by Brian Aldiss
Timpleton’s death at the hands of Dumayami’s strong men had been brutally unnecessary. Soames resented it like a blow on the face.
The ceremony was over at last. The Umbalathorp Guards’ Brass Band struck up with a lively rendering of ‘Kiss the Boys Goodbye’, and the crowd began to disperse or buy magic monkeys’ paws from one another.
The royal family gave Soames a lift back to the palace in their lorry. All, Soames thought, looked inappropriately convivial. Queen Louise patted his hand in a proprietorial fashion. Princess Cherry said, ‘This at least has done the good thing to break up Dumayami’s power. To escape just vengeance he is fleeing to the interior quickly to breed chickens and to be becoming generally a harmless old man. You can be happy and quite free here now, Mr Soames.’
She rolled her eyes at Soames. He could see that, despite her youth, the vague outlines of her mother already set up her face; they did her no good. Though he liked her, he found her intriguingly repulsive.
‘Will Dumayami not be pursued and punished for his crimes?’ Soames asked of the company in general.
‘That would be unwise,’ M’Grassi said in French, when he had asked for and received a translation of this question. ‘By letting Dumayami go, we make him merely an escaping blackguard; by chopping off his head, we would turn him into an object of reverence. The chicken farm will do for him what we could never do: cause him to be forgotten. And now, when we get back to the palace, we must consider your affairs. You will have to be properly groomed for the Presidency; it is not entirely a light-hearted affair, I warn you.’
Soames nodded without speaking, and when the company got back to the palace, he and M’Grassi continued the discussion in the latter’s study. These two had spent the last night well into the early hours discussing this matter. The joke Soames had played with the computer had gone wrong: not unforeseeably, for the whole spectrum of humour is something a cautious man does well to shun. Practical jokes are mere childishness; the buffoonery that comes with high spirits is undignified; to crack jokes is an attempt to relieve unworthy tensions; sarcasm is a token of a failure to be aware of one’s proper position in society; punning is simply bad taste; while if one is witty, the Anglo-Saxon world at least will hold one to be shallow and insincere. Soames had asked for trouble and got it: he now had to become President.
‘You know, and I know,’ M’Grassi said, ‘that men enjoy dramatic reversals of fortune, especially when these can be watched rather than participated in. For this reason, you should make a popular President; from jail to senate in three days is the kind of success story the hardest-boiled of my subjects will enjoy, believing as they do that evidence of an ability to attract good fortune is worth more than evidence of any other ability.’
‘I hope I may be able to give them evidence of more than that,’ Soames said, just slightly offended, for against his will he was already visualising himself as a legislator.
‘Indeed, I think you will,’ M’Grassi said, clapping him convivially on the back and pouring more port into their glasses, ‘but you must realise that as a spectacle the people will find it less impressive: an administrator administering does not draw packed houses. The point, though, is not that you will be a good President, but that you will be a President. It is necessary. Otherwise, all I have striven for here all my life falls to the ground. I have taught the Goyese to believe in progress, because that is the step one has to take before one teaches people to disbelieve in progress. This progress is now exemplified by the Apostle Mk II, and I cannot think of a better symbol for it. The computer failed once, in predicting the survival of Jimpo; I cannot afford to let it fail again, or everyone will lose faith. That is why you have to fulfil its prediction and become President.’
At this point, Soames almost admitted the truth: that the message from the computer had been a fake. He refrained only because he could see that the truth, as is so frequently the case, would not alter the situation, and might even do harm. Even if M’Grassi knew that Soames himself had typed the crucial message, the people could not be told – or, if told, could not be made to believe.
That secret was best left buried. The Apostle was now repaired and functioning again. Working with the aid of Timpleton’s voluminous manuals, Soames had spent the afternoon after the chase remaking the connections he had broken. Gumboi had been away having his arm treated at the hospital, but Soames had been assisted by a subdued L’Panto. The latter had not returned to the palace until several hours after he fled from Dumayami’s hut. On running away, he had, he informed Soames apologetically, burst through the bushes by the side of the path and taken a header into the Uiui, which carried him a mile downstream before he could climb out. It then took him some while to work his way back to the palace again.
