Authors: Monique Roffey
Weeks later, an envelope arrives. Formal looking, a square card of some sort in a satiny envelope. He snatches it from the postman on his way out of the house and smells it, pressing the satiny
sheen to his lips. He opens it in his Jeep. It is an invitation, the writing is raised up in gold letters:
His Excellency requests . . .
a small coat of arms at the top with three Spanish
galleons and two hummingbirds; so . . . he still retains a title.
He limps
, said Ashes. He is given a date and a time to arrive. Nothing personal. It hasn’t even been signed by him.
Just a date and a time to be there, an RSVP contact for his secretary, an address. His heart is beating faster as he stares at the square card; it is like the possibility of a love affair. He puts
the jeep into drive and leaves for a meeting with his colleagues about a new scheme for schoolchildren nearby. This time he will tell Pearl where he is going and why; and he will promise to tell
her everything once he returns. Everything.
*
Joseph is nervous by the time he arrives. He is even half an hour early. It is 11 a.m. and they are to meet at 11.30 a.m. He is wearing his only suit and tie. In some ways he
considers it his lucky suit and tie because he only wears it for weddings and special occasions, and so every time before this he has worn it, he’s had a memorable time. Pearl even offered to
take it to the dry cleaners. Since he told her where he is going she has sunk into a space he doesn’t recognise. Like she’s gone off into new territory, no longer doing what she
generally does: sulk, get vexed, refuse sex. None of these things. She has gone different. Silent – and yet soft. Like she is really waiting this time.
Eventually he presses the buzzer to the tall wrought-iron gates. The jeep is parked further up, half on the grass kerb. He speaks his name
Joseph Green
into the intercom and soon after
the gates begin to slide back in a rickety kind of way and he notices a guardhouse to the left, two Dobermans chained up, gazing at him with their ears pricked. As he steps over into the electronic
high-gated world of the old PM, he thinks just what does he want from this? The old PM didn’t come calling;
he
has sought out the old man. The old man has said,
Yes, come
.
And now he, ‘Breeze’, Joseph Green, a killer, a double murderer, a father and a married man, a conservationist and once a radical extremist, a thief, a badjohn from the streets of the
City of Silk, a common crook, they should have thrown his ass in jail and done, is now walking up the driveway to see a very important man. Just what the ass is it, after all these years, he has to
say? He feels shame and he also feels okay; there is some kind of offness here, an offness of centre which makes him trust himself, that this will go well.
He is greeted at the door by a young man, about eighteen, who speaks quietly and says hello and explains that he’s a grandson. The grandson is wearing formal-looking black pants and a pale
shirt buttoned to the neck. The grandson leads him into a hallway. A woman appears, dressed in pink, wearing coffee-coloured stockings and big square spectacles and she also speaks in lowered
tones, and all of a sudden Joseph feels awkward, but it’s too late to check his appearance, too late to turn back. ‘Thank you for your punctuality,’ she says, shaking his hand.
‘I’m Clarissa, his secretary. He is expecting you. You have exactly one hour. He only sees one person a day, if that. He is very keen to meet with you. So many people have asked, over
the years, to speak to him, interview him about . . . that time. He always refuses.’ And she looks him up and down, ‘You must be very important, then.’ She doesn’t quite say
Who are you
, but that’s in her eyes. ‘You will address him as Your Excellency.’
Clarissa takes him to a large sitting room with heavy green silk curtains which run from ceiling to floor and lots of polished wooden furniture and a crystal vase of anthurium lilies on a small
table. There is a gold-framed mirror on the wall and some silver candlesticks on a ledge, some silver boxes on a coffee table. He sees himself in the mirror, looking scared and handsome. The place
smells of wax polish and of mothballs and he realises he is in some kind of formal reception room, a part of the house for visitors, not for family. Joseph has his back to the door when the King
enters. He hears a muffled whispering and turns round.
