leaned forward to whisper this nugget of advice: ‘You live for the moment! Enjoy your student years because, trust me, when you’re an old man, worn small through hard toil, you will look back on them as the best of your life.’
He leaned back in his chair. ‘Chess? I always find it clears the air.’
Woolf nodded and sat looking around the fine room while Sergio set up the board. The president glanced at his watch. ‘Tea will arrive soon. Shall we?’
They played, barely exchanging a word as tea arrived, was strained and poured. The game continued briskly, silently, and, despite Woolf’s very best undertaking, it called upon almost none of the many strategic outcomes Sergio had at his disposal.
As Sergio removed Woolf’s queen with a flourish, he bowed his head in recognition of a battle nobly fought, but lost nevertheless.
‘Your education, young man, will be complete when you can beat me at chess. And when that time arrives, come and see me and I will employ you myself.’
Woolf stood up, under no illusion that the meeting had drawn to a close.
‘See yourself out, will you?’ Sergio gave a dismissive wave. With that, he turned his attention back to the notes he had been working on earlier. Before Woolf had quietly left the room he was brandishing his pen, continuing his line of thinking with renewed fervour.
Sergio pushed the disputation to the furthest reaches of his mind as he worked late into the night. Though he was confident that he had effectively dealt with the infringement and banished the memory, his sleep was restless and interrupted by the relentless imagery of attack.
When he awoke suddenly the next morning, exhausted as if he had not slept at all, he sat bolt upright, the sweat running freely, gluing his pyjamas to his skin. He experienced a flood of relief as he became aware of his surroundings – his bed, his bedside table, his fireplace, his pile of books – but this was quickly replaced by a renewed and exaggerated sense of panic. He had not dreamed the noises after all. There was another bang and then another. Gunshots, some quite close, were filling the valley. He gripped the bedcovers tightly and, acutely aware that he had no intention of being overthrown in his pyjamas, swung his legs out of bed, his mind set upon dressing as quickly as possible. In those mid-air moments, when his feet had freed themselves from the twisted, clammy sheets but had not yet hit the floor, he became aware of other noises – dogs barking and the low, indecipherable shouts of men.
The animals’ excitable squeals and their range, from faint yaps that suggested they were far up in the hills to the louder barks that intimated they were just above the town, sent slow signals to Sergio’s sleep-fuddled brain. He lowered his feet to the carpet and listened intently. The leisurely ‘Peee-eww’ of a buzzard punctuated the frenzied cacophony on the ground, and this final contribution to Nature’s orchestra allowed Sergio to place what had been the noises of a siege on Parliament Hall.
Saturday morning. An automatic lifting of the hunting ban. The men were out in full force, combing the hillsides and rooting out the wily wild boar that were now leading them and their dogs on a merry dance through woodland scrub and tea plantation. The desperate baying of the dogs closest to the town did not necessarily signal a sighting but that they had picked up the scent of other dogs belonging to another hunting party. In this way the men and their beasts could happily lose the first few hours of the weekend hot on the trail of each other. When guns were fired they were most likely being fired into the air to warn other hunting parties that the sound of crashing through scrubland was caused by them, not by a swine giving chase. Occasionally, through the clash of a boar’s misfortune and a man’s serendipity, contact between bullet and pig hide would be made and the happy hunters would return home with a tusked trophy on which to feast. Almost as often, though, it would be the shooter’s foot that warranted attention. It was not unusual for the tired, dispirited men to return home with a wounded stalker slung between them on a makeshift stretcher.
As Sergio flopped back onto his bed, trying to decipher the different cries that echoed back and forth from either side of the valley, he put his hand to his heart and felt the beat gradually settle to a steadier pace. His panic had subsided, but the sleep that claimed him now was uneasy and his dreams provided him with no respite from the impending sense of doom that increasingly dominated his waking hours.
CHAPTER 9
In Which PEGASUS Has Her Wings Clipped
The PEGASUS steering group met with increased frequency as the early June deadline drew closer.
Sergio now oscillated between great optimism and unalloyed dread, and his men, guided by the lightest touch from Angelo, did their best to anticipate, interpret and respond appropriately to the increasingly frenetic swings in his mood.
The solitary protester’s stand had unsettled the president more than he had at first realized, and the impact on his behaviour was immense. Where he had experienced moments of self-doubt before, he now lived almost perpetually in fear of imminent failure. And though Sergio Senior had been dead for some years, it was his father he most feared failing. When Woolf had appeared on that sultry afternoon, Sergio had been momentarily proud to have dealt with the matter singlehandedly. But the ramifications of acting alone now ran deep: the memory rattled around in his brain only, haunting him day and night. There was nobody with whom to share the burden so the protester’s significance was greatly magnified by memory.
It was hard to say who bore the brunt of his vacillations. There were moments when Feraguzzi’s economic strategies seemed the root cause of Sergio’s dissatisfaction. At other times, Alixandria Heliopolis Visparelli was to blame for either his lackadaisical border controls or his over-zealous military presence, which was clearly the underlying reason for the distinctly dour disposition of the citizens. Scota was simply confused when an accusatory finger pointed towards him, while Cellini, Mosconi and Pompili took turns to cower in the background, shuffling their colleagues into the limelight in an unlikely imitation of chivalry.
The one person who remained untouched by the preparations was Chuck Whylie: he kept to his own quarters, only venturing out to the university to catch up with his email, the purpose of which seemed to be to make snide and inappropriate comments at his hosts’ expense. If the consultant had picked up on the increasing tensions in the city and among the ministers, he failed to show it. If anything, he appeared more self-satisfied than ever.
At the penultimate meeting of the PEGASUS steering group, as the days stretched out to show their true potential, Sergio assembled the quorum and made an unexpected announcement. ‘I cannot risk a Big Celebration on the night of the arrival of our royal visitor. There is simply too much at stake.’
Twelve pairs of eyebrows shot up simultaneously. For the previous two and a half months the men’s collective focus had been almost exclusively upon the impending Big Celebration. The food, the drink, the security, the protocol, the music, the dancing, each detail had been prescribed.
Angelo, the least cowed by his president’s moods, spoke first. ‘Sir, with respect, our main focus has been on the Big Celebration. Will it not be a considerable disappointment to the people if there is to be no party?’
‘I did not suggest that there would be no party,’ snapped Sergio, imperiously. ‘What I cannot risk is a Big Celebration, planned by the government. If the party is not well attended, if the crowd attendance falls below expectation, if the music is sub-standard, if the atmosphere is dull, if the wine does not flow, if the food is not the tastiest that has ever been served, then the political ramifications will be enormous.’ Sergio accompanied each scenario with a thump of his fist on the table and followed his inventory of potential pitfalls with a slow and deliberate appraisal of the assembled men, glaring at each in turn, sparing none. ‘I don’t think any of you has grasped the importance of this period in my political career. The date for my re-election is set for just after midsummer. There is absolutely no time for any political recovery between the Big Celebration and election day.’
Signor