Dream Thing

Martin Copa had transformed overnight, and it seemed as if half the town had transformed with him. One day they were reading free-form lyrics to the finger-snapping crowd, the next they were calling for armed violence. After a day-long demonstration in the streets of Duero, the mob was agitated and bloodthirsty—most of all Martin Copa.

He personally set fire to the mosque in Toulouse as his mob nailed the doors shut. TV cameras recorded every second of it.

A cleric and a band of Muslim men charged Copa’s mob. They begged for the doors to be opened. They offered themselves up to the mob in exchange for the lives of those inside the burning building. The mob kicked and pummeled the fathers while their wives and daughters burned up inside the mosque.

That was on Monday.

The manhunt was unprecedented in its scale, and yet Copa could not be found in the vast Pyrenees Mountains. On Tuesday, his mob struck a second time, setting fire to a government building and another mosque in a town on the River Garonne. The police guard on the mosque could only hold off the suicidal poets and painters for so long.

Wednesday saw France in a state of martial law in all regions west of Paris and Lyon. The Basque Burner remained at large, but thank God he had not struck again.

On Thursday night, the manhunt abated as the government called for negotiations with Copa and faced criticism for roughing up innocent Basques. Martial law remained in effect.

Duero’s tourist business had died down considerably. In fact, on Thursday, there was just one traveler—an American journalist, with an American attitude.

“I’m sure some of you people are legitimate freedom fighters, whatever that is,” Remo told the man behind the counter at the cafe. “But some of you are just murderers with a rationale.”

“And what are you to judge who is right and wrong, American?” asked a local who was hunched over a wooden table with a metal cup.

“I wouldn’t know right if it came and spit in my face,” Remo admitted. “But when something’s really and truly wrong, that I know. Terrorists who set fires and burn kids at church? That’s definitely wrong.”

“Some people do not see it that way,” the drinker said. “Some people think it is wrong for us to be forced to endure the tyranny of France and Spain.”

“Maybe that is wrong. I don’t know. But burning up the mayor of that little snotty hamlet on the river, just because he’s a part of the same country you have a problem with? Definitely wrong. Absolutely one hundred percent wrong—only stupid people think it’s not wrong.”

“If the message is heard, then it is right,” the drinker insisted.

“No, sorry, definitely wrong.”

“What of the foreigners. We do not want them here. We do not like foreigners.”

“That I don’t even understand. They weren’t in your town and why do you care if they’re in your country when you want out of the country? But, okay, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Foreigners are bad. Fine. Even so, killing families of foreigners at the mosque is definitely wrong. If you don’t think it is wrong, you’re a dope. An imbecile.”

The drunk muttered into his metal cup, and a silent figure at the bar spoke up. “You wouldn’t say that to Martin Copa if he were here.”

“Sure, I would. Who is Martin Copa?”

“He is the leader of the freedom fighters. He is the one called Basque Burner.”

“You mean the loser who torched those innocent people? I’d tell him to his face that he’s a loser and the stupidest piece of trash in these here hills.”

The tavern owner stepped in nervously. “American, you go home now. You drink too much.” He snatched Remo’s beer mug, only to find it was still full.

“You really want to meet Copa?” asked the quiet man at the bar.

“Yeah, sure, but I heard he’s a puss-boy who hides in the mountains. Only comes out to burn up little girls and old ladies.”

“Maybe I could put you in touch with him,” the man taunted.

Remo shrugged, attempting to look as if he was trying to look tough. “I’m game.”

That was how he ended up strolling alone on a dirt road in the foothills of the Pyrenees at dusk. If he were anyone else, he would have been walking to his death.

When the sun set behind the mountains, dark closed in quickly and Remo was in the cool stillness of night. The forests around him were still, and before long, he was miles away from anywhere.

Any other man would have been afraid for his life and rightly so. Remo wasn’t. What concerned him was his acting ability. Had he been convincing? Would he really make contact with the Basque Burner, Martin Copa? If his blind date stood him up, he might end up wandering the hills for days looking for Copa. France, even this part of France, wasn’t Remo’s favorite place.

“Thank goodness,” Remo said when someone shot at him.

It was a single round from a big rifle, and it was a shot intended to provoke, not kill. Remo didn’t even flinch.