage, I’m gazing upon the brooding Prince Hamlet, not Humvat the goatherd acting the clown. You’re so wooden I half expect to see somebody's hand up your backside pulling the controls. It’s not good enough, simply not good enough”.

  Humvat stood on the stage, holding a script in one hand, a wooden sword in the other and a bored expression on his face. He looked down at his director Kinbus.

  “To be honest, I’m not really interested in learning English.” he replied with disdain. “England is a small, insignificant country. I don’t even know where it is, and the thought of struggling through such rigorous learning for such scant reward does little to fire up my spirits. Look at this script written by this Shakespeare idiot, with all these archaic words even we don’t use anymore, like thou, thee and wherefore”.

  He continued. “I’d much rather be learning something useful. If I’m going to have to make the effort then I want to learn a language of the present, not the past. I want to learn American instead”.

  He held up the sword and waved it in the air, shouting “Long live America! Long live the land of the free!”

  “For Baqra’s sake, be quiet!” snapped Kinbus. “Do you want to get us both locked up?”

  He then quickly climbed up onto the stage, addressed the empty seats and shouted “Down with America! America is a godless land! It’s like wearing a silken hat and discovering it’s made of cow turd! Long live the Great Guide! Long live the one true religion! Long live South Jefesta!”

  “Oh come on now,” chided Humvat. “It’s just you, me and an empty theatre. If we’re not safe here where are we safe?”

  A distant voice shouted from somewhere at the other end of the theatre. “And death to those Semonite dogs in North Jefesta!”

  “Oh yes, indeed.” blustered Kinbus. “Death to the Semonite dogs in North Jefesta who stink so badly even the flies won’t go near them!”

  He stood still for a short while before glancing furtively around the auditorium, and once satisfied the silence around him was now a true and safe and sanctified silence, he led Humvat down from the stage.

  “If you weren't such an ignorant peasant from the sticks, you'd know you're never safe anywhere in this city. Come along now. The rehearsal is over for this morning. It’s time for prayer.” he muttered as they trudged up the aisle. “And for your information, the magic of Shakespeare is in the timelessness of his exploration of the human condition, via his stories and characterisations as much as his language. And I’ll also have you know that in America they speak English, not American. Or, as I understand it, at least some form of English”.

  Humvat trudged along too. He hummed and hawed to himself before eventually concluding “Well, if that’s the case I suppose I shall have no choice but to focus on improving my English”.

  “You'd be better off if you focussed on improving your acting first.” grumbled Kinbus. “If you hadn't required so much schooling today before you could get to the stage where you asked your damned stupid quostion, we could have stopped off at Zola’s for a quick drink before prayers”.

  Humvat pulled a wretched face. “No drinks for me today” he moaned. “I drank a gutful last night and today my head feels like it’s ready to fall off”.

  “Hmm. Now I understand.“ mused Kinbus. “So that’s why you’re in such a feisty mood today”.

  On their way out of the theatre they stopped at a kiosk and each handed over a coupon to a clerk from the Execution of Entertainment. He collected the tickets and in return handed them each a new one.

  Once outside, they joined a host of other men, all of them walking along the old, muddy, narrow street in the direction of the nearest prayer temple.

  “At least now we’ll be able to get back in for rehearsal after lunch.” muttered Humvat, mockingly kissing the coupon. “I don’t know why they don’t just give us one entry ticket to use all the time and save themselves all of this mindless, stifling bureaucracy”.

  Kinbus raised a wagging finger and replied “The Great Guide has commanded it and even you don't question him. The bureaucracy must exist for some grand design which is beyond our reasoning”.

  He thought briefly and shrugged his shoulders. “Well, at least it keeps everybody busy, I suppose”.

  Without looking up, the crowd of men walked beneath a huge poster hanging on the side of a whitewashed building. It was a portrait of an overweight man with short fair hair, a pale face, well groomed moustache and perfectly white, smiling teeth. Resplendent in a green military uniform, his puffed out chest was weighed down by the medals which covered it. He gazed regally into the distance, located somewhere away from the upper left of the po
ster. A slogan beneath read “As a general loves his troops, The Guide loves his people. One Great Guide. One True Faith. One South Jefesta”.