‘Well now,’ Soames said, leaning further back in the cane chair so that the fan on M’Grassi’s desk blew more concentratedly upon him, ‘when the voting for President takes place, you will presumably ensure my success by putting me up as an unopposed candidate – as you said you were going to do with Jimpo.’
‘No,’ M’Grassi said. ‘In your case, it will be better, I consider, to have an opposition, a local man. Your recent lawyer, Obendsi, will stand against you; he has political ambitions. To stand will cost him an initial levy of a thousand doimores, which he will pay: thus we shall receive back again some of the money Timpleton paid him to defend you, which came from the illegal sale of spare parts to Soares. Interesting to see how money circulates, is it not?’
‘And suppose Obendsi gets in and becomes President?’ Soames asked.
‘He will not. A minor reason is that secretly he was a confrère of Dumayami’s; and since it was an open secret, he is therefore out of favour at present. A more cogent reason, is, simply, that you have been predicted for President.’
‘Yes, but a prediction is a mere – a mere prediction, words. It does not affect the future in any way.’
‘Indeed it does, my dear boy,’ M’Grassi said. ‘The people know from the Apostle’s prediction that you will be President; therefore they will give you their vote; who ever cared to set himself deliberately on the losing side?’
‘In actual fact,’ Soames said, weakly, ‘the prediction was not a prediction. It simply said “Soames for President”. That is not the same as “Soames will be President”.’
‘An oracle’s concern is with destiny rather than syntax,’ M’Grassi replied.
Soames sighed gustily and with pleasure as he accepted more port. He had begun to believe in the prediction himself. And how excellent it was to have all his conscientious objections remorselessly demolished! There is no luxury like having greatness thrust upon one.
He sipped the port greedily. He was beginning to feel rather stewed.
‘Do you mind telling me how you stand in all this?’ he asked M’Grassi. ‘You’ve been very good to me, but you aren’t going to tell me it is all disinterested. What are you hoping to get out of my Presidency?’
‘Disinterest is a symptom of illness,’ the other said briskly. ‘Your chief value will be as another symbol of our progressiveness. Goya is already looked upon as something of an oddity by the world’s press; but with a white President, we shall be something more than an oddity. You’ll see! The seekers after straws in the wind will be round us like flies. Sociologists will be two a penny here in no time. Goya is going up in the world – and its President with it!’
‘But how can I be President of Goya,’ Soames exclaimed next, ‘when I know so little of its history, mores or jurisdiction?’
‘To be informed is not everything,’ replied the King; ‘one must know first what is going on in other men’s minds. To be well-informed can be as dangerous as being well-intentioned; the vital factor here is that you are welcomed.’
‘This all sounds too good to be true!’ exclaimed Soames, draining his glass again. ‘Yet I really cannot see why the people should like me. I know a girl told me once – a wonderful girl called Sheila Thurston; you oug
ht to hear about her, M’Grassi! She really was the sweetest – still, that’s not what I was going to say. What I was going to say was that Sheila once told me that I should never be popular for the same reason that Shaw’s plays weren’t popular, because I contained all the ingredients of a Shaw play.’
‘It is possibly time for you to go and lie down, to rest from the heat,’ M’Grassi said, eyeing Soames’ glass without refilling it again, ‘but since I knew you were doubtful on this point of your popularity, I have already tried a small practical test, the results of which speak highly in your favour.’
‘Another test?’ said Soames. ‘What was this one?’
‘Yesterday afternoon, when you were engaged with L’Panto in checking over the Apostle, I caused a notice to be erected on the notice board outside the palace gates. The notice read, “As a tribute to the nationality of our honoured candidate for the presidential office, all embargoes and sanctions hitherto imposed upon other English nationals dwelling in Umbalathorp are rescinded forthwith”.’
