The Speechwriter

by Martin McKenzie-Murray

  ‘A bull,’ the policy director repeated thoughtfully.

  ‘We could give this to Steve,’ the media adviser said. Steve was the chief political reporter on the daily paper, and our grateful launderer of strategic leaks.

  ‘What would we give him, exactly?’ asked the director of policy.

  ‘That he fucked — sorry, blew — a bull.’

  ‘And how do we stand the story up for him?’

  The media adviser was silent.

  ‘Do we know for sure that he blew a bull?’ the chief-of-staff asked.

  I was proud that they’d adopted my nomenclature.

  ‘We’re reasonably sure,’ the policy director said.

  ‘Why?’ asked the chief-of-staff.

  ‘There’s talk of a video.’

  ‘Has anyone seen it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then how can we be sure?’

  ‘A journo told me he reckons there’s footage out there.’

  ‘This sounds like a shit parlour game,’ the chief-of-staff said.

  ‘I’m pretty confident,’ the media adviser said, shuffling papers before him. ‘I’ve spoken with a reporter on background, and he shared what a witness told him.’

  ‘And what did the witness say?’

  ‘That he inhaled a cow shaft.’

  ‘We’ve just learnt that a cow doesn’t have a shaft.’

  ‘Fuck, Liz, that’s just what he said, okay? Inhaled. A. Cow. Shaft. We can all agree that we’re ignorant about the taxonomy of livestock. What remains is the dubious flagrante.’

  Until now, my boss, Belinda, had remained conspicuously quiet. Then she straightened in her chair. ‘We could push out something flimsy,’ she said, seeming irritated, ‘and then be caught in accusations of sleaze.’

  ‘Go on,’ said the chief-of-staff.

  ‘It’s simple,’ Belinda said. ‘This story didn’t originate with us. We’ve only heard about it. And we’ve heard about it because you think there are nauseated witnesses, bewildered colleagues, and insulted farmers to corroborate the story. Okay? Now, if this is true, we don’t need to do anything. If we leak, it will eventually be reported that we leaked. Right now, we are innocents. Humble and committed public servants who will later be appalled by the news that the dignity of a bull, and of democracy itself, have been defiled.

  ‘So let the rumour metastasise. Let it grow so large that the papers are compelled to report it. And if they are reluctant, because of manners or evidence, bloggers and talkback radio will pre-empt and compel them. And witnesses will come forth. We sit back until that happens. And it will happen. Then we can talk about what we might call it. But it’ll hardly matter. We won’t need to talk about it because it’ll explode. And then everyone else will do the talking for us. We remain statesmen. The party that doesn’t fuck animals.’

  The party that doesn’t fuck animals. Genius. That night I went to my girlfriend Rachel’s place and, as soon as I was in the kitchen, spat recollections of the day. ‘I was in the Premier’s office,’ I said breathlessly while opening a beer, ‘and the leader of the opposition, he’s fucked a cow, and we talked about that, and, listen, he’s doomed. We’re saved. He fucked a cow, babe. A bull, actually. He blew a bull. Is that fucking? I don’t know. But it’s not cool.’

  She stopped stirring the risotto. ‘Goodlight’s fucking a cow?’

  ‘Fucked. They’re not in a relationship.’

  ‘He fucked a cow?’

  ‘A bull. He blew a bull.’

  At this point, Rachel relaxed her grip on the wooden spoon. ‘You were invited to the Premier’s office?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘To discuss whether Goodlight fucked a cow.’

  ‘It was a bull.’

  ‘Sure. Fine. Goodlight blew a bull.’

  ‘Pretty wild.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, her tone changing. Suddenly I realised my mistake. She’d been indulging me. Allowing me to betray my tawdry excitement. ‘I just don’t know how this matters to the widow I saw today,’ she said. ‘The one who still lives at home even though she’s legally blind. The one who’s a retired English teacher, who has little contact with her family. I won’t bore you with the reasons why. But I bathed her. Dried her. Later, I wiped her arse. And you know what? I didn’t leave after that. Which would be easier. But I stayed, because she needed to change roles. Having played the patient, she wanted to play host. And I let her. She made sandwiches and tea. And then you know what she asked me?’

