The Election - Part 3: Into the Night

[Part 3 has taken more time in the writing than I would have liked. But for what it's worth, here it is. As always, I recommend reading Parts 1 and 2 first. Unless, of course, you do not want to make any sense of the story, in which case it hardly matters]

It was that time of night that some have called the wee hours of the morning. We stood – Ariel and I – on the porch of the clubhouse, the one that overlooked the golf course. The revelry inside was finally showing some signs of abating; after all, even happy Socialists must rest eventually. Elsin had been flirting outrageously with everyone who paid her any attention. Ariel had been cheering herself up by trying to outdo her in grabbing male eyeballs, with some measure of success. They had met a couple of times at the counter and exchanged haughty glances and murmured the count of men who had taken their numbers. Of course, since Ariel generally gave the number of the local Pottery Class on such occasions and Elsin gave that of the Marine Psychology Association, these social occasions always led to considerable grief for potters and marine psychologists in subsequent weeks. I had tried to do the same, though with rather disappointing results, since nearly all the women present were more interested in denouncing “those two tarts” than paying any attention to me. A sensible choice on their part, no doubt, but it left me rather bored with the whole thing. In any case, after the fourteenth time I had been told “Oh shut up, Jormund, look at what that green-eyed trollop of yours is doing with my boyfriend!” I moved out to the porch with a glass of Old Monk and contemplated the rolling greens in whose bunkers, sand-traps and roughs I had spent so many happy, if frustrated hours.

Ariel joined me a little later, a fact I realized when her light touch rested on my arm and her cheek on my shoulder.

“Penny for your thoughts?” she said.
“Was just wondering about what’s been going on, you know. I mean, what’s Elsin playing at? Why does she want to know about Korchell’s election? Why now? And even more puzzling, why does she affect you the way she does? I’ve never seen you cry like you did a little while ago, for such a small thing. You know we don’t have to tell her anything, really. I’ll fob her off with some white lies when she comes around to ask – there’s nothing that can be proved against us.”

“It’s not that simple,” she said, shaking her head and moving away to perch herself on a wicker chair, “Fatty told me a few things while we were dancing that…well let’s just say that she holds all the aces.”

“What sort of aces?”

“One big one, really. Do you remember last year when Korchell swung that publishing deal for Fatty?”

“The one by which Fatty gets to publish and sell the Complete Works of Josef Stalin in every village in Valhalla?”

“Yes, that one. Well, some payments were made in the course of the deal into an account held jointly by Korchell and Fatty from a shady Mauritian Bank account. I didn’t get the exact details, though Fatty tried to explain, but it seems there’s a large scale tax-evasion and money-laundering racket involved with that Mauritian account. Apparently if it comes out, Korchell and Fatty could be looking at jail time, at least six months. Elsin has found out about that account – Fatty doesn’t know how – and yesterday she paid him a ‘little visit’ in his office with Junichiro. You know Junichiro Morigabayumi – he’s the nephew of Yachirobi, who heads the Capitalist Party. Juni owns Elsin’s paper, and he did most of the talking.”

“Smooth talker, Junichiro. He and I cut our teeth in North Midgard together. We never saw eye to eye.”

“I know, that’s what he used to tell me.”

“You know the chap?” I said, frowning.

“Oh yes, we had a brief fling back around the time you tried to run away from me and go to Tasmania.”

“Ah yes, that time. Well anyway, what did the terrible twosome have to say?”

“Essentially, its blackmail. The story of Korchell’s election in return for keeping quiet about the Mauritian account. Fatty told her as much as he knew, but obviously had to admit he didn’t know the whole story”

“Which is why she’s here today?”

“Yes, she’s told Fatty she wanted to get to us – you and me and Fenderis. It’s obviously your call, Jormund, but I…well we can’t let Fatty and Korchell go to jail.”

“But what does she want, really? What’s Elsin’s agenda?”

“To get you out of politics,” said Ariel plaintively, “it’s hardly a secret that the Capitalist establishment sees you as a threat.”

“She already has the story of the Mauritian Bank account. That should be enough to finish Korchell off politically. He would never be elected again after jailtime. Fatty’s business interests too would be seriously compromised.”

“It’s not about Korchell, darling. It’s never been about that little idiot. Even if he gets put in chokey, Artemius will still head the Academic Committee. Hedyikk will still be in charge of security. Coral will still be the leader of the Conclave. Mortenson will still be in charge of the Unions. Nothing will really change. Korchell going to jail will only mean you and Fenderis will have to find someone else to be a front for the Socialist Party in Midgard. Fatty going to jail will break his financial clout but you will always be able to find some other plutocrat to bankroll your faction of the party. She needs to discredit you and Fenderis.”

“And you think we should let her?”

“You know what we did, Jormund. What I did.”

“We won’t need to go into details. I’ll resign tomorrow, and tell Fenderis to do the same. We can’t have Fatty and Korchell go to jail for us!”

“Oh, I’m afraid that won’t do!” came Elsin’s voice, sounding rather distressed, “I don’t just want to see you out of office, you know! I want to see your political career over. After all, if you resign honourably now, you’ll just come back some time later.”

She had emerged from behind the curtain. There was no telling how long she had been there. Obviously, being small had its advantages in a profession like hers.

“Hello, Elsin,” I said, in hollow tones, “I suppose you realize you’re effectively blackmailing us?”

“I prefer to call it a loaded negotiation,” she replied, smiling sweetly.

“Are Fatty and Fenderis still out there? I don’t hear the music,” I asked, moving back towards the door.