‘Nicely phrased,’ Soames observed sleepily. ‘What’s it mean, M’Grassi?’
‘It means the Pickets are no longer official objects of scorn. They can come and go as they please – at least till father or daughter misbehave themselves again, when the bans will be reimposed. This move is undoubtedly offensive to the nostrils of all good Umbalathorpians; yet they have not scratched the notice down – always their first manifestation of displeasure. They are, in other words, enduring cheerfully for your sake. They are with you one hundred per cent, Soames.’
‘Soames for President,’ Soames muttered drowsily.
During the next three days, in which Soames was kept well occupied, the desire to become President grew upon him. Like many a man, until the opportunity occurs, he had thought he had no relish for power; now he knew, without the slightest flaw in his conviction, that to rule in Umbalathorp was better than to plough the Unilateral furrow in Oxford Street; that he desired and deserved nothing more than to establish a White House in the black household.
Accordingly, he cabled his resignation to Unilateral, assuring them that he would fulfil his contract by instructing L’Panto and Gumboi in the mysteries of operating the Apostle Mk II. He cabled to his relations, informing them of his good fortune. He cabled his landlady, asking her to send out his collection of long-playing records, to put the rest of his possessions in store and to cancel his subscriptions to The Spectator, History Today and Scientific American.
M’Grassi also did some cabling. The liking, not untinged with curiosity, which he had for Soames made him rejoice that the latter would stay and take the Presidency; but he had other reasons for rejoicing. He felt an affinity with Soames; but even a bosom friend may be turned to mundane advantage. Not only would this new move save the day for him and his computer: it would also – or M’Grassi would see that it would – provide a great deal of publicity for Goya. He had been disingenuous when Soames had taxed him on this point; Soames might well appear a symbol of progress to the outer world, but it would be as a decoy for foreign goods and aid he would serve his chief purpose. The King had not forgotten how another small republic, Monaco, had flared into the headlines when its Prince married an American film star; and although only a blind or perverted taste would think to equate Soames with Princess Grace, still this odd alliance of black and white ought to be received with interest by the vast newsprint-consuming herds of the Western world. The limelight could then be usefully exploited.
With Mayor Wabe, Queen Louise and King M’Grassi frequently at his side, candidate Soames toured Umbalathorp and many small kraals lying nearby, accepting gifts of live, dead and cooked fowl from headmen, patting babies’ heads, shaking hands with M’Grassi, speaking in French and smiling in English. As he travelled about, crude polling booths were erected and the local populace exhorted to vote for the Right and the White. A ‘Soames song’ was invented for the occasion, roughly translatable as:
Big God Computey
He say ‘Do Your Duty:
Speak up for Soames
Who loves your homes.’
As M’Grassi had foretold, Obendsi never stood a chance in the unequal contest. Probably the lawyer knew this; yet he threw himself heartily into the fray, the old monkey-faced Ladies Only following like a faithful shadow behind him. Obendsi, like Soames, toured, patted bare bottoms, accepted sucking pigs, swore to make Goya mightier yet, and lustily joined in his own song, of which a rough translation might run:
Assawa Obendsi, bendsi, bendsi,
Is a man like you:
He like you too
He chop the laws up plain and fansi
Assawa Obendsi, bendsi, bendsi.
His song never caught on like Soames’ song. Somehow, his pigs were never quite as tender as Soames’ fowls. Somehow, his flashy ties and lounge suits struck a less responsive chord in the simple souls of the villagers than Soames’ tailored shirts with the cravats neat in their open necks.
The election was a walkover. By four o’clock in the afternoon of the day it was held, Soames was home almost unanimously. The crowds surged into the palace grounds and listened – with good humour but without particular credence – as Soames, from a flower-bedecked balcony, gratefully promised them such laws and reforms as they had never known.
After a certain amount of cheering, and buying of ice cream and groundnuts, the people dispersed. Soames came in from his balcony, huffy as a prima donna failing to receive an expected encore.
