By Emil Rem

He yawned as he made himself more comfortable on their spacious, queen-sized bed. The newly renovated suite was a far cry from the tiny closet of a room they had left behind in London. Was it only a few hours ago? It seemed more like a week.

As he snuggled into his oversized pillow, Laura asked, "Hon, can you open the balcony window? It's a little stuffy in here."

He pushed, then pulled the lever on the sill to no avail. Giving up, he picked up the phone.

"Room service? Our window won't open." There was a chuckle at the other end as he continued, "Could you come up and have a look?"

Within minutes, a bellboy rapped on the door. He approached the tall window grinning from ear to ear, turned the latch then slammed the flat of his palm into the bottom of the window. It reacted like a vertical seesaw. The top half of the window shifted six inches into their room. The bottom half now jutted six inches into the balcony.

"Good heavens!" was all he could say.

"It's to keep the monkeys out," he was informed. "When we had normal windows, the monkeys would enter through the opening. They stole food and anything brightly coloured. Once, they took off with a handbag. These latest windows were designed to keep them out." He smiled unctuously awaiting his tip. "And sir, please leave nothing on the balcony unattended, not even for a minute," he warned.

He shook his head in disbelief. "If they're such a nuisance, why not round them up and ship 'em out?"

The boy smirked, "Because legend has it that so long as the monkeys remain in Gibraltar, the British will too. If they go, who'll protect us from Spain?"

Finally, they were alone. He tentatively opened the balcony door and stepped out.

Once again, the sea view that he'd paid extra for wasn't exactly as touted. Yes, they were facing the sea. Although situated high on a hill, three-quarters of the view was obliterated by large, scrawny plane trees fanned out across the road. But at least he could smell the tang of brine and feel the breeze lapping against his cheeks. In between the trees, merchant ships laden three stories high with containers wended their way across the placid sun-splashed water into the Mediterranean.

As his family bustled in and out of their room – the boys had a suite of their own next door – he slumped back onto the bed and switched on the TV, not expecting much. Lo and behold! The English Premier League was on. It was the first match of the season. Leicester, his favourite team, was playing Arsenal at home. The game was about to start. Bliss. He raided a Fry's Turkish Delight chocolate bar from his cache of goodies, stole a can of Coke from the mini bar when Laura wasn't looking and settled himself down to enjoy the rest of the afternoon.

No sooner had he done so, Laura cajoled him. "Come, let's unpack and go look around."

With a sigh, he acceded. Scoffing down his last bite of chocolate and quaffing down the remains of his Coke, he tumbled out of bed mumbling to himself, "No rest for the wicked."

The Rock Hotel balanced itself precariously on its perch halfway up a hill. The squat, sparkling-white structure sprawled across the hillside exuding an image of the white cliffs of Dover. As they entered the narrow road, there were no pedestrians. It was siesta time. Who would be parading the streets in this hot afternoon weather, anyway, except tourists? They stayed on their narrow path curving down Europa Road. Tall trees hovered over them from behind walled gardens of ancient stone houses. Here and there, narrow black iron gates broke the monotony. Peering through their grilles, he saw small, tile-covered, shaded courtyards leading to porticos within. Purple and crimson bougainvillea sprouted along wooden trestles. Large pots exhibited a plethora of chrysanthemums of burnished gold, sky-blue and pale lime green.

At the bottom of the hill, they passed through an arch, the gateway into the town.

Within minutes they were in front of Marks and Spencer.

"Wait here," he pointed to a bench. "I'll be right back."

He dashed in and jumped onto the escalator to the basement food department. When he got there, he gasped. The shelves were bare.

"What happened?" he asked the cashier.

In a tone of sheer hopelessness, she murmured, "Two cruise ships hit port at the same time. Their passengers bought the lot. If only you'd come an hour ago."

It seemed a plague of locusts had descended, leaving nought in their wake. The sight of empty shelves and endless line ups on an island of barely seven miles square repeated itself wherever they went.

They progressed towards the quaint town square where stores were even tinier than they had been in England and filled with watches and jewellery at bargain prices. Limestone hills dominated the sleepy square, out of which the locals had carved caverns for artisan workshops. Gibraltar's great attraction lay in its tax-free status. Once a boon to the locals in attracting tourists beyond rowdy, well-oiled matelots, acting solely as a way station for the British Royal Navy, Gibraltar's tax-free status became a curse. As well as being the untrammelled domain of bargain-hungry tourists, Gibraltar was now the residence of the worlds super-rich.

