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Short story – Protesters

At the abrupt closure of the door left the two men still alone, foreigners, introduced just seconds before. Most older, taller of the two seemed to consider the arrival of new squat for a few moments, his penetrating gaze noting that the habit military remained under a uniform alongside the almost apologetic manner he projected. They were killed after their recognition mutual-old male victim handshake accompanied by a stentorian, lengthened "Hello," the young man who must wink a hand quickly withdrawn. In an extension of that same silence, shared at the edge of the room by its single window, they were the line of demonstrators below. The calm that filled the room, left quiet after the noisy departure of the usher who had just led the young man to the street soon not disappear. Sounds of singing, sloganising anger, barely rhythmic This mixture of blue universally adapted to the English ear, filtered through the cracks around the frame of the project districts. There was no recognizable words, slogans shouted into a mere whisper of unrest their distance.

Almost in unison, their spouses light up the street underneath the high window, a street that they both need to rely on the recess to view, so that now they have looked through the large square, large size not, but perhaps the importance claimed. Ahead was the mother of parliaments, an imitation faux-Gothic grandeur, a pretender to an aesthetic assumed, reinvented mode required. Before her, almost insignificant, set below pavement level, they could both see the memory of the statue of the great protector, impassive, in contempt, strong in its defense of the right to speak in these walls, a right often challenged by those who pose as corpses in the opposite sense of opulence. For there to the right of the two observers lay confessor church, the abbey of royalty that the true perpetrator of terror featuring a ceiling fan to decorate his own death, a chapel that seemed threatening to push towards the palace of the word she was facing, a former palate speech, destroyed, replaced long.

"In its current form, the story is always a lie," said the old, whichever is greater men.

The other remained silent for some time. He turned to his companion, to look up and down, to note the establishment feel his blue three-piece suit with his watch chain with pronounced near a seal of office through the diaphragm. He was tall, this writer, majestic, even dignity, his eighty years now generate a little bent, when he moved, just a hint of roundness in the column spinal, which imagined the rigidity suggested the position of a once proud young man. The smallest man seemed uncomfortable in the presence the writer, as if he knew what to say, but not where to begin. There was a sense of deference and discomfort at the time, respect tinged with something less confidence. The older man's reputation and achievement and its predecessors, a few years later, he had learned to live fulfilled this space inevitably generated.

"I guess you have not spoken written, "said the young man, non-sequitur not itself worthy of remark. "But then I would have expected that. After all, you're a writer."

The old man smiled a little, without turning his eyes, which still seems focused on the beauty of the towers of the abbey, the size of its tower, the power of his glory. "No," he said, pausing again, as if to perpetuate an ambiguity as to whether he did not speak or if was denying that he was never a writer. For a few seconds, the old man swaying gently from left to right, moved its weight from one foot to another as the nurse has recently consulted suggested that one way to keep its flexibility aging legs. She made an hour later, she had no reason to worry about the condition of the plumbing of the old man, whose she used to work full order. But the writer took her advice and hopped a little. He then turned to face the young man, the attitude of the head slightly down inevitably think condescension.

"I must work for my grades," said the little man, turning eyes just enough to achieve an angle independent. "In my position I can not improvise, even if I feel I'm capable of doing. I always more security that each word plays a calculated whole message. It can not be too careful. I can not risk a single word is misinterpreted. "It tapped the left breast of his jacket camouflage military style, then drop the tie with his right hand side, so he can retrieve a bundle of leaves folded handwritten in the inside pocket. He began to read. "Muchas gracias por su solidaridad …"

"You speak Spanish? "

"Yes. And with an interpreter. As I said, we must ensure that our words are clear, unambiguous, saying exactly what we hear and what we hear. There is no margin for error. There are those who expect to gather ammunition against us. "

"No Pasaran!" Said the old man as he gave up the other arm compression oriented farm with her left hand. It was a strange gesture, a reverse, reverse to the expression of support, firm in his conviction, ambiguous in its sincerity. The young man smiled, suddenly and obviously more comfortable, less in fear of the perceived distance of this great name. "But your English is perfect, fluid, continues the writer." Why do not talk to us directly in our own language? "

The young man shrugged his shoulders as if to say that the question has an obvious answer not be asked. "As a writer," he said finally, you know that language must be precise … "

… And If a problem if it arises, can always be attributed to a poor translation? "The silence of the other agreement signified." And If the politician can hold denial, even if it was actually what you mean? At the output side of the trap of duplicity? "

"It will never be my intention to deceive …"

"But if the charge arises, you can bypass it, without facing? Shall we you can find a way of convenience?

