[This story comes, I realise, more than a year after the last, a pleasant little effort called "L'Affaire Rizaveta". Well, at least I thought it was pleasant. "The Election" is different from anything I've written before, in that it is completely fictional. The characters are real enough, and I daresay I may tell a few truths along the way, but the premise remains to tell a story, not craft an allegory. If there is evidence of rust - a year is a long time to stay away from fiction - I humbly request your indulgence.]
“The best place to begin,” an old geezer who knew a thing or two about horses once told me, “is at the beginning. Then, one should go on to the middle, and if the end is in sight, make a dash for it.” He was referring, I believe, to the Grand National in the year that Kais Kous won it by a nose from Muslintang, but I’ve generally found the approach to work just as well in telling stories. But…I don’t know, one gets restless – it seems to make sense to try something different, even if for no particular reason, and of this urge, I suppose, the following story is born.
It all begins at the Socialist Club of Upper Midgard, that hoary bastion of the anti-Capitalist movement, ensconced comfortably between the woods of the National Park and the club’s own golf course. A picturesque post-colonial structure houses the club, which is the meeting ground of the leading members of the Socialist Party and functions, for all intents and purposes, as the Party HQ. It was the last day of the monsoon session of the State Legislature and we had won a significant victory over the ruling capitalist coalition, blocking a new Bill that proposed preventing employees of private flour mills from forming Unions.
The sounds of revelry ringing through the halls of the Socialist Club of Upper Midgard were unmistakable. Glasses clinked, uproarious laughter broke out in places, and every five minutes or so came the sound of someone slapping someone else’s back. Wine flowed like water, and I had the distinct feeling that getting the stains of red wine off the carpet might turn out to be rather an ordeal the next day. But that was for the next day; for now we were celebrating a significant political victory, and it was a time to clink glasses, laugh uproariously and slap each other’s backs.
I was standing near the piano, where Ariel was tinkling out a complicated concerto for the benefit of the attendant public. Fenderis the Wolf stood beside me, poring over some sheet music. He and his wolfish friends played in a string quartet and had been engaged to play a few perky tunes to round off the evening’s entertainment. Of course, he was also the Press Officer of the sitting member of the State Legislature for Midgard city, making him a rather important personage in the whole setup, but like all good Socialists, he was a man of the people, and definitely not above displaying his musical talents at a jolly gathering.
“Are you going to be playing much longer, Ariel,” he asked in a whisper.
She shook her head and mouthed “five minutes”, eyes never wavering from the keys.
I led Fenderis over to the bar to replenish our glasses, where we ran into the fabulously rich self-made millionaire Fatty Lombard, who was casting a benevolent eye over the proceedings.
“What are you playing today, Fenderis,” asked Fatty, taking a fistful of almonds from a plate.
“A minuet, some waltzes…then we will shift to some jolly folk tunes for some lively dancing.”
“Ah, so you’re handling the dance music in its entirety?”
“Yes, Ariel didn’t want to do it, said she preferred to dance than play today.”
“I suppose that means our boy Jormund will have to shake a serpentine leg?” asked Fatty, looking at me.
“Oh geez, I hope not,” I said, pouring myself out a small peg.
“Come now, Jormund,” said Fatty reprovingly, “you’re surely not too lazy to even dance a little with as lovely a woman as Ariel. There are men in this room who’d give their right arm for that privilege!”
“It’s not their arms I’m worried about, it’s my legs,” I replied, shaking my head, “she’s a terrible dancer, and she’s wearing heels today. Last time we danced, I spent the rest of the night dipping my toes in ice.”
“She can’t dance?” asked Fatty, looking amused, “No kidding? Such a graceful figure, too!”
“Yeah well, she does everything else brilliantly well. There had to be some flaw,” I grinned, “I’m glad it’s in something I don’t particularly enjoy much.”
“What about that little flaw where she can’t say ‘no’ to anyone who wants to sleep with her?” asked Fenderis, absent-mindedly poring over his sheet-music again.
“That’s not true!” I said heatedly, “she turned down two indecent proposals in front of me just last week!”
“Weren’t they from Maurie Piddlewiddy and Polly Polkiss, Colonel Piddlewiddy’s daughters?” Fatty chipped in.
“Yes.”
