by Trevor Veale
“I would now like to offer the platform to the person I’m sure you’re all dying to see – my sweet daughter-in-law, Dawna Gorm!”
As the crowd erupted into excited cheers, whistles and yells, Godfrey stepped aside to allow Dawna to mount the podium. Nervous and trembling, she adjusted the height of the microphone. The she took a few sips of water and, pushing down her anxiety, spoke in a low, apprehensive voice.
“I’ve been asked to say a few words to support my wonderful father-in-law, Godfrey Gorm,” she said, her words huskily scraping the microphone. “He is a man of high integrity, charm and dedication to his calling. Those who meet and get to know him are impressed by his warmheartedness and know that behind the dignified exterior he is a caring and devoted family man. In short, he will provide an able constitutional monarch, er, president. Sorry.”
Her last flustered words were drowned out by enthusiastic cheering that continued until the presidential party had all stepped down from the platform and disappeared backstage.
Chapter 51
Slamil Seeks Relief
Paul Slamil stood up to take a break in the middle of a cabinet meeting and found himself looking at a squally, gusty November morning. He stared out one of the tall elegant windows of the cabinet room, struck a match and lit a cigarette, the glow from which reflected in the window. He saw how tired and drawn he looked. He was getting sick of arguing about the best way to deal with the ‘new’ Church Party. What he needed was a good fuck. He thought briefly of going out and buying one, but reined in the impulse. He was in a relationship now, and didn’t want to go back to his old ways. He had grown sick of the sleaziness of paying for sex in Melloria: the sneaking out for the furtive deal in some back street dive in East City, knowing the secret service were waiting across the street.
The last time he’d done it he’d walked kilometers, making unnecessary turns, twisting and changing his route, entering and leaving large buildings by different doors, and generally doing his best to confuse whoever was following him. He knew somebody was, even when you were the Party leader.
He’d achieved his goal, after knocking softly and slipping inside an unmarked door. The three youths lounging in an upstairs bar, drinking beer and smoking Saint, barely gave him a glance. He picked one: slim, touslehaired, acne around his chin. Lust had billowed up inside him, along with the usual paranoia. They went into one of the grubby little rooms and on a grimy bed the boy gave him a blowjob. After he’d counted out the money they’d agreed on, the youth had mumbled: “May your goolies never dry up.”
“Hey, Paul, what d’you think about us giving the Church Party some heat?” he heard Joe Steel say. He grimaced and went back to his place at the cabinet table. Joe Steel had been urging him and the other ministers to show some muscle and start bouncing Church Party volunteers off the streets. He was pissed off that they had begun handing out leaflets and rattling collection tins, formerly the prerogative of the People’s Party.
“When are we gonna get back to our roots and kick some ass?” he growled. It was a question Slamil had asked himself. When they had first come to power the People’s Party had presented a united front, and now factions and disagreements dominated every discussion. Money for the government’s spending needs and the Party’s election campaign had to be fought for, and every meeting he presided over felt like he was restraining dogs from tearing each other apart over an emaciated carcass.
Since the Slobodians had turned off the tap and the Party’s financial drought had begun, the call from Joe Steel and his supporters to get back to their roots and kick ass had grown stronger and couldn’t be ignored. Bullying and intimidation, street brawls and gerrymandering were what the Party had grown up with and many were hankering to get back to the old ways.
“All right,” he said, turning his gaze on Steel and the other ministers grouped around the table, “We’ll do whatever we have to do. Starting today. In six days’ time we go to the polls, and if we don’t do anything to stop the rot, our lead will slip away, that’s clear. If we can’t rely on the will of the people, we’ll have to use our own.”
He hoisted himself to his feet and walked to the door. “I’m leaving the rough stuff to you,” he called out to Steel. “Meeting closed.”