  I put my beer down.

  ‘She asked me if I liked Dickens, Toby.’

  ‘Dickens?’

  ‘She wanted someone to talk to about him. And she hasn’t asked me if I’ve read him, but if I like him. Right? So I paused before I gave her the bad news that I’ve never read him, but I’m sure he’s great. Then she was quiet for a bit. And this bit sucked. It was just a few seconds. But I could tell that she was disappointed, and figuring out which parts of her enthusiasm could survive my ignorance.

  ‘She’s lonely and she’ll die soon. She has a good mind, but it’s surrounded by ruins. But she never complains. She’s never rude. Instead, she makes tea and small talk. But you know one thing she’s never talked about?’

  I could guess.*

  [* ‘Your girlfriend’s cool.’

  ‘Ex-girlfriend.’

  ‘Makes sense.’]

  Emily was right: there was footage, and within days the media had relaxed its doubts about airing it. Was this not in the public interest? And Belinda was right to hold off: they already had it, it was just a matter of time. Be patient. Don’t get your fingerprints on it. Let it blow up like Little Boy. We were the party that didn’t fuck animals. The full, nauseating effect of the footage was softened by pixilation and poor lighting. Still, it was extraordinary viewing. Video was carried on most news sites; stills were splashed on the nation’s papers beneath headlines like ‘Opposition Leader Blows Chance at Premiership’.

  The paper that scooped the story warned Goodlight, which allowed the opposition leader to prepare and time his resignation. The day after the story broke, Goodlight was assembling the media to announce his departure.

  He must have known this day was coming. The morning after The Slalom, Goodlight would have woken to a profound hangover. First, the headache. Then the swift and terrifying dawn of recollection. For six months, he probably questioned the loyalty of his mates, oscillating between faith and suspicion. More troubling were the two farm folks. Was his charm sufficient to earn their silence? He was smart enough to know the answer.

  At work, we gathered triumphantly around the television to watch Goodlight’s resignation. As we awaited his arrival, I wondered if he’d written his own speech. In parliament, he often spoke memorably — inventively mocking and exaggerating the flaws of his opponents. But how would he speak about his own flaws?

  His wife stood beside him and, judging from the vacancy of her eyes, was practising severe dissociation. She hadn’t signed up for this when, 20 years earlier, she’d married the avuncular car dealer. In sickness, health … and public shame. Was she a reluctant prop, or had she volunteered her support? Did her presence suggest a woman who, after balancing her husband’s talent for sordid catastrophe against his more respectable gifts, found in his favour? Was she observing a private, hard-wrought code of loyalty? Or was this the final, begrudging sacrifice before she requested divorce? Who knew what pained negotiations had occurred, and what unique currency was exchanged in making them? All my colleagues knew was winning and losing. Their marriage was unknowable, but our triumph was clear.

  Film formed on Goodlight’s eyes. Two delicate arcs of salt water, quaveringly holding their surface tension. You could see them on the television, subtly refracting light. Proof of humanity. My colleagues offered a different proof of humanity by taking bets on when the salty meniscu
s would first breach and streak down his face.

  ‘My party is being unfairly tarnished by the ruthless, personality-based attacks of the government,’ Goodlight said. ‘Afraid of their own inadequacy, the government has sought to butcher my reputation. I’m not surprised by their cynicism. But I realise that as long as I attract their attention, my party will suffer. Well, I’m a team player. So today I’m announcing my resignation as leader. Our party will soon hold a ballot for my replacement. And after they do, they will thrive with my full support. Thank you. I won’t be taking any questions.’

  And as Goodlight turned to leave, his cheeks wet, his wife said: ‘No, he’ll take some.’

  Goodlight stopped, stunned. So were we. ‘He’ll take a few questions,’ she said. Oh my God.

  ‘Trevor, the footage was inconclusive — did the bull climax?’

  ‘Matt, you’re an educated man. That question’s beneath you.’