  They crossed the road, entered a large square and passed through a bustling market. As they walked by one stall the pungent salty pong of freshly gutted sea fish stung their nostrils. Then came the rich aroma of coffee beans being crushed at another, followed by something being cooked with garlic somewhere and the sweet fragrance of scented flowers coming from somewhere else. Their ears were filled with the clatter of traders hawking their goods, the squealing of nervous pigs in cages, clucking hens and trumpeting cocks. Leaving the food stands behind, Humvat and Kinbus walked towards the artists and artisans. In the nearest stalls religious paintings and statues were on display. In a small workshop, the tapping noise of a shoemaker nailing a new leather sole to an upper rang out. Nearby a blacksmith dipped a red hot iron hoof into a bucket of water which sizzled and steamed. Further on, a crowd of men gathered around a tent which contained a bar and was just opening for the sale of beer and wine. Meanwhile women crowded around a stall next door, over which a dressmaker had draped her wares. There was every sort of dress. Long ones, short ones, ones with sleeves, others without, some in bright colours, some in pastel shades and others in black or white.

  Humvat and Kinbus emerged from the market and continued across the square. They passed entertainers who wore bright clothing, all purples and greens or yellows and blues, and stood in small cleared circles of pavement and performed acts of juggling, comedy and magic before gathered audiences. People surrounded story tellers who narrated ancient tales whilst their assistants acted out the scenes. A musician wandered amongst them singing songs for lovers, his fingers plucking a slow melody from guitar strings. Most people watching did so with their hands firmly in their pockets, wary of stealthy thieves in their midst who might be sizing up opportunities. Kinbus passed a beggar sitting on the paving stones and looked down at him. At first he thought the man had adopted a strange kneeling posture, but then realised he had no legs. The mind boggled. How on earth did he manage to get around? The man looked up at him despairingly, but Kinbus looked away. A young smiling gypsy girl with dark hair and bright eyes, wearing a white lace shawl and long cotton skirt approached Humvat. She tried to push a small sprig of lavender into his hand but he angrily pushed it back at her, told her to leave him alone and brushed her aside.

  “If you’d had the manners to cross my palm with silver I’d have given you good fortune!” she screamed after him. “But instead you insult me. By the ghost of Baqra, I swear the only fortune you’ll ever see is bad!” She spat on the ground to emphasise her anger and disgust.

  Humvat raised his eyes heavenwards and shook his head dismissively. They pushed on through the hustling crowd of people bartering for their shopping, and clambered up the road towards the prayer temple.

  “I’m not sure that was a wise move.” said Kinbus. “I don’t think you really need any more bad luck than you already have. Now you’ll probably find yourself reported to the authorities for your theatrical eulogy to America”.

  “Oh I don’t believe in all that witchcraft nonsense.” snorted Humvat. “In fact I don’t believe in half the nonsense we’re supposed to believe in”.

  Then he lowered his voice. “And that’s something else Kinbus,” he whispered. “I really don’t hate America. I don’t even hate the Semonites. I don’t hate anyone and I don’t understand why everyone else does”.

  Kinbus stopped in his tracks, swung around and prodded a finger against Humvat’s chest.

  “What are you trying to get me to say?” he roared. “We hate the Semonites because we have always hated the Semonites! We hate the Americans because they support the Semonites against us!” He strode away before angrily wheeling back around. “A curse upon you and your family of goat thieves! I never figured you for a government spy! How long have you been betraying me to the Execution of Entertainment?”

  Humvat was startled by both the accusation and the strength of it.

  “No, no,” he stammered. “I’m no agent for the government. I mean these things I say. Truly I do, so you see, it’s you who could betray me if you so wished”.