The young man remained silent for a minute or more, during which he looked again at the thin line but noisy demonstrators blue suited to the road below. He noted for the first time they all seemed to be in their childhood or mid-twenties. They were so similar in appearance, they would doubtless have been chosen for the role. Wanted: official agitators, "he conceded. blue suit, aged twenty to thirty head shaved at least a number two.

He then returned to the room to meet the writer. "But then, words are your tools, your goodwill – I think it's correct English idiom – if you know how important it is to have exactly the right word at the right place. You would never make a mistake. "

The writer laughed. "My dear man," he said, are turning to the rhythm to the table in the center position, walnut, but heavy and dull at the top of the room: "You'll invest in the credibility, talent and invention beyond my worth. I am a storyteller, a literary hoax whose imagination from time to time, and for only an hour or two can brighten the lives dull guys like those below. I churn the literary equivalent of B movies for residents of suburban semis. Words? I gave birth to millions of them, between them as torrents of semen drivelled masturbated, onanised only on the stony ground of the imagination People – an oxymoron for sure. "His pause was pure theater, capable of maintaining its hold of the flow and at the same time, add emphasis on his words and keep control, measured silence others. With apparent impatience, he retrieved the cigarettes Lighter and he had already thrown carelessly on the table with a hand that had been convened to shake his wishes with the president- arrived from the Republic. The right hand of the old writer had traded a cigarette package, the left hand had turned and he had already taken a long, deep drag the settlement before the time elapsed. When he spoke, it was as if there had never been a break his flow, his words now animated by clouds of smoke loose particles that cut the calm voice. "These people simply do this they are told. They see us as we are sold. Today, a monkey who writes books and an ogre who threatens their freedom. Tomorrow monkeys scene are expressed as illiterate and the ogre is a partner in trade. Joe Soap Joe Soap does what is told. A whim is less capricious than the popular consciousness. "

"So, is your support for our cause as a whim? Do you object to tomorrow what you support today? "The young man's voice was harder, more direct in its continued deference.

"It rather depends on you and your people – your expression, by the way, "replied the writer. Here, the word "people" obviously did not refer to a population agglomerated, but a clique whose existence the writer wished to propose. "We all know that we oppose. We know what we are against. This we are perpetually confused to which we, especially when we are faced with the complications of interpreting a reality that we not imagine. "

The young man is now away from the window. Stepping slowly, thoughtfully, his face downcast, he began to wander a large arc around the table, the old writer at its center, a kind of harassment. He pressed his fingers together, forming a cat's cradle through a stomach than the other would be considered fill in a few years, transforming the current athletic squat in a stout middle age that would be more flattered by the military fatigues, he currently wore.

When the young man stopped, turned around, he looked up to see that the old man still facing the window stood standing with staccato drags of his cigarette, each accompanied by a loud sucking lips. It is ironic that I should send her back, he thought. And it exactly that you object? Or should I ask specifically that you currently stand, since in the past of your loyalty to a question was – say – variable …? "

"My dear man, Mr. President, the writer said, smiling, as he turned to face his inquisitor, "every man has his price. Take Joe Soap in the street there, for example, "he said, nodding toward the window, now behind him: "You do not believe that one of those snotty nose Johns-town clerks really think about the rhetoric about your diet? Do you think that even a fool twenty-two years old who spends all day wheel trays of punch cards in the bowels of the computer center of a bank to pay subsistence returns home one evening to read and analyze the Heritage Foundation reports on communist support for American Central? It does not, nor is relatively tests all brands available soap powder before buying his Omo – except on reflection, it would probably not buy that one on the reasons to be embarrassed by association with his name. No, it is led by the nose to Daz and he buys it. It is along with the tide, we can say. The trick of manipulating the popular imagination, oxymoronically, of course, is to cover all options, to save all sides. The trick is to convince Joe that he needs soap powders and then agree on the shelves of a agreement and sharing presence. Whatever decisions he makes the brand is quite relevant because the big guiding their brain carved the market them. Politically, the area of the brain, although very low, is fully occupied by threats of propaganda lifestyle, threats that could limit the right choice of detergent, a human right worth fighting for. "

"And it is your opinion that your books are a little soap powder? "

"Exactly, dear. Precisely. The writer turned again to continue blowing ash production.