Slamil went back to his office and put his denim work jacket on. It was chilly and damp outside, and he didn’t want to take the hard edge off his lust. He went back into the cabinet room, past the table and the chattering, departing ministers, and into the outer office where the secretaries worked. One of them sat staring listlessly at the screen of her monitor. She was divorced, and four kids between ten and seventeen live with her in a cramped government-built apartment.
He smiled at her discretely.
“I’ll be gone for a few hours, Norma,” he declared. “I have to get a haircut.” It seemed awkward to be leaving early without a reason.
“Have a nice trim, Paul.”
He looked at her blankly, then the penny dropped. He began to say something but for a moment no reply occurred to him. He shrugged. “I’ll try…” he finally stammered.
He walked through an open doorway. “I’ll see you later.”
“Have a nice one,” the secretary said. She and her junior assistant looked after him indulgently as he walked toward the elevator hall.
“Is he going out for a screw? I thought he and Trane were an item,” the junior assistant said.
“Cut him some slack – he’s got to get some relief from all the madness going on,” the secretary replied, gesturing at the clutter of figures on her screen. “He spends every waking hour in meetings and conferences or locked up in his goddam office. Wouldn’t you want to go out on the razzle once in a while?”
The assistant savored her thoughts. “What do you think Trane does while Paul’s working?” she said teasingly. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Shame on you if that’s what’s on your mind,” the secretary said, smiling. “I’m thinking I’m glad I’m not Paul, that’s what I’m thinking.”
They both giggled.
Slamil went out through the grand marble entrance of Government house and the damp cold air wrapped around him. He walked across the street with his eyes on the pavement and his hands in his jeans pockets, missing the donkey carts and cyclists by centimeters. There was a keen wind and it stung his face around the metal frames of his glasses.
He got into the government car he shared with Joe Steel and felt he was leaving a madhouse. He couldn’t concentrate on election surveys any longer. Unless everything was fixed, which would bring down the wrath of the international media, elections were always a crap shoot. With Godfrey and his circus in town, the present one was getting dangerously unpredictable – so something would have to be fixed. It was the only way they could get a clear run and then start building a socialist Melloria. With or without the fucking Slobodians! He heard himself explaining this to an imaginary audience. His argument was convincing and the audience applauded.
He turned the key in the ignition and immediately Beethoven’s Eroica filled the interior. It was a CD of Herbert von Karajan conducting the Berlin Philharmonic. So that’s what Joe pumps himself up with in the morning! Too heavy for me. He snapped it off and drove toward East City. As an economy measure, it was government policy that cabinet ministers share one car between two on alternate days, the other days using the cabinet shuttle bus. Slamil didn’t mind riding the bus, it gave him the chance to keep in touch with what his colleagues were gossiping about.
Halted at the next stoplight, he felt the first trickle of relief. He was clear of the madhouse, he was free. He His thoughts swung from his lover to the neediness of his cock. His visits to sleazy hangouts, which had become addictive after the long hours of arguing and strategizing, decreased after he moved in with Coltrane. But with the increased pressure of a suddenly two-sided election, having quick sex to ease the biting tension was overwhelmingly tempting.
Much as he enjoyed knowing he c
ould go home happy, nestle beside his lover and allow peace to caress him, he still craved something more exciting. It astounded him how little the nastiness of the crass world of politics impinged on this crude lust. Sleeping with his cheek against Trane’s chest was all right at night, but by day he needed to take a walk on the wild side.
His heart was beginning to re-experience the elation it had known six years ago after his last love had ended, a love that had been hard sealed with bitterness, partly due to his repeated infidelity. Hey, he thought, Trane isn’t made of fine porcelain: we live in tough times, you just have to make the best of it.
The lights changed and he drove on, past the Food Stamp Office and the Palace of Justice and under the commemorative arch to the Fallen of the People’s Revolution – all two of them, blown up by the bomb they’d been trying to detonate. At the far end of Paul Slamil Avenue, he swung into the parking lot of a pub, The Gay Hussar. Hope it lives up to the promise of its name, he said to himself.