  Kinbus stared suspiciously into his eyes. He rifled through them for the merest hint of a deceit, in the same way he imagined the police would pull out the contents of a chest of drawers and throw them across a bedroom. Then he gradually relaxed into an uncomfortable smile.

  “Please accept my apologies. You’re just an empty hothead and a poor excuse for a patriotic Siminite. You’re not clever enough to be able to successfully betray others”.

  He continued his journey towards the prayer temple and then turned back towards Humvat. “To voice such opinions is so dangerous around here though, and I don’t know you well enough”.

  “You’ve been living in this city for too long.” sighed Humvat. “It’s made you paranoid”.

  They arrived at the temple, where there was another portrait of the Great Guide over the entrance. This time he was portrayed as a humble holy figure, wearing nothing but sackcloth. His beckoning hand invited the viewer into the kingdom of the true faith. Beneath it was the slogan. “As you pray to the Inventor, The Guide prays for you. One Great Guide. One True Faith. One South Jefesta”.

  Then, along with a mass of other men they entered the temple and queued impatiently to sign the registry. Humvat picked up the pen and, under the watchful eye of the book guard, he scribbled an entry. Then he glared at the guard.

  “Tell me”, he inquired as he put down the pen. “Why do I have to write my name in this book of yours every time I come to the temple?”

  The guard looked him up and down frostily and replied “So we know who's in the building in the event of a fire”.

  Humvat returned the look. “But this is an ancient temple. There are no fire exits in this place. If there is a fire then we'll all die, so what does it matter?”

  “Well if it happens then at least we'll know the names of those who have died”.

  “You fool! Nobody signs their real name in your register! We go through this same charade every day, and it's a complete waste of time!”

  “Look, I'm just doing my job. You do yours”.

  Kinbus hurriedly took the pen, wrote his own entry in the register and interrupted. “Please excuse my friend. He's feeling a little peaky today”.

  He grabbed Humvat by the arm and steered him towards two seats in the corner of the foyer, where they sat down. “Well, did you write down your real name?” hissed Humvat.

  “Of course not.” hissed Kinbus in reply.

  “So what's the point of it all?”

  “There doesn't necessarily have to be a point to everything, you know”.

  Each of them took two small, worn sacks out of their pockets, tied them around their shoes and shuffled along with the rest of the men into the packed hall and stood at the back. They waited in an expectant silence until the priest entered. Clothed in cream and green silken robes, he stood before the altar, briefly genuflecting as he did so. He then closed his eyes, raised his arms with his hands outstretched and began to chant. “Bless us almighty Inventor, and protect us from all that is unholy during our short journey from the land of darkness which is all that ever was, to the land of light which is all there will ever be. Grant us the same strength you once granted to your beloved Baqra, so we too may attain the state of grace required to sit by your side. And may blessed Baqra himself bestow upon us the wisdom to follow in his footsteps”.

  Humvat blearily blinked in a valiant attempt to resist a sudden overwhelming desire to surrender to sleep.

  The following story is true, but because it pre-dates written history, precisely where and when it took place is unknown. But it was almost certainly somewhere in North or South Jefesta, and it happened thousands of years ago when the two islands were one land, before the waters came to divide them.

  A half naked man is lying on the floor of
a mud hut and he has been pronounced dead by the local shaman. His eyes are peacefully closed and his family are beside him, weeping and wailing. Death visits here often and his was just an average lifespan of an average lifestyle. His wife sits praying, gently rocking backwards and forwards. As custom dictates, his children hurry to wash him down with ice cold well water and wrap up his body before it putrefies in the blistering Summer heat. Then without warning the man suddenly blinks his eyes open and wipes his wet face with his hand. At first his family are dumbstruck. Then they gasp, howl and shriek. He is supposed to be dead.

  Today this would be seen as a near-death experience. A feeble failing heart made the man inert, but the shock of the cold water being poured over him was enough to spring him back to life. However, to these deeply superstitious people he has achieved the impossible by returning from a visit to the land of souls. To begin with they are terrified. They’ve never seen anything like this and are struggling to accept him alive, having already accepted him dead. The shaman is called back and, equally mystified, pronounces it is indeed the man they see before them and not a soulless spirit. Then they crowd around him, clamouring to hear the tale of his short time spent walking amongst the ancestors, anxious to learn their own destiny.