The grandson is holding on to one arm. In his other hand he clutches a walking stick. His hair is white and he is bent over but he isn’t limping. He shuffles with a slow but dignified step
and it all comes back to him, who this man is. The old King is slow and cautious as he makes his way over to where there are two armchairs set out for a conversation. Joseph can feel a tremor
spread through his entire body, a feeling of sympathy floods his veins. Like he might cry or indeed hug this man, crush him to his chest. The old man hasn’t seen him yet; his eyes are fixed
to the ground. He is making his way over in his own time. Joseph stands there waiting to be seen. It’s only after a few moments of watching him that he notices there is something wrong. Not
only is he shuffling, precisely, even proudly, with intent, but he appears unsighted.
The grandson sits him down. He says, ‘Can I get you anything, Grandpa?’ The old PM shakes his head. ‘No. I’m fine. Is he here?’
‘Yes, he is standing next to you.’
‘Oh,’ and he turns his head to face Joseph and he peers hard and he says, ‘Oh, there you are.’
Joseph stares. The young man leaves the room.
‘Please sit down. My sight isn’t very good. My hearing is worse. Speak clearly.’
Joseph sits in the armchair next to him. Their knees are inches apart and he guesses the chairs are arranged this close due to the old PM’s deafness. He has composed himself and is looking
downwards into his lap, as if his eyes are useless and he now only uses his ears for sight and sound. That, or the old PM refuses to look his way. Joseph realises he is expected to start the
conversation and that this isn’t an unreasonable expectation. Except that he is awestruck, as awestruck by the old man now as he was when he was fourteen. He can feel there are tears in his
eyes and he is glad the old man cannot see them. There is too much to say; where does he begin? He feels the need to tell the whole sorry story of his life and realises the PM will not and cannot
listen to it. He remembers taking the PM down the stairs to his wheelchair out onto the gravel, how he wanted to say something then,
Save us, don’t leave us here
. How bad he has felt
ever since those days. How bad. And he can see the old PM isn’t well either; maybe he can start there, about this pain, in the groin.
‘Well, come on then. Don’t just sit there,’ the old PM says gruffly. ‘You are that little boy Breeze, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘That little badjohn. You say you shot the woman who died in the House.’
‘Yes.’
‘You should be ashamed of yourself. She left behind a husband who went to pieces after she died and two small children, both motherless. I understand both have had tough lives. Many people
were left without loved ones after what you did. You want to turn yourself in, is that right? You’ve had enough of hiding?’
This isn’t how Joseph had hoped things would go. ‘I . . . met her husband recently . . . by chance. Yes.’
‘Good. So you should. I can give you the name and address of the right person in the police force to do so.’
Joseph wants to say,
Wait! This isn’t right . . . or fair. I’m not a badjohn. Or . . . I’m not one now
.
The old man has his head bent as if expecting a reply. Joseph wants the old man to
care
about him, he realises. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t. That is clear. Maybe this is what
he needed to check on. If the old PM just didn’t care, had them shot – just like that. He didn’t care about Joseph at all; no one ever has: no man, no father, no Leader.
‘Your Excellency,’ he begins, and clears his throat.
The old man cocks his head.
‘I have to ask you about what happened. About the execution. Did you give the order? Was it you?’
He doesn’t reply immediately. He has heard the question; he is thinking.
‘No,’ he says firmly. ‘It wasn’t me who gave that order. I was in hospital. It was taken by others, the army and the proxy government on the outside.’
Joseph is relieved. Somehow he knew it hadn’t been him. That was what he needed to know most.
‘But if I had been more . . .
compos mentis
at the time, who knows. Maybe I would have said yes too. I cannot say. I was very ill.’
‘But it wasn’t your decision?’
‘No. But, young man, make no mistake. I would have signed papers to hang those at the top, at the very least. Others would have received the strongest sentences. Locked up for life. Throw
away the key. Make no mistake, it was a gross act of villainous treason. A violation against the state and the humanity of our nation. But I was in no fit state to make decisions after I left the
House. Yes, I recall you helped me out, down the stairs. Of course I remember you. The Monroe Doctrine. You were one of the most trigger-happy of all those young boys. A real bad mouth. A little
bad man. I hope you didn’t come here expecting sympathy. All of you, in some way, had a hand to play in it. No I didn’t make that order . . . I left the country soon afterwards . . . to
. . . recuperate.’
