LITMIR.BIZ

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      ‘How do I get through the railings?’ asked the student.

      ‘Through the gate,’ came the exasperated reply.

      ‘The palace guards are at the gate. Will they let me in?’

      ‘Not that gate.’ Sergio was enraged at the suggestion that this wanton dissenter might drag his protest any more publicly through Piazza Rosa. ‘Through this gate – my gate.’ He pointed to a small gate that broke the otherwise continuous fence line. With nothing but the smallest catch to differentiate it, it was no wonder that the student had missed it on his first cursory inspection.

      The young man laid his placard at his feet.

      ‘Don’t leave that there. Anyone could see it. Bring it with you.’

      The student picked it up and tucked it under one arm. He tiptoed through the gate, closing it quietly behind him, and up the path to join the president, who was now wearing a casual pair of trousers and a shirt, his braces hanging down in loops at either side.

      In silence, the two men traipsed upstairs, the president leading, too hot and bothered to consider any potential security threat, the student following, with the barest trace of a smile, born of his own audacity in taking on the government and finding himself in this most unlikely of pairings.

      They entered Sergio’s private chambers where the president ushered his visitor to one of the lion’s-claw-footed chairs in front of the desk. The young man lowered himself, politely tweaking his trousers at the knees, a habit he had adopted to avoid creasing while at his studies.

      ‘Name?’ said Sergio, wresting authority out of the so-far-unsatisfactory exchange. He pulled a clean notepad towards him and dipped his pen into the ink with a flourish.

      ‘Woolf.’

      ‘Son of Renzo Woolf?’

      ‘Nephew.’

      ‘Hmm. Yes, yes, I think I know those Woolfs. Occupation? Yes, yes, of course. Student.’ Sergio pushed the notepad away from him and leaned back in his chair, shaking his head slowly as though addressing a small child. ‘And, young Mr Woolf, do you not think that before your rebellious and potentially inciteful protest, you might have found another less confrontational means to express your dissatisfaction with me?’

      Sergio felt in control again. Perhaps he might not be the most skilled negotiator when dealing with dissidents but this was a Woolf and Woolfs he could deal with. He raised his eyes to meet the pale green pair gazing fearlessly back at him.

      ‘I wrote to you first.’

      Sergio shrugged to indicate that he had never received any correspondence. ‘Perhaps it got lost in the post,’ he countered.

      ‘No. I delivered it myself. I handed it to the palace guards. And before writing to you I wrote to the ministers for employment and education. And before writing to them I wrote to the head of the university, and before writing to him I requested a meeting with my tutor, who felt he was not in a position to take up my cause. When all my letters went unanswered, I chose to demonstrate my disquiet with a peaceful protest.’

      ‘And to whom, exactly, have you spoken about your so-called peaceful protest? Am I dealing with a lone Woolf, or are there more protesters out there, waiting to attack the very fabric with which this society is woven?’

      ‘Well, actually, I have spoken to nobody. It was – it was a spur-of-the-moment thing. It wasn’t really until this afternoon that I decided to protest.’

      Sergio leaned further forward, looking deeply into Woolf’s eyes. ‘And you’re quite sure of this? There’s no underground movement that I should know about, spreading malaise and unease among my people?’

      Woolf shook his head.

      ‘No secret late-night meetings, fuelled by unlicensed drink and Western song lyrics?’

      ‘No, sir, none that I know of.’ Still, Woolf continued to meet Sergio’s gaze.

      ‘And your dissatisfaction, Woolf, is with what exactly?’ Once again, Sergio dipped his pen, ready to take notes.

      ‘It’s quite simple. As my placard says, I need a job. I’m looking for employment, sir.’

      Sergio was partly disgusted, partly relieved. ‘But you’re a student! Surely you’ll follow the course of all students and when you’ve finished your education you’ll use the skills you have gained to find an appropriate position in the employment market.’

      ‘But, sir,’ Woolf cried, ‘I’m thirty-two years old! I’ve been in full-time education since I was five! That’s twenty-seven years! And for most of those years I’ve been continually promised an appropriate position once I’ve completed my studies.’

      Genuinely baffled, Sergio probed deeper: ‘But until you’ve graduated, you’re still officially a student and therefore not available for employment.’

      ‘Exactly,’ said Woolf, in frustration. ‘But when will that be? I’ve a master’s. I’ve a PhD. I can speak Italian, French, English, Latin and Russian fluently. I’m ready to take a step into adult life but I have absolutely no prospects whatsoever. When I think I’m ready to graduate, I’m press-ganged into yet another few years of full-time education. When is it going to end?’

      Sergio let out a low chuckle with what he hoped was a combination of contempt and ridicule. ‘Well, really, as president you’d think I’d have heard it all. But of all the ungrateful whining adolescents I’ve ever heard … Do you know what a privilege it is to be so educated? There are people around the world for whom access to even the most basic levels of literacy and numeracy would be considered a luxury yet you have the nerve to sit here and blame me for giving you too much free education? You should be grateful that your tutors consider you worthy of such great investment.’

      Sergio scribbled wildly on his notepad while he contemplated his next move. Woolf was unable to decipher the notes upside-down, and when Sergio got a sense that he was trying to read them, he put a protective arm between them and his onlooker. Finally he stopped writing and carefully turned over the paper, away from prying eyes.

      ‘So, you want a job,’ he began. ‘What sort of job? What do you want to achieve? Where do you live?’

      ‘With my parents, of course, and my brothers.’

      ‘Good, good. So you have no cause for complaint. You have a roof over your head and food on your table when you get home. Good food and a decent roof, if I remember the Woolfs correctly. Yes?’

      ‘Yes, of course. I have a nice home and good food.’

      ‘And you are intellectually stimulated every day. Your tutors continue to challenge you?’

      ‘Yes, indeed. I have excellent tutors – they have much to offer.’

      ‘And you think, with the wonderful arrogance of youth, that you have learned everything you can, that you know as much as those entrusted with your edification?’

      Woolf lowered his eyes for the first time since the line of questioning began. ‘No, no, of course not. There is much still for me to learn.’

      ‘So, remind me. You have a comfortable home, food on the table, and are challenged every day intellectually. You protest against what, exactly? Which element of your human rights have I abused, would you suggest?’

      ‘I – I have no complaints now to speak of. It’s the future I’m most concerned about, my prospects. I’ve lost sight of where I’m going.’

      Sergio threw back his head and laughed, while Woolf fiddled nervously with his fingers in his lap. ‘Now I really have heard it all. I am the president of a great nation and my time is best spent offering counsel to young students. You have lost sight of where you’re going? Well, my young friend, I suggest you do one of two things. You acquire

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