Attorney General Gordon Cunning awakens with his newspaper spread over his legs like a blanket. He fishes out his handkerchief and mops his forehead. He should be in bed, but his failure to attend would be used against him for months.
It will require several martinis to get through the evening.
Nestled in a wingback chair, in an inconspicuous corner of the Crystal Ballroom, he watches the bunting-draped ceiling quiver in an updraft, then surveys the vast, brightly lit space containing tight clutches of men in black suits, smoking cigars, cigarettes and pipes, and bellowing at one another, while servers in tuxedos sidle sideways with the agility of snakes, balancing drinks trays overhead…
Where was I? Ah, yes.
The guests present are mostly farmers, small businessmen and village lawyers, many of whom have travelled hundreds of miles for the occasion, shuffling nervously from foot to foot, perspiring in Sunday serge coats adorned with decorations pulled out of dresser drawers and polished by their wives. Their thick-soled, practical boots scuff the Persian carpet (the size of a tennis court); their sausage fingers clutch glasses of whisky and rum for dear life.
These are his constituents, whom he has wooed and won in two elections and coddled like cats in between. But just because he represents them doesn’t mean that he has to like them…
Where was I? Ah…
Closed my eyes for a moment, should be in bed…
He thinks he might have a touch of the flu—inevitable when you shake hands with so many workmen and breathe the stench coming from their lungs. Looking over the assembled guests he envisages swarms of germs, swimming from nostril to nostril through the damp, smoky air…
And here he comes.
A hush descends on the room as His Royal Highness The Prince George—wearing tweeds, not ermine—arrives with his royal retinue. A fawning mob converges around him, their faces glistening with anticipation, hands outstretched like oars from a slave ship.
For some reason, Attorney General Cunning can’t quite summon the energy to join them, or even rise from his chair. A torpid feeling has taken over, along with a headache and an upset stomach. If he weren’t so tired he would make an appearance, if only to pass his germs to His Highness.
Perhaps another martini will inspire him to action.
The first opportunity to grip the royal palm goes to representatives of Canadian Pacific Railway, whose indentured Chinese have succeeded in uniting Canada from sea to sea. They are followed by the ex-military pecking order, led by Vancouver’s two generals, Newson and Armstrong, whose bespoke suits drip with medals and ribbons that shimmer brightly while they glare at each other like executioners, bristling with mutual hatred. Then along comes the premier and members of the executive council (Cunning really should be among them), then members of the upper bureaucracy. Ah—there is Clyde Taggart, good old Clyde, teammate, drinking mate, resolute supporter, best friend a man could have. A pity about the LCB…
Where was I? Ah, yes. The campaign.
Running for re-election was a miserable, dirty business. Miserable, because it’s no fun having to appeal to Scottish voters in an itchy kilt, with a bulky, hairy sporran drawing attention to one’s privates. Besides, he has never been fond of Scotch (it tastes like disinfectant); however, his usual martini might be seen as effeminate.
And the campaign turned nasty, deteriorating into questions of personal character. And yet, voters in the riding had every right know the truth about Fergus Hendry: Can an unfaithful husband be trusted to keep faith with his constituents? It was hardly Cunning’s fault that Mrs Hendry overreacted the way she did—by publicly denouncing her husband and throwing him out of the house—because the other woman in the affair was her sister-in-law.
All in all it was a nasty business, unsavoury and unfortunate. But that’s politics. And a win is a win, even by a margin of forty votes.
Ah. Another martini cocktail has arrived: a fresh, frosty glass beside the polished brass lamp, flashing drops of condensation—and in the proper glass, an inverted pyramid perched atop a transparent stem, improbably tall, with an olive inside, blurry as though seen through a screen…
What’s going on now? It seems as if the room has thinned out. The prince must have returned to the Royal Suite, which means it is too late to get up and shake hands…
Sparks flicker behind his eyelids. His headache has got worse. Someone has dimmed the chandeliers.
No more martinis tonight. Best stay put and rest until the dizziness and queasiness fade, then make an inconspicuous exit and head up to his suite…
Where am I?
He must have fallen asleep again. He opens his eyes—
And is surprised to find that they are already open.