  He tells them all he can remember. He was floating through darkness towards a distant light when he heard a soothing voice. It told him to return because his journey through this life was unfinished, and the next instant he was waking up with a wet face and unanswered questions of his own.

  Word of this event quickly spread throughout the land and reached the ears of learned scholars who might be able to offer him some answers. They had long been aware of their insignificance in the universe. But they were equally convinced that they and their egos had to be more worthy than merely living and dying and rotting away, leaving their weathered bones as the only evidence they ever strutted upon this Earth in their battered glory. At first they had established a special relationship between humanity and the unpredictable forces of nature by personifying these into gods who could be bestowed upon to bring a more comfortable, benign order to their surroundings. And the greatest god of them all was the Inventor, who existed everywhere and touched everything. Later they invented a more hopeful model of the universe which promised a second life whereby death was marked by rebirth into a world which was idyllic and everlasting, compared to the miserable short first one. This was ruled over by the Inventor alone.

  Although this idea of a promised land was comforting for those who chose not to question it, it remained disturbingly flimsy to an inquiring mind. It didn't stand up to the weight of argument or debate and left many mysteries unresolved. One obvious question was if this second world with a second life really existed, where exactly was it?

  Meanwhile, the scholars gazed up at night towards the stars slowly circling around them and wondered if they might harbour some unknown reality. And now it became apparent that the man who had returned from the dead with his story had unfurled a glorious truth before them. It was blindingly obvious that the stars in the sky were actually gateways to the second life. The spirit of the unknown man had been travelling towards a particular star. But why, they mused, had his journey been interrupted by turning him back? Their answer to this made everything clear. The harvest of stars in the night sky was so abundant there were enough for every man, woman and child who had ever lived or would ever live. The unknown man had found his own star and was heading towards his gateway into eternity, but was returned by the Inventor so he could use his special talent to guide everyone else towards their own entrance. For how else could ordinary mortals locate a single star out there in the vastness of infinity?

  In this new model of existence each person had their unique place within the universe, and this neatly fitting piece completed a spiritual puzzle. The people made the unknown man their exalted leader and worshipped him as a minor god. His heirs were likewise worshipped. Those who, through the mysticism of religious dogma, inherited and spread his original miraculous gift.

  As years faded the original story grew dimmer, each keeper of the tale failing to resist the temptation to leave his own mark upon it by adding new bits or removing old ones, until the prophet Baqra standardised them in writing.

  With his thoughts directed by the Inventor, he refined the ancient ideas and beliefs to create a code of conduct entitled The Book of Edification and Understanding, more popularly known as the Book of Light. This describes the dark kingdom of the past, the flickering kingdom of the present and the bright kingdom of the future. It explains how the lifespan of a man is the time spent travelling from the first kingdom, through the second and onto the third. It tells how this time should be spent gaining grace by performing good deeds, to achieve the perfect state required for a pure soul to sit by the Inventor’s side at the end of this journey. It also warns that just as grace is earned, it can also be lost by bad deeds. And any soul which arrives at the kingdom of Light without any grace is sent to the kingdom of Emptiness, which is the land of torture where time stands still.

  Upon his death Baqra followed in the footsteps of the original man who nearly died. He ascended into the heavens and passed through his personal gateway to sit by the side of the Inventor. Now he waits for the day when each of us requires him to guide us to our allotted gateway so we too can pass into eternity. In the meantime he is represented on earth by the office of The Great Guide, the messenger between Baqra and his people.

  An hour later the crowd of men emerged noisily from the prayer room. As he and Kinbus walked along another narrow street, Humvat hissed “And I don’t know why we have to spend so much time worshipping. Holy Baqra, but I hate all this praying. It’s just an ancient ritual you know...”

