A great pair of doors was flung open behind him. A shaft of sunlight burst into the room, accompanied by a tattoo of busy footsteps and male voices of authority. Careful to make no disrespectful movement, Pendel sidled beneath a fat-faced governor from our Colombian period and druckened himself until he became a wall encumbered by a suitcase.
The approaching posse was a dozen strong and poly-glot. Excited snatches of Spanish, Japanese and English resounded above the clatter of impatient shoes on parquet. The posse moved at politician speed: much bustle and circumstance, chattering like school kids freed from detention. Uniform was dark suits, the tone self-congratulatory, the formation, Pendel noticed as it thundered closer, arrowhead. And at its point, elevated a foot or two above the ground, floated a larger-than-lifesize embodiment of the Sun King himself, the All Pervading, the Shining One, the Divine Misser of Hours, dressed in a P&B black jacket, striped trousers and a pair of Ducker’s black calf town with the toecaps.
A roseate glow, part-sanctity and part-gastronomy, suffused the presidential cheeks. The full head of hair was silvered, the lips were small and pink and moist, as if newly snatched from the maternal breast. The neat cornflower eyes were shining in the afterglow of conference achieved. Reaching Pendel, the posse pulled to a ragged halt and there was business and a bit of shoving in the ranks as some kind of order was pragmatically arrived at. His Sublimity strode forward, turned on his heel and faced his guests. An aide labelled Marco placed himself at his master’s side. A virgin in Brownie costume joined them. Her name was not Helen but Juanita.
One by one the guests ventured forward to shake the Immortal One’s hand and take their leave. His Radiance had a word of encouragement for each. If there had been gift-wrapped favours to take home to their mummies, Pendel would not have been surprised. Meanwhile the great spy is torturing himself with fears about the contents of his suitcase. What if the finishing hands have packed the wrong suit? He sees himself drawing back the lid to reveal Hannah’s Bo-Peep costume that the Cuna women have run up for Carlita Rudd’s fancy-dress birthday party: flowered bell skirt, frilly hat, blue pantaloons. He longs to take a reassuring look, but dare not. The farewells continued. Two of the guests, being Japanese, were small. The President was not. Some handshakes took place on the slope.
‘It’s a deal, then. Golf on Saturday,’ His Supremacy promised, in the grey monotone so beloved of his children. A Japanese gentleman was promptly convulsed with laughter.
Other fortunates were singled out – ‘Marcel, thank you for your support, we shall meet again in Paris then! Paris in the spring! – Don Pablo, be sure to give my greetings to your distinguished President and tell him I shall value the opinion of his National Bank -‘ until the last of the group had departed, the doors closed, the shaft of light vanished and there was no one in the room but His Immensity, one suave aide named Marco and the virgin named Juanita. And one wall with a suitcase.
Together, the trio turned and advanced down the room with the Sun King at its centre. Its destination was the presidential sanctum. The doors to it were not three feet from where Pendel stood. He hoisted a smile and, suitcase in hand, took a step forward. The silvered head lifted and turned in his direction, but the cornflower eyes saw only wall. The trio swept past him, the sanctum doors closed. Marco returned.
‘Are you the tailor?’
‘I am indeed, Señor Marco, and at His Excellency’s service.’
‘Wait.’
Pendel waited, as must all who only stand and serve. Years passed. The doors opened again.
‘Make haste,’ Marco ordered.
Ask about his missing hours in Paris, Tokyo and Hong Kong.
A carved gold screen has been erected in one corner of the room. Gilded gesso bows adorn each fretted corner. Gold roses tumble down the staves. Backlit by the window, His Transparency stands regally before it in his black jacket and striped trousers. The presidential palm is as soft as an old lady’s but larger. Making contact with its silken cushions, Pendel has a memory of his Auntie Ruth chopping chicken for the Sunday soup while Benny sings ‘Celeste Aida’ at the upright piano.