by Trevor Veale
“My fellow Mellorians, the election is now coming to an end. The end that we always knew in our hearts would come. You have given us your trust to serve as the people’s government during the transition from absolute monarchy to popular democracy. And soon you will give us the mandate to continue as your government. As your soon-to-be-elected president I thank you all, humbly and sincerely, and pledge to do my best to – ”
Anton pressed the channel button on the remote and Slamil’s face was replaced by that of a foreign woman reporter standing on the steps of City Hall. Anton pressed another button and brought up the Mellorian voiceover.
“The polls are now closed and the citizens of this tiny country are tuning to hear the results. Those without access to radio or television are standing here in Revolution Square where huge video screens have been erected. They are showing the face of Paul Slamil as he addresses the people on the eve of tonight’s results. I’m going to ask a member of the People’s Party, the party of the government, for his reaction to this election.”
A People’s Party hack was ushered forward, looking decidedly uneasy as he faced the camera.
“Tell us if you will,” the reporter said, “what you think the result will be when the final polls are announced.”
“Yes, of course,” the party hack replied. “We’re going to win by a landslide.” He looked at the reporter and frowned.
The reporter continued to hold up her microphone.
“Are you happy with the way the election has been conducted by your party?”
He looked around nervously. “Yes, the campaign has been excellent.”
“Okay,” the voiceover cut in, “we are now about to hear the final count – the election returns are coming in. The big screens are showing the very latest figures.”
When the outcome was announced, the party worker lurking behind the news reporter seemed to shrink inside his black uniform. Behind him, the crowd roared in protest.
“This result is amazing,” the voiceover said. “Just twenty-seven of the wards for the MPCDP and every one of the remaining 270 for the MPRP. Let’s hear what some of the crowd here have to say about it.”
The microphone was passed to an annoyed young blonde in a suede coat and jeans. “No way can the vote in Ward One be that low. Everybody I know voted for the Church Party. I think someone’s been flushing our votes down the toilet.”
“So you’re saying you think the votes have been tampered with?”
“Of course, the People’s Party are a load of criminals. It’s a stitch-up!”
Other voices echoed the protest. “We’ve been cheated! Cheated of our democratic rights!”
“Falsification without representation!”
The voiceover picked up the crowd’s excitement. “Let’s find out what the rest of the crowd thinks,” the reporter held her microphone over the heads of the crowd that was milling around the camera.
“Will every person here who has voted for the Church Party and for Godfrey Gorm as president please raise your hand!”
A hubbub of voices rose along with a growing number of hands. Slowly, firmly, defiantly, a forest of waving hands emerged from the crowd.
“Thank you. Will you please lower your hands. Now raise your hands if you voted for the People’s Party and Paul Slamil for prez.”
The number of raised hands dropped dramatically. Just a scattering of hands were hesitantly raised. The voiceover became ecstatic.
“This is the most amazing scene! The people of Melloria, this tiny country on the eastern edge of Central Europe, are showing their true preference. The vast majority of voters in this crowd clearly feel they’ve been deprived of their franchise. This result seems to raise an embarrassing question mark over the government’s integrity. Clearly, if the votes were fixed, the winner of this election is Godfrey Gorm and the Church Party.”
The reporter waved her hand to indicate the extent of the seething discontent building up in the crowd. The camera passed over a mass of angry faces.
The voiceover continued in a more somber, serious voice. “If the official results of this election are allowed to stand, a massive crime of disenfranchisement will have been committed. The government must reconsider its position – “
“Oh boy,” Lepager said, and gave Anton a high five.
“You’re going to be elected, Dear, “Letitia said, and kissed Godfrey’s unshaven cheek. “Congratulations.”
Chapter 56
The Die Is Cast
The furore from the international media’s exposure of its vote-rigging forced the government to call a second ballot. At a stormy cabinet meeting Penny Slam the Finance Minister told the others: “If we don’t do something to show we’re honest, the world will treat us as a corrupt dictatorship and we won’t qualify for any World Bank loans. Our development program will grind to a halt and disappear. Without foreign money this country will go bankrupt.”
Paul Slamil endorsed the view of his finance minister:
“We intend to conduct an honest campaign. If our new world starts corrupt, it’ll go on being corrupt We want the Mellorian people to have confidence in us as the only true party of the people – and they won’t if they think we’re a bunch of crooks who can only win by fiddling the books.”
“That’s all fine and noble, Paul,” Joe Steel replied, “but if we’re squeaky clean and the other lot are squeaky clean, it’ll all be down to personalities!”
At the cottage campaign HQ, the arguments aired were similar. Archbishop Lepager offered the following observation during a strategy meeting with the Gorms: “We want the Mellorian people to know that democracy works – and it will work, once we expose the People’s Party’s dishonesty. During the second ballot, we’ll need to keep track of every ballot box that’s been rigged, stuffed or falsified in any way, but we must not interfere with the boxes ourselves.”
“Then we’ll lose,” Anton joked.
“No, we’ll win,” Lepager replied. “Because in spite of all the boxes that have been interfered with, we have our very own ace in the hole.”
