(Link to the magazine: http://tinyurl.com/mgc5k5f)
A sunny morning by the sea. Calm waves lick the sand. A
long-legged bird hunts for tiny silvery fish in the shallows. A lone man
wearing a suit walks down the beach, his eyes on the horizon.
“Oh,
sorry,” he says, nearly bumping into an old man performing a headstand. “Wait,
no, it can’t be.” The suited man stoops to have a closer look at the
upside-down face. “Yes, it is you!”
“But
of course it is,” says the old man. “I can only be me.”
“What
an honour,” breathes the suited man, whom we’d call BN.
“The
honour is all mine,” replies the old man.
“Sir,”
says BN, “do you know who I am?”
“A
man needs to know himself regardless of what others might think of him,” the
old man says.
BN
nods. “True, true.” He then glances around. “I’m surprised to see you on your
own. Is your wife not here?”
The
old man grins. “What would we do without our faithful wives?” he asks
with a wink.
BN
blushes, issues a hesitant smile, and turns to look at the hunting bird chasing
its prey, running across the wet sand, ignoring both men. A pleasant breeze
rises and he’s thankful for the silence, though after a while he wonders what
he should do. He knows the old man’s morning routine is near holy, but excited
at the rare opportunity, he’s not ready to leave yet.
“Funny
we meet,” he finally says, his voice cheerful. “Lately, everyone has been
comparing us, but they fail to see how times have changed. All world leaders
live in style. Could you imagine me living in a shed in the middle of nowhere?
I’d be made fun of!”
“We
certainly can’t have that,” confirms the old man.
BN
grins. “I knew you’d understand.” He releases his tie a bit, saying,” It’s
getting hot.”
“Why
won’t you take off your shoes and dip your feet in the water?” offers the old
man.
“Yes,
I think I will,” says BN, does just that, then returns to the old man, and
seats himself on the sand with his pants still rolled up, his socks neatly
tucked inside the dress shoes.
The
long-legged bird had flown away by now, and the glimmering sun keeps beaming in
the pale summer sky.
“How
long can you hold like this?” asks BN.
“For
all eternity,” answers the old man.
“Very
impressive.”
The
old man says, “I’d think you had more important things to do than keep me
company.”
BN
shakes his head. “I have some time before I’m expected in the office.” He then
adds with a deep sigh, “I haven’t felt so relaxed in years.”
“Nothing
like the sea,” agrees the old man. “It’s why I used to come here each morning.”
“I
still can’t believe I bumped into you,” says BN. “So many things I want to ask
you.”
“Go
ahead. I’ve got all the time in the world.”
“I
wish I knew beforehand, so I could better prepare. I seem to draw a blank now.”
The
old man smiles. “A good handstand energises the brain.”
BN
smiled thinly. “I carry so many responsibilities,” he moans. “Nobody but my
voters has any appreciation for me. Especially my cabinet members; they want to
gang up and throw me to the dogs.”
“I sure know how that feels,” the
old man slices out through his teeth,
and BN, though surprised by the bitter tone, exclaims: “Exactly! Like
you, no one but me has the backbone to fulfil the country’s potential, the
importance of our great nation.”
Releasing
his tie a bit more, he carries on, “The politicians, on both sides of the isle,
don’t get it, the media keeps trying to sabotage me, criticising my every move,
making fun of me in every imaginable way, but luckily, this only strengthens
both me and my loyal voters.” His head bobs slightly as he speaks, and the pink
of his baldness glimpses through the silver bluish comb-over.
The tall bird returns to fish in
the shallows; it reminds him of a stilted clown.
“See
this one?” he asks, thrusting his chin at the bird. “He’s like me, negotiating
the treacherous waves to get what he wants. He’s focused, unrelenting,
hardworking. That’s what strong leaders are made of. You were like that, and
what tremendous challenges you had faced!”
The
old man slowly scissors his bent legs in the air, then brings them down one by
one, and sits on the sand with his eyes on the sea.
“Toward
the end I tried to imagine fifty years into the future,” he says. “I came up
with various scenarios. I suppose a nation’s path is carved out by many
factors, not only its leaders’ strengths and capabilities.”
“To
be honest,” says BN, looking at his companion with glimmering eyes, “I see my
work as a natural continuation of yours.”
