by Chris Thrall
“How many aboard?” asked Hans as the music grew louder.
“I’m not sure. I can only see a big fat guy.
“No! Hee-hee!”
“What?” Hans’ curiosity kicked in.
“He’s dancing! He’s got a drink in his hand, and he’s dancing on deck!”
“Wha—?” Hans took the binoculars.
Sure enough, a suntanned giant with a Grizzly Adams mane carved a funky groove on the cabin roof. Wearing tight yellow running shorts and Hawaiian-pattern flip-flops complete with pink plastic hibiscus blooms, he seemed blissfully unaware his overhanging gut swung in the opposite direction to the rest of his body.
As the yacht neared, they saw she truly was a thing of beauty, cherry-golden timbers gleaming lustrously beneath aqua-green sailcloth, a profile as sharp as an ax. The only thing undermining her vintage chic was Mr. Disco and his booming rock track.
Using the same trick Hans had in Plymouth, the giant entered the marina under sail, but he dropped his canvas a touch late. Having swung his bow into the berth next to Future, he rushed forward, clutching his cocktail, to grab the mooring line.
“Hallo!” was all he managed, in a Dutch accent, before the yacht thumped into the pontoon, sending him reeling forwards, somersaulting across the walkway and into the sea on the other side. He surfaced still holding his glass.
“Hallo!” The giant grinned, shaking water from his hair and beard. “Is it okay to park my boat here?”
Jessica and Penny fell about laughing, Hans jumping up to help the guy ashore.
After securing his yacht and changing into dry shorts, the Dutchman came and introduced himself, bringing along a gallon can full of his favored concoction, along with the pungent whiff of marijuana.
“Hallo again!” he slurred, clambering into the cockpit. “My name is Marshell. And who’s this liddle princess?”
“I’m Jessica.”
“Ahhh . . . Jesshica! I heard all about you, the most beautiful princess in the whole world!”
She giggled.
Marcel – his name when sober – got down on one knee and kissed her hand. “Will you marry me . . . pleash!”
“You talk funny!”
“Funny-money-bunny-honey! Wanna drink some mojito?” He held out the gas can.
“Uh-huh!” Her eyes lit up.
“So, Father, can the princess have a liddle drink?”
“She can if she wants.” Hans winked at Penny. “But she better not have too much, unless she wants to be sick as a pig.”
“Okay, with some lemonade then.”
Penny fetched a can of soda from the fridge.
“So, princess, if you gotta boat, I suppose you got boyfriends all around the world!” He tickled her ears.
“No! I haven’t got a boyfriend!” She gave a determined headshake, unsure what to make of this strange man.
“Okay, then let’s have a drink!”
In the ensuing conversation they learnt that Marcel had made a fortune in fine art. When his wife died, he’d retired to spend his days aboard her namesake, Sietske.
“So how is it crossing the Atlantic?” Hans asked.
“Oh . . .” Marcel’s face flushed, his eyes flitting around the cockpit, looking anywhere but at Hans. “Er . . . yeah, it’s okay. You gotta pick up the trade winds, you know?”
“Right,” Hans replied.
- 16 -
For the next three years, Ahmed and Mohamed lived in the maze of crumbling sewers below Tangier’s hectic streets, adapting to the ways of the shemkara, so-called for their inhaling of adhesive to banish a sense of rejection and indelible memories of abuse.
The boys spent their days hustling for dirhams by any means possible – collecting empty bottles and cans, begging for change, expropriating any item of value not under lock and key, and always as a pair, always watching each other’s backs, forever planning, forever scheming for the Big Out.
Life belowground was harder still – securing a sleeping area, keeping hold of their belongings and maintaining face among the other urchins. Rat Boy was gang leader. Mutilated as a child when a begging syndicate poured acid over his face to increase his marketability, he had escaped his captors, but his grotesque appearance prevented him renting his body out to the perverts cruising the city’s sordid backstreets. Out of necessity he had mastered the art of rat catching, gutting them with his teeth and eating their carcasses raw. With no hope of transcending the sewer’s malodorous depths, Rat Boy maintained control through intimidation and violence, not hesitating to unleash it by way of a rusty blade carried in the waistband of his ragged pants.
