The Governor

It appeared at first way out over the sea. A cloud about the size of a man’s hand conjured, perhaps, by some latter day Elijah with his face between his knees praying for rain. The headache had been there for a while, he was conscious of it before he woke up, an elusive gnawing tightness behind his left eye, like something about to tear, resonating like a dentist’s drill. It could be just the weather, barometric. But pressing provincial affairs, the bank holiday, clouds were banking up, the humidity increasing, the pressure, the discomfort, tapping on his forehead, hanging from the mirror, rattling the shutters.

He wished it would rain and bring some relief. No one riots in the rain. A downpour is more effective in maintaining public order than legions of riot police. No one would cross the parade to lobby him in the wet. Today a cloudburst would cure several headaches.

But it was one delegation after another all morning. The whining unsubtle attempts to manipulate, twisting his arm to do their bidding. Politicians and petty criminals, petitioners and partisans processed and despatched. And one of them appealed to truth.

But truth does not appeal to me.

It is not that it is so laboriously difficult to get at the truth; we have the techniques. Nor is it the strictures and obligations it imposes on you once it is discovered which make the alternatives so much more beguiling and easy. Drawn naturally we are to the lie by our own bent inner compass. The Greeks knew this – men love falsehood even where there is no pleasure or profit in it.

The clouds begin to roll in from the sea and with them a darkness that can be felt. It is not like the heat which flops down on the city like a fat man in a deckchair. The darkness creeps in, seeping up the alleyways, clinging to the walls like a slow paralysis. Hear the whinnying of animals. Small creatures scurry to find refuge in drains and cellars and cracks and crevices.    

Truth exposes, lifts the skirt, embarrasses and shames. We much prefer, to the harshness of sunlight, things dressed daintily in subdued tones, bathed in candlelight. A pearl, which looks best in daylight, is of little value compared to the diamond that dances with a thousand lights. A kaleidoscope of fabrications is full of delights.

Is it the lie that passes in front of the mind – the siren call – that hurts the most? Or is it the one that takes up residence, settles in, shapes and moulds our actions and lifestyle, becomes most comfortable and comforting, which painlessly causes the most harm?

When it breaks it comes in torrents driven in by the wind. Hailstones gather in drifts against the walls. Large pools appear on the terrazzo outside the reception room.

A sudden gust sends a pichet of wine spinning and smashing into shards on the tiles. Stewards scurry barefoot like rats across the floor bending and sweeping, oblivious to the danger. The governor barks at them – sending them out onto the terrazzo where they paddle through the puddles their cousins are desperately trying to sweep into the gutters.

But truth is for philosophers and theologians. Those of us who muddy our hands in the real world must deal in lies. Must peddle lies and use them to manage those who live by them. Invention is their natural habitat, their bread and butter, their triumph and reward. You must be as shrewd as a snake and as ruthless as a hawk.

If there were only some rock I could clamber upon to take a view across the top of all this fiction. Maybe I could see just for a moment what might be counted on. But if all the fancies and fantasies were sucked out of a man’s mind it would be a shrunken and shrivelled thing – like a baby bird baked by the sun on the pavement.

Late in the afternoon two fellows come in with a request. They want the body of one of the insurrectionists. Which one? That one? The one who triggered this train of thought. Is he dead already? So much for truth – he will have discovered his own by now. Who are these people? Well I might foment some favour with these fellows – they appear to be men of affluence and influence. Poor criminal – this may be the last but it may also the most useful day of his life. A life given up to keep the peace. I please one party by executing him and another by burying him. It costs me nothing. My head is beginning to clear.