soap and glory flake away
Story – Protesters
A strong closing of the door left the two men together but alone, strangers, had only seconds earlier. More older, taller of the two seemed to control the arrival of new versions of big a few moments, his penetrating gaze noting the military dress remained less uniform and the way he projected almost apologetic. They had fallen silent after their mutual recognition, the old man took possession of grip hand accompanied by a loud, long "Hello", the youngest of doubt nod, in addition to the hand of a rapid withdrawal. During an extension of that same silence, shared at the edge of the room by its single window, surveying the line of protesters below. The silence that filled the room, left quiet after the noisy departure of the ordinance was intended only for the youngest man in the street, soon began to fade. The sounds of singing, sloganising angry, almost rhythmic mix of blue is universally suitable, English deaf, filtered through the cracks around the frame project quarters. There was no discernible words, shouted slogans become a mere whisper of discontent of its distance.
Almost in unison, raised their joint gaze side street under the high window, a street that did not have much need to rely on the break to see, so now looked through the square, no bigger in size, but perhaps claimed in importance. In front was the mother of parliaments, an imitation of the great Gothic model, a pretender to an aesthetic supposed to reinvent the required fashion. Before him, almost insignificant, established under the pavement level, both could see from the memory of the statue of the great protector, impassive in defiance, solid in his defense of the right to speak within these walls, a right often questioned by those who lay like corpses in the direction opposite opulence. For there, to the right of the two observers lay confessor church, the royal abbey of an author's real terror, adorned with a vault range to decorate your own death, a chapel that seemed to push menacingly toward the palace faced expression, a palace of the older word destroyed much, much replaced.
"Today, history is always a lie," said the older, taller of the two men.
The other was silent for a while. He turned to his companion, to look up and down, to take note of the establishment sense of his three-piece blue suit, pronounced with watch chain presenting almost a stamp of the office through the stomach. He was tall, this writer, majestic, dignified, even at eighty years generating a tilt slightly when moved, a touch of roundness in the spine, as imagined stiffness suggested the position of a once proud young man. The smallest man seemed uncomfortable in the presence of the writer, as if he knew what to say, but not where to begin. There was a sense of deference and much discomfort, a relationship rooted in something less than confidence. The older man's reputation and achievement predecessors and, in later years, he had learned to live respected space which inevitably generates.
"I would guess that you have brought no written speech," said the younger, non sequitur is not noteworthy. "But then I would have expected that. After all, you are a writer."
The old man smiled a little, never her eyes, which apparently still focused on the beauty of the abbey tower, the greatness of his tower, the power of his glory. "No," he said, pausing again, as if to perpetuate an ambiguity as to whether he had no speech or whether he was denying that he was once a writer. For several seconds, the old man rocked gently from side to side, shifted his weight from foot to foot as recently consulted a nurse had been suggested as a means of keeping your legs flexible aging. It realized an hour later, she had no grounds for concern about the state of the old pipes, he had experienced in fully functioning order. Yet the writer took his advice and jumped, only a little. Then he turned to the younger man, the attitude of the head slightly down, inevitably suggesting condescension.
"I have to work for my grades," said the smaller man, avoiding the eyes long enough to reach an angle independent. "In my position I can not improvise, but I think I can do it. Whenever I have to be doubly sure that every word has a role in the message calculated complete. Can not be too careful. I can not risk a single word to be misunderstood. "He patted the left breast of his jacket, military-style camouflage and then pulled aside the flap with your right hand so he could retrieve a folded sheaf of handwritten pages from the inside pocket. He began to read. "Thanks for His Solidarity … "
"You speak Spanish?"
"Yes. And with an interpreter. As I said, we must ensure that our words are clear and unambiguous, saying precisely what we mean and what we refer only. There is no margin for error. There are those who hope to collect ammunition against us. "
"They shall not pass!" Said the old man as he was discharged from any other weapon of a firm grip, turned left out of the hand. It was a strange gesture, a backhand, backhand expression of support, firm in his conviction, ambiguous in its sincerity. The young man smiled, suddenly and obviously calmer, less in fear of the perceived distance this great name. "But your English is perfect," fluent, "continued the writer. "Why not talk to us directly in our own language?"
The young man shrugged his shoulders as if to imply that a question with an obvious answer does not have to ask. "As a writer," he finally said, you know that the language should be precise … "
"… And a problem that may arise, you can always be attributed to poor translation? "The silence of the agreement meant another." And so the politician can maintain denial, even if that was really what you mean? A side exit from the trap of duplicity?
