by Trevor Veale
“If this momentum keeps up,” he said excitedly, “We stand a real chance of winning, by a handsome majority. Pollsters outside the Mothers Union building this evening were inundated with people wishing to proclaim their support for the Church Party, for you as their future president and for Dawna as the most beautiful woman they’d ever seen!”
Letitia had a sudden spasm of noisy coughing, to the point where Godfrey asked if she’d like a glass of water. Choking back the comments about Dawna she would have liked to make, she shook her head vigorously. “No, I’m all right,” she gasped. “I’m just a little concerned about the reason for our sudden rise in popularity.
Chapter 54
The People’s Party Shows Its Hand
Paul Slamil, having read the latest polls, wondered how the election would go. He knew how easy it was to falsify results in the interests of the greater good, but the received wisdom stated that to win the hearts and minds of the people took time and patience, skill and finesse, yet a pretty ex-princess was sweeping all that away.
Or was she? How could he – or anyone else – be sure whether her popularity in the polls signified a win for the Church Party or was merely a symptom of the people’s addiction to glamour. He would have to do some research. He took off his glasses and folded his arms, letting his mind range over the possibilities for action. There was the extreme possibility of a final solution of the Dawna problem, which he knew Joe Steel would jump at, but he pushed that idea to the back of the queue. At its head stood the possibility of a dialog with the people, one on one. He got up and put on his denim work jacket, then he went into the outer office, nodding to the secretary as he passed her.
“Just going out for a breath of fresh air and a bite to eat, Norma,” he said. “I need the exercise, so I won’t be using the car.”
From the stately edifice of Government House he walked toward East City, along the avenue named after himself (against his modest protests) by unanimous cabinet approval, and into his party’s heartland. He passed the remnants of grand and elegant stores, mostly empty or boarded up, and entered a world where beggars attempted to avoid the police as they preyed on passing traffic, crows picked among the garbage in the gutters, small boys in rags rushed around, old women shuffled along in anonymous black , mangy dogs snapped and were kicked, skinny cats mewed and were ignored, and everything stank – from the heaps of fetid, rotting garbage and the uncovered candies the sweetsellers were offering to the worn-out donkeys nodding their blindered heads.
Life went noisily on in these narrow streets, lined with cheap apartment houses, and packed close with small stores, barbershops and cafes. It was into one of these counterrooms that Slamil stepped.
“Onion stew,” he told the man behind the counter and sat at one of the three tiny tables. A dumpy peasant woman in a headscarf slurped from a bowl of stew at the next table.
Slamil thought about onion stew for a while, and what it symbolized for him personally and for his country. It was one of the two staple winter foods of the poor, the other being turnip stew, and thinking of it brought back vivid memories: of days spent moving from safe house to safe house, always one step ahead of the secret police, and of the whole pre-revolution period. Many a time he had turned up, famished and tired, at the home of a trusted party member, to be offered a steaming bowl of the nourishing broth. He smiled and nodded when the bowl of stew was brought to him by the counterman.
“Good grub, eh?” he said to the woman at the next table, who looked to be in her sixties, as he started spooning it down
“Huh?” She looked up. “Oh, yeah.”
They both ate for a few minutes
“You’re not from here,” she observed.
“You’re right.”
“You’ve got a coastal accent. From Shekels?”
“’Smatter of fact, that’s where I grew up.”
She laughed and slurped her last spoonful.
He cleared his throat and put down his spoon. “What d’you think of this election then?”
“Oh, I don’t pay it no mind. Things’ll go on just as before, whoever wins,” she said.
He grunted non-committally. Then he looked away from her, as if being careful of who might be watching them.
“Honestly, though, d’you think old King God has any chance of getting in?”
“Not sure I ought to say,” she said. “Walls have ears, you know.”
“Yeah, I know. But you must have some idea – you’re smart enough to know where I come from!”
The woman sucked in her cheeks. “Well, if you ask me I think it’s Princess Dawna who’s winning it for him. She’s an absolute star, isn’t she? It’s a shame it’s not her who’s running for prez.”
“You think so?”
“I know so. Most of the people I know would queue up in the rain to vote for her, if they had the chance.”
“Oh,” he said softly, and finished his stew. He didn’t speak or look at her again. He got up and left a hundred moon bill beside his bowl.
Fucking hell, he thought, Steel is right – she is the Phantom Menace,
As he left the café a man standing in a doorway on the other side of the street observed him. He lifted the lapel of his coat and spoke into a transmitter. Then he went into the cafe and ordered turnip stew, and was soon talking to the woman in the headscarf. When Slamil turned the corner to walk back to Government House, a man standing in a shop doorway discretely followed.
On the last morning before polling day, the young man who cooked for the Gorms was interrupted in the kitchen by a knock at the front door. When he opened it, four men in black People’s Party uniforms stood before him. He tried to close the door, but a powerful hand clamped his wrist and another shoved him down the hallway.
“Don’t mess with us, big boy!” one of them said pushing him against a wall.
“This is your first warning,” he added, his face close to the cook’s. “Tell that tall blonde in your house to take a plane back to Bulimia today. Her exit visa’s been approved.”
