Clovenhoof & the Trump of Doom

by Heide Goody

  “Ah, you know your Blake.”

  “I know the song. ‘And did those feet in ancient times, walk on England’s mountains green.’”

  “Like feck he did,” said Aisling vehemently.

  “It would seem unlikely that Our Lord made it as far as Britain during his time on Earth,” agreed Michael, who spoke from personal experience, “But, green though it might be, Britain is quite densely populated and people see television images of all these African and Middle Eastern migrants coming over.”

  “They do know that Africa isn’t part of the EU?”

  “Oh, they do.” He stopped. “Well, I think they do. But they also worry about EU migrants coming over to work. They see a lot of European doctors in our hospitals.”

  “Taking the jobs of British doctors?”

  “Well, no. We don’t train enough British doctors to fill those posts. And then there’s the EU labourers doing skilled and unskilled jobs. Portuguese fruit-pickers. Polish plumbers.”

  “Cracking lads,” said Aisling. “Work like demons.”

  “They have that reputation,” Michael agreed.

  “Which British plumbers do not have?” said Todor, confused.

  “I couldn’t possibly say. I do know that a lot of young British people wouldn’t want to do those unskilled jobs. The fruit-picking, the cleaning, the social care work. They see it as beneath them.”

  “And this is why they want to leave?”

  Michael struggled. “I think it’s more elemental than that. People feel that they need to reclaim their own British sovereignty.”

  “Sovereignty?” said Todor, not understanding the world.

  “Those cheeky and contrary Brits want to rule themselves,” said Heinz. “They don’t want to have their laws written by European politicians.”

  “They trust their own government more than the European one?” said Todor, nodding understanding.

  “Lord, no,” said Michael. “They despised David Cameron as a self-serving toffee-nosed Etonian. And Osbourne. And Boris Johnson. I don’t think any of them have an ounce of faith in the new Prime Minister.”

  “But the opposition politicians are popular though, yes?”

  “What opposition?” said Michael. “You mean the retired geography teacher running the Labour party? The Liberals who don’t have enough MPs to form a football team? Or that small-island fascist who pretends he’s no longer the leader of UKIP and is buddying up to Trump in America?”

  Todor thought on this, long and hard. “So,” he said eventually, “Your people voted to leave EU because they don’t want more people in their country, including the doctors who run your hospitals, the people who do the jobs British people do not want to do and those refugees that aren’t even coming from the EU. They also would rather be ruled by a bunch of wealthy capitalist pigs – and pig-fuckers—”

  “Alleged pig-fucker,” Michael said.

  “—rather than by the broad range of political parties in Europe.”

  “Um, yes,” said Michael. “But there’s also objections to the silly laws that the EU has supposedly imposed on us. You know, things like the banning of bendy bananas, forcing cows to wear nappies, darts being banned in pubs, enforced metrication, mushy peas being outlawed, shandy too, and both Trafalgar Square and Waterloo station being made to change their names to avoid offending the French.”

  “I’ve not heard of any of those laws,” said Heinz.

  “Of course you haven’t,” said Michael. “They were all made up by British newspapers.”

  “Why?”

  “To sell newspapers?”

  “And the people believed these lies?”

  “I really, honestly couldn’t say.”

  “But they voted to leave anyway,” said Heinz.

  Todor nodded. “I was wrong. You were right.”

  “About what?” said Michael.

  “They’re idiots.”

  They stopped for the night in the foothills of the Carpathian Mountains, which Aisling claimed was well on the way to their next destination: Cluj-Napoca. Michael had seen the map that Aisling was using: it showed Austria-Hungary as a single entity. He’d realised why they hadn’t used any motorways so far, and why their journey was taking so long.

  “And what’s in Cluj-Napoca?” asked Heinz.

  “The key to victory,” said Michael and wouldn’t be drawn further.

  They parked in a small wooded glade overlooking a valley. Before it got completely dark it was clear there were stunning views to be had. Michael looked forward to seeing the place in the morning.

