Everyone in the room had committed atrocities, though only Marcius acknowledged it out loud. ‘I assume full responsibility for what happened,’ he’d said after his boys cracked down on those who were now, once again, rebelling in Corioli.
‘No one’s denying their right to pitch a fit,’ he’d added in private. ‘That’s what we’re here for. But if we didn’t enforce order in the end they’d feed on one another.’
First he’d sent a commission to tell the rebels to accept what the government was offering: with that compensation, each of them could open a corner store, or squander the money and then still live well – the golf course would provide jobs for everybody. And when they raised their fists dramatically, Menenius, the head of the commission, smiled with the wisdom of a man who’s beheld many a tantrum, and shared with them a truth as clear as cash: ‘Your knees, to them, will help, not arms.’ If they listened to him they might even get a little lagniappe, a bit of land someplace where there was nothing to fight over, say. They hadn’t listened.
Next Marcius had sent some lawyers to make them see that it had all been done in accordance with the law, that the only rights being infringed were those of the new owners whose land they were occupying, the papers were right there, couldn’t they see? They hadn’t listened to them, either.
Then he sent in the riot police under the instruction to show them what the State was made of if they so much as threw a stone. To his surprise, those ill-paid and worse-trained men had carried out their charge with inconceivable rage, as though their place in heaven were riding on it. Where others would have balked, they broke seventy-eight bones, killed four men and retook the land.
That was when Caius Marcius, government secretary, had said, with premeditated urgency, that he assumed full responsibility for what had happened, leaving the governor there like an adornment, or worse, a coward. The governor’s abdication scarcely gave Marcius the time to make new calculations, but he didn’t need time, what he needed was his hands untied and someone to pass the wallet. Using the former he’d opened the latter.
That was why Menenius had come – walking in on the meeting between Marcius and Cominius – to tell him how the rebel negotiations had gone. He managed to overhear Cominius say, ‘Problem with these deadbeats is they think they can piss in places their dicks don’t reach.’
Marcius didn’t bat an eye at the interruption, for Menenius had no need to knock, but Cominius cocked his brow a few millimetres.
‘Menenius, sir. Long time,’ he said.
Menenius bowed his head respectfully and glanced at Marcius.
‘I’ll come back.’
‘Good, we’re almost done here, Menenius.’
And he walked out of the office.
He didn’t mind waiting. In his mind he ran through the speech Marcius would read before the rebels to seal the pact. And after that the governorship would be his, who would challenge him? It was a great day for Menenius too. He’d trained Marcius. Taught him to say one thing while thinking another. Shown him the doors and finally they’d got them open. There would be a great celebration that night, but he wouldn’t go. He preferred to stay home, listen to some music, drink port.
He heard the men rise from their seats.
‘That’s that,’ Menenius assumed. The new deal would be better for all: different land for the old owners, more land for the new owners. But they had to wait for things to calm down. That was why they’d sent the riot police to the station and Menenius to talk to the rebels. At least that’s how they’d played it to Cominius.
(Cominius, too, had committed at least one atrocity, but he thought no one knew. Menenius never got his hands dirty, but every day he strangled the same subject over and over, every day, in his head.)
He remembered he had a dentist appointment.
They looked exhausted but not defeated. The difference between the two rebel representatives was that while one seemed anxious to find out what else they could get, the other looked like she was spoiling for a fight. Menenius was acquainted with both types: Aufidius was one of those who liked to proceed bit by tiny bit – a bit for his own pocket and a tiny bit to divvy up among the rest. Cunning man, but sensible: he believed in no one and nothing but the eloquence of the greased palm. Baranda, on the other hand, was so pure she was dangerous. People like her thought the only way to sow the fields anew was by burning the soil.
‘If this land is really as good as you say,’ Aufidius said, ‘give us some guarantees; that’s all we need.’
‘It is,’ said Menenius, ‘and we will.’
‘And compensation stays the same.’
‘Not a peso less.’
He was looking at Aufidius but could feel Baranda’s eyes boring through his skull.
‘And you really think it’s going to be that easy,’ she said.
Aufidius looked at her in exasperation.
‘We already voted on this in assembly.’
Baranda didn’t even turn, just kept staring at Menenius.
‘Tell Marcius to come sign.’
‘If you go to the secretary’s office, he’ll be more than happy to commit in writing,’ Menenius replied.
‘Here, before us all.’ Baranda pointed to the plaza.
Aufidius wavered for a moment, during which he seemed to be awaiting his instincts, and then said, ‘Yes, tell him to come.’
Menenius nodded slowly.
‘I’m sure the secretary will be very pleased to have you receive him.’
The moment he saw her walk in he knew Cominius had done something to her, but he still asked:
‘How’d it go?’
‘Fine.’
‘When do you begin?’
His daughter shrugged her shoulders. Her hands trembled slightly.
‘I don’t know.’
Menenius approached and clasped her elbows.
‘What happened?’
She was looking down.
‘Like you said. I went to see if he’d give me a job and he said yes.’
‘And?’
‘That’s it.’
‘What do you mean that’s it?’
‘He gave me the job. But I’m not going to take it.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because. I don’t want to.’
She jerked her arms to shake Menenius off and turned without looking at him. She wouldn’t look at him again, because she knew he knew but chose to pretend he didn’t.
‘What happened?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
The office door opened and the two men strode out. They clapped one another’s backs noisily.
‘Cominius, a pleasure as always.’
‘Mr Governor, pleasure’s all mine.’
‘Easy, tiger; wait for the toast.’
And they both laughed. Cominius repeated, ‘Menenius, sir,’ as he passed Menenius, who in turn repeated his head-bowing. He waited for Cominius to disappear into the elevator before turning to Marcius.
