The Great and Calamitous Tale of Johan Thoms by Ian Thornton

Author:Ian Thornton
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780008165932
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2015-08-04T00:00:00+00:00

Seven

In No-Man’s-Land

He had a persistently troubled frown, which gave him the expression of someone who is trying to repair a watch with his gloves on.

—James Thurber

They collected their belongings from the hotel, hung the crucifix on the rearview mirror, filled the tank, and found the warming open road out of Segovia and toward the ancient walled city of Avila, their next stop. Here among magnificent churches, and fine examples of Gothic, Renaissance, and Moorish architecture, they found a peaceful sanctuary, fresh paella, and fine vino.

They did not stay long. Johan planned to take Cicero and Alfredo as far west as they could possibly get, away from the turmoil across the continent. They trundled on, though at no great pace, and soon entered Portugal at the historic citadel of Badajoz. They then headed toward Lisbon and the Atlantic, before veering off to the south to avoid civilization.

On a windy day in early October ’14, they reached the last outpost of Europe. Their Land’s End. From here, there was no “going over the top.” These lucky bastards had found a safe trench.

The fishing village of Sagres, the End of the World, hugged the most southwesterly tip of Portugal. To the south baked the warmer waters that had spilled out of the Mediterranean at Gibraltar. Beyond were the deserts and the Moors, the myths of Morocco and North Africa.

To the west swelled the steely, gray depths of the Atlantic, destined to become a nautical tomb for many in the next three months, the next three years, and the next three decades.

* * *

One early evening shortly after their arrival, they enjoyed a bottle of port and fresh sardines in a local café. There, Johan struck a deal with a local joiner-fisherman-shepherd-lothario in his early thirties by the name of Pedro. From Pedro he rented, for pennies, a small farm holding on the edge of the village. He had trusted Pedro’s fun-loving and uniquely green eyes from their first meeting. No deposit had been required.

“Let’s break bread and shake hands on it,” said Johan outside Pedro’s single-room dwelling by the harbor. For Cicero, any friend of Johan Thoms was a friend of his.

For Alfredo, it was easy.

“Oh, him!” said Johan. “Two tomato-laced sardines and a bowl of icy water and he is anyone’s.”

Their new abode was on the dorsal fin jutting into the Atlantic, less than a quarter mile from the village in the direction of the sleepier hamlet of Vila do Bispo.

Pedro spoke a few words of English, but not many. The village had seen its fair share of friendly, often wrecked (in both senses of the word) fishermen from the British Isles and their navy cousins over the years. To speak in English was acceptable; to mutter a syllable in Spanish, however, was punishable with a good hiding and a dunking in the Ocean. The hatred for the Spanish ran deep after centuries of torment. The British held disputed Spanish land in nearby Gibraltar and therefore shared a common enemy with the Portuguese.

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