The Drift (A Hans Larsson Novel Book 1)

by Chris Thrall

  With a look of bliss settling over his leathery face and softening the appearance of a beaked nose, the old man resumed his history lesson. “But by taking on the French he made a big mistake. The garlic eaters could not risk rebellion spreading through their African colonies and sent a massive army, with planes and artillery support. The Foreign Legionaries” – Saleem took a long pull on the pipe, holding in the magic fumes as they transported him backwards in time – “they were ruthless in battle, executing prisoners and” – he drew a finger across his throat – “decapitating the fallen.”

  “But Abd el-Krim and Al Saeed, they must have killed them all!” Mohamed spoke with the same passion as the young Berbers drawn to the slaughter.

  “Ho Chi Minh, Mao Zedong, Che Guevara – they all learned from Saeed’s legendary leadership, but the humble farmer could do nothing to stop the infidels unleashing vile chemicals on the villages. Babies, children, adults and elders writhing on the ground, suffocated by the foul gas, lungs on fire and drowning in their own blood as the foreigners counted their greedy profits.

  “Abd el-Krim was forced to surrender and banished from the land. Saeed returned to his farm a broken man, a leg crippled by shrapnel, his lungs starched by the devil’s mustard breath, his workforce dead.”

  “Did he die too?” Mohamed spoke through a mouthful of bread and olives, his rotten teeth making ugly work of masticating the bolus.

  “How could he die, you idiot?” Ahmed pretended to slap his friend but instead forced Mohamed’s gaping maw shut. “He is the father of Al Mohzerer.”

  “Allah blessed Saeed with twenty more years, but alas he joined the Holy Prophet – may peace be upon Him – two days before Naseem entered the world to inherit a farm gone to rack and ruin.” Saleem looked out over the fields as if to acknowledge his own stake in the land, his family working the farm for generations, his father fighting by Saeed’s side.

  “His mother, the beautiful Aisha, told the young Naseem tales of his father’s military prowess, his agricultural genius and the praise he received as head of the Zayenesh. But times had changed, and following the Berber’s defeat, the remaining clan developed infighting and factions, denying Naseem the chance to prove himself as successor.”

  “But he is Al Mohzerer, known throughout the land.”

  Mohamed struggled to accept the scenario, which did not fit with the image of the legendary Naseem.

  “He was not always the Grower.” Saleem began reloading his pipe. At eighty-four years old, his wife and boys long since claimed by the cruel mountain pass, he felt good sitting there with the sun on his face, the scent of the land in his nostrils, imparting treasured memories to fresh ears. “Back then he was just a child filled with anger and resentment. He gained a reputation for fighting and clawing his way through life and had none of his father’s compassion. He would do all it took to reinstate what he saw as rightfully his. You see the knife scar on his cheek?” Saleem ran a finger down his own face.

  The boys nodded.

  “A mere scratch compared to the pain he has inflicted upon others.”

  “But how did he become Al Mohzerer?”

  Ahmed’s respect for their employer’s deviousness grew, but it would not stop him double-crossing the stinking jackal at the earliest opportunity.

  “In the sixties, infidels appeared in the region once more, ghoulish trash with lank, greasy locks hanging against gaunt spectacled faces.” Saleem coughed up a chunk of brown phlegm and spat it into the grass. “Filthy clothes patched like paupers, guitars dangling on rainbow-colored straps from their drug-addled frames.”

  Ahmed and Mohamed pictured some of the Europeans who arrived at the farm to buy hashish, the privileged young dopeheads wearing fat, flea-ridden dreadlocks with a pride bordering on arrogance.

  “And all desperate to buy marijuana,” Saleem continued. “Smoking their way along the Hippy Trail – what us impoverished mortals call ‘life.’ But Naseem was not stupid. He seized the opportunity, sowing the seeds that would see him become Al Mohzerer, his plants flourishing in the Rif’s blessed soil.”