“She was always very straight. Got to give her that – religious girl,” said Fenderis, “anyway, time for me to take over, I believe those are the closing bars of that Concerto.”
He strode away from us purposefully, and we soon heard the unmistakably wheezy sound of violins being tuned. I turned back to Fatty, who had emptied the contents of the plate of almonds into his pocket and had now commenced work on the bowl of cashewnuts.
“Our honourable member of the legislature will get some good publicity out of this, won’t he?” I asked.
“Oh yes, he will. I expect he might get a portfolio of some sort the next time the party re-shuffles the shadow cabinet. Prawnson’s post probably, I hear the politburo isn’t happy with him, he’s on the threshold, one might say.”
“Wouldn’t do any harm to just give him a little push over it,” I muttered.
“Ah, you never did think much of Prawnson, did you? Strange, considering you two went to school together.”
“Trust me, I didn’t think much of him then either,” I replied, and old readers of this blog would know why (new readers are directed to the story known as “A Valentine Day Story - Parts I, II, III, IV” for further clarifications).
We were now joined by Ariel, red-faced from her exertions at the piano, a look that always seemed to, at least in my opinion, add to her already formidable charms. She ordered a small vodka, and I, quite carried away, grabbed hold of her as one would a television set one wanted to move into another room and engaged her in a quite hungry kiss. Allow me to clarify that dinner had not yet been served.
“I was just pointing out to Jormund that he might soon become the Private Secretary to the Shadow minister for Demand-side inflation – isn’t that what Prawnson handles?” said Fatty, when we had finished – which took a little while, Ariel being remarkably responsive.
“Oh will you, Jormund? Won’t that be nice?” she said proudly, clenching her fists and causing her glass to shatter in her hands. Like most pianists, she has strong fingers.
“Well it might happen. They are thinking of giving our honourable member a kick-up. Of course, shadow cabinet hardly means anything, he’ll have to step up to the politburo or maybe the government after next year’s election for us – I mean, for him – to have any real power.”
“Oh shush, Jormund,” said Ariel, resting her charming head on my shoulder, “everyone knows you and Fenderis handle everything for him. Why, that little pest is only good for using as a toy. Pretty good at that though, you wouldn’t expect a short man to pack as much as he does.”
“A toy? What sort of…,” began Fatty and then allowed the words to trail off, before walking into the crowd and returning with a very pretty young blonde of petite but sinewy figure. She was dressed in a figure-hugging black dress that did very little to hide the contours of her body. Ariel, whose dress was, if anything, even tighter, nonetheless turned her nose up disapprovingly and whispered “Tramp” in my ear.
It all begins at the Socialist Club of Upper Midgard, that hoary bastion of the anti-Capitalist movement, ensconced comfortably between the woods of the National Park and the club’s own golf course. A picturesque post-colonial structure houses the club, which is the meeting ground of the leading members of the Socialist Party and functions, for all intents and purposes, as the Party HQ. It was the last day of the monsoon session of the State Legislature and we had won a significant victory over the ruling capitalist coalition, blocking a new Bill that proposed preventing employees of private flour mills from forming Unions.
The sounds of revelry ringing through the halls of the Socialist Club of Upper Midgard were unmistakable. Glasses clinked, uproarious laughter broke out in places, and every five minutes or so came the sound of someone slapping someone else’s back. Wine flowed like water, and I had the distinct feeling that getting the stains of red wine off the carpet might turn out to be rather an ordeal the next day. But that was for the next day; for now we were celebrating a significant political victory, and it was a time to clink glasses, laugh uproariously and slap each other’s backs.
I was standing near the piano, where Ariel was tinkling out a complicated concerto for the benefit of the attendant public. Fenderis the Wolf stood beside me, poring over some sheet music. He and his wolfish friends played in a string quartet and had been engaged to play a few perky tunes to round off the evening’s entertainment. Of course, he was also the Press Officer of the sitting member of the State Legislature for Midgard city, making him a rather important personage in the whole setup, but like all good Socialists, he was a man of the people, and definitely not above displaying his musical talents at a jolly gathering.
“Are you going to be playing much longer, Ariel,” he asked in a whisper.
She shook her head and mouthed “five minutes”, eyes never wavering from the keys.