"I have never intended to deceive …"
"But if the load is lifted, it could escape without facing him?" Let's say that you could find a way of convenience? "
The boy was silent for a minute or more, during which time he was back on the thin line of blue but noisy protesters in the right way below. He noted, for the first time everything seemed to be in their early to mid-twenties. They were so similar in appearance, all could have been selected for the paper. Wanted: official agitators, he reflected. blue suit, aged twenty to thirty, his head shaved at least a number two.
Then again the room to meet the writer. "But words are his tools, his stock in trade – I think is the correct English language – so you knows perfectly well how important it is to have exactly the right word in the right place. You never wrong. "
The writer laughed. "My dear man," he began, are now turning to step into the centrally placed table, walnut heavy-crowned but boring room, "You invested in me the credibility, talent and invention beyond my grief. I'm just a storyteller, a literary fraud whose imagination from time to when, and only for an hour or two can brighten the boring life of blighters like underdogs. I churn out the literary equivalent of B-movies to residents suburban semis. Words? I have generated millions of them, drivelled out as torrents of semen straw, onanised only on the rocky ground of popular imagination – a oxymoron for sure. "His pause was pure theater, calculated to maintain control of the flow and at the same time, to emphasize his words and retain control, as to keep the other in silence. Eagerly apparent snuff was recovered and the burner that had been previously released by mistake in the table of a hand that had been summoned to shake his greetings to President of the Republic newcomer. The right hand of the old writer had fumbled a cigarette from the pack, the left hand had lit and had already taken a long, deep set, the solution before the moment passed. When he spoke it was as if there had never been a break in its flow, His words now encouraged by the loose clouds of smoke, dust that cuts the edge off his voice. "These people just make what was said. They see us as sold to them. Today make a monkey who writes books and an ogre who threatens their freedom. Tomorrow make monkeys are presented as illiterate and the ogre is a partner in trade. Joe Soap Joe Soap does what it says to do. A fad is less volatile than the popular consciousness. "
"So is their support for our cause as a fad? Do you oppose helping tomorrow today? "It was the voice of the younger man is more difficult, more direct in its continued deference.
"It depends on you and your people – your words, certainly," replied the writer. Here the word "people" is clearly not related to an agglomerated population, but a clique of whose existence the writer wanted to suggest. "We know that we oppose. We know what we oppose. Is what we are in favor of us perennially confused especially when faced with the complications of interpretation of a reality only imagine. "
The young man now left the window. Slow steps, thoughtfully, his face downcast, began to wander in a wide arc around the table, the old writer at its center, a kind of harassment. He supported the fingertips together, forming the cradle of a cat through a stomach that other courts will be completed in a few years, transforming the current track in a big old burly half already would not be flattered by that currently wearing military uniform.
When the young man stopped and turned, looked up to see the old man still faces the window, stood erect, with staccato drag of his cigarette, each accompanied by an audible sucking lips. It is ironic that I should address back, she thought. "And exactly who oppose him? Or more accurately should ask who now oppose it, because in the past, his loyalty to a cause was – say – variable …? "
"My dear man, Mr. President," the writer said, smiling when she turned to face his inquisitor, "every man has his price. Take Joe Soap in the street below, for example," he said, nodding toward the window, now behind him, "I do not think any of those snotty nose Johns city employees actually believe the rhetoric about the regime? Do you think an idiot twenty-two years old who spends all day turning the trays of punch cards around the bowels of the computer center of a bank for the payment of subsistence goes home a night to read and analyze the Heritage Foundation reports on the Communist takeover of Central America? He does not do that more than compare the test of all available brands of soap powder before purchasing your Omo – except in the reflection that probably would not buy one that for reasons of being embarrassed by the associations with your name. No, he took his nose until Daz and purchase it. He goes with the tide, we could say. The trick to manipulate the popular imagination, oxymoronically, of course, is to cover all options, make a copy of all sides. The trick is to convince Joe that you need soap powder detergent and then the cartel the shelves with an agreement to share and presence. Whatever the brand that makes the decisions are totally irrelevant, because the fat cats who run your brain has divided the market between them. Politically, its space in the brain, although very small, is fully occupied with propaganda threats to their way of life, the threats that may restrict your right to choice of detergent, a human right worth fighting. "
"And you think that your books are in powder only more soap? "
"Precisely, my dear friend." Precisely. " The writer turned back, blowing to pursue the production of ash.