The gang’s female members cropped their hair, dressed as boys and adopted male names – anything to put off the vile predators who viewed them as subhuman prey. Every so often a child disappeared, kidnapped by one of the many trafficking syndicates and sold into sweatshops, drug operations and prostitution, the girls often destined for the Gulf States to begin lives as slaves.
One night Rat Boy returned to the hive drunk on a bottle whiskey taxed from little Faar, who stole it from a bag of duty-free purchases while portering at the ferry terminal. Rat Boy exuded venom at the best of times, but under the influence of alcohol his mood became unpredictable and usually spiraled out of control. Spying Mohamed asleep, he whipped out his knife and pounced, pinning him to the sewer’s walkway with his legs.
Mohamed awoke in a daze, his mind fogged from inhaling lighter fluid, to find the blade shoved against his windpipe.
“Urrhk-urrhk!”
Rat Boy’s guttural commands made no sense, an indication he was wasted and out of control.
Struggling for breath, Mohamed fought to control his fear, staring into menacing eyes sunk deep in the sockets of a disfigured head. With alcohol fumes enveloping them, masking the stench of human excrement, he considered his options – moreover, the swiftest way to inflict pain on his attacker. He would willingly risk having his throat slashed so long as he exacted revenge before the life drained from his body.
Mohamed reached for his own knife, a three count coming from within. He was about to plunge the blade into Rat Boy’s kidney when he spied a movement in the gloomy corridor.
“Pssst!”
Rat Boy turned to see Ahmed holding out a bunch of bills, all the money the boys made that week.
“Here, take it.”
Despite blood dripping down his neck, Mohamed attempted to object, but Ahmed placated him with a slow nod.
Rat Boy stood up and grabbed the dirhams.
“Urrhk!”
He staggered off down the tunnel toward his flea-infested mattress.
“Why did you do that?” Mohamed scowled. “I could have beaten him!”
“You will beat him.” Ahmed raised a finger to his lips. “But the best answer comes to the man who isn’t blinded by anger.”
“Of course.” The remaining enamel on Mohamed’s blackened teeth flashed in the darkness.
“Keep your brother by your side, for without one you’re like a man rushing into battle without a weapon.”
“One hand cannot clap,” Mohamed agreed, knowing Ahmed proffered the wisdom of someone five times his age.
“When we hit, we make it painful. The consequences are the same.”
Ahmed tugged the sleeve of Mohamed’s grubby T-shirt and they sunk into the shadows.
An hour passed then Ahmed nudged Mohamed and pointed a forefinger into the blackness. Careful not to wake the other scamps, they sneaked along the walkway toward Rat Boy’s sleeping space.
“Sahkaran,” Mohamed whispered, spying their leader facedown “drunk” on his bedding.
“Wait!” Ahmed put his arm out. “We make a plan.”
In hushed tones, they agreed roles. Ahmed would dive on Rat Boy and restrain him while Mohamed stomped on his head. If things got out of hand, they would pull their knives and stick the leader without mercy.
As they crept forwards, a child started coughing. The boys froze, hearts pounding, w
aiting for the pitiful rasp to cease before continuing.
Reaching Rat Boy’s comatose figure, they paused just long enough to acknowledge the look in each other’s eyes.
Ahmed leapt through the air and landed heavily with his knees on the enemy, knocking the wind out of him as Mohamed stabbed a foot down hard.
“Urrhk!”
Rat Boy shot upright, years of self-preservation wiping aside the fog of liquor. He grabbed Ahmed by the throat and slammed his head against the sewer wall, knocking him unconscious.
Mohamed’s heel smashed into the concrete.
“Ahhhh!”
He grimaced, pain rocketing up his leg.
Rat Boy pulled his knife and in a fluid motion slashed at Mohamed, nicking him just below the eye.
Mohamed drew his blade, and as Rat Boy reversed his swing he shoved it through the gang leader’s wrist.
Rat Boy’s weapon dropped from his grip, the metallic clatter echoing in the hollow confines of the lair. He stared at the object spearing his forearm, disbelief in his tortoise-like eyes as he realized his opponent had the upper hand.