At this mention of the Dawna Factor, as it was beginning to be called, Letitia groaned and Godfrey reached for the brandy decanter.
“This is said to help the mental process,” he said and poured himself a glass.
“Well’ you can help mine too, if you wouldn’t mind,” Letitia said, holding out her glass.
“Well,” Lepager said, “you have to admit – right now – Princess Dawna is our ace in the hole!”
“I’d like a drop more brandy before I comment on that,” Letitia replied.
The next six days proved to be the busiest of the campaign. To ensure a free and fair second ballot, electronic voting was abandoned in favor of old-fashioned ballot boxes inspected by an international team of overseers appointed by the United Nations. They flew in to supervise the entire electoral process, from the reprinting of the ballots, by an independent non-government press, to the vote-recording system, now monitored by independent auditors.
Archbishop Lepager organized flying squads of church stalwarts, vergers and boy scout leaders to form campaign committees and produce campaign literature. Brochures were distributed by monks and nuns in the street and on their social rounds. The committees issued news bulletins that were broadcast on radio and TV every night. First came the People’ Party broadcast, then the Church Party broadcast followed immediately afterwards. The Church Party ads were kept factual and accurate, and that alone was a breath of fresh air after the stultifying bias and stridency of government propaganda. There was a feeling that if the ballot could be kept reasonably honest, the People’s Party regime was surely doomed.
On Election Day morning, the residents of the cottage raised their coffee cups and drank a toast to victory. They then prepared for their second trip to the polling station. By the time the polls were opened at nine they were already on the road.
There were a number of government-inspired ugly incidents during the day. Chur
ch Party workers conducting exit polls were beaten up and some fake voting registers were discovered by the international team of monitors. Church Party volunteers did what they could to alert the auditors to irregularities, but their forces were small and thinly spread. The decision had been taken to concentrate the party’s strength in Melloria City and Mellinda, the largest centers of population. The international media were, as always, important allies. When news of the earlier fraudulent election reached the outside world, the big global networks all sent reporters and TV crews. There were also hordes of freelancers.
“It’s working,” Lepager said to Godfrey as they rode to the polling station. “Another precinct was busted in the city. People’s Party workers were caught packing the ballot box. One of the freelance news teams got it all on camera and there’s going to be a recount. We’re really lucky so many freelancers are here.”
“Luck has nothing to do with it,” Godfrey replied. “I opened a secret bank account when we were in Bulimia, with a loan from Hector. All the freelancers’ expenses have been paid and anything they make by selling their material is theirs.”
“Pops, you’re almost as slippery as Slamil,” Anton said.
“I’m merely a person who doesn’t believe in leaving things to chance,” Godfrey amended.
By mid-afternoon, the situation was getting critical. The Church Party was fighting a rearguard action and barely holding its own. In some of the outlying areas People’s Party bullies had simply closed the polls at gunpoint and substituted their own stuffed boxes. “We have to let them get away with it,” Lepager told Godfrey by phone. “It’s the big population centers that count and we’re still managing to hold our own there. With any luck it might be a fairly honest ballot, with a final vote that represents the will of the people.”
As the results came in Godfrey began to grow more and more depressed. He cracked his knuckles pensively and shook his head in anger.
“We’re behaving like a lot of nellies!” he snarled. “What’s the use of just sitting here waiting for the illegal acts to be committed. We’ll never win unless we hit ‘em first and hit ‘em hard. We should go out and shoot a few.”
Oh, don’t be silly!” Letitia cried. “We have to do it this way – otherwise it wouldn’t be a proper democratic election.”
“I never did like democracy,” Godfrey grumbled. “It’s too much work. It’s much easier to tell people what to do. They like it that way. However, we have to win, so I’ll go along with the democracy, dammit!”
She sighed at his attitude. It was one of the things that would have to change once he was elected president.
“I just wish we could do something about the other lot’s violence and intimidation!” Godfrey cried.
“Godfrey, there’s nothing else for it – we’ll have to wheel her out,” Letitia said decisively. “Drastic situations call for drastic remedies.”
A phone call to Lepager procured a car and driver for Dawna and her bodyguard of martial-arts nuns, and her introduction into the campaign as a stabilizing influence proved effective. Keeping in touch by cellphone with Lepager, she appeared wherever hostilities were threatened, charming and calming voters at polling stations, remonstrating with People’s Party workers and undermining the government’s campaign of brutality.
Late in the afternoon, Paul Slamil looked up from the acceptance speech he was drafting and watched Joe Steel and Caspar, his Special Operations Assistant, walk into his office. Both sat, Caspar straddling his chair and Steel pulling his up close to Slamil’s desk, his face strained. Slamil dropped his guarded smile and looked as grim as the other two. He picked up a pencil and doodled across the paragraph he’d just been reading. Then he gazed at Steel’s heavy features.
“I know what you’re going to say and the answer’s no.”
Steel looked prepared for Slamil’s resistance, and he smiled cynically.
“Let’s face it, Paul – we’re fucked. We might as well start packing our bags now,”
“We’ll be like the salesmen trying to sell ice creams to Eskimos,” Caspar added.
“All right, I’ve got the picture!” Slamil snapped.