  - 25 -

  Brightly painted fishing craft and modern yachts packed a large basin surrounded by lofty white buildings, their spindly framed frontages stretching up five stories to give the appearance of gigantic birdcages on stilts, the warm inshore air and clear sky pure sensory pleasure following their ordeal on the ocean. With Future moored in one of Club Nautico’s inexpensive berths, Hans, Jessica and Penny showered in the clubhouse and went in search of lunch. They walked through Maria Píta Square, home to La Coruña’s magnificent town hall, its three copper domes shining like rosy-red apples in the midday sun.

  A bronze statue portrayed Maria, Spain’s sixteenth-century hero, glaring down, spear in hand, from an ornate stone plinth. Her army captain husband lay at her feet, killed while defending La Coruña from the English. History has it an enraged Maria then rallied the townsfolk and fought off the invaders.

  “Hey, Jessie. Do you remember Sir Francis Drake, the Queen of England’s favorite sailor?”

  “The man who liked to go bowling?”

  “That’s him. You know he fought the Spanish and their ships?”

  “In a bigger boat than Future, with a hundred men.”

  “That’s right. Well, one time he sailed here from England, like we did, and he and his sailors attacked the local people and tried to steal all their money. And you’ll never guess—”

  Jessica wasn’t listening. She stood fixated on the depiction of Maria’s spouse lying awkwardly on his back, wearing the unmistakable mask of death.

  “Who’s that man?”

  Hans looked at Penny and then crouched beside his daughter. “That’s Maria’s husband. He was a Spanish soldier.”

  “Why did he die?”

  “He got killed in battle fighting to protect his family and friends.”

  “Did Maria sprinkle him?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure she did.”

  “Is he in the flowers now?”

  “Of course. He’s in the flowers and the birds and the trees.”

  Jessica broke into a grin and skipped over to hold Penny’s hand.

  “Who’s hungry?” Penny beamed. “Shall we go find some food?”

  A cobbled backstreet led to a crazy-paved courtyard surrounded by open-fronted restaurants, a sea of red tablecloths flowing out from solid marble-slab counters. Unsure which establishment or dish to favor, Hans stooped to read an A-frame blackboard.

  “We can have pulbo . . . á . . . feir—”

  “Hey! Hunky-funky-bunky-monkey!” boomed a voice they all recognized.

  The Dutchman sat grinning behind a massive plate of paella and empty Estrella bottles.

  “Marshell!” Jessica ran over and scrambled onto his lap.

  “Where you been, princess? The pardy’s started, you know?”

  “Marcel, we were worried about you.” Penny gave him a heartfelt hug.

  “Worried! About me?”

  “Yeah, the storm!”

  “Storm?”

  “In the Biscay. You must have run into it?”

  “Oh . . . I’m not sure. Probably had a few beers, you know?”

  Over seafood and sangria, they filled Marcel in on their experience, the big man making an extra special fuss of “the best girl in the Biscay,” as he referred to her.

  Hans suggested they accompany Penny to the local hospital to have the gash checked out, but she shook her head.

  “You guys stay here and have some more drinks. Jessie, do you want to come with me?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She sprung from her chair.

  “Okay, we’ll grab a cab there and see you two back at the marina later.”

  “So, Hans, dat’s two wonderful women you have there,” said Marcel as they watched the girls disappear.

  “Thanks. But only one of them is mine.”

  “Ah, come on, man! Penny thinks the world of you. Anyone can see that. Er, you’
re divorced, right?”

  “My wife was killed last year, and our son Jacob.”

  “Oh . . . friend. I’m sorry. I-I-I had—”

  “No, it’s okay. I’m dealing with it . . . for Jess, you know?”

  “Ja, sure. She’s a great kid.”

  “Thanks.”

  Hans hailed the waiter and ordered beer and another jug of sangria. “So what’s your story?”

  “Oh . . .” The gentle giant picked up his fork and began pushing a sliver of chicken around his plate. “I made a few bucks in the art world and—”

  “Marcel! You can stop the pretense.”

  “Pretense?”

  “Does 1891 to 1895 mean anything to you?”

  “Should it?”

  “To a retired art dealer, it should. According to our guidebook, it’s the years Picasso lived in La Coruña.”