From the square a path led to a marina. Here, the island's centuries-old architecture was eschewed, replaced by towers of luxury condominiums and glittering glass facades of professional buildings housing lawyers and accountants required to quench the all -consuming thirsts of their billionaire clients. Unbeknownst, they had entered the glitz and glamour of Hollywood. Multi-million-dollar yachts, larger than their home in Canada, littered the marina. A steppingstone away, restaurants, just shy of a Michelin star, hid in the shade of alleyways, always open to the dictates of their patrons.

The day of travel, their walk through the sun-drenched afternoon, left them exhausted.

"Hon, can we take a taxi home?" Laura pleaded. Her shoulders drooped under the weight of multi-coloured hand-blown glass goblets purchased to fill her china cabinet.

Just then, a red minibus, empty of passengers, came to a halt in front of them.

"Need a lift?" the driver enquired. Although his English idiom was flawless, the slight slur of accent acquired by years of living beside Spain, marked him as a native.

They climbed aboard and dropped into a seat with a sigh of relief. Ascending a hill soon after, he nudged Laura, "Look, there's the airport." It was built on reclaimed land to the north, bordering Spain, the age-old enemy. Traffic crossed the runway to get from Spain into Gibraltar and vice-versa. The road was barred by a wooden arm as it would have been at any ordinary railway crossing. An endless line of cars in both directions waited patiently for a plane to land as did dozens of pedestrians glancing nonchalantly as it whizzed past them only a few feet away.

Turning a corner, they could see the town on one side and, well below them on the other side, pristine sandy beaches with not a tourist in sight. Perhaps these were the last pockets of sanctuary of the island's browbeaten native population.

At the highest point, the bus came to a halt.

"We'll be here for 20 minutes," the driver announced. "Go visit our monkeys. You have enough time. I'll watch over your shopping."

With no hesitation they took up his offer, leaving all the treasures they had collected with a complete stranger.

A dozen monkeys congregated on an open oblong slab of concrete. They were surrounded by tourists. A baby monkey jumped onto the shoulder of an elderly lady clutching a walking stick. While she was distracted, hordes of sightseers recorded the action for posterity with their Leica's and iPhones. Seizing their opportunity, the rest of the monkeys scattered and raided the tourists in a well-coordinated, smash-and-grab manoeuvre. A handbag, some colourfully loud jewellery and fruit were carried away, leaving their victims astonished and bewildered by their fate. In total disarray, they turned to seek help. There was none. Meanwhile, the monkeys, perched atop rocks a hundred feet out of reach, fought over the spoils. Then, the monkey with the handbag returned, dumping the bag in front of him and stared at the owner as if inviting a ransom in exchange.

  He couldn't help smiling at the monkey attempting to dictate terms. His heart went out to the mischief-maker in kindred sympathy. Decades ago, he too had stood his ground to gain control of his destiny.

Back in October 1973, upon failing his high school exams, he sought solace in a summer of travel against his mother's wishes. It had been her highest ambition to watch her son graduate from Oxford or Cambridge.

"The easiest way would be to have him take Maths and Science at high school," she had been told by her confidantes.

He abhorred the subjects and repeatedly failed his class work, assignments and finally his exams. For that, she chastised him for being an utter failure.

"Just like your dad," who too could never live up to her expectations, languishing his whole work life in some minor clerical position.

Until then, he had been trained since childhood to follow every instruction laid down by his mother. That path led him across one minefield to the next of broken ambitions and plummeting confidence. Having concentrated all his life so far on his weaknesses, what did she expect?

"I'm travelling first." He was putting his foot down.

His father, an airline employee, furnished him with free travel tickets. His first stop was Beirut, Lebanon. The money he had saved was a pittance. He had two options for accommodation: either sleeping on airport floors or befriending fellow passengers who would invite him to stay with them for a few days and show him around. This time, he wasn't so lucky and resigned himself to sleep at the airport. He landed in the evening and searched for a corner to lie down in. Suddenly, he heard the screaming whine of nose-diving aircraft, then thundering explosions followed by a staccato of gunfire.

A soldier found him huddled, covering his ears. "You can't stay here. The airport is under attack," he blurted, nudging him with his rifle.