The
old man glimpses him. “You don’t need my approval,” he utters with a shake of
the head, grains of sand fly out of his white hair, and BN thinks he would
never have allowed his own hair to look like two fluffs of candy cotton
sticking from either side of the head.
“Would
you have voted for me?” he asks, wondering what flavour the old man’s hair
might have been, had it been made of … vanilla, he decides. French vanilla. Or
maybe coconut?
The
old man chortles, and BN winces, fearing his friend might have guessed his
tasty contemplations.
“Doesn’t
look like you need my vote, either,” says the old man when his laugh subsides.
BN
swallows hard. “It would be good to have it, nevertheless.”
But the old man doesn’t seem to
be listening. His eyes linger on the far horizon, his mind drifting.
BN decides to be patient, and
quietly gazes at the sea as well.
“I
thought we’d have a peace agreement of some sort by now,” the old man finally
says, and BN hears some sadness in the voice. “But that might be just an old
man’s sentimentality.”
“We
have come a long way since our early days,” BN replies, his doughy face clouds in thoughtfulness.
“But in some ways, nothing has changed; our enemies still connive to obliterate
us.”
The
old man nods, saying, “And still no set borders …”
“Like
the Americans when they got their independence,” says BN with a smirk. “But
sir,” he carries on, and his expression turns serious, “as you correctly said
long ago, they do not exist as a
nation, and therefore the land is—always has been—ours to take.”
The
old man looks at BN with surprise. “I said it was ours, all of it?”
BN
flushes, replying,” Well, not exactly, but from what you have said, on many occasions, it would be only logical
to conclude—“
“Logic,
schmogic,” says the old man with a dismissive wave of the hand, and rises to
his feet. “You really need to try headstands; it’ll help you see the world from
a fresh angle.”
And
with that, he leans forward, and soon he is upside down again; his cotton candy
hair in the wet sand.
At
that moment, a small band of youngsters in bathing suits walks by, and one of
them, a tall guy in orange surfing shorts, points toward the older gentlemen,
calling, “Hey, look!” which startles away the bird.
The
group quickly envelopes the men, yammering, “Oh, wow,” and, “How cool is that?”
and a tanned woman pulls out a Smartphone from her bikini bra, announcing,
“Photo!”
BN,
though reluctant to share his friend with strangers, is nonetheless beaming at
them, proud to be found beside a historical figure of such calibre.
“Hey
grandpa,” asks the guy in the orange shorts, crouching beside the old man.
“Could you take a picture of us with the PM?”
No
reply. The old man seems to be in deep meditation.
“Oh,
leave him alone,” reproaches a curly girl. “Can’t you see he’s dead?”
Alarmed,
BN jumps to his feet, crying, “Don’t you know who this is?” But they don’t seem
to have heard him, and the tanned woman gathers everyone round BN for a few
selfies, then shows them to her friends, who quack and giggle, urging her to
post them on social media, which she does.
BN,
all the while, lectures them about the old man’s epic achievements—his voice
deep, brow creased—taken aback only when his palms don’t meet the solid surface
of the podium behind which he imagines himself standing. When he looks up he is
astonished to see a hasty swarm of people approaching them. Time to leave, he muses,
and starts inching away, barefoot.
“It’s
true,” yells someone in the nearing crowd. “He is here!” And with that, the cheering throng blocks BN’s escape
route, and he surrenders to the hands that want to shake his, the showered
hugs, more selfies. But no, he did not forget his friend, who has remained in
his upturned position.
“Sir,”
he calls to the old man, “do I have your vote?”
“What
does it matter?” replies the old man. “Like the girl said, I’m already dead.”
“But
would you support me?” BN’s plea hovers in the air as the enthusiastic band of
fans carries him away. He tries to break free, but the strong youngsters hold
him tight, his protest drowned by their calls, “Long live the king, long live
the king!”
The long-legged bird returns to the beach once the mob had
vanished. The old man then slowly moves his bent legs in the air and brings
them down one by one. He sits on the sand, his eyes on the horizon.
BN’s
shoes, scattered by the trampling feet, lie orphaned. This morning’s polished
leather now muddied and somewhat cracked.
The water rocks a lone sock
hither and thither; its mate is nowhere in sight.