  “These mountains are one of the few areas in Europe that still has wild wolves,” said Todor cheerfully.

  “Will we see any?” said Michael, nervously.

  “Maybe. If we’re lucky.”

  Michael resolved that they should build a camp fire. He had bought some sleeping bags from a stall on Todor’s market. He imagined even in autumn it would be tolerable to sleep in the wilderness if they had a heat source. He wandered the area, gathering dried branches, which he piled up. Heinz had a lighter, and with some cajoling they got the fire lit. They sat around, toasting their feet and Michael felt enormously pleased with himself.

  “Isn’t this wonderful, bonding over a camp fire?”

  Perhaps it was the flickering of the firelight, but it looked for a moment as though Aisling was rolling her eyes.

  “So, Mr Tomato-man,” said Aisling.

  “Me?” said Todor, around a mouthful of red.

  “You said you graduated from the Lubomir Pipkov. That’s a bloody prestigious school.”

  “Three years. Voice and piano.”

  “Sing us something.” Aisling said it in such an imperious tone she might as well have said, “Dance for our entertainment, scum! Dance for your supper!”

  “Very well,” said Todor and whipped out his electronic organ. It was an antediluvian thing which wheezed like an asthmatic grandpa and was held together with black tape. He turned it on and selected a disco beat. And he sang, drawing high pure notes from his manly frame.

  “The snow glows white on the mountain tonight.

  “Not a footprint to be seen.”

  “If that’s Let It Go, I will burst someone,” said Aisling.

  “It might be,” said Todor. “You don’t approve?”

  Aisling gave him a stony look.

  “Maybe something less wintry,” suggested Michael, hugging himself.

  “I know.” Todor turned up the tempo and launched into something with a reggae beat and delivered with a reasonably accurate but nonetheless racist Jamaican accent.

  “Under the Sea?” said Aisling, cutting him dead at the chorus. “Can’t you give us something with some gravitas and power?”

  “Okay. Salagadoola mechicka boola. Bibbidi-bo—”

  “No!”

  “Chim chiminy, chim chimi—”

  “No!”

  “Zip-a-dee-doo—”

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Nothing from a Disney film!”

  And Todor sang again. “Many nights we prayed…”

  The song began low, building slowly, powerfully and surely in, what Michael realised, was a duet Todor sang with himself. The lyrics were enticingly familiar but Michael couldn’t place them. They rose to a virtuoso crescendo and Todor silenced the Bontempi as the final note reverberated across the Romanian mountainside.

  The fact Aisling hadn’t interrupted Todor’s performance or punched anyone told Michael the songsmith was at least a little impressed.

  “What was that?” said Heinz.

  “When You Believe from Prince of Egypt,” said Todor.

  “I said no Disney,” said Aisling.

  “It is not Disney,” said Todor. “Is DreamWorks.”

  “You know,” said Aisling, “I confess I had my doubts about Michael’s selection methods, but I’m thinking you’ll shape up just grand. Now, I wonder if you’ll try out this song I’ve written. It’s about figs but, like all the best songs, i
ts meaning is multi-layered.”

  “You know,” said Michael, “I might get some of those pine branches. They will add a pleasant fragrance to the fire.”

  He headed off into the trees to get some distance from Aisling’s fig-obsession. He remembered where he’d seen some pine branches, although it was now too dark to see clearly. He felt around for a good five minutes and picked a couple up, before heading back towards the light of the fire.

  A huge shape lumbered in front of him, blotting out the fire. It made a low guttural sound and Michael dropped the branches in fright. This thing was too big to be a wolf. Oh, fuck! he thought. It’s a bear! Had Todor said anything about bears?

  Michael tried to remember anything he’d heard about surviving an encounter with a wild bear. Wasn’t there something about making a lot of noise? He opened his mouth and bellowed the first thing that came into his head, in a panicky shriek.

  “Fig tree, my lovely fig tree.

  “Nobody could ever accuse you of bigotry.”

  The shape in front of him laughed heartily. It moved forward to slap him on the shoulder. “Excellent song, my friend,” said Todor. “Came to see if you wanted a tomato.”

