ONCE THE PRESIDENT was no more, there was some confusion about whether it would be appropriate to deliver the baton, or perform the dance. For whom? Who would be there, in that sacred spot that had been held by the President’s glorious presence for decades, to receive their offering, watch them dance? Who would deliver the speech, thought up on the spot, always so moving and beautiful? Would the youth, who were doing all the dancing and delivering, feel that same pride and joy when shaking another’s hand? The hand of some mere party bureaucrat? Would their hearts leap? Would they be able to tell their friends with pride and excitement “I shook his hand!” like they used to?
Ruben thought long and hard about this and wondered whether a new leader and the idea of the Nation and its ideals could transcend the absence of the great man and keep the country stable. He could not imagine it himself, but perhaps the youth were more flexible, the idea powerful enough to carry on? He did not know. No one knew.
He asked Rosa about it, and she said, “I doubt it, but perhaps, perhaps, let’s see. Our people, like all people, are but sheep in a field, they always need a shepherd—Jesus was a shepherd, wasn’t he? Now it just depends on what kind of shepherd we have the fortune to get.”
Ruben was surprised by Rosa’s answer. He wanted to hear something more soothing. Diogen merely lifted his eyebrow. He was no longer expressing opinions.
After some deliberation, the government decided that things should go on as planned, and came up with a new slogan for the spectacle: “The President Lives On In Our Hearts.” It had been decided that the baton would be received by the inheriting president of the political party, symbolically, and so the rehearsals for the dance carried on. Some saw this as pointless now that the President was no longer alive—since the baton was a birthday present for the President, after all—while others thought it was a poignant way to remember him. Others were of the opinion that it was crucial to carry on with and reinforce the President’s message of remaining firmly on the Nation’s path of Brotherhood and Unity. For the first time, Diogen found himself wishing that the Nation would remember the President’s words, especially as he watched Boris going in and out of Vlatko’s flat with bags that were reminiscent of Nikolai’s. Vlatko had been arrested, but Boris seemed to keep on with his activities.
Ruben was growing listless; there were bags of sadness under his eyes. Rosa worked hard. Mona practiced every day; it was a good way, she found, not to think too much. About Clarice, about her body, about girls and boys—about any of it. She, and the rest of the dancers, were not bothered by who would watch, and why; they were too busy trying to make the dance ready in time. The choreography, a lift, both arms pointing upward, holding a medium-sized hoop, a jump, some kicks, it had to be perfect, all in time with the music. Diogen helped her and either said, “No, no, it’s all wrong, do it again,” or, “Perfect, perfect, Mona.” Even Mrs. Grebenc seemed pleased.
The news showed unrest in the north of the country; people unhappy with their rights, lifting their national symbols into the sky, together with their outstretched arms and clenched fists. They belted slogans into the air. Then they were mostly imprisoned and things seemed to settle down.
All this time, The Invention’s battery was soaking up the sun on the balcony, with Robinson’s careful, daily assistance. Since Mona had stopped going to the shelter, he had the place to himself, not that their hours had ever clashed, and he had arranged things the way he liked them: a nice armchair, covered with sheepskin; Mona’s teapot; his many filters were laid out on the table neatly. And every time he oiled the machine, he rubbed his hands with joy and patted it lovingly, said sweet words to it, such as “You and I are going to make a lot of money, my dear, everyone wants to know what the future brings, and you’re going to tell them about it, aren’t you?” And the machine would appear to move its projection lens up to get closer to the caresses, purring like a kitten, and Robinson would say, “That’s my pet, yes, yes.”