  Kinbus raised his outstretched hand in front of his face, as though to push him away. “You’ve gone too far now Humvat. You'll have us in all sorts of trouble with the Execution of Religion, and I will speak to you no more of such matters. You turn up at my school begging me to teach you to act. Out of the goodness of my heart I do my utmost to educate you. I even give you free private tuition and, much against my better judgement, agree to put you into a play. And the next thing I know you’re trying to incite me to revolution with all your blithering, blathering talk. It’s not as though we’re old friends or family or anything. I mean, we’ve never even been formally introduced. Forget this nonsense and just concentrate on the afternoon rehearsals. Hopefully the rest of the cast have finished their work for the day and will join us. I have some important news I must pass onto them”.

  So Humvat shut up and ambled along, his mind recalling the events which had led him to shamelessly harangue Kinbus for a place in the drama school.

  In common with most of the world today, South Jefesta is a place largely lacking the cosy insulation of a suburban lifestyle. For most people the stark choice is either backbreaking labour in fields, battling against the whims of nature, or the squalid terror of the exposed city streets and dark alleys. Either way, life is dominated by the very real threat of starvation always being but a few days away. There are no supermarkets or shopping malls or fast food restaurants in this world.

  Humvat had spent most of his life as a goatherd wandering the coastal plains, until the day he made the mistake of upsetting one of the local tribal chiefs. In his case the choice between city and countryside was made for him, because the city was also a convenient place to hide. Thus he wandered in, along with the daily numbers of hopeless and hopeful people. He joined the hopeless queue, hustling up whatever work he could find, living in squalid conditions with meagre prospects and even less likelihood of a better life.

  Then one night his ambitions were unexpectedly lit like a spark on a fuse when he went to Zola’s bar seeking a job he’d heard about, only to find someone had beaten him to it. So instead he got talking to a wealthy friend, newly acquired for the evening, who bought him many drinks and drunkenly asked him if he had ever heard of the United States of
America. Of course, scoffed Humvat. Hadn't everyone? Then his new friend told him of this glorious, magical, mythical place where by acting – yes, that’s right if you can believe it, by simply pretending to be somebody else - you could tread the path to a lifestyle of gold and silver, milk and honey, even better than that enjoyed by the Great Guide. Humvat instantly decided for the first time in his life he had found a vehicle upon which to tightly harness his loose ambitions. Someday, somehow, he was going to travel to the distant island of paradise named Hollywood, and he was going to become an all conquering movie star.

  Though Kinbus was unaware of it, he was helping Humvat to take his first short, tentative step on this long journey. Which just goes to show you don't have to be American to have an American Dream.

  A girl approached them on the street as they neared the theatre and waved at them. She possessed the sort of looks which are pleasant enough without being stunning. Shoulder length fair hair, brown eyes and pale skin. To Humvat however, she possessed an allure hidden beneath a veil which could be lifted aside by the right clothes, cosmetics and hairstyle, and viewed in a certain light in a certain place in his dreams.

  “Greetings father, hello Humvat.” she smiled. “How did this morning’s studies go?”

  Humvat simply grinned a moronic grin towards her and tried to fight the blush he could feel creeping all over his face.

  “Ah, greetings Kipdip my beloved.” replied Kinbus. He glanced around himself, habitually checking for strangers cocking an ear in his direction. “Humvat has a blinding hangover. He’s been spoiling for a fight all day, and instead of attempting to perfect the art of drama he spent most of the time trying to turn me into a revolutionary”.

  Without warning, the features of Kipdip’s face turned serious and she unleashed a scolding tongue upon him. “Well hung over or not, I think revolution is a noble cause and I agree with Humvat. Things around here can’t stay the same forever, and they’ll have to change sometime, you know. It just requires somebody brave enough to light the fire. Are you that brave man Humvat?”

  Humvat felt the alarm of reality approaching and attempted to shuffle away. “Don't look at me. Anyone that lights such a fire is an idiot. It’s a wildfire and wildfire cannot be controlled – it simply burns everything in its path”.