He released the cook and turned to leave, leading the others to the door.
“Remember, there won’t be a second warning,” he said over his shoulder.
When the archbishop was told about the threat, he immediately called a meeting with the Gorms.
“These guys aren’t bullshitting,” he said, unusually blunt. “They’ll carry out their threat if we don’t take extra security measures.”
“What do you propose?” Godfrey asked.
“I propose we keep Dawna under constant guard until voting begins tomorrow. We have rugby-playing priests, tough scoutmasters and tae-kwon-do blackbelt nuns who can accompany her wherever she goes, although I recommend she stays indoors until you all go to cast your votes.”
“That’s a splendid idea!” Letitia cried, her enthusiasm based more on a desire to keep her daughter-in-law out of the public eye than to ensure her safety. “I will personally keep guard, by always standing in front of her at public events.”
“Oh I don’t think you need go that far,” Lepager said, before he caught the weary look in Godfrey’s eye.
“Yeah man, leave it to the ninja nuns,” Anton piped up. “They’ll also make sure she doesn’t eat too many Snickers bars.”
The day passed uneventfully with another Church Party cavalcade to Mellinda, the second largest town in Melloria, producing the by now routine streams of cars, crowds and cameras. TV crews shooting newsreels moved among the crowds and Church Party volunteers handed out pamphlets as fast as they could. Mothers steered infants, strapped in their strollers, toward Dawna, who greeted them with smiles and told them how much she missed Angus. Letitia did her best to keep up with her daughter-in-law, but felt delicate shudders of horror when she saw how people were flocking to her in droves, and realized no one could prevent her from outshining Godfrey.
Chapter 55
The First Election
When she came down for breakfast next morning, Dawna could ba
rely sit still on her chair, she was so tense and nervous. By evening she and the other Gorms would know whether they would be able to stay in Melloria. It didn’t matter to her whether the divorce was granted here or in Bulimia, though she wondered what the position would be, in the event of Godfrey winning. If the present liberal divorce laws were replace by Church Party laws, she might have problems. She picked at her food.
She heard two sets of footsteps, the measured tread of Godfrey and the trotting walk of Letitia. The door was flung open by Godfrey and banged shut by Leitita. They still aren’t quite used to opening their own doors, she thought, quietly amused.
“Morning,” Godfrey said, eyeing the modestly laden breakfast table.
“Morning,” she returned, and smiled at them both. Letitia smiled formally back, and Godfrey sat down and immediately tucked into the granola, washed down with cups of black coffee.
Anton and Archbishop Lepager entered. “Wassup,” was Anton’s greeting.
“Good morning, everybody I hope you’re all looking forward to casting your vote!” Lepager said.
“How do you rate our chances today, Larry” Godfrey said.
Lepager gave a resigned sigh. “I’d like to say they’re good – but we know the People’s Party aren’t going to play fair.”
“Face it, Pops,” Anton said, sitting at the breakfast table and grabbing the box of cereal, “you’ve lost the election.” He shook it into his bowl.
Godfrey scratched his head and poured some more coffee. The he rubbed his stubby cheeks pensively. “Well, if the reds do try to cheat us out of our victory, let’s see how the foreign media reacts,” he said.
The first order of official business was registering the Gorm family’s votes. The polling station they were to use was at the school Craig used to attend. They drove there in the campaignmobile, Church Party flags flapping in the breeze.
The polling booth opened at nine on a cold but dry morning and the limo circled Revolution Square just as the cathedral clock was clanging out the hour. A line of prospective voters already stretched across the square.
“A good turnout,” Godfrey said.
“They’ve got nothing better to do, they’re unemployed,” Anton muttered.
“It’s a good turnout of intimidators as well,” Lepager added, pointing out the large gang of black-uniformed People’s Party stewards gathered near the school entrance. They looked menacing, and Lepager reminded the Gorms that there would be no foreign media present – they had been banned until after the polls closed by a recent ordinance.
“Never mind – we’ll record this ourselves,” Godfrey said as they stepped down from the limousine. With his family lined up behind him, Godfrey stood in his drycleaned commander-in-chief’s uniform, his chest a galaxy of shining medals. He nodded to Anton who carried one of Catheter’s digital camcorders. “This is it. Roll the camera. Acton!”
With a heavy tread they all marched across the square, to face a line of police in front of the school, fronted by the mayor of Melloria City and the chief of police.
“Mr Mayor, please open the voting,” Godfrey said in a firm, commanding voice. “I want to cast my vote as soon as possible.”
The mayor gave a signal and the school door opened. Godfrey strode toward the entrance, turning at the door.
“And now,” he announced to the waiting voters and the camera Anton held, “the voting will begin!”
There were cheers and cries of “Godfrey for Prez!” as he marched into the school hall, followed by his family. The voting clerk at the desk beside the polling booth found Godfrey’s name on the register with little trouble, and with a flourish Godfrey signed and entered the booth. He reached up and closed the privacy curtain, aware that many eyes were on him. This isn’t the time or place to screw up, he told himself.