  “Ah.” Marcel picked at the label on his beer bottle. “Busted, huh?”

  “You were busted from day one, but my daughter thinks the world of you, so you’ve had the benefit of the doubt.”

  A look of gratitude replaced embarrassment.

  “So, no million-dollar art business?”

  “Postman.”

  They burst out laughing.

  The tale Marcel told Hans was fascinating yet sorrowful, and though the Dutchman was no choirboy, the American felt a great deal of empathy.

  Bullied at school for being chubby, he had been a shy and introverted kid, worsening when his mother abandoned the family when he was nine. His father, who actually was a big name in the art world, died from alcohol-related illness ten years later.

  At sixteen, Marcel became a postal worker, a role suited to his solitary nature. Only he had a problem. From a young age he’d learned that the red wine he took sneaky sips of while his father lay comatose made him feel better about himself. Reaching adulthood, Marcel was drinking ten beers a day and chain-smoking cannabis – and this was before his delivery round. A liter of vodka every evening only added to his hangover. Attempting to regulate the liquor’s side effects, he began using harder drugs – cocaine and speed – or prescription medication swindled from his doctor.

  Eventually, he lost his job and his few friends, and his health began to suffer. On his twenty-first birthday, Marcel received his inheritance and decided to break free from the chains of addiction. Following a spell in rehab, he sold his parents’ house, put on a backpack and spent the next three years traveling the world, ending up in Ibiza, where he invested in a restaurant venture.

  “And there she was . . .” Marcel gazed at the tablecloth. “‘I’m Sietske. I’m here for the waitressing job.’ And dat was it.”

  “Love at first sight?”

  “Ja! And the crazy thing was she came from the village next to mine back home.”

  “You hit it off immediately?”

  “No, we spent more and more time together, and then one day bam! I realized the girl loved me for who I am – or who I was.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning anyone can be a nice when they’re sober and living in paradise with a successful business. We got married and had a good few years. Would’ve had kids but . . .”

  “You started drinking again?”

  “And the rest, Hans. Ibiza’s a hedonist’s playground. Thought I could handle it. Best of both worlds. Mr. Cool Guy.”

  “What happened?”

  “She got to see the real me.” A tear rolled into Marcel’s beard. “A drugged-up bum who drank, snorted and gambled his restaurant and savings away.”

  “She didn’t hang around?”

  “No, she didn’t. I was devastated. Couldn’t stay on the island any longer. Bet what I had left in a poker game – came away with five thousand euros, a French watch and a nice boat.”

  “Sietske?”

  “How did you guess?”

  Hans eyed the Cartier, its patent leather strap and striking gold case looking dinky on the Dutchman’s fat wrist. Everything made sense – the yacht, the charade, the drinking – but it didn’t explain how the Dutchman managed to fund five years at sea. Over more beer Hans divulged a little of his own checkered youth and then decided to ask.

  Marcel’s eyes took on a piratical glint. “Shall I explain over a joint?”

  “Ha! I haven’t smoked that stuff in years, but I suppose it would be rude not to.” Hans chuckled.

  “Let’s go back to my boat.”

  - 26 -

  “Al Saeed was a hero!” Ahmed mocked that evening.

  “Ah, shut your face, you drunken baboon!” Mohamed hated it when Ahmed made fun of his naivety.

  “But he is Al Mohzerer, known throughout the land.” Lying on his makeshift mattress, Ahmed sniggered into his hands.

  “His father was a warrior, a brave man,” Mohamed stated with conviction.

  “Yes, but Al Mohzerer is nothing but a sly old fox who thinks we are for the taking, like his scraggy hens.”

  In the flicker of the oil lamp, Ahmed’s eyes smoldered, reminding Mohamed they had a plan to see through no matter what.

  Despite the ribbing, Mohamed knew he would be lost without the older boy’s guidance. Ahmed possessed a maturity way beyond his years, a product of his harsh upbringing. Hard as a diamond, he refused to take second place to anyone yet was loyal to his friends without bounds.

  “So if he is a fox, what must we be?” Ahmed continued.

  “We must be wolves!”