He turned off the engine and walked in. His heart, for no discernible reason, was leaping up and down in childlike expectation. He had run from the gloom of dwindling poll support and toward the beckoning lights. He looked warmly at the neon sign in the pub window and raindrops started plopping onto his head like excited thoughts.
He paused with his hand on the doorknob. There was a red-headed man serving behind the bar he vaguely remembered hitting on the last time he went cruising. The memory was a pleasant one. He pushed the door open. The place was crowded, even at this time of the morning, swelled by groups of unemployed men, looking to sell what they had or to find some relief from the dullness of inactivity.
Although his face was the most instantly recognizable in the country, nobody turned to look at him. That’s one thing I love about Melloria, he thought, nobody gives a stuff how famous you are – they just want to see the color of your money. There was a single stool vacant at the bar and he took it. Marc Almond groaned Tainted Love on the jukebox, and his heart jumped faster.
The bartender did a doubletake, then greeted him like a returning lover. “Hey, sweetheart, how’s it hanging?”
“Hey,” Slamil said.
A couple of men at the bar eyed his faded denim jacket and yellow boots. Only People’s Party members wore workmen’s clothes, the absence of work saw to that. Confronted with the bartender, he felt impelled to explain his presence.
“Just thought I’d drop by for a quick one,” he said.
“Good move,” the bartender replied. “Vodka?”
“Double, with a splash of Coke.”
When he shoved a bundle of hundred-moon bills toward the bartender, the barman pushed half of them back.
“Happy hour,” he explained.
“Ah,” Slamil said. He watched the barman’s pecs flexing under his black T-shirt as he poured the vodka. “Not a moment too soon!” Slamil said as he drank.
Several hours later, when the lunchtime crowd poured in and the barman was finishing his shift, Slamil leaned across and whispered that he’d like to offer him a ride. Then he left and sat in the car with the engine running and the Beethoven CD on full volume. The redhead swung in beside him and they drove off.
Chapter 52
The Campaigners Return
The twinkling lights of downtown Melloria City stretched out of sight to right and left. The campaignmobile was rolling away from them, its passengers looking forward to getting some rest. They had been on the road for ten grueling hours, and Godfrey wished they could select a bottle of champagne from the cooler instead of a bottle of tap water. There were five more days of campaigning before Election Day and everyone was thoroughly exhausted. Larry Lepager was urging them to make one more big push to secure the key battleground wards of Crapula and Polyp, and he, Letitia and Anton were setting out early to canvas the outlying wards.
The vehicle slowed and stopped before the modest gray cottage where Lepager had billeted the Gorms, and they all climbed out and stumbled into the living room. Godfrey decided he’d go off to bed. Dawna had been given a free morning to call her parents and Betty respectively, and she and Anton stayed up late, talking in the living room. Letitia had already gone straight to bed.
Next morning Dawna spent a few minutes cooing to Angus and getting a report on his latest doings from Betty, while the others prepared to leave. After her phone call, Dawna decided to see a lawyer and speed up the divorce. Confiding in Godfrey about what she intended to do, she called for a cab to the attorney, who quickly drafted a letter which he faxed to Catheter’s attorney. She drove back to the cottage for lunch and sat through a meal that was tense and spartan. Food shortages in the country meant they ate a casserole of cabbage and turnip, with cacah for dessert. Godfrey and his party had had a rough morning. The roads leading out of town were cratered with holes, and Godfrey had felt he was in danger of castration with each jolt of the campaignmobile’s wheels. They had also been stopped by a police roadblock outside the village of Crapula and, without Dawna to charm the police, they had been turned back.
Godfrey’s indignation against the People’s Party simmered below the surface as they ate. He conversed in a low, muttering tone, with the others, most of whom maintained a sullen silence. Letitia found both the food and conversation unsatisfactory, though she was mollified by the young man who cooked for them and served them. He had a square-set jaw and hair combed aggressively back, and he bent at the waist when introduced to the Gorms, in the old Mellorian manner.