The young man came forward again as the writer has turned his back. Legally training, the young president the Republic was driven into the profession to which he aspired, but never practiced, his studies having been interrupted respectful obituary by what can be described as brushes with the authorities. It was his second of stalking, here is a writer locked in a cradle of his invention, perhaps imaginary. It would become a cons-examination. "But I read your work – almost all of it, although I admit that most were in Spanish translation. Maybe something has been gained in the translation, but I always felt that your so-called, self-professed simple stories, animations, deeper on their side, another level no less, where characters and situations where you have placed the incarnate moral conflict, ideological issues have always at least tried to answer. Indeed, you, the author, creator, always seemed to want a resolution to moral dilemmas of your characters. "The president paused to watch the writer in the eye, but the greatest respect for the man was set to come in above its level, without focusing on understanding the mechanical design of the smoke. "So you deny, "he continued," that what I read in your work was never intended? It was a simple fiction my furtive young imagination? "

"Leading Question. The lawyer should not put words into the mouth of the witness, "said the old man, choosing his words carefully while fixing a look at his inquisitor complex in time with the end of the phrase.

"Ah," interrupted the other, Unusually in its immediate interjection. "So not only do you know the details of my education, you want to play and judge! Is it? Is key? You want to claim the status of the inconsistency, the storyteller simple, while, somewhere in your estimate unwritten, you think you have the ultimate truth, the end point, the last word, the sentence? "A smile began to lift curves of the black mustache that has dominated his face, rimmed glasses lifting a bit down the cheek muscles.

"Judge," replied the old writer. "Judgement?" You talk like a Christian. "

"I am. "

"Well, I'm not."

"You are a Roman Catholic. You've transformed. Everyone knows that.

"Pragmatism, my dear child. pure pragmatism. The old woman asked. He was the only way I could get my end away with it … I longed for a state so that I would overcome if I had failed. Not that it was very good in the end. It proved to be extended cold with guilt, a guilt that I could not penetrate, the need to appease the wrath of a God of love she knew hated it alone. "

"And if we look elsewhere?"

"Well well documented. Well known, as they say. "The old man looked for another cigarette, lit it and threw the pack and lighter carelessly back on the table. "You do not smoke, of course."

It was a diversion for a plea for the restoration of civility superficial. The ploy has been ignored. "I address the problem across the opposite direction," said another. "I was a Catholic, devout believer, and I am happily married to a woman, I hope to live forever. But we are rejected by our church, rejected because of my policy, refused because I married one of ideology, a philosophy of Bishops call without God. "

"In the words of a famous economist, "began the writer, his way early in the approach of condescension, as he paused a moment to signify the discovery of an aphorism, "In the long run we are all dead. Gods, wickedness, ideology, alienation, they all become as important as a piece of this. "He tapped his cigarette, causing a touch of ash fall and disintegrate on the carpet.

"So what motivates you? Asked counsel former intern, continues its point of origin.

"A quick kiss. A good bottle. Dope. And then another kiss. The here and now all we have … "

"Even though sometimes you try to make although, for a purpose? "The question of the lawyer was quick, determined and completely disarming, delivered with a panache of a man policy to locate a weakness and exploit it.

"You have done your research well. I guess one of your "people" Read all biographies sordid just prepare you for tonight? "

"No, I already knew. As I said, I read a lot of your work. I ultimate respect … "

Ultimate? A good word for a head of state employment. "

"I do not intend take place, "replied the young man. "What I always say true, always honest."

