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Is Made

      Sergio was in his private chambers, writing quietly while the rest of Parliament Hall slumped in May’s debilitating afternoon sun. With the hours of siesta well under way, all was quiet both inside and out and, apart from the rattles, creaks and groans provided by the state apartment, Sergio was able to enjoy something very close to silence. His breathing had begun to steady and he was forcing his mind to concentrate on the speech he was preparing for his State of the Nation address.

      This speech, as Angelo had indicated, should have been easy. He had good news to deliver, the country had met the challenge made to it by the American consultant and, though he knew that many of the men, particularly those of the land, had always doubted the outcome, he felt that on the whole he had taken them with him, that this had been a cohesive effort of which the whole country could feel proud.

      But concentrating on writing a positive speech was hard when your subconscious mind was gripped by grim dread. Whichever technique he employed, nothing could shake the feeling that he was teetering on the brink of unmitigated disaster. There was something amiss in the angle at which his minister of finance sat now at assembly meetings. The silence had continued too long after siesta when it should have been broken by children’s laughter or the impromptu playing of music in the Piazza Rosa. Even the weather conspired to unsettle him. Vicious electrical storms and relentless rain showers were followed by the hottest, angriest sun that melted the mettle of everyone in the country. It was shining once again, and its long rays were making inroads into his chambers, picking out the faults and highlighting the dust at play in the air and the loose threads that threatened to unravel the carpet.

      Sergio’s large, mahogany desk reflected his mood. Sometimes it glowed, proud of the part it played in the presidency, and at others it was a tired piece of timber wearing the many scratches and scuffs that Sergio’s own face bore as thanks for the responsibility he carried.

      Now, his pen lid replaced with a deafening click, Sergio’s head sank into his hands as the dark knot took hold deep in his belly. He could actually visualize it when he closed his eyes: something black and tumorous, always on the move. Growing and spreading to tighten its grasp on the arteries and veins that fought valiantly against its slippery, superior force. He sighed deeply, knowing that the words would never flow when he was fighting this kernel of anxiety, and rose to retrace the most worn path in the carpet to his favoured position at the window. Today he was looking for something definitive out there, a positive sign that hinted at even the tiniest glimmer of hope.

      Instead, he had to blink a couple of times to try to banish the image below him. When the mirage persisted, he rubbed his eyes and even backed away from the window, then approached it again in the hope that what was, surely, a sunspot caused by the extremes of light and dark would have vanished. When it stubbornly remained beneath him, he edged shakily to the curtain to peer out at the apparition more closely.

      Beneath him, not twenty feet from the Parliament Hall railings, and in full sight of the entire Piazza Rosa, should any of its sleepy occupants choose to glance out, stood a protester: a sole man clasping a placard in both hands. He wore charcoal grey flannel trousers with the white shirt and black tie of the educated. And while his sleeves were rolled up and his tie loosened to combat the heat of the early-afternoon sun, he had an air of respectability. Something about the tilt of his head, his proud stature, the shine of his shoes suggested a man of quality.

      Sergio, palms sweating, his breath caught tightly in his throat, leaned forward as far as he dared to read the words on the placard.

      ‘Negotii indigeo. Quaeso.’ The use of Latin confirmed Sergio’s immediate assumption. The language of education amplified by the manners of a gentleman. Perhaps this was worse than any of the nightmares he had hitherto imagined, one in which the civilized should revolt. He could understand the country’s few peasants and layabouts taking issue with recent policy, but should the educated decide to rise up, then the nation’s stability was over and it would be his fault. During his jurisdiction, chaos would reign. While acting as caretaker he would be responsible for the country’s first ever conflict and it would be this for which history would remember him.

      Sergio checked his watch. It would be a while before the city awoke, which was a good thing, but the timing was poor in that most of his ministers, including Angelo, would have wandered home for a bite to eat and a sleep. There was absolutely nobody around that he could call upon. So, wiping his sweating palms on his dressing-gown and licking his dry lips, he braced himself for confrontation, something he feared more – if possible – than the humiliation that the alternative offered.

      He slid the windows open and moved quietly onto the balcony. Obscuring himself in part behind one of the columns he signalled to the protester with as loud a hiss as he dared. The young man continued to look straight ahead, placard held aloft for the world to read and laugh at. Sergio stood out a little from the shadows and hissed again. This time the noise registered and the protester cocked his head, squinting towards the balcony. On a third signal he took the bait properly, moving one or two tentative steps forward to ensure that the shadowy man on the balcony was actually addressing him.

      ‘Come, come closer – quickly, quickly!’ Sergio beckoned with one hand while using the other to ensure that his dressing-gown stayed firmly closed.

      The protester looked left and right to ensure that the soporific palace guards weren’t going to stir themselves into action and came as far as he could, still holding the placard while straining to look up through the railings to the balcony above him.

      ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’ hissed Sergio from the shadows.

      ‘I’m making a peaceful protest.’ The agitator stood firm, still sure of his actions.

      ‘Against what are you protesting?’ said Sergio, still in stage whisper.

      ‘Against the governm—’ At that moment the young man recognized the robed man on the balcony above him. ‘Against you. Sir.’

      ‘Well, that’s no way to go about it. Make an appointment to see somebody. What about Signor Lubicic? Have you spoken to him about it?’

      ‘Of course not,’ the protester shouted. Sergio silenced him with a finger to his mouth. The young man dropped his voice once more. ‘Of course not,’ he repeated, in a hoarse whisper. ‘Signor Lubicic is a government official. I am just a student.’

      ‘Just a student? Just a student? Do you know how privileged you are to receive an education, provided by your government? What about the minister for education? Have you spoken to Professore Scota? He deals with all matters pertaining to education, satisfactory or otherwise. Make an appointment to see him if you’re not satisfied with just being a student!’

      ‘That is not an option that is open to me,’ the student protester retorted. ‘You don’t just make appointments to speak to government officials. That’s why I’m protesting.’

      ‘Well,’ said Sergio, sternly, ‘quite frankly, I’d rather you didn’t.’

      The student protester became a little more agitated. ‘But I want my voice to be heard. I have serious issues to raise and I need an audience – an audience equipped to listen and take action.’

      ‘Well, speak now. You have an audience. I am your president and, as such, I am equipped both to listen and to take action. Get on with it – there’s no time like the present. Speak to me now.’ With this, Sergio thumped his hand on the balcony balustrade allowing his dressing-gown to fall open. He clasped it to him, now furious at the protester and his own less than professional attire.

      ‘Well, sir, with all due respect, the points I have to make are worthy of a more formal recourse. Apart from anything else, I’m not sure I can keep this whisper up for very much longer.’

      With a stamp of his foot, Sergio whispered, ‘Oh, very well,’ and disappeared back inside, sliding the doors behind him.

      Below, in the square, the minutes ticked slowly by and the student was unsure whether to flee before imminent

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