Inside the booth was a gray plastic box with a keypad that had two lit red squares on it. One said MPRP and the other MPCDP. Cursing the modern obsession with acronyms, Godfrey pressed the square marked MPCDP. The gray box beeped and a panel lit up with the words VOTE RECORDED on it. He slid the curtain open and a burst of applause greeted his reappearance.
“How does this apparatus work?” he asked the clerk in charge of registration.
“It’s all electronic,” the official said. “Your vote goes into the gizmo’s memory bank and when the voting is over for the day the central computer captures all the votes from all the machines and enters them into its data base. When all the voting stations have been inputted, the final vote is computed.”
“Is there any possibility of cheating?” Godfrey inquired.
“Cheating, sir? You mean manipulating the figures?” the man said with a smirk. “Absolutely not, that would be illegal.”
Godfrey turned his back on the man’s smirking face and went outside to wait, while the rest of his family voted. To his surprise, he recognized the woman standing at the head of the queue of voters. It was his wife’s former maid, Sharon, whom he remembered with a slightly uncomfortable feeling.
“Well, well, “ he said, shifting his feet “and how are you these days?”
“As well as can be expected, sir,” she said, in a tone that managed to be both sour and deferential.
“Good, good.” He nodded and smiled stiffly.
“And how is your, er, family?”
She shrugged. “Dad’s in a nursing home and Craig’s getting home tuition.”
She suddenly brightened. “And I’m getting married in the spring to your driver, Simpkins - and we’re thinking of moving to Bulimia.”
“Splendid!” he said. “Melloria’s loss is Bulimia’s gain.” He spoke almost automatically, as though he were addressing an anonymous voter, although a vague sense of unease stirred him as he moved away.
Sharon went into the hall and took her place on the voting line.
He could at least have asked how Craig was coming along with his lessons, the bastard! she thought as she entered the polling booth.
“That’s it then,“ Godfrey announced, when they were all back in the limo. “Nothing more to do until the polls close at six.”
“No more canvassing? No more geeing up the loyal voters? We’d better hope we’ve done enough to defeat Mr Slamil,” Letitia warned.
They drove back to the cottage, where Godfrey spent the rest of the day watching election broadcasts on TV.
“Why don’t you take some interest in what’s going on in the world?” He called to Anton who was playing Angry Birds on his smartphone.
“Nobody watches Mellorian TV – it’s dead boring, and the news is pants,” Anton replied.
“You’re right,” Godfrey growled. “I’m off to bed. Wake me up at six.” He got up and left the room. The news announcement on the TV that he’d been watching ended with martial music and a rippling of red-star flags.
“Time for you to wake up. The polls are just closing!” Letitia’s sharp voice penetrated Godfrey’s sleeping consciousness.
“All right,” he said thickly, yawning and stretching. “Let’s listen to the results.”
The preliminary results were already coming in when Godfrey stumbled into the living room. Archbishop Lepager was giving vent to his agitation, shaking his fist at the TV.
“After all the work we put in!” he raged. “They’re predicting a landslide for the People’s Party. Truly, the forces of darkness are ranged against us!”
“Perhaps Slamil’s thugs have cowed the voters into submission, and they’re afraid to vote for us,” Letitia ventured.
“I think it’s simpler than that,” Anton offered. “The government controls the computer that records the votes, and they can bring in any final result they like. It’s a waste of time campaigning against a setup like that. Let’s face it, we’re smoked!”
“I think Slamil may have overplayed his hand – “ Godfrey began, but Letitia shushed him.
“Shush! The results are being announced.”
The announcer, a pumped-up woman whose head was s
haved and a red star painted on her scalp, was beaming into the camera as an off-key fanfare of trumpets blared out.
“The final results are coming in now. They show a clear majority for Paul Slamil and the People’s Party. The voters in Wards One and Two have spoken with one voice and firmly rejected the tired old policies of the Church Party in favor of a bright new future for our country. Wait – just a moment – yes, the first results have just been handed to me.”
She waved a sheet of paper at the camera.
“The results just in from City Wards One and Two: MPRP 4060, MPCDP 2120, and from Melinda, Melloria’s second city: MPRP 1080, MPCDP 740. This last location is the seat of the former Bishop of Mellinda, now the Archbishop of Melloria, Lawrence Lepager, a man who had continued to belittle our government and its achievements. He’ll now have to eat his words!”
“They’re really sticking it to you, blud,” Anton said to Lepager.
“We can only hope the foreign media all realize this election has been rigged and report it to the world,” Lepager said.
The announcer gloated with smug satisfaction as she continued reading results that were favorable to the People’s Party. Suddenly, she craned her neck as a message came onto her monitor, and she pointed off-camera.
“We’re taking you over to Government House where the man who will soon be announced as our first president, a man we acknowledge for the work he has already done… He is stepping forward now… the crowd is going wild… He is raising his hand for silence… Silence has fallen on the crowd, waiting, filled with expectation, beneath the balcony where he is standing… He is about to speak, our newly-elected president, Paul Slamil!”
The screen filled with Slamil’s craggy features. His mouth worked silently before the first syllables were heard.