"I have no money. It's nighttime. Can I stay until the morning?" And the nightmare began.

This was the start of the Yom Kippur War. The Egyptians, led by President Sadat, launched a sneak attack on the Israelis on their holiest of days. The war spilled into Lebanon, Syria and other neighbouring countries. The airport was closed indefinitely. Now he had to find a way overland to Tehran, Iran to catch his ongoing flights. The only exit route was a circuitous route by taxi (which he shared with four other passengers and a colic baby) to Damascus over the Golan heights, then local buses to the Gulf coast of Iraq and into Iran through its port of Abadan. Another bus ride north to Teheran would finally secure his safety.

He managed it. Through his 18-year-old eyes, each day was an adventure. To others, it would seem a nightmare. But he was free to own his destiny, good or bad. By luck or gall he survived. It instilled in him a sense of independence and, for once, restored confidence in himself. But now onwards, all normal life would be impossible to bear.

Out of the frying pan into... a pool of glue. On his return to England, his mother found him a place at a nearby firm of Chartered Accountants. He stared back at her coldly. She waved his letter of invitation in front of him in celebration. At least, if he couldn't go to university, he would end up in a respected career that she could trumpet to her afternoon tea coterie.

"Think about it," she harangued. "In five years, you'll have the world at your feet at such a young age, while your university friends will still be looking for a job." She wasn't finished. "You should thank Sam when you see him."

Sam was a close family friend. The only one who supported him in his tribulations on failing his exams. It was Sam who persuaded Mum to allow him into accounting, rather than have him repeat his last year at school. Sam had recently qualified and been promoted to Manager at his firm. Once again, his life had been shanghaied for the next five years.

On a cold, damp, miserable grey January morning he entered the portal of Hale and Company with the demeanour of a prisoner resigned to serve his full sentence.

Hale and Co spelt Doomsville for him. The firm operated out of an old Victorian house. Typical of that bygone era, he was escorted to the attic, where servants would have been quartered, to join several other articled clerks in training. A dormer window let in the only light, as colourless as his fellow inmates - such a contrast from the blazing sunlight he had left behind on his travels. He stared at his damp paper bag of sandwiches, longing for his erstwhile daily meal of Manaish – a pizza of unleavened dough brushed with olive oil and sprinkled with sumac, a lemony-tasting herb – the local poor man's diet.

Overnight he had been shoved into a straitjacket of regimented, sedentary time. Overburdened with a tedious, repetitive workload. He arrived at nine; lunch was at one; the office closed at five. Each day Mr Griffiths, his managing partner, came and delivered him a suitcase, large carrier bag or box of invoices and bank statements from the local butcher or mechanic. He tabulated the information and returned it to the partner at day's end. Every ounce of initiative or flair that he had discovered in himself during his travels was anathema to his colleagues and employers. Was this to be his sentence for the next five years? He shuddered at the thought, completely heartbroken.

A year passed. He had learned nothing more than bookkeeping. There was no progression to preparing financial statements or tax returns. These were all handled by Mr. Griffiths whenever he had the inclination. Meanwhile, he sat for his first set of exams and, once again, failed miserably, much to his mother's chagrin but, more painfully, the sad disappointment of Sam, who had tried so hard to sustain him.

To hell with it all. Why not quit to find something he really liked to do? A past conversation with Sam rose in his memory.

"Once you're qualified, you have an open ticket to travel and work anywhere in the world," he had said. That was the carrot.

Alternatively, he didn't want to leave the firm branded as a failure and affirm his mother's contention. If he left the profession, all the past misery he had suffered would have been in vain. Probably, he would be forced to retake his school exams – another year wasted. Why not spend a few years more to acquire his designation? He thought about it constantly, always returning to the conclusion: a larger, more modern firm was the only answer to his problem. It was time to consult Sam.

His frustrated mentor sat behind his desk, twiddling a pencil between his fingers as he heard him out.

"They won't allow you to transfer. It would be a major embarrassment to them. No one changes firms in the middle of their articleship. If you hand in your notice, no other accounting firm will hire you for fear of offending our firm. Stick it out with us. Once you qualify, you can go on your way. As far away as possible from your mother I expect."

Fine advice. But to his way of thinking, prolonging his stay here would spell disaster, the same if he quit. He had to persuade the firm to let him transfer.

The obvious strategy was to make constant errors in his work.

