The Americas

Richard Pascalo, clad only in swimming trunks, stood looking out over his magnificent estate. The warm, mid-summer rainstorm danced a ram-rod ballet across the surface of his swimming pool. After a few moments an aide, Terrence – black, sophisticated and unashamedly gay – walked over to him. He carried a large, golf umbrella. ‘What is it, Terence?’ asked Pascalo, as he was sheltered under the Courvoisier emblazoned parasol, ‘Am I ordered in? ‘Sir, no, Sir,’ said Terence condescendingly, as if addressing an adolescent, ‘you still have time to play. However, a delegation from the Senate has arrived.’ ‘Oh? And where are they? ‘Gone, Sir - the lady told them you were not to be disturbed. They left this, Sir.’ He handed an envelope on a tray. ‘Apparently no answer was expected.’ ‘Thank you, Terence. Tell my wife that if anyone else calls, I am available. And tell her I’ll be in soon.’ ‘Yes, Sir. Would you like me to fix you some chocolate?’ ‘Chocolate! Have you ever known me to drink chocolate? Soldiers don’t drink chocolate. Don’t you know that?’ Terence smiled. ‘Oh, you are a very poor soldier, a chocolate-cream soldier’ – Bernard Shaw.’ ‘Really? Did Mercedes tell you to ask? ‘Yes, Sir... she thought it might help you sleep.’ ‘Well, no thank you, Terence. Now leave me.’ With a jerk of his hips Terence nonchalantly spun around on his heels and walked away. When he was out of sight, Pascalo studied the delegation. As he skipped through the header and on through the footer, he started pacing, impervious to the rain that pitter-pattered onto the document. He passed through a colonnade displaying marble busts of past presidents, pausing before Benjamin Franklin. ‘What would you have done, eh, Ben – publish the Whaterly letters? No, don’t answer... it may be a breach of honour. And I don’t think that ploy would work this time: The people know already – and they don’t care.’ He waved the delegation papers before the sightless eyes of the bust. ‘So it’s left to just us few.’ He moved on to the shiny alabaster bust of Truman P Pooley. Laying his arm around the cloaked shoulders, he addressed the statue as he would an old friend. ‘So, Pilgrim, between right or wrong I choose America... am I right, or am I right?’ he paused as if waiting for a reply. He turned now to the bust of Franklin D Roosevelt. ‘So, you won the unprecedented third term – I wonder, had you survived, would we have granted you an extension?’ He shook away the troublesome notion and now confronted the bust of President Macarthur, puffing eternally on his alabaster pipe. ‘What do you say Douglas; you’d return Janus Shar? – I don’t think so, I think you’d return the republic – nothing is more certain.’ He shrugged and moved on to the bust of Washington. ‘Why me, George? No lies now, why me? Why can’t they let me sleep with the rest of them?’ he sighed, indicating to the presidential array, then smiled sardonically and moved on to the bust of Abraham Lincoln. Raising his hand, he spoke out oratory-style: Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth upon this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty – Wilkes Booth thought you had dictatoresque intentions – When any form of government becomes destructive the people can exercise their constitutional right of amending it, or their revolutionary right to dismember – He took you at your word, Abe – Sic semper tyrannis.’ Pascalo’s wife, Mercedes, appeared at the open doors. She was graced with that rare beauty that time cannot spoil, but the lines about her elegant neck and the darkness of her eyes bore witness to its many attempts. She too, echoed Lincoln’s words: ‘Not bloody bullets, but peaceful ballots only, are necessary,’ she whispered. Pascalo turned to her, smiling. ‘Must I come in now – out of the rain?’ She returned a half smile. ‘Yes. Please.’ ‘You know I love the rain. Makes everything so much cleaner. Just give me a few minutes – you go in – a few minutes...’ Mercedes sighed deeply and returned into the house. The limousine entered the long drive leading up to the Pascalo’s residence. In the rear, Savarge, Cusac and Ford sat in leaden silence: The limo drove very slowly, they were in no hurry, the unspoken inductions, dangerous inductions lay tacit, understood without the need of utterance. Through the rain-covered window the three offered to the world a face of unyielding determination. Pascalo climbed the steps to the top diving board and stood in the pouring rain contemplating a swallow-dive, lost in deep thought, arms swept back in readiness. After a few moments, he lowered his arms to his sides and simply stepped off. He dropped, like Alice down her rabbit-hole, in a seemingly endless journey where images kaleidoscoped in his mind’s eye. The pictures continued even as he penetrated the warm water, through his now wide-open eyes and through swirling bubbles. He saw subliminal flashes: police battling students; the communist witch-hunt trials; WW2 atrocities; the assassination of Pooley, the empty cockpit and then the explosion. Now, with approaching hypoxia, the visions started to fade. Pascalo made an involuntary stroke, an instinctive attempt to surface, just as Terence entered the water fully clothed in a convulsion of bubbles. The two burst to the surface, Pascalo coughing and spluttering, gasping lungfulls of air. He had made the choice: life for himself, death for Shar. Terence grabbed him, and helped him to the edge of the pool, then lifted him out and onto a seat. ‘Sir! You okay?’ ‘Sure... yeah,’ Pascalo coughed, sucking in deep breaths. ‘Okay now – thanks to you.’ ‘You’re getting too old for playing Sub-Mariner,’ gasped Terence, trying to make light of the situation. ‘You sure you’re okay?’ ‘Now I’m okay. Hot air and heavy rain - I love it. Go put on some dry clothes, and don’t tell Mercedes. And for God’s sake put on some music, will you, Terry? – Sound of this rain is driving me crazy.’ ‘Sure, I’ll do that first. What’ll it be - Viv, Chuck or Claude? ‘Oh, Vivaldi. Tchaikovsky’s too trivial for the mood I’m in. ‘The Seasons’... I must be for all seasons, now …’ He thought for a moment, ‘No. Second thoughts, Debussy. It’ll compliment the rain.’ ‘Good choice,’ Terence smiled. ‘I’ll bring you a drink too, Sir.’ ‘Terry... please don’t call me Sir – It sounds… I don’t know… so regal.’ ‘Okay, General.’ ‘Just for tonight, call me Richard, will you?’ Terence smiled again, ‘Sure... Rick. What’s in a name? Savarge, Cusac and Ford stood cheerless in the great portico of Pascalo’s house. After a few moments an aide greeted them and ushered them through to Mercedes’ great hall. She smiled as she formally addressed them, ‘Owen, Zachariah and …’ She hesitated, unable to recall the other name. ‘Sorry, I know your face, but I can’t…’ ‘Ford – Mexico, Governor of; Charley Ford, Ma’am, at your service.’ ‘Oh, yes... my apologies. Isn’t your brother__?’ again she stopped, now fully remembering the troublesome details, ‘Oh, is he?’ ‘Oh, yes Ma’am. My brother still rots in jail.' ‘Still!’ She tried to show a degree of shock. ‘Yes – at his majesty’s pleasure, so to speak.’ ‘You mean, Janus Shar? I’m sorry.’ ‘Yeah, so is my brother, Ma’am.’