“They were when I left them, Fenderis had started on the chicken legs and Fatty was attacking the cottage cheese. But almost everyone else has left, including Jorkell,” replied Elsin.

“Then let us go in. I suppose its time we got this over with.”

I let her lead us in. As she had said, the crowd had dispersed almost entirely. Apart from a few stragglers supporting each other across the floor towards the parking lot, the only people left were Fenderis, Fatty and the redoubtable union leader-turned-waiter, Bradohov, who never took orders from the Club patrons but seemed to follow pretty much his own inclinations in matters of serving.

We settled ourselves around a yellowed old marble table just to the left of the piano. Fenderis stretched his rangy figure across several chairs, while Fatty settled on the floor with a bowl of walnuts. Ariel, looking pale and drawn, cuddled on a sofa next to me. Elsin had a smug expression on her face as she set a portable recording device on the table and settled on a wooden chair.

“Well,” she said with an almost jaunty air, “Here we are – the maven, the manipulator, the financier and the moll. The future of the Socialist party? Of politics itself? Let’s hear the worst of them.”

I could’ve sworn she rubbed her hands in glee, but it was difficult to tell, what with Bradohov having switched off most of the lights.

“I suppose you’d have to have a sense of the ironic to appreciate the situation,” drawled Fenderis from his perch on the chairs, “Because the story of Korchell’s election begins in this very place, two years ago. An identical situation, too. Porkovich, the previous MP from Midgard had kicked the bucket and the Club had held a little funeral party – though of course we believe life and death of an individual are unimportant in the larger scheme of things – where we all came and spoke a few nice words about old Porkovich, who had done so much to consolidate the Socialist position in Midgard. The unasked question was who would succeed him. Naturally, there was to be a bye-election, and it was a matter of some debate who would get the party ticket. Finally the party broke up; people started going home – much more somber than you saw them today, admittedly – and Ariel stopped playing songs about passing to another world. We were sitting at this selfsame table – Jormund, Ariel and Korchell were on the sofa over there, I was sleeping on the floor and Fatty was eating salted pistachio. Winter Coral and Hedyikk the Einherjar were with us as well, sipping Rum from a bullhorn. You know Winter and Hedyikk?”

“That impossibly idiotic Viking warrior and the Jedi with a sordid past? I’ve come across them, yes.”

“Yes, well, that’s them. And her past isn’t sordid, she just has a different opinion about erotic dancing than most people,” I said, picking up the thread, “Anyway, Bradohov was serving us the cherry liqueurs – strong stuff too, don’t you remember, Ari?”

“Strong enough to put Jormund into an even deeper sleep than usual that night,” Ariel collaborated, “But that was later. Coral was looking quite gorgeous in that blue Incendio gown of hers with a pearl necklace. Ooh I liked those pearls! It was this really nice arrangement with two rows….”

Elsin made a sound that sounded like a mix between a steam liner grating on one of the locks at the Suez Canal and a railway-crossing guard singing a hymn.

“Are all your contributions going to be on these lines, Ariel?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I’m just telling you my impressions. After all you want the whole story. I was there, so I’m giving you my perspective on it. You speak as though I didn’t even count. Calling me a moll and what not!”

“Jormund, please!”

“We speculated for a while about who would most likely get the party ticket. Coral herself would’ve been an excellent candidate, what with having led the resistance against Ludo Kressh and the Sith, but the electorate was never going to look too kindly upon someone who had been a pole dancer, even if she was a Jedi. Hedyikk himself was seen as too violent, and the rest of us were either too young, like Fenderis, or too lazy to campaign. It was Fatty who…”

“I had got it from Artemius – Joshhound had just been elevated to being Chairman of the Midgard chapter of the Party,” said Fatty, “and he was the one who would have the final say on who got the ticket to contest the election. Korchell knew Joshhound slightly and said this was a good call taken by the party. That was about when Jormund here jumped on him.”

“Figuratively, of course,” put in Ariel, “Jormund never jumps. Never.”

Elsin favoured Ariel with another withering look
“What do Jormund’s jumping habits have to do with what we’re discussing?”

“I mean as he doesn’t jump. With other people. He’s not that sort,” went on Ariel stoutly.

“Does this woman ever make any sense? Fatty, for God’s sake, continue.”

“Jormund and Korchell had a lengthy argument over the issue, including some amount of name-calling, but it seemed as if a truce might have been reached, when Bradohov turned up. You know Bradohov? Good. Well, he turned up with a soiled envelope which he delivered to Korchell.”

“I assume it was an invitation to Korchell to stand for the elections?”

“Yes it was. It was a pretty invitation too, all lilac paper with a gold border and the works. Signed in Joshhounds hand with a rubber seal saying “Chairman of the Midgard Chapter of the Socialist Party”. I remember being quite impressed. It also seemed so important, you know! Korchell was so pleased; he almost began to look like a normal-sized man.”

Elsin glared at Ariel with a look of wonder.

“Jormund, WHAT on earth did you ever see in this creature? You can’t possibly love a person just for pretty eyes and an ability to play the piano! She has no brains!”

“I resent that statement, Elsin,” I said, resentfully of course, “Ariel also has a very pretty tongue. Stick your tongue out at Elsin, old thing,”

Ariel complied gleefully, and then ducked her head just in time to avoid the glass that Elsin had flung at her head. It sailed harmlessly over the sofa and struck Bradohov on the chin.

The fearsome, gaunt figure of the former Union Leader, matted hair, wild eyes and clenched fists emerged from the shadows and glowered at Elsin.

""ere, you, young lady! This 'ere won't do, you know! Get out!"