  ‘But you asked my colleague if she enjoyed anal.’

  ‘Matt, if I’ve spoken robustly before, that’s just how I develop rapport. I’m not a pretentious guy. You know that. I’m from the country. Made my own way in this game. And I like some banter. Some to-and-fro. It’s natural where I’m from. Organic. I won’t be crucified by elites for it.’

  ‘My colleague asked for comment on the budget deficit, and you responded by promising to plug her black hole.’

  ‘I won’t be patronised by the media, Matt.’

  ‘I’m not patronising you. I’m asking if you think that’s acceptable.’

  His wife was perfectly still. Expressionless. My questions were suddenly answered: The divorce papers were in the mail.

  ‘Acceptable?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I think notions about my behaviour are being whipped into a soufflé by the government, because they’re scared—’

  ‘I’m not the government, Trevor,’ the journalist said. ‘And I’m not talking about notions. You defiled a beast and harassed my colleagues.’

  When Goodlight didn’t walk off, it became clear to us that, extraordinarily, he wasn’t resigning from parliament — only from the leadership. A man leaving politics would not voluntarily submit to this.

  ‘Let me ask you a question, Matt.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Where were you born?’

  ‘Where was I born?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Adelaide.’

  ‘Wow. A city slicker and a foreigner. See, Matt, this is what I’m talking about. Elites. You come here and deign to tell us country folk how to live. Well, I’m a rough diamond. If I snap a bra, that’s me telling you I love your work. What do you do if you like a colleague’s work? Lemme guess: you email them. You send a nice little note, CC your boss, maybe your mum, and you write, “Nice little job you’re doing.” That’s weird and frigid. I’m not like that. I’m honest.’

  ‘You performed oral sex on a farm animal, and you have serially harassed colleagues and journalists.’

  ‘That’s your description, professor.’

  ‘It’s not a description. It’s a statement of fact.’

  ‘I won’t step into this whirlpool of hearsay.’

  ‘You’ve literally just resigned from the leadership. Aren’t we to assume that you recognise your behaviour is grossly inappropriate, and precludes you from parliament?’

  ‘No. What I recognise is that the government will cynically use—’

  The opposition hastily resurrected its previous leader, who was already packing up his home for a country retirement. ‘Please,’ they begged, and having suffered an embarrassing loss four years previous, they must’ve begged well — or he glimpsed something that few others did.

  The Premier smelt blood and called the earliest election in state history. Was this not a window demanding breach? Should a general not immediately direct his troops through it? The opposition had fellated livestock, and we were the party that didn’t fuck animals.

  The seats were analysed, and the verdict was in: we couldn’t lose.

  Then news broke: the Premier had employed the son of Bessie’s killer. And that blew up like Little Boy. Consecutive front pages, frantic talkback. The fellatio was forgotten. I’d never anticipated this. Never thought it was a possibility. And despite my distinctive name, the party had never questioned me about it before installing me in the Premier’s office.

  ‘Is this really such a big deal?’ I asked Emily.

  ‘Toby, this was our September 11. It’s like the New York mayor hiring Bin Laden’s bastard child.’

  ‘It’s not like that at all.’

  ‘I can’t believe you never said anything.’

  Scared of being recognised, then murdered, on the train, I took a taxi home after work. As mandated by law, the driver had talkback radio on. He had the frightening habit of punching the wheel to affirm the most violent opinions he heard. ‘It is … unbelievable,’ the driver said, ashing his cigarette out his window. ‘Un-fucking-believable. The very flesh and blood of her killer. The very flesh and blood. Un-fucking-believable.’

  This should have been the moment that I pricked my fantasies, stopped trying to impress my dead father, and felt anger instead of shame.

  This was, after all, the city that considered the fatal overdose of six pro footy players in a mafioso’s spa to be a rite of passage.

  The city that had progressively bulldozed itself, then replaced its heritage with statues of eels and iron ore.

  The city whose most famous novels were about sand, and which had retained the death penalty for projectionists who screened The Exorcist on Good Friday.

  The city that dreamt recurringly of secession.