Caspar leaned forward and spoke in a heavily-accented whisper. “But there’s still time to do something about it, a small window that’s half open.”
Slamil looked dismissive. “You think I haven’t thought about that? I know what the consequences will be. Our names will stink to high heaven.”
“So you’re gonna let a woman beat you,” Caspar said mockingly. “Okay, Paul, we’ll let you get on with your speech – maybe you’ll get another crack in ten years’ time.” He made as if to get up from his chair.
“I’m trying to run a fucking election campaign,” Slamil said, thoroughly rattled. “This isn’t some kind of fling - “
“Yes it is,“ Caspar broke in. “If this maneuver comes off, we’ll be in like fling!”
“You and your fucking puns!”
Steel brought his face close to Slamil’s. He looked left and right like a dog planning to steal a steak.
“Just say the word – “ he started to say, but Slamil choked him off.
“No, I’m saying no!”
“Have it your way, boss – you’re the prez-in-waiting.”
Slamil was unmoved. “I want to keep our campaign as clean as possible,” he said. “There is such a thing as the high moral ground. Of course we want to win, by all sensible means. We’re not social democrats – the inevitability of gradualism, and all that crap. I have an agenda for this country, and I don’t intend to spend the next ten years in the wilderness. It’s just that some means are not sensible – and unleashing a popular backlash is one of ‘em.”
“”Never thought I’d hear you poop out, Paul,” Caspar said, goading Slamil into a brief but intense spasm of rage.
“I’m not pooping out, you cunt – I’m being realistic. I’ve considered it and rejected it. It’s too risky, the damage to the party is incalculable – end of story.”
His voice had an odd tremble, which Steel, who knew the signs of hidden fear, recognized. He smiled and leaned against the chair back, making it crack.
“Don’t worry, Paul. Just leave it to me. You didn’t tell us to do anything – this conversation didn’t take place. You can wipe the tape clean. You can even turn us over if you like – see if we’re wired up.”
Yeah?” Slamil said sarcastically. “You’re out of date, Joe. We don’t have a tape running nowadays. It’s all digital.”
He fixed his eyes on the distance. “I won’t say another word,” he said at last. “Only don’t screw up. Now fuck off!”
He had raised his voice so loudly the secretary outside his door paused at her computer.
The two men prepared to leave. Steel stopped, his hand resting on the doorknob. “You’re the man. I’m just doing what I have to do, so we don’t lose this fucking election.”
When they had gone, Slamil leafed through the pages of his speech. “Crap!” he said bitterly, and pushed them away. Then he went out to the main office.
“Can you get me a coffee and a curried beef sandwich?” he asked.
He went back into his office and threw the papers in the trash bin. After a while he succeeded in calming himself, but the bitter taste remained. Maybe I’m in the wrong business, he thought. I’m not a killer. What the fuck am I doing even thinking about it?
On the other side of the reinforced glass windows the day was darkening as a storm gathered. The sky was gray, black and indigo blue with great storm clouds seething up. Later, when he had finished his sandwich and coffee he sat staring out at the bleak afternoon. His anger had given way to an insistent anxiety. The latest opinion polls stated that most Mellorians would prefer to see Dawna elected president than either Godfrey or himself. Now he was trying to imagine the people’s reaction to a world without her.
Chapter 57
The Shot Heard Round The World
The results of the final ballot were to be d
eclared in the People’s Opera House, a giant auditorium in West City. The People’s Party had packed the hall with their supporters who had been coached to greet the expected result, favorable to Paul Slamil, with wild applause. With both presidential candidates and their closest associates on the platform when the results were declared, the atmosphere was expected to be tense and potentially explosive. Consequently the Gorms hung around the cottage, putting off their journey for as long as possible, until Lepager had to practically drag them out to the waiting car.
Letitia was the only family member not attending the ceremony. She had received an incoherent call from Catheter in Bulimia saying how sorry he was that he had caused so much grief to the family, and especially to his wife, and that, to make amends, he was flying over to be with his flesh and blood in their hour of greatest need.
“Cathy, you’re drunk!” his mother had accused, “and what’s more, you’re lying! I know you only want to see that bitch you’ve been – ”
Catheter had ended the call. And now Letitia felt so let down by her older son that she told Godfrey she would pass on her ticket to Catheter, since he was flying in from Bulimia, and watch the ceremony on TV.
That evening it began to rain in torrents, battering anyone foolish enough to be on the street against the sides of buildings and running in tapestries of brown water over walls and rooftops. Canals gushed where streets once ambled, and the few vehicles venturing forth created waves that engulfed cyclists and donkeycarts. One of these vehicles was the campaignmobile, its ragtop firmly on, which took the Gorms, including the newly-arrived Catheter, to the opera house through the stream.
In due course the rain subsided. Traffic appeared and donkeycart drivers, waist-deep in the flood, urged their beasts to plod through the torrents. From their windows, householders wearily surveyed the watery brown world beneath them and gazed in surprise at crowds battling to reach the opera house. There were a number of perplexed-looking foreign journalists in the crowd. Through the streaked windows of the limousine, Godfrey wondered what they were making of it all.