"Yes, it is public knowledge While any form of knowledge can be described as common. "The old writer has had a long drag on his cigarette noisy and approached to return window. "It's a puzzle hoi polloi are never confronted. The worker ant is online. The experience is always a perception unimpeded progress, ways of unblocking repeat the monotony of existence and its functions. The fact that the road is clear, first and remain free by the work of soldiers, those who have a duty to explore, to avert the danger, to pave the way, it is never known, and even less understood by Joe Soap workers. They assume the mundaneness of their lives is a standard, not an exploit created by the efforts of others. "

Or a conspiracy … .. "

"A management process, Let's call it, to use the vocabulary of the time the market. Our demonstrators chant their slogans, their leaders feed them more, they learn to regurgitate. "

"And what about our fans? These hundreds of filling the room below? "

The writer was a little old and bent his head as if feeling in the air to the sound. He realized the chants of "No Pasaran! No Pasaran!" Who filter along the maze of corridors of their waiting room must be deafening inside the auditorium. "I apologize for the crudity of my logic scan. But, even you, Mr. President, even if you do not recognize that supporters are a minority, overshadowed by the opposition to piss in the ocean compared to the torrents that oppose you? "

"Today, maybe. Tomorrow, who knows? That's why we're both here. We both know what we oppose. And I at least, know what I support. "

"Today, …».

"No, much more than that. Like I know a little about you, so I'm sure you know something about me. My politics are not the clothes that I made yesterday. I have been engaged in work for justice and human rights for over twenty years. I am also a patriot – not a nationalist, a patriot. I want to make progress for my people, my country, but not at the expense of the suffering of others. You know my history. "

The two men knew they had reached a critical point. There was a sense of threat on the edge of these last words, a trick that the old libertarian writer professedly felt more keenly. Uncomfortable, he tried divert. "When we're on the podium, my friend, then we know the shape of things. I do not doubt that there are many out there who passionately support your case. But there are others who are with you as to oppose a common enemy. And there are others, perhaps many of them who are not members of your audience at all. "

"I do not understand," said the other, but he did.

"I sorry. I forget that this is your first time in our green and pleasant land. You'll see. Watch them when you speak. There will be many who take and gaiety. But for every three or four do, there will be a man – always a man – still in his seat, apparently a spectator, apparently indifferent. Except, of course, it will not look at you. He knows who you are. It is the identity of persons in the public interest him. Apparently, it is in the public to protect you. As the gazelle, it is probably not, it's his job to jump on one that looks like they are about to kill you. After all, you're a head of state. "

"Thriller. Secret Service men. "

"Exactly. The place will packed with them. "

"It is a pity," said the young president, "there were not many of them there when I arrived. There are sixty or seventy of these thugs …. "

"In Great Britain, they are called by the Young Conservatives, said the old writer with a burst of laughter punctuating.

"… .. And there were only a handful of police. They threw things, tomatoes, bags of flour … .. Is and visiting heads of state are received?

"It depends on who invited you, old bean."

"Also that I represent? "

"Not only that invited you."

"So, what do you recommend? I begin my speech inviting all ghosts to rise and take a bow? While I can invite all our supporters to applaud them in a show of magnanimity and humility? To thank them for protecting my safety and with it the integrity of our revolution? "

"Waste of time. nice gesture, but it would be considered a sign of weakness. "

The old writer pause, tone indicating he was in mid-flow, that doubts what remained was to follow language.

"And you, of course," said the young man, his voice expresses a lawsuit alleged the other perceived sense "should know, because you used to be one of them. Then, presumably, you knew what you opposed. "

"They paid my bills. It was a job. I was a worker ant."

"And you been throughout a loyal and conscientious employee. You have what was required, as opposed to those who oppose it. And I suppose you have what you have because of your patriotism, a noble cause and supreme motivation for an Englishman, I understand. "

"Wherever did you hear that? I Just do what you told me. Patriotism is something that English, in particular, despise them. Abroad, or with foreigners – a term that encompasses all those who think differently from ourselves – become fiercely patriotic Englishman, but he is always motivated by profit. If yields are not there, retirement may be rapid indeed. "The old man looked at his partner in the eyes, as if a pause to assess the merit continue, as if to assess the impact of words that might follow before he dares to speak. The young chef thought it might be the pose the nation will choose to immortalize the man of bronze after his death. "Your revolution is a privileged state …"

"We are threatened from all sides … "

The old man turned, held up the palm of his right hand to stay on the other words. "It is fortunate because you know where you stand. And it's a luxury. You will be defeated, of course, but only temporarily. Your cause will triumph in the long term … "

"… When we are all dead … "