  3rd November 2016

  Cluj-Napoca, Romania

  The next day’s drive to Cluj-Napoca was punctuated with tomato breaks. By the time they pulled up outside the Gheorghe Dima Music Academy in the late morning, Michael was keen to find alternative foodstuffs at any cost. They all stopped to take in the futuristic spectacle of the building. Michael thought it looked like a giant sandwich toaster but realised he was probably just hungry. They walked into reception and headed for the canteen.

  “Unde te duci?” asked a woman at the reception desk.

  “We were just going to grab a bite to eat,” replied Michael in his impeccable Romanian.

  “Are you students at the academy?”

  “No,” said Michael, “but—”

  “The canteen is only for students. I’m afraid you can’t come in.”

  “Well, I have come to borrow something from your Musical History Department. Could you please tell me where I might find it?”

  “You have an appointment?”

  Michael didn’t get the chance to respond. Heinz leapt forward and gathered the woman’s hands in his own. “Iliana, can it really be you?”

  Her mouth dropped open in response and she stuttered briefly, lost for words.

  Heinz turned to the others and explained. “Iliana and I lived in a commune many years ago. She was one of my earliest muses. When I started to do the nude photos she was always there. Oh the light and shade of her supple body remains with me even now! Some of my favourite pictures from my first portfolio are here on my phone. Shall I show you?”

  She slammed her palm down onto the desk, her face scarlet. “Heinz, I have moved on from that part of my life! I must ask you not to share or display those images if you please. It would cause me a good deal of distress.”

  Heinz pouted. “Art belongs to everyone, Iliana, you always believed that.” He started to scroll through images on his phone.

  “I believed in a lot of crazy ideas back then, Heinz. The inner goodness of my fellow men, the healing power of crystals, the idea you couldn’t contract venereal diseases if you did it standing up. I was wrong about a lot of things.” She hissed at Michael. “What is it you need?”

  “Sorry?” said Michael, whose brain had become stuck at “venereal diseases”.

  “Quickly now. What did you want to borrow from the Musical History Department? I will see what I can do and then you will take this man away as quickly as you possibly can. Deal?”

  Michael nodded. “Of course. It’s the Lucky Eurovision Gibson SG.”

  Aisling gasped. “The Lucky Eurovision Gibson SG!”

  Todor played a “shock horror” dun dun dunnn! on his keyboard.

  “But it’s a myth!” said Heinz. “The guitar which won six Eurovisions.”

  “Not a myth,” said Aisling. “But it was lost.”

  “Not lost. Stolen,” said Michael, “Leading to Romania’s disqualification from this year’s competition.”

  “You must keep your voices down!” urged the receptionist. “Now, please step over there and wait. I insist Heinz puts his phone away or I will not make the call.”

  A few minutes later a pale blonde girl struggled downstairs, carrying a huge case. She walked up to Iliana and whispered to her, before leaving the case and returning upstairs, scowling over her shoulder.

  Iliana coughed delicately and indicated the lengthy case, which could only have held a guitar if someone had sawed the instrument into plank-sized segments and laid them end to end. “This will have to do. I am afraid it is not the Lucky Eurovision guitar.”

  “But the Lucky Eurovision Gibson SG—” said Michael.

  “—has been transferred to a secure vault in the presidential palace and access will not be possible at this time. This however is an instrument of remarkable provenance. Are you familiar with the bucium?”

  Michael shook his head.

  “It is an ancient instrument used by shepherds for communication.”

  Michael frowned. He would rather have something tuneful. This sounded like a primitive foghorn.

  Iliana continued. “There are some very famous frescoes at the monastery of Voroneț, showing the bucium being played by an angel.”

  “Really?” Michael thought for a moment. How many times had Gabriel subjected all of the archangels to those insufferable recitals on his blasted horn? If there were musical exams for playing a biblical ram’s horn, Gabriel wouldn’t have made it past grade one. Never stopped him playing his own tuneless version of any song which took his fancy, though. It had reached the point where Michael couldn’t even listen to Once in Royal David’s City. It would be quite nice to indulge in a little bit of revenge horn.