The young man ambled forward again as the writer turned his back. Legal training, the young president of the republic was pushed back into the profession to which he aspired, but never practiced, his studies were interrupted by what could be described a respectful obituary as a brush with the authorities. He was stalking her testimony, here is a writer of a spring confined within his own invention, perhaps the imagination. It was to become under interrogation. "But I've read your work – almost all of it, although I admit that most were in Spanish translation. Maybe something is gained in translation but I always felt the call, self-proclaimed simple stories, entertainment, always had its most profound, not least another level, where the characters and situations where the epitome placed moral conflict, ideological issues always at least tried to solve the problem. In fact you, the writer, creator, always seemed want a resolution to the moral dilemmas of your characters. "The president paused to look at the writer in the eye, but it is the tallest man staring forward, above its level without concentrated expression in the mechanics of making smoke. "So you can deny," he continued, "that what I read her work was ever intended? It was a mere figment of my imagination furtive, young man? "
"The main question. The lawyer should not put words into mouth of the witness, "said the old man, choosing his words carefully while fixing a hard look at his inquisitor in time with the end of the sentence.
"Ah," interrupted the other, strangely immediate in its subsection. "So not only know details of my education, you want to play judge too! Is that it? Is this the key? You want to claim the status of unconsciousness, the simple storyteller, while somewhere in his estimate unwritten you think you have the absolute truth, the end point, the last word, the sentence? "A smile began to lift the corners of the black mustache that dominated his face, his rimless glasses slightly bent lifting cheek muscles.
"The judge answered the old writer." Judgement? You sound like a Christian. "
"I am."
"Well, I'm not."
"You are a Roman Catholic. Has become. All Everyone knows that. "
"The pragmatism, my dear boy. Pure pragmatism. The girl demanded. It was the only way to get my end away with it … a state in which I have longed for so much had I not been crowned with success. Not that I did a lot of good in the end. She turned out to be frigid extended by guilt, a guilt that could not penetrate, the need to appease the wrath of a God of love she knew hated herself. "
"And what seemed elsewhere? "
"Well documented. Well-known, as they say." The old man fumbled for another cigarette, lit it and threw the package and neglect lighter back on the table. "You do not smoke, of course."
It was a planned diversion, a plea for the restoration superficial courtesy. The ruse was ignored. "I address the problem entirely the opposite direction," replied the other. "I was a Catholic, a devout believer, and I am happily married to a woman I hope to live forever. However, we are rejected by our church, rejected because of my policy, rejected I have embraced the ideology, a philosophy that the bishops called atheists. "
"In the words of a famous economist," began the writer, form from the condescending approach when he stopped for a moment to signify the discovery of an aphorism, "In the long run we are all dead. Gods, impiety, ideology, alienation, all become as important as a flake of it. "knocked the cigarette, causing a point of ash to fall and disintegrate in the carpet.
"So what motivates you?" Asked the lawyer in past practice, again following his original point.
"A quickie. A good bottle. Dope. And then the other shit. The here and now is all we have …"
"Even though sometimes tries to take even to an end? "The question of the lawyer was quick, calculated and completely disarmed, served with elegance of a politician for the location of a weakness for exploitation.
"You've done your research well. I guess that one of his" people "read all the sordid biographies Thanks only to prepare for tonight? "
"No. I knew it. As I said, I have read much of his work. I have the utmost respect …"
Ultimate? A good word for a head of state to use. "
"I have no intention of pulling rank, sir," replied the younger man. "The I always say be true, always honest. "
"Yes, it is public knowledge, if any kind of knowledge can be described as common. "The writer had a long old noisy drag on his cigarette and headed back to the window." It's a puzzle the hoi polloi ever face. The worker ant remains online. Experience, therefore, is always a smooth progress of perception, the pathways of release to repeat the monotony of existence and their duties. The fact that the way is clear, first and free by the work of the soldiers, who have an obligation to explore, to remove the danger, to clear the way, that you never know, much less understood by the workers Joe soap. They take the mundane of life is a norm, not an achievement created by the efforts of others. "
"Or a conspiracy … .."
