Black Diamond - Martin Walker [49]
“I can’t give you this year’s figures because we don’t have them yet, but on the basis of last year’s budget, the sawmill paid less than five percent of the tax revenue. That’s a challenge, but it’s not a desperate one, and it gives us an opportunity to use the old sawmill premises for new businesses and new jobs.”
People began to drift toward the doors at the back. Pons noticed and changed his tone.
“We don’t want to be here all night, so let’s move to the main business of the evening, the vote. We have two voting tables—Green Party members to my left, Socialist Party members to my right. Show your membership card and get your ballot paper, cast your vote and put it in the boxes provided. Thanks to our student volunteers from the college, we’ll have the result counted within five minutes. And let’s give a big hand to our young people for volunteering to come and help us with our town meeting tonight.”
This brought scattered applause, the sounds of chairs being pushed back and then a chaotic muddle of people moving left and right to get to the voting tables as they paused to greet one another and shake hands and forget which table they were heading for.
“Well done, Bruno,” murmured Xavier in his ear. “For a moment there I thought we were going to elect him mayor by popular acclamation.” The deputy mayor squeezed Bruno’s arm and moved on. Then came a thump on Bruno’s back, and Montsouris, the only Communist on the council, put his burly arm around Bruno’s shoulders.
“Good question, Bruno. And even better timing,” he said, and moved to rejoin his much more left-wing wife.
“I have to go and vote,” said Pamela at Bruno’s side. “I didn’t know you were so serious about the town budget.”
“I didn’t know you’d joined a party. You have to be a member to vote tonight,” Bruno said. “That’s why I can’t vote. I’m nonpolitical.”
“Oh yes, I joined the Greens yesterday,” she said. “It seemed like a good idea to get involved. Bill signed me up himself. I’ll be right back. Are you still coming for supper afterward?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for anything. No time for lunch today.”
“You handled that well,” said Fabiola, once Pamela was out of earshot. “I didn’t know what to do, but I felt we had to do something. I hate that crowd thing, when people all get caught up in an emotion like that. You’d think we’d have learned by now.”
“You haven’t joined a party?” Bruno asked her.
“I got all that out of my system when I was a student,” she said, smiling. “Very militant, I was. I began with straight Marxism and then drifted off to the Trotskyists. I almost became a Maoist, but then the feminist movement got me, then the mountain climbing. The mountains cured me of politics. And there was also a very cute mountain climber who rescued me from the feminists just in time to settle down to study for my medical finals.”
“Well, you know the old saying: If you’re not on the left when you’re twenty, you have no heart.”
“And if you’re still there when you’re thirty, you have no head. My dad used to say it to me, and he’d been a Communist.” She paused. “I get the impression this is Pamela’s first flirtation with politics,” Fabiola said. “It can be a dangerous experience, when you come to it late.”
She looked meaningfully across the hall to the stage, where Pons was bending down attentively to talk to Pamela. Bruno noticed that Pons’s Chinese chef was standing watchfully at the side of the stage, getting his first taste of French democracy. He reminded himself that he really needed to check on getting the man’s nieces into school, but was distracted when a very pretty young blond girl whirled into his arms and gave him a strong hug. A large paternal presence loomed behind her, his plump face in a wide grin and his hand out to be shaken.
“Stéphane, Dominique,” Bruno said, returning the girl