Halfway through the meal, the young cook/waiter brought a faxed message for Dawna. She read it, white-knuckled with rage, and stuffed it beside her plate. Sensing it was time to leave, Godfrey wound up the meal by coughing uncomfortably. Dawna stared at him, a desperate incomprehension in her glance. She felt like she was slowly coming out of a trance.
“Catheter wants custody of Angus!” she blurted out. “He says I’m not a fit mother.”
Godfrey’s face took on a dark hue, and he coughed harder. Letitia whispered to him: “Looks like Cathy’s come out of his shell!”
When lunchtime came to an end, Dawna headed straight for her bedroom. She flung herself on the bed and lay staring up, her arms folded. Anton knocked on the half-open door and poked his head round.
“Anything I can do?” he said.
“Yes, tell your brother he’s a cunt!” she yelled.
Turning his iPod up, he left and closed the door. Yes, I should, he thought moodily.
Following her shock at the lunch table, Dawna refused to contact Catheter or answer the message he sent her. She spent most of the afternoon phoning her therapist, Dr Phil McPain, whose method of treatment was to have his client sit completely still and rack her memory for painful incidents and then free associate. While waiting for him to answer his phone, she kept herself still on a chair, even though she was dying to squirm. She found the body position she had to maintain highly uncomfortable, but knew the process demanded it. It was like having to endure intense heat doing bikram yoga – you did it because you knew it would slow your monkey mind and you would reap spiritual benefits.
Eventually McPain came on the line and began his snarling session. She was still reeling from the last bruising encounter with him, and couldn’t understand why he was so nasty to her, even though she had revealed all her lies and self-deceptions. Sometimes she thought his only improvement over her last therapist, Spencer Drool, was that he was less creepy.
“Okay,” McPain said. “I want you to open your mind and really let go.”
With a small nod of assent, she released the first jostling memories in a very soft voice. “We were fighting all the time when I lived at the palace with him. We don’t share the same tastes – actually we don’t share anything except the same air. We were supposed to take lunch and dinner together with the rest of the family – breakfast was the only optional meal – but I couldn’t bear to be in the same room with him, so I usually stayed upstairs.”
“What did you eat?” he asked.
/> She gave a hollow laugh, and the diamond earrings shook on her ears.
“I went back to my old ways,” she said. “The only difference between then and now is now I can eat Milky Ways in the bathroom without fear of being interrupted or spied on. It was strange, looking back, to be standing there eating in the dark. Now I can keep the light on. I looked at myself in the mirror, while I was chewing. I looked gross. Then I stood on the scales and weighed myself. I was back to 51 kg, so maybe I’m not doing so bad.”
“How does he eat?” he asked suddenly.
She replied without missing a beat. “ – like a starving man at a lunch counter. Works his knife and fork like a pair of pistons. Glares at his plate.”
“What are you trying to do to him?” he asked tonelessly.
She paused. “Actually, I’m trying to make him happy. I’m trying to remain the slender girl he married, the daughter of a king and queen – his bride.”
She smiled at the thought of him now, squirming with impotent rage and longing for Lucinda.
“What’s been happening lately?”
“This past week’s been hell,” she said. “I can’t seem to get a grip on anything. I told him I wanted a quick, clean divorce, and now he wants to cut me out of Angus’s life.” She pouted listlessly. “But then every week’s hell, so what the hell?”
“What does he want?”
“He told me he wanted her. He doesn’t have a gram of doubt.”
“And you have oodles – of doubt, uncertainty and anxiety.”
“Yes.”
“So where do you go from here?”
She shrugged her shoulders, making the earrings shake again.
“He has his life and I have mine. We’re through. It’s over. I don’t want to moan about how unfair life is. It’ll hurt less with time.”
“Okay, now give me some opinions as to why he wasn’t able to love you.”