Mohamed yanked the blade free and struck again, bringing his arm around in a wide arc. Rat Boy ducked, fumbling in the gloom for his own knife but finding the empty whiskey bottle. He smashed it against the brickwork to form a shank.
Overbalancing, Mohamed flailed his arms to stop himself reeling backwards off the platform. Rat Boy reveled in the horror on Mohamed’s face, sneering behind his ugly mask. He raised the jagged bottle neck above his head and brought it down hard—
Ahmed thudded into Rat Boy using the mattress for protection.
“Oooph!”
Rat Boy flew through the air, a sickening thud as his head smacked against the far wall. His limp body rolled down into the river of human waste.
The boys fell silent.
Woken by the commotion, the street children gathered around them, peering down at Rat Boy’s motionless form in disbelief.
“Inshallah,” Mohamed whispered.
Ahmed hopped of the walkway into the flow of sewage.
“Inshallah.” He held up the fold of money retrieved from Rat Boy’s pocket.
When morning came, their former leader had fled.
- 17 -
Future’s crew visited a hypermarket on the outskirts of Brest, to find the enormous store, the size of several football fields, packed with aisle upon aisle of discount food and drink.
“Chocolate, Papa!”
Jessica zeroed in on a shelf stacked with supersized bars.
“In the cart then, greedy pants.”
Hans smiled as she heaved a two-foot-long slab onto the growing pile of beer, wine, coffee, canned meats and other treats. He picked up a bulk pack of mini-firecrackers, figuring he would have a bit of fun with them at some point.
“Say, is anyone else hungry?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” Penny replied, her appetite boosted by the surrounding delicacies.
“I thought you’d never ask.” Jessica stood mesmerized by a gigantic stack of Toblerones.
They took up seats in what had to be the smartest restaurant Hans had ever seen. Furnished in rich mahogany, with cream satin tablecloths, mirrored alcoves and pastel-painted murals depicting folk scenes from all around the world on every wall, it truly was a gem, the view of the Château de Brest a bonus. Hans marveled at Penny’s competency in French as she ordered from the menu, delighted to find out they shared an appetite for the exotic when frog legs and escargot arrived for their starter.
“Escargot, Jess?” Gripping the mollusk’s shell with a set of tongs, Hans eased the slimy morsel from its home with a cocktail fork.
“What is it?”
“It’s a snail, like we have in the yard at home.”
“Urrrh!”
No, this one’s real nice, cooked with garlic butter and parsley.”
“Hmm?” She frowned, not convinced and looking alternately at her father and Penny.
Hans popped the snail in his mouth, and Penny followed suit, both making a pretense at enjoying the dish – although in truth escargot didn’t taste too great. Never one to be left out, Jessica nodded her approval, but as she chewed on the rubbery offering her grimace said otherwise.
After two days in port they got the five-day weather window, as Old Bill had insisted. Hans and Penny were well aware that the Bay of Biscay between Brest and La Coruña in northern Spain was not a body of water to mess with. Storms out in the Atlantic sent waves barreling in to meet shallows created by the continental shelf, forming mountainous breakers. Along with cargo ships and cruise liners, the Biscay had claimed many a yacht with its cantankerous bent. Keeping well out to sea, they agreed, would be the key to a successful passage.
On Future’s last night in the marina, Marcel invited them aboard Sietske for a barbecue. By now this kindhearted Dutchman had made quite an impression on them, so they happily accepted.
Having grown up on her parents’ wooden yacht, Penny was thrilled to spend an evening aboard Sietske, but as they stepped over her coaming, the scene greeting them was something of a shock. Empty beer cans, cup noodle pots and potato chip wrappers littered the cockpit floor, along with valuable items of equipment.
“I guess each to their own,” she whispered to Hans.
Sensing their unease, Marcel made his excuses. “Ah! You know us Dutch. Anything for a pardy!”
He shoveled a load of litter into a pile with his foot, picked it up and disappeared into the cabin, reemerging with his mammoth grin and a tray of Tequila Sunrises.
“So, princess, when you marry me, we can tidy this place up together, you know?”