"The boy's lost his marbles," became the common cry. But instead of agreeing to a transfer, they changed his work. Joan, their receptionist, was due for maternity leave. He was given the run of the front office.

For a month he fumed in silence, seeing no advance in achieving his goal. It was time to ramp up the pressure on the partners, to gain their attention again.

Hale and Co operated three bank accounts for themselves and their clients. Alongside his responsibility as receptionist, he was tasked to visit each bank to make deposits. The following Tuesday he began his new assignment. By the time he got to the second bank, it had a long lineup. He decided to take his lunch break first and entered Wimpey's, the burger joint. Finishing his lunch, he discarded his wrapper. A thought struck him. Surreptitiously confirming no one was watching, he bent down, grabbed the bank book, and tossed it into the garbage bin.

Later that day, an impromptu meeting was held by the partners. He overheard them in the boardroom on his way out that evening.

"What's the world coming to?" roared Mr Hale, the senior partner. "Now every Tom, Dick and Harry will know our business if they find that deposit book."

The outcome? Next day, instead of a pink slip of dismissal, he was handed a slim, black attaché case. It contained three bank deposit books safely locked inside. To his utmost frustration, they still had not thrown in the towel. What more could he do?

The temptation was too great. On his very next outing, he lost the hallowed case.

"Dunno what happened," was all he could think of as an excuse. "Must've left it at the bus stop."

At his interrogation, the senior partner was beside himself. "Why did you catch a bus? I thought you always walked."

"It was raining cats and dogs. I forgot me raincoat. Didn't want to get me suit wet." He glared back at his employer.

They relegated his tasks to only answering the phone. Mr Murcott, the junior partner, was given the banking duty. His shenanigans hadn't helped one bit.

The following week, as he manned reception, he heard the gerontic Mr Hale coughing and spluttering like an old steam engine as he pounded down the stairs, appearing to miss a step, by the sound of it. The whole town of Maidenhead must have heard him curse. What was the old codger trying to do? Practise a complex ballet movement? The founding partner almost broke the reception door down. In his haste, he had forgotten to turn the handle.

"You…you..." he kept repeating. "What are those workmen doing in our parking lot?"

"They're delivering stuff. Building materials, I think. Why? Something wrong?" he asked innocently.

Of course, something was wrong. He had created it purposely. As part of their service, the firm acted as the registered office of their clients. All invoices had the registered office address as well its business. The workmen had arrived brandishing a delivery note displaying both addresses. It took a minute to direct them to the back of the house instead of the business address.

Mr Hale swallowed what air he could press into his collapsing lungs. "They're not for us, you imbecile. They're for a client. They got the wrong address."

With that, the chief charged headlong out of the room and hurtled down the stairs leading to the parking lot. He followed suit, not wanting to miss one bit of the action.

The once lovely, long garden of Hale House had long since been paved over to accommodate the partners' and clients' cars.

As Mr Hale entered the fray, the workers were finishing their unloading. Stacks upon stacks of corrugated iron sheets now formed an impregnable wall several feet high, blocking the exit way.

"Take them back immediately," the chief bellowed.

They stared back at him in total disbelief. Their foreman spoke up. "Sorry mate, do you understand how long it took us to unload this lot? Now you want us to cart them back. Didn't your receptionist confirm this was the address?"

Later that afternoon, he overheard Mr Hale on the phone bawling out his junior partner, responsible for hiring him on Sam's advice. "Enough of his monkey business. You have to arrange his transfer immediately. God knows what the young devil will do next. Probably burn the house down."

His reverie was shattered by the shriek of his boys and the tugging of his T-shirt.

"Pop, look!" The boys howled with laughter. "See what the monkey did with the handbag?"

For a couple of apples and a bunch of grapes, the monkey had capitulated, leaving the handbag in his wake as he retreated, with his hands full of booty, back to his community atop the rocks. The crowd of tourists dispersed quickly and quietly, clutching their goods and valuables tightly to them, constantly peering over their shoulder on the lookout for further attacks. There were none.

He heard a honk. The bus driver was waving them back. They sat down, their laps overladen with goblets, gifts, and gimcracks.

As the sun gradually set over the blue-green glittering ocean, Alex leaned forward, "Pop, where are you taking us tomorrow?"

"Wait and see," he answered, sporting a wicked smile.

_____