  The guitar had been on Michael’s list because of its extraordinary run of success in previous Eurovision song contests. However, he did his best to convince the others the bucium would bring them unspecified kudos and success.

  “A mountain horn?” said Aisling. “Hardly rock and roll, is it?”

  “Well, I expect Eurovision’s finest songwriter will be able to accommodate it,” said Michael smoothly.

  “Or use it as a massive hash pipe,” mused Heinz.

  Budapest was an architectural spectacle, and as Aisling drove through the city, they all stared out of the windows at the grand Art Nouveau and neo-classical buildings in the fading light of the early evening.

  “If you really want theme that means something to Europe, how about the Danube?” suggested Todor as they drove across the river via the huge Chain Bridge. “It goes through many countries in the EU.”

  Michael tapped his tablet. “Nine countries; astonishing! That is a very interesting idea, Todor.”

  Aisling muttered.

  “What was that Aisling?” asked Michael. “Do you have some ideas already?”

  “No, I was just reflecting nothing rhymes with Danube,” she said. “It’s a non-starter for a song. Why do you think Strauss wrote instrumentals?”

  Michael wanted to reply nineteenth century waltzes were invariably instrumentals, and that The Blue Danube was no exception, but Heinz interjected.

  “Lube!”

  “What?” said Michael.

  “Lube rhymes with Danube! Surely we can make it work?”

  Michael’s face fell. He could instantly see where this might end up. “I’m not—”

  “So it does!” said Aisling gleefully. “And pube, now you mention it. Let’s think. It might go something like this.” She swayed and crooned.

  “I’m like a boat upon the Danube

  “I slip right in—”

  “No!” howled Michael. “We simply can’t have rudeness like that!”

  “There’s a rich history of rudeness in Eurovision,” Heinz pointed out. “Bucks Fizz won when they whipped off the girls’ skirts, didn’t they?”r />
  “I would categorise that as sauciness” said Michael. “There could definitely be a place for sauciness in our act, but not rudeness. I must draw the line at lube and pube.”

  “Boob!” shouted Heinz.

  Aisling laughed raucously.

  Heinz leaned forward, suddenly animated. “This is good news! I think we agree upon some things here. A saucy video is the way to go, for sure.”

  “I think I’m way ahead of you, Heinz,” said Michael in a tired voice. “By saucy, you mean naked don’t you?”

  “No,” said Heinz, triumphant. “My idea is much, much smarter than that. We should be naked and have—”

  “So we are all naked, then.”

  “Well, we are all naked, underneath our clothes, aren’t we? But I was going to say we have wearable tech covering our bodies, all projecting amazing, co-ordinated images.”

  Surprisingly, Michael found himself taken with Heinz’s idea. It had the potential to create a real spectacle. “Hmm, I wonder where we can get wearable tech, at short notice,” he mused. “It’s not all that commonplace at the moment.”

  “I have some very creative ideas, Michael,” said Heinz. “Leave it with me.”

  “As long as there can also be doves?” came Todor’s voice.

  “What?”

  “Doves. And dry ice.”

  “Isn’t that all a bit cheesy?”

  “If I can be in video with doves and dry ice, I can die a happy man!”

  “Right so,” announced Aisling. “The Hungarian State Opera House,”

  They craned forward to look as she brought the van to a stop, pulling on the handbrake with a loud screech. A doorman approached. Aisling tried to wind down the window; when the winder came away in her hand, she opened the door instead.

  “On nem parkolhatnak itt,” said the doorman.

  “We’re picking someone up,” said Michael.

  The doorman regarded the wretched campervan with an unconcealed sneer. “Very well, sir. The opera house would be delighted if you were able to move on within five minutes, to permit other vehicles to use the space.”

  Aisling closed the door and turned to the others. “What now? I get the distinct feeling we’re not dressed for the opera. Michael, you know who we’re here for, shall we get your man there to pass on a message?”