‘Oh.’
‘We lost the next election, thanks to what happened. Game over. The City of Silk was ruined and laid waste. It has never fully regained its confidence. You men wounded the
country
. Deeply. Has it ever healed? Eh? Little gunman, all grown up?’
Joseph is feeling numb. A massive guilt has welled up and assaulted him. He has been so naïve. Politics, the Big Game; it’s not really about people, the common man like him. It is
over there, in the distance. Power. He was confused then and he still is. Something terrible happened. Years ago. And yet he has always felt innocent somehow. He realises he doesn’t have that
much time and that the old PM is now looking impatient. This is no happy meeting, no reunion. So much for his lucky suit and tie. What was he thinking?
Ask the right question.
Okay,
then.
‘Power . . .’ he begins.
‘Yesssss?’
‘I was very confused about it at the time. I didn’t know who you were, for instance; I didn’t know a man needed to be elected by the people to serve. I was a boy. I knew
nothing. It was a great shock to see I was . . . wrong.’
‘You had been brainwashed and exploited.’
From nowhere he feels defensive of what the Leader gave him.
‘The Leader taught me to read and write. That is something.’
‘What are you trying to say?’
‘Power. You, the Leader, is like I was serving the wrong man. I was foolish then.’
‘Yes. You were a young fool. And it looks like you still are . . . if I may speak bluntly.’
‘
Who
then?’ Joseph feels himself go dumb, urgent. ‘Who should I serve? Who – or what? Who has real power? Who do
you
serve, Your Excellency?’
The old PM actually smiles at this. Broadly, and with great peace in his face. For the first time his gaze rises upwards and he looks at him squarely.
‘You and your kind,’ he says. ‘Spiritual knights. Warriors, men who feel to change things up so quickly, using violence. You, yes
you
, were part of things. Big things.
A chain of events stretching back now over twenty years or more. 1990. Not so long ago. Then 9/11. Now it is 2013.’
Joseph can feel his ears go hot. It is hard to bear the fury in the eyes of the old man.
‘The
world
lost its confidence after 9/11. Of course we know now, what happened here was connected. Big thing man.
You.
Young man, you are part of it all. You and your
so-called “brothers”. This thing that happened here in our small island was just the first event; we can look back and join the dots.
You
. You are directly part of it all and
now you come back here to ask me who to serve? Eh? Little badjohn from the slums, shooting the place up?’
Joseph is shaking. ‘Yes,’ he mutters. He is lost now, out of his depth. What was he thinking?
‘Here,’ says the old King, and he taps his chest. ‘
Here
is who to serve. And what to serve. The best part of self. The spirit. The Light. It has many names. It is the
universal force, a truth which lives in every one of us. We must serve that.’
Joseph stares, knowing this and yet still trying to understand. He puts his hands to his chest as if this might help him breathe. The old man’s blind eyes are ablaze.
‘True power lies away from man’s grasping and greedy ego and towards a higher self. Only God has power, my friend. Our life’s mission? Eh? To turn away from what we want. To
relax this pursuit of need. Power already lies within every man.’
Joseph nods, as if he was on the tip of this very understanding. The old PM is revealing something he already carried inside him, an ancient wisdom.
‘It lives in the heart, my friend.’
The old man stops speaking, abruptly. Joseph remembers his bravery; he’d been willing to sacrifice his life for his country. He had understood power, then. Power is love. Joseph feels this
love sweep through him, a great release. The devastation of the woman on the ground, under the table, who bled to death, the child in her stomach. The others that were shot. The heavy,
indescribable feeling which he’s carried since then. The stabbing pain in his groin, near his testicles. As though the part of him destined to create new life has been eternally tortured.
He’s lived a life of enduring self-hatred. His feelings of self are shrouded in the violence of those six days. The City of Silk looks different now, resurrected. Restored. A promenade and a
fancy library which looks like a big white butterfly. But violence hasn’t caused any core change. The old King is right; he, Joseph Green, ‘Breeze’, the little bad mouth, the boy
soldier, the man, conservationist, the person who puts hatchlings back into the sea, is a link in a chain which stretches across the world. A chain of violence.