  The city that killed Father.

  But I’m ashamed to say that I felt no indignity, only sadness and contrition. Instead of standing righteously before the city, I anxiously knelt. I would take my lumps for the party. The next day, I tearfully offered Belinda my resignation.

  ‘Too late, mate,’ she said, and waved me out.

  They were the party that fucked animals. We were the party that killed idols.

  And we lost.

  Land of the free, home of the knave

  I knew that I’d never work in politics in this town again, but I also knew that no other town would care about my past. I was still going to change the world by filling powerful mouths. Of course I would. I had to. What mattered more than facilitating democracy? Than social reform? Than history? I applied for a speechwriting role in Canberra, for the Department of Arts, Innovation, and Robots.

  Then, rich with time and motivated to leave the city, I flew to Washington DC for Obama’s first inauguration. A pilgrimage for the baptism of the great orator. I was in love with America’s political letters: Lincoln’s speeches. Grant’s memoirs. Emerson’s journals.

  A week before, in Texas, I’d met with one of Lyndon Johnson’s speechwriters in the lobby of the dead president’s library. Henry was frail but still thrumming with recalled glories, and he was pissed that Obama hadn’t mentioned his guy on the campaign trail. After all, he told me, LBJ had helped pave the road for the first African-American president — and not once had Obama referenced the father of the Civil Rights Act in his numerous tributes to dead presidents.

  I nodded, then asked Henry if he had ever seen Johnson’s penis. I’d read enough history to know that: 1. LBJ had christened it Jumbo; 2. He had once, from the Oval Office, irritably explained to tailors the inability of his trousers to accommodate it; and 3. He would casually display old mate while intimidating congressmen in his favourite site of negotiation: the urinal. This seemed to me, a lazy and amateur historian, not an act of simple vulgarity but inspired self-possession. LBJ understood the great, disorienting power of transgression. A shameless man is a powerful one. So as it was, I thought the odds were pretty good that Henry had glimpsed Jumbo, po
ssibly even been threatened by him.

  But Henry pretended not to hear me. ‘Obama has erased Johnson’s legacy,’ he told me. ‘But I guess Johnson did a good job of that himself.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘I moved to Texas after he left the White House,’ he told me, shifting slowly in his chair. ‘Now, I’m from the Midwest. I wasn’t familiar with Lyndon’s South. But the President had asked me here to help him write his memoirs. So, dutifully, I came.’ He was looking at me intensely now.

  ‘We’d talk on his ranch for hours. There was Scotch. Cigars. A sinking sun. “Are you getting this down, boy?” he’d ask. And Lady Bird would come out occasionally to monitor his drinks and smokes. He’d promised her far fewer than he’d had. And she’d see the ash and empty bottles and she’d shake her head, just slightly, not wanting to embarrass him in front of me, but she knew he was killing himself. Then she’d return inside. Lyndon would wait for that back door to shut. Then he’d wait a second more. Then he’d lift his cigar from the table, wink at me, and resume his story.

  ‘These conversations were unvarnished.’ Henry was leaning into me now, our noses almost touching. ‘Lyndon had a way of speaking. He was direct. You can say he was crude, unsophisticated, but that doesn’t matter. This was the ex-President speaking. Honestly. These porch chats were historically golden. His career was over, and he was relaxed and holding court on his legacy. It was real. Cuban cigars, Cutty Sark, long hair, and loose belt. But a week later, when I showed him the transcripts, he said they were too informal, too strange, that if published they would undermine the dignity of the office. So those porch sessions vanished. And Lyndon himself vanished behind the false language of his memoirs.’ He wasn’t looking at me anymore, but off into the past.*

  [* I see now that Henry had a disturbingly sentimental faith in his country’s virtue, and, long after Johnson’s death, still believed that his old boss was a brilliantly potent expression of it. But despite this very American sentimentality, Henry had retained an historian’s interest in recording the ragged idiosyncrasies of his power. And the truth was that his old boss was a prodigiously conniving shit whose power was not exercised in the morally decorous bubble suggested by his official memoirs.