I led Fenderis over to the bar to replenish our glasses, where we ran into the fabulously rich self-made millionaire Fatty Lombard, who was casting a benevolent eye over the proceedings.
“What are you playing today, Fenderis,” asked Fatty, taking a fistful of almonds from a plate.
“A minuet, some waltzes…then we will shift to some jolly folk tunes for some lively dancing.”
“Ah, so you’re handling the dance music in its entirety?”
“Yes, Ariel didn’t want to do it, said she preferred to dance than play today.”
“I suppose that means our boy Jormund will have to shake a serpentine leg?” asked Fatty, looking at me.
“Oh geez, I hope not,” I said, pouring myself out a small peg.
“Come now, Jormund,” said Fatty reprovingly, “you’re surely not too lazy to even dance a little with as lovely a woman as Ariel. There are men in this room who’d give their right arm for that privilege!”
“It’s not their arms I’m worried about, it’s my legs,” I replied, shaking my head, “she’s a terrible dancer, and she’s wearing heels today. Last time we danced, I spent the rest of the night dipping my toes in ice.”
“She can’t dance?” asked Fatty, looking amused, “No kidding? Such a graceful figure, too!”
“Yeah well, she does everything else brilliantly well. There had to be some flaw,” I grinned, “I’m glad it’s in something I don’t particularly enjoy much.”
“What about that little flaw where she can’t say ‘no’ to anyone who wants to sleep with her?” asked Fenderis, absent-mindedly poring over his sheet-music again.
“That’s not true!” I said heatedly, “she turned down two indecent proposals in front of me just last week!”
“Weren’t they from Maurie Piddlewiddy and Polly Polkiss, Colonel Piddlewiddy’s daughters?” Fatty chipped in.
“Yes.”
“She was always very straight. Got to give her that – religious girl,” said Fenderis, “anyway, time for me to take over, I believe those are the closing bars of that Concerto.”
He strode away from us purposefully, and we soon heard the unmistakably wheezy sound of violins being tuned. I turned back to Fatty, who had emptied the contents of the plate of almonds into his pocket and had now commenced work on the bowl of cashewnuts.
“Our honourable member of the legislature will get some good publicity out of this, won’t he?” I asked.
“Oh yes, he will. I expect he might get a portfolio of some sort the next time the party re-shuffles the shadow cabinet. Prawnson’s post probably, I hear the politburo isn’t happy with him, he’s on the threshold, one might say.”
“Wouldn’t do any harm to just give him a little push over it,” I muttered.
“Ah, you never did think much of Prawnson, did you? Strange, considering you two went to school together.”
“Trust me, I didn’t think much of him then either,” I replied, and old readers of this blog would know why (new readers are directed to the story known as “A Valentine Day Story - Parts I, II, III, IV” for further clarifications).
We were now joined by Ariel, red-faced from her exertions at the piano, a look that always seemed to, at least in my opinion, add to her already formidable charms. She ordered a small vodka, and I, quite carried away, grabbed hold of her as one would a television set one wanted to move into another room and engaged her in a quite hungry kiss. Allow me to clarify that dinner had not yet been served.
“I was just pointing out to Jormund that he might soon become the Private Secretary to the Shadow minister for Demand-side inflation – isn’t that what Prawnson handles?” said Fatty, when we had finished – which took a little while, Ariel being remarkably responsive.
“Oh will you, Jormund? Won’t that be nice?” she said proudly, clenching her fists and causing her glass to shatter in her hands. Like most pianists, she has strong fingers.
“Well it might happen. They are thinking of giving our honourable member a kick-up. Of course, shadow cabinet hardly means anything, he’ll have to step up to the politburo or maybe the government after next year’s election for us – I mean, for him – to have any real power.”
“Oh shush, Jormund,” said Ariel, resting her charming head on my shoulder, “everyone knows you and Fenderis handle everything for him. Why, that little pest is only good for using as a toy. Pretty good at that though, you wouldn’t expect a short man to pack as much as he does.”
“A toy? What sort of…,” began Fatty and then allowed the words to trail off, before walking into the crowd and returning with a very pretty young blonde of petite but sinewy figure. She was dressed in a figure-hugging black dress that did very little to hide the contours of her body. Ariel, whose dress was, if anything, even tighter, nonetheless turned her nose up disapprovingly and whispered “Tramp” in my ear.
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