Tomy and the Planet of Lies Read Online Free PDF Page B

opener out of a backpack and threw it over to land at Tomy’s feet.
    â€œHe doesn’t like me,” Tomy said grinning casually in Marc’s direction. He opened the can by propping it on the hood and working at it with the opener.
    â€œAnd what about a knife and fork?” Tomy made the same helpless gesture that I still make in such situations. Fingers spread, palms upwards, shoulders raised. I put the safety back on the pistol and shoved it in the pocket of my grey jeans, which I had been sleeping in on the roof of the car, and fetched him a fork. I hesitated for a second and then overcame my reluctance, walked over to Tomy and handed him the fork, a cheap camping fork. While Tomy reluctantly swallowed the first mouthful, Marc, who was still standing three meters away from us, remarked, “Can we touch him?”
    I cautiously touched the left temple of my younger replica; then I grasped his shoulders somewhat more firmly with both hands. Tomy let it happen. He laid the fork and the can of tuna fish on the hood of the car and reached his hands out to me. I took them in mine and turned them over so I could appraise the young skin. I turned his left hand so the palm was facing down. On the back of his hand, in exactly the same place as on mine, was a small, brown birthmark. I looked deep into his eyes and took his right hand. This, too, he simply allowed to happen. This time I took his hand and placed it, palm up, on the hood of the car, which at this time of day had not yet heated up like the hotplate of a cooker. Then I laid my hand next to his and started comparing the lines on our hands. They were completely identical, except that the furrows in my palm had grown a bit deeper over the years.
    I was confused and had to really make an effort to concentrate. Everyone in the world is unique—except that I wasn’t any more. Here was a copy of me leaning on the door of the Range Rover grinning at me. In the meantime, Marc had crossed over to us with slow, deliberate steps. His cough seemed to have gone and the red blotches on his face had faded. Just stay calm, I told myself, there’s a rational explanation for all this.
    It had gotten slowly warmer, occasional gusts of wind swirled small spirals of sand around our feet. It occurred to me that in my youth I had had another birthmark that had bothered me so much that I had had it removed when I was 28. I reached for the blanket and pulled it off Tomy’s shoulder. He seemed to guess what I wanted, as he let it all happen—albeit with a foolish grin constantly splitting his face.
    â€œSpread your legs—please!” I said, unworried. Tomy placed his hands on the roof of the car and did as he was asked. I squatted down and then I saw it: a small, brown teardrop-shaped mark on the inner side of his right thigh, right in line with his scrotum. I gave up. This second birthmark was the final proof. Here stood my younger double, made of flesh and blood.
    Marc asked what on earth I was up to, and so I explained my strange behavior. Tomy interrupted our conversation with the dry observation that the time for gaping at him was over and he would be grateful for some clothes. I had nothing that would have fit him, for at 52 I had developed a bit of a paunch. Cursing, Marc reluctantly dug out some underwear, socks, a pair of black denim pants and a blue-white checkered shirt from the muddle of his suitcase. After he had put everything on, Tomy posed for us.
    â€œHow do I look?” After an artificial pause in which he tilted his head and nodded in Marc’s direction: “And who’s this blond guy?”
    I knew that I would have reacted in just the same way. I introduced Marc, but he didn’t take Tomy’s proffered hand. In a matter-of-fact manner, Tomy pointed out that we had no drinking water and the car’s rear window was broken. A quick glance at the map showed us that the nearest settlement was called Taftan, which was