Aurorarama - Jean-Christophe Valtat [153]
“The twins miss you. They seem to appreciate you.”
“They’re swell kids.”
“I wondered if you would be interested in being, let us say … hmm … Prime Preceptor for the Dauphin-Doges.”
“I have nothing to teach to those miniature Elagabaluses.”
“I meant in a more general way than in bed.”
“I meant in a more general way than in bed. But precisely, yes, I want to hump them, not corrupt them.”
Brentford laughed.
“Nice curriculum. It’s no wonder you’ve been a success story in Doges College.”
“I supposed charges were to be conferred through a democratic process, anyway,” said Gabriel, with as much gentle tease as his weary, far-out voice allowed.
Brentford was about to answer that this could be arranged, but he corrected himself. This was how, he supposed, things had started with the Councillors. Dignified, decent, dutiful men who had suddenly let themselves believe that things could be arranged a little here and there, until everything was defaced and distorted.
“Well. I suppose there won’t be many candidates, anyway,” Brentford said.
“If I’m sure to win, that’s different. Put me in. Just add Plenipotentiary to the title. The word fascinated me when I was a child.”
Plenipotentiary. Indeed it was a potent and portentous word. As was Regent-Doge. Brentford felt the responsibility weighing on him again. His revolution had been, almost literally, a gala dinner. It was as if the Council had never had a chance. The Seven had reached some invisible limit, the edge of the world that they themselves had created, and had run out of their own reality. All that was needed was a little push to send them reeling over the top. Almost everybody had wished and waited for someone else to give this nudge. It was as if the dream had tunnelled from consciousness to consciousness and finally crystallized. Today they had all pushed together a little at the same time.
In the end, Brentford was amazed at how many allies he had with him: the Scavengers, the Aerial Anarchists, the Sophragettes, the Navy Cadets, the Inughuit. Even the Subtle Army and the Varangian Guard had deserted before they knew it themselves. He had carved himself a magic wand from the d’Ussonvilles’ crooked family tree. He had the blessing of the Polar Kangaroo, which was a little like the soul of the city. Helen had not helped as he had expected, maybe, but was he so sure? She had given him a rendezvous at the Pole for March 1, and this was, in a way, exactly where he was sitting right now on the map, except the appointment was only with himself, or with his own North Pole. And she had promised, hadn’t she, that she would feed the city. No. She was here as well. Watching over him in her usual unfathomable way.
He had so many cards in his game right now that he would have needed a Siamese twin to hold them all. More cards, even, than the Seven Sleepers had ever had, more than anyone would ever have again. But it was now that things were going to be difficult. Revolution is not only revolution. It is slowing it down. Living up to it. Learning the legerdemain that changes promises to compromises.
His mind drifted off toward blueprints for a new constitution. A Council of the Commonwealth, with members elected by all the inhabitants from each of the Seven Sectors. The Council would designate the Organizing Officers. Their charges would be held for one year only. (Even his own? Wouldn’t he need more time?)
He shrugged. Whatever it was that he put on that paper, he knew that once it was built, it would work as well as a square wheel, and that the Commonwealth would always threaten to turn into a Commonwaste. Because, as it was written in A Blast, “some were wise, some foolish, some subtle and cunning to deceive, others plain-hearted, some strong, some weak, some rash and angry, some mild and quiet-spirited.” Because it would be his dream or vision, but not their dream or their vision. They all would live together under the same flag, playing at being a nation, but the only