“Uh-huh.” She nodded, her little eyes sold on the idea.
As the sun dropped below the horizon and an amber blaze spread out through burnt-red wisps tinged with pinks and blues, the evening turned into one to remember, Marcel supplying them with copious drinks and burgers and hilarious anecdotes from his experiences sailing the coast of Europe and North Africa.
“So, I’m in the Casbah, right? And I got a liddle drunk and I bought a monkey.”
“What’s a Cashbar?” Jessica asked.
“A Casbah . . . It’s like a marketplace, you know? In Morocco they sell everything there – pots, pans, jewelry, carpets – and liddle monkeys like you!”
“I’m not a monkey!”
“Monkey-funky-hunky-bunky-honey!” Marcel wetted a forefinger and shoved it in her ear.
“Urrrh . . . yuck!” She punched his enormous stomach.
“Anyhow, where was I? Oh yeah. So I got this monkey back to the boat, and he ran away. So the next day I’m in the Casbah again and I see the same guy selling the same monkey. And I say, ‘Hey! Why you selling my monkey?’ And the guy says, ‘Sir, iz not yurr monkey. Iz twin brother’!”
Chuckling as Marcel cracked them up for the umpteenth time, Hans wondered why this larger-than-life character never talked about anything closer to home. Picking his moment, “What about The Card Players?” he asked.
“Cards?” Marcel replied. “You wanna play some cards? Oh, I don’t got any cards.” He frowned and shook his head, looking upset he couldn’t oblige.
“Never mind,” said Hans.
Jessica let rip a monster yawn.
It was getting late, so Penny seized on the opportunity for them to say goodnight. Throwing a mock-seductive look at Hans, “Voulez-vous venir avec moi?” she asked, fluttering her eyelashes.
“Huh?”
“It’s French. It means, ‘Would you like to come home with me?’”
“Oh! Er . . . oui, madam.”
“Madam!” She feigned outrage. “Mademoiselle, if you please!”
They thanked Marcel for his hospitality and, following hugs all round, climbed back aboard Future.
“I hope you find your monkey, Marshell!” Jessica shouted.
“Hey! Monkey-funky-hunky-bunky-honey!”
After sending Jessica to sleep with a tale of mermaids and d
olphins, Penny joined Hans in the galley as he boiled water for a nightcap.
“You don’t trust him, do you?” She ran a hand down his back.
“Don’t trust him? What gives you that idea?”
“The card players thing. You weren’t suggesting we play Texas Hold’em, were you?”
“No, I wasn’t. It’s a series of paintings by Cézanne. One of them went at auction last year for two hundred and fifty million. I saw a Discovery on it. Anyone with an idea of art would have known what I meant.”
“So you don’t believe his story.”
“Listen” – Hans put his arm around her – “the guy’s real nice. Look at the way he treats Jess. She adores him.”
“She’s a liddle princess!”
“Ha! It’s just that he ain’t no retired art dealer. Look at the garbage can he lives in – stinks of pot! That’s not someone who knows how to make a million bucks.”
“You can say that again.”
“I just have a feeling there’s more to this guy than he’s letting on.”
“I think you’re right.”
- 18 -
With their newfound status as gang leaders, life became slightly more prosperous for Ahmed and Mohamed, who imposed a modicum of tax in return for protecting the other members. It was far from enough to live off, though, and their hustling continued, always scheming and every day dreaming of the Big Out.
Sniffing around the medina one afternoon, they came across a battered orange pickup parked in the courtyard behind Old Man Ali’s carpet shop.
“You go,” said Ahmed, spying a tarpaulin covering goods in the back of the truck. “I’ll keep watch.”
Mohamed dashed forward, intent on taking a quick peek and retreating to make a plan. But the goods were heavy, the tarpaulin folded tightly around them.
Seeing his friend struggle, Ahmed ran over, and together they managed to loosen the canvas enough to expose its contents.
“Wow!” He shot a look at Mohamed, who stood mouth agape in a trance. “No way!”
Spilling onto the truck’s rusting bed were bars of the finest hashish, likely a hundred or more, all carrying a stamp in the form of a monkey.