"A management process, say, to use the vocabulary of age market. Our demonstrators chant their slogans, their leaders feed them more, they learn to spit. "
"And what about our supporters? The hundreds of filling the room below? "
The old writer turned slightly and cocked his head as if feeling the air for sound. He realized that chants of "shall not pass! shall not pass!" To be filtered through the maze of corridors to a waiting room should be deafening inside the hall. "I ask apologies for the crudeness of my logic sweep. However, even you, Mr. President, although you acknowledge that supporters are a minority, dwarfed by Opposition, a piss in the ocean compared to opponents torrents? "
"Today, maybe. Tomorrow, who knows? That's why we're both here. We both know what we oppose. And I, for one, know what I support. "
"Today …."
"No. Much more than that. Just as I know a little about yourself, then I'm sure you know something about me. My policy is not the clothes I wore yesterday. I have been engaged in the work for justice and human rights for over twenty years. I am also a patriot – not a nationalist, a patriot. I want to achieve the progress of my people, my country, but not at the expense of the suffering of others. You know my history. "
Both men knew they had arrived a critical juncture. There was a sense of threat on the edge of these words, an old evil that profess libertarian writer felt more alive. Uncomfortable, tried to deflect. "When we're on the podium, boy, then we know the shape of things. No doubt there are many out there who passionately support their cause. But there are other who are with you only to oppose a common enemy. And some, perhaps many of them who are not members of your audience at all. "
"I I do not understand, "said the other, though he did.
"Sorry. I forget which is his first time in our green and pleasant land. You'll see. Look at them when you speak. There will be many who stand and applaud. But for every three or four doing that, be a man – always a man – even in his seat, apparently, a spectator, apparently indifferent. Except, of course, no one looks. He knows who you are. Is the identity of the people in the audience that interest him. Apparently, he is at the hearing to protect you. Like the gazelle is probably not, it's your job to jump to anyone who looks like they are about to shoot. After all, you are a Head of State. "
"Police. The Secret Service men."
"Precisely. The place is full of them. "
"It's a pity," said the young president, "there was no more of them there when I arrived. There are sixty or seventy of these thugs …. "
"In Britain they are called the Young Conservatives by the way," said the old writer with a laugh scoring.
"… .. And only had a handful of police. They were throwing things, tomatoes, bags of flour … .. how is that visiting heads of state have received? "
"It depends who invited you, old bean. "
"Again, what it represents?"
"No, just who invited you. "
"So what do you recommend? That I start my speech by inviting all ghosts to rise and bow? So that I can invite all our supporters to applaud them in a show of magnanimity and humility? To thank you for protecting my safety and maintaining the integrity of our revolution? "
"Waste of time. Nice gesture, but it would be taken as a sign of weakness."
The old writer paused, in a tone that indicates which remained in mid-stream, which second thoughts about what would follow the language had slept.
"And you, of course," said the younger, his voice that represents a continuation of the other is the perception that means, "should know, since he used to be one of them. It was then, presumably, also knew what it was opposed. "
"They pay the bills. It was a job. I was a worker ant."
"And through for you are a conscientious and loyal employee. You did what was asked, objected to the opponents. And, I suppose, you did what you did for your patriotism, a noble cause and ultimate motivation for an Englishman, I understand. "
"Where did you hear that?" I just did what I said. Patriotism is something the English, in particular, despise each other. Abroad, or in the company of foreigners – a term that includes all those who think like yourself – become English fiercely patriotic, but it is always motivated by profit. If yields are not there, withdrawal can be fast, in fact. "The old high looked at his companion in the eye, pausing, and to evaluate the merit of proceeding, to evaluate the impact of words that could take before they dare to talk about them. The young leader felt that this could be the position that the nation would choose to immortalize the man of bronze after his death. "Your Revolution is a privileged status … "
"We are threatened everywhere …"
The old man turned, raised his palm his right hand to stay the words of another. "It's unique because you know where you stand. And that's a luxury. You will be defeated, of course, but only temporarily. His cause will triumph in the long term … "
"… When we are all dead …"
"Of course. However, their cause has integrity. Will be raised, perhaps many times, and each time you forge progress toward your goal. In Britain, we still continue to stuff ourselves with the illusion that our total defeat in the war was in fact a victory. The fact that they were invaded convinces people that we won. We were on the winning side, but we lost the war. Ask why the real winner demanded the full dismantling of the British Empire, the transfer of our oil-rich territories in the Middle East the adoption of an independent nuclear deterrent that we have never had the right to use, and the requirement to always send troops, always under the command rule, a conflict that the empire decides to carry out, and they look at you with blank faces in the dark. Our cause, our patriotism you might say, is damaged. It is a false consciousness, as false as the conviction of the people that their consumption choices do exist. So when I worked for services, did the work of empire. We had no choice. We knew that our real teacher was, and knew that worked to promote that interest, which has subsumed all we can call our own. Patriotism was not even in the agenda, because we could not determine what it was. So we did what we were told. "
"In addition to a little more, sometimes." It was the insistence of counsel, together with the political opportunism that made this statement a question that demanded an immediate response.