  “Sshh! The pair of you!” admonished Kinbus as they approached the theatre door. What was it about modern youth, always wanting to change everything? He'd never wanted to change things when he was young. Everybody did what they were told in those days. The good old days, when they were all content to put up with their shitty, empty, little lives. Thank Baqra Kipdip’s mother was no longer around to be taunted and tormented by her daughter’s blasphemy.

  They handed over their tickets to the clerk in the kiosk, then made their way back inside the theatre to find the rest of the students had arrived. Kinbus assembled them on the stage and addressed them.

  “Gather around everyone. I have an important announcement to make”.

  They crowded around him noisily and he was forced to shout. “I have wonderful news for all of you! The Execution of Television has decided South Jefesta should show the world our appreciation of literature by creating a televised production of the play Hamlet, written by our friend William Shakespeare, and we – yes we – have been chosen to perform the play. And the Great Guide himself will be seated amongst the audience!”

  Somebody started clapping, somebody else started up a chant of “Praise be to the Great Guide”, and as everybody joined in and jumped up and down, the stage began to vibrate.

  When the chanting subsided a handsome, strapping young man raised his hand. “Praise be to the Great Guide! Master Kinbus, can you tell us if the performance will be in Siminite or English?”

  “That’s a good question, Carbet. I believe we will be performing in English, and Siminite subtitles will be added to the TV broadcast. And it will be made available to the whole world on something called the – uh – winter net or something or other. This will hopefully show those snobby bastards in the West we are not a bunch of raving savages after all. And you, Carbet will be playing the leading part of Hamlet himself”.

  “I give you thanks for your faith in me Kinbus, and I shall offer extra prayers in the temple to help me find the strength to repay you tenfold. I'm glad it's Shakespeare and I'm grateful for the chance to put both my acting and my English skills to such a test”.

  Humvat winced. He’d nursed a dislike of Carbet from first sight which gradually developed into a fully fledged loathing. He loathed Carbet because all the girls considered him good looking when he was at best plain; he detested him because everybody seemed to think he was an acting genius just because he could do Shakespeare in no more than passable English, and he hated him because Kinbus thought Carbet was a far better actor than himself, when that patently wasn't true. Was Humvat a little envious, perhaps? No. It was pure envy, and the true reason was simple enough. Carbet represented everything Humvat secretly knew stood between himself and his Hollywood dream, yet he stubbornly refused to acknowledge. It was the comfortable, easy feeling which comes with the awareness that you have the talent to succeed rather than merely the wits to survive. Though Carbet possessed it in abundance, Humvat was merely a quick learner forever having to learn.

  Kinbus continued. “Where is Kipdip? She will be playing the part of Ophelia, the love of Hamlet's life”.

  “Thank you, father.” Kipdip replied from the crowd, unashamedly targeting Carbet with her idea of a seductive smile, with her lips slightly parted. “But neither yourself nor Carbet should read anything into this romantic pairing”.

  Humvat smiled wistfully to himself. He bore no resentment to Kipdip. Okay, so she might be the bosses’ daughter and maybe Kinbus overindulged her and allowed his judgement to be clouded. But with her beguiling looks and sweet countenance, Humvat could forgive her anything. Even that she was besotted with Carbet.

  He raised his arm and asked “What part do I get then?”

  Kinbus smiled nonchalantly. “Oh, I'm sure we can find an undemanding part for you, my wooden performer. Perhaps a tree, or maybe a plank”.

  Then he turned to face the rest of the cast and clapped his hands. “Right then, everybody. We have one month to prepare for our performance, so you must start learning your lines straight away. I’ve posted up a copy of the full cast list on the wall”.

  Humvat pored over the list for his name and his part. Oh, great, he thought. A spearman. A talent such as his and he was being cast in a nameless, non-speaking part. It might as well be a plank of wood. The golden pavements of Hollywood seemed as far away as they had ever been.

  Chapter Three

  The Shark Biscuits