‘Aren’t they going to celebrate, or let off fireworks or anything?’ he asked the royal family, trying to keep the disappointment from his voice. Anger towards what he regarded as the ingratitude of the Goyese swept him, burning him as righteously as if the reforms he had merely promised had been converted into fact.
‘The day after tomorrow they will make celebrate properly,’ Queen Louise said. ‘Then you will receive real spirit of festival.’
‘Why not celebrate now? It seems the obvious time.’
‘Because one item of ritual remains before you become proper, true President,’ the Queen said.
‘And what is that?’ Soames enquired impatiently, visualising some prosaic business of swearing in.
‘Why, it takes place at dawn, day after tomorrow,’ Princess Cherry said. ‘If it is a success, then all day the people will celebrate until midnight. Umbalathorp will be as gay as Piccadilly Circus!’
‘Excellent. And what is this bit of ritual?’
‘I should have thought you knew of it already,’ the Queen said carelessly. ‘Have you been told and forgotten about it? The defloration ceremony of course will take place, in which you prove you are potent to rule. I imagine from the rumours which circulate through the palace you will suffer no trouble at that score.’
In the laughter which followed, Princess Cherry also joined, a little shrilly.
Soames did not laugh. His stomach whimpered.
‘Defloration ceremony!’ he said faintly. This was the first he had heard of it. ‘This is the first I have heard of it. M’Grassi, what is this?’
‘Why do you look so surprised?’ the ex-President asked, taking one of Soames’ arms as the Queen took the other. ‘The defloration ceremony is merely a simple and wise part of the business of becoming President, although I understand it is omitted in some other republics – notably in the United States, where Presidents are apt to be older than we care for. Consider it this way, if you like: the idea of governing and being governed is reciprocal. Something is needed to balance with the voting which has just taken place, which is a demonstration of the people carrying out their will; the President also has to demonstrate he is capable of carrying out his will. As the Queen says, I don’t think that this particular performance is likely to occasion you –’
‘But why didn’t you tell me about this before?’ Soames burst out, as they propelled him gently into the corridor in the direction of the banqueting hall.
‘Mon cher ami,’ exclaimed the King, �
��I have told you: the ceremony – which after all is brief – is just part of the routine, a symbolic act, like a communion. Afterwards, you and I go to the Town Hall to the Mayor, where I relinquish all my rights as President while retaining my prerogatives as King, and you are then officially sworn into office in the presence of witnesses who –’
‘Never mind that,’ Soames said. ‘Don’t try and change the subject! You don’t know how I feel about this. This is so terribly sudden – I mean –’
‘Not for a healthy man, it is not sudden for a healthy young man,’ Queen Louise said. ‘You will perform perfectly well at dawn the day after tomorrow, if only you stay continent just for these two nights. That is not much to ask.’
‘I think Mr Soames means,’ Princess Cherry interposed coyly, ‘that he is given only short time to think about what virgin in the land he will select for the partner at this ceremonial.’
‘You’ll have all tomorrow to think about that,’ M’Grassi said soothingly. ‘The day after the voting is always set aside for that, hence its name, Choosing Day. On that day, all suitable virgins come and present themselves to you, in the hope they may be chosen for the honour. You pick the one you find most suitable or attractive. Is that so unpleasant?’
‘My God!’ groaned Soames. He staggered over to the sideboard as they entered the hall, and poured himself a stiff drink. ‘And I suppose somebody will have to witness this ghastly – er, ceremony.’
‘Somebody?!’ exclaimed M’Grassi. ‘Everybody! It is held on the Defloration Field outside the town, and all Goya will be there to watch you perform. For the simple people, it is a great, significant event. You’ll be all right! I know I rather enjoyed showing off my powers in public. The important thing is not to get stage fright: then your power fails you, and the mob will throw you into the river for being an impostor, a sheep in wolf’s clothing.’