"I not born rich, "said the old man, now leaning forward a little more, steps of a statement." Like any other human being who took a job. It paid the rent. A metalworker not necessarily believe in the ingot is being forged. A miner does not dig ideologically to supply the furnaces of capitalism. "
"But a man is not bound to an intelligence services dedicated to the fight against communism to dig coal."
"Paid rent. And I did other things on the side – for reasons …. "
"Integrity? Truth? Conscience?"
"Lord, no! Pragmatism, as always. "
The younger man on fire for a while. It was time to introduce the point, but the language was difficult find. "So this could explain its current status. Patriotism, that a foreigner might suppose that pursued while working for his government, was always a purely commercial agreement. They get paid and served them. And now that is not paid, so patriotism evaporates and you become a tax exile. So no country other than himself. "
"Ee cummings, right?"
The young man paused, confused. A look of mild confusion distributed on the face. The tactics they had planned had been affected by this unexpected turn.
The older man felt the other's vulnerability and burst to laugh. Intellect was again awarded an advantage that was theirs to exploit, but he chose not to use their knowledge to control. "A poet of America" he said calmly, "who broke all the rules, broke so completely that an overhaul of what he did as a new system, a new set of rules. The artist imposed only in the country is himself. You, Mr. President, will never be an artist. You are not qualified. On the one hand, you have integrity, and lack selfishness is necessary. "
"So, to excuse publicly selfishness is pragmatism?
"Each of us has a relationship with capitalism and pragmatism pays the rent. In your situation, where they are pushed outside the ring, does not even have the option to cooperate. For you, for your regime and for your people, pragmatism is not an option. "
"And it was pragmatism that led him to organize the infiltration of student movements or later they joined organized labor to my friends? Was his pragmatism that spies successfully placed in all the organizations that opposed the cynical old bastard you call a dictator in our country but you and your imperial allies, because he was a friend of your son of a bitch? Is it not true that some of these people you have made, particularly the least important in the student movement, inform your office? And so to our enemies? And it was pragmatism that led to the arrest of activists, arrests that led to the imprisonment and exile of many people who are truly honest and committed? And it was also pragmatism that created the false charges and manipulated hearings for offenders? It was this pragmatism that led, in my own case, years in prison and then exile – and eventually to my excommunication from a church that master, who was my very life? Did you do that? Was this because of their pragmatism? Did you perpetrate such things to pay the rent? "
"I did what was expected of me …"
"The defense of an officer in a death camp." I was acting under orders and making … … a little hand, making a small fortune in the market in gold teeth. "The young contempt accelerated the lyrics of a tirade, and demanded the profound silence uncomfortable. A politician should have used restraint had lost control. A writer with a command of words had been cornered, with no words and left defenseless.
The president met again at the window. He returned to retrieve the papers from his pocket and started reading. The old, now looking each of his eighty years, took the four steps needed to be on the other side. In papers ignored and a lit cigarette, his eyes fell again together in the smartly dressed thugs right on the street. "We know what we oppose," Bush said.
"At least today," said the old writer.
There is a knock at the door a strong superficial touch that marked the immediate entrance. This time it was the old writer to speak to the rally assembled. Again, he turned, offered a copy back the left hand, a slight knowledge of the other arm, a gesture of solidarity. But this time the words were without passion, without animation, and perhaps more sincere thanks for his whisper. "No Pasaran. I'm with you."
"Today," repeated the other quickly, pause, obviously inserted as a prelude to the continuation, "and every day I found your work inspiring."
The old man smiled a little and took over again.
About the Author
Philip Spires
Author of Mission, an African novel set in Kenya
http://www.philipspires.co.uk
Michael, a missionary priest, has just killed Munyasya. It was an accident, but Mulonzya, a politician, exploits the tragedy for his own ends. Boniface, a church worker, has just lost his child. He did not make it to the hospital in time, possibly because Michael went to the Mission to retrieve a letter from Janet, a teacher, and the priest’s neighbour. It is Munyasya who has the last laugh, however.
And the Verdict is: Soap & Glory Flake Away Suger Scrub