‘He took that pretty well.’
‘Yes.’
Marcius was still staring at the elevator. He’d said yes but was thinking about something else.
‘He took that pretty well,’ Menenius repeated.
Marcius had said: ‘This ass’ll be our bargaining chip. We deliver his head to those roughnecks, and the second they’re pacified we get other investors in. Faced with a done deal he won’t be able to say squat. He’s fucked. Didn’t I promise you, Menenius? It was just a question of patience.’ That was what he’d said.
‘Turned out to be a crafty little bastard,’ Marcius said. ‘He smelled a rat and came with a counter-offer. Outbid the other investors, and we keep the difference.’
He turned to Menenius and put a hand on his shoulder.
‘We need to get this through any way we can, and the second things settle down we hit him with all we got. Priorities, Menenius. You better than anyone know about those.’
Menenius didn’t respond. He was trying to work out what was actually going on behind Marcius’ pupils and hoping there was something true, despite experience telling him this was one of those promises he handed out like small change. And then:
‘Of course. Priorities.’
Marcius turned to walk into his office and – without even looking back – asked, to confirm what he assumed:
‘All taken care of with that lot?’
‘Done and dusted,’ replied Menenius.
Menenius had a near-pathological knack for remembering faces. He only had to see them once to file them away in his head, together with their names and the exact places he’d seen them. What he lacked, however, was Marcius’ talent for convincing anyone that, in effect, he really did remember them. Marcius made whoever stood before him feel as if he’d been waiting for them all his life, he not only shook hands but strode toward whoever was holding theirs out with the determination of a man heading to a podium. He was so overconfident it was as if he were being adored by the masses at every moment, even those when no one was adoring him.
Menenius called his secretary on the private line.
‘Alma, have they called off the riot police guarding the Palace?’
‘Yes, sir, they’re gone. Would you like me to put you through to the captain to have them called back?’
‘No need, Alma dear, we don’t need them. But do contact the Coriolans’ little leaders. Tell them I’m on my way.’
‘Right away, sir.’
‘Oh, and Alma’ – Menenius paused – ‘happy birthday. Just make that one call and then take the day off.’
The rebels were in permanent assembly, Aufidius attempting to defuse the remaining objections and Baranda making it hard for him. They received him at the back of the auditorium.
‘What time’s he coming? The people are getting restless,’ Aufidius said.
‘Soon, very soon, we just need to fine-tune a few details,’ Menenius said.
Both leaders opened their eyes wide. Aufidius in shock, Baranda almost jubilant. Menenius pulled from his briefcase a map he’d taken at random from his office and unfolded it before them.
‘One small change. Rather than that land it’s going to be this land. Tiny bit further but just as good.’
‘This is unacceptable,’ Aufidius said.
One of his men came to ask what was the matter, if they had a time yet, there had to be something he could give the people.
‘I’ll go tell them we’re just working that out now,’ Aufidius said. He turned to Menenius and gestured scornfully toward the map. ‘We had a deal.’
Baranda and Menenius were left alone. She observed him with a twisted smile.
‘So was Marcius the one who made this decision?’ she inquired.
‘What do you think?’
Baranda smiled openly.
‘No turning back now…’
‘Look, Baranda, Marcius, when he wants to be, is a tiger-footed fury; what matters is which side he’s placed his fury on, yours or the other. But he knows how to listen.’
Baranda narrowed her eyes and tamped down her smile on hearing the final comment.
Aufidius returned, agitated.
‘They’re going to wait, but not for long. And they’re not going to accept the changes.’
‘Menenius here thinks if we go talk to Marcius we can persuade him,’ Baranda said.
‘Really?’ Aufidius leaned anxiously toward Menenius.
‘As I already told you, the secretary will be happy to receive you.’
‘We agreed he was going to come here.’
‘Marcius loves and respects you both, you know that, but don’t force him to get into bed with you out in the open, in front of everyone. You’ve got to give a little.’
‘They don’t want us at the Palace. You’re sending us to get the bum’s rush.’
‘The riot police are gone. Send a commission.’
All three remained silent.
Then Baranda said, ‘The time for commissions has passed.’
She took a few steps toward the stage and announced to the assembly: ‘To the Palace!’
Menenius peeked out from behind the curtains and pointed to a group heading for the exit, machetes in hand.
‘I don’t think that’s necessary.’
‘Of course not, Menenius,’ said Baranda. ‘But as you and your pretty words know so well, one never abandons one’s tools.’
‘Open your mouth wide, wider, wider,’ said the dentist.
Now he’d start making small talk, like always, even though Menenius could only make throaty sounds in response.
‘I’m going to give you a little anaesthetic,’ he continued, ‘just in case. All you’ll feel is a tiny prick.’
Menenius had already begun to disengage, as he did every time the dentist made him mute. He was thinking about priorities, about loyalty, about acts of vengeance. He was thinking he couldn’t judge Marcius for knowing what came first; nor did he believe himself reprehensible for having seen, suddenly, the sense of his own words. It was not, as he’d thought, the time to celebrate, but to see whom one’s knees best served at the moment. Right now there was only one act of vengeance he could take.
He heard sounds out on the street. Shouting, machetes scraping against the ground.
‘Feel anything?’ asked the dentist. ‘No, right? OK, now we can stick the knife in with confidence and you won’t even wince. Ha! No, of course not. Just a drop of blood, at most.’
Menenius was trying to discern what was going on outside. He focused intensely, managed to put it into words and then throated them out, though only because he was sure the man with the knife in his mouth wouldn’t understand:
‘Hear that? Sounds like the waving of arms.’