  Right on cue a blood-curdling wail broke the silence on the mountainside.

  “It’s a sign!” Mohamed hissed.

  “No, it’s just a mangy wolf rallying his pack to hunt down one of Farmer Hamsa’s fat cows.” Ahmed leant over and placed a brotherly arm on Mohamed’s shoulder. “And what did I tell you about signs?”

  “All signs are good signs.”

  “And who is the wolf afraid of?”

  “He is afraid of nothing and no one.”

  “And what must the wolf do to survive?”

  “He must improvise, adapt and overcome.”

  “Well done!” Ahmed was pleased his nurturing had started to show promise. Improvise they certainly could do. The oil lamp fashioned from a soda can, and their mattresses – hessian sacks sewn together and stuffed with dried weed – evidenced that. Adapting to life on the farm came easily too, especially with every second invested in the plan to reach Europe.

  They produced increasing amounts of their own hashish, one working doubly hard in the hut while the other spat on palmfuls of the rich powder and massaged it into squidgy lumps. On the monthly visit to the city, they had refined their operation. Mohamed would sneak into the cinema and watch a movie – preferably one in English to improve his skill in the language – briefing Ahmed on the plot later to provide a cover story should the Grower ask them what they had seen. Meanwhile Ahmed would dash around their most profitable marketplaces, zeroing in on any tourist sporting dreadlocks or carrying a rucksack, launching into sales pitches laden with heartstring-tugging charm.

  Following their individual missions, they would meet up at the city’s harbor. Decrepit in comparison to the Mediterranean’s more upmarket ports of call, the anchorage’s laissez-faire attitude toward paperwork and mooring fees made it a popular option for yacht crews on a budget.

  Ahmed and Mohamed had perfected their approach. Having pinpointed a shoestring skipper, they would amble along the wharf and bid a cheery “Hello! How are you?” and if the response was amicable strike up an “endearing” conversation through which to glean all they could about sailing, using a mix of French, broken English and gesticulation.

  “What gasolina this one?”

  “How to start?”

  “How put up this one?”

  “Wind come this way, how make this way?”

  Figuring they were getting the authentic travel experience, skippers and crews would go to great lengths to make sure the boys understood, often inviting them aboard to run up a mainsail or go through the ignition sequ
ence for the engine.

  “Ouch!”

  Ahmed slapped his neck, swatting the offending mosquito. He inspected the squished mess, wondering if the inordinate amount of blood smudged across his palm was his own. Fortunately, at this altitude the Rif remained free from the annoying insects most of the year, but in the summer months the animal troughs and latrines created the perfect environment for hatchlings to morph into adulthood.

  “Pussy!” Mohamed giggled in the lamplight. “Ouch!”

  “You were saying?” Ahmed held back a grin.

  After a time Mohamed piped up. “Hey, brother.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I’ve been thinking . . . This sailing business seems quite hard. Why don’t we steal a boat with a motor?”

  “I’ve been thinking that too. We’ll check it out.”

  - 27 -

  Sitting amongst the clutter in Sietske’s cockpit, Marcel spliced two cigarette papers using glue leeched from a third.

  “Us Dutch, we like a smoke, huh?”

  He heated a cigarette with a lighter flame and blew through it, expelling the redundant nicotine, tar and moisture in noxious wafts.

  “Gotta toast the tobacco.”

  “I never saw that before.” Hans watched, fascinated. “Folks smoke it pure back home.”

  “That’s okay for grass, man, but for flat press you need some tobacco.”

  “Flat press?”

  “Ja.” Marcel tossed him a light-brown block the size of a matchbox. “Moroccan hashish. Crushed pollen, high THC content, almost the best you can get.”

  “And the best?”

  “Number One – from Pakistan. Looks like an after-dinner mint. You don’t see much of it in Europe.”

  “How come you know so much?”

  “You really wanna know?” Marcel sparked the reefer, took a couple of puffs and passed it to Hans. “I’ll show you.”

  He went into the cabin, emerging seconds later with an underwater flashlight, diving mask and fins. Flopping over the side, he looked like a fat frog on a mission.