"Indeed. But your question is integrity. It will be resurrected, perhaps many times, and each time he will forge progress towards its goal. In Britain, we continue to fill with the illusion that our total defeat in the war was indeed a victory. The fact that we have not been invaded convince people that we won. We been on the winning side, but we lost the war. Ask them why the real winner demanded the full dismantling of the British Empire, the sale 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 that we always send troops, still under the command empire, a conflict that the empire chooses to pursue, and they look at you blank against ignorance. Our cause, our patriotism might say, is corrupt. It is a false consciousness, as false as the belief that people their consumption choices actually exist. So when I worked for the services we have done the work of the empire. We did not choice. We knew who our true master, and we knew that we worked for other than interest, which has encompassed all what we could call our own. Patriotism was not even on the agenda, because we could not identify what it was. We have done what we said. "

"Not a bit more, on many occasions." It was the insistence of counsel, associated the opportunism of the politicians who made this statement a question that required an immediate response.

"I is not born rich, "said the old man, now leaning a little more, its porch a statement. "Like any other human being I got a job. He paid the rent. A metallurgist not necessarily believe in the ingot, it is forged. A minor does not dig ideologically kilns of capitalism. "

But a man does not reach an intelligence service devoted to the fight against communism, to dig coal. "

"He paid the rent. And I Other things on the side – for reasons …. "

"Integrity? Truth? Consciousness?

"Lord, no! Pragmatism, as always. "

The young man took the heat for some time. It was the right time to introduce this, but the language is difficult to find. "So what would explain your current status. Patriotism, which from the outside you might assume when pursued you worked for your government, has always been a purely commercial arrangement. They pay you and you served them. And now they are no longer you pay, so that patriotism evaporates and you become a tax exile. You do not have country outside itself. "

"EE Cummings I think? "

The young man paused, stunned. A look of confusion spread across her sweet face. The tactic he had provided was undermined by this unexpected turn.

The old man felt the other's vulnerability and laughed. Intellect has once again issued a upper hand she was exploited, but he chose not to use his knowledge to master. "An American poet," he said, calmly, " which broke all the rules, so he broke overhaul what he has done a new system, a new set of rules. Only the artist in his country is itself inevitable. You, Mr. President, will never be an artist. You do not have the qualifications. On the one hand you have the integrity and the absence of selfishness needed. "

"So you selfishness is publicly apologized that pragmatism?"

"Each of us has a relationship with capitalism and pragmatism pays the rent. In your situation where you are pushed out of the ring, you do not even have the choice to cooperate. For you, for your diet and your people, pragmatism is not an option. "

And it was pragmatism that led you to organize the infiltration of student movements, I later joined the labor movement or my friends? Was this your pragmatism that has managed to place spies in all the organizations that opposed the cynical old son of a bitch that we called a dictator in our country, but you and your allies Imperial became friends because he was your son of a bitch? And this is not true that some of these people you've placed, especially the least important in the student movement, they did not report to your office? And thanks to this our enemies? And pragmatism that ultimately led to the arrest of militants, arrests that led to the imprisonment and exile many honest and truly committed? And it is the pragmatism that has created the charges trumped up and rigged hearings that the condemned? And it was this pragmatism that led, in my own case, to years in prison and exile – and, possibly, my excommunication of a church I love, that was my life? Have you done this? Was it the result of your pragmatism? Do you carry these things pay your rent?

"I did what was required of me …"

"The defense of an officer in a camp death. I was acting under the orders of … … and doing a bit on the side, make a small fortune on the market in gold teeth. "The young man contempt accelerated the words of a speech, they asked the silence deep and uncomfortable. A politician who should have used caution had lost control. A writer with a command of words had been cornered, voiceless and left helpless.

The president presented himself again at the window. He again recovered the papers from his pocket and began to read. The old man, now looking each of his eighty years, had four steps needed to be beside each other. More papers and ignored burning cigarette, their spouses eyes fell again on the well-dressed thugs the right wing in the street. "We know what we oppose," said the president.

"At least today, said the old writer.

There was a knock on the door, a strong push for the form that marked the immediate entrance. It was the turn of old writer to talk about the rally assembled. Again, as he turned, he gave a shot back left hand, making a light of other years arms with a gesture of solidarity. But this time the words were without passion, without animation, and perhaps more sincere to their murmur. "No Pasaran. I with you. "

"Today," repeated the other quickly, the break obviously inserted as a prelude to the prosecution, " and every day, I found your work inspiring. "

The old man smiled a little, and seizes 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.

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