Far Afield

XVI

109 XVI I returned to my hotel room early that evening. After leaving Trevor’s, I rode around the island in search of relief, looking for a place that would match the bucolic, windswept scene that I had imagined back home in my city apartment. But after nearly two hours toiling along one-lane roads that kept a long distance from any coastal stretches, I told Wilkie to turn around and we started back. Along the way, I began to confide to him some of what had transpired between Trevor and me. As he was about to be employed again at extra pay, he was heartened by the developments and in my role in fostering them. I could tell in his easy yet wary manner that he felt the good judgment he had invested in me somehow had paid off. And though I didn’t inform him about the bottom-line nature of my intentions, I also felt Wilkie now knew enough to qualify as a partial confederate in my planning. In my room, I then phoned Rector Froines and Stanley. To the former, I related my conversation with Trevor and the absurd manner I’d outlined for his undoing. To Stanley, I related the same exchange and the plan I’d conceived for Trevor’s change of heart and his eventual triumph. Given that people usually are more willing to put their belief in the frankly unbelievable, and that many areas of life are not governed by plausibility but by whether something is implausible enough to be true (there is religion, after all), Stanley proved easier to assure than Rector Froines, though the minister, too, eventually became convinced of my plan’s potential. 110 Far Afield There also was a message from Ms. Bando. I ordered an exorbitant room service steak and a pot of coffee and called her back. “You’re the man Trevor hired,” she said immediately. “Is it true he’s quitting?” “Absolutely not. We’re full-steam ahead and looking forward to the campaign.” “What about the latest polls? What does he intend to do about those?” “In fact, I’ve just come from a strategy session where we’ve devised a new platform to stir every voter in Momo-Jima. No one will be unmoved. If you’d like, I can give you the preview.” “Better hurry with it, there’s not much time left.” Her voice was snappish but had an agreeing lilt to it. I realized I now was talking to the journalist that I had been so often in my life, and that I was defiantly on the other side. It triggered a queasy feeling. “Shall we meet?” I asked. “I know you’ll find our latest direction exciting. I can send a car, if you’d like.” “That may be hard. I’ve got four other candidates to corral and an election overview to manage. I’m all alone on this since the intern was quarantined for monkeypox.” “But just briefly then. I’m giving it to you first. Ten minutes Thursday for coffee?” “Ten minutes won’t do me any good to get to know you, and if you’ve really got something for me, ten minutes won’t be enough.” But she paused and I heard her turning some quick pages. “Well Thursday’s no good. It’s National Public Works Day. All the roads will be closed.” I heard more hasty rustling. “What about tomorrow? Say eleven at your hotel. There’s a small restaurant there, I think.” “The restaurant at eleven is fine.” “I can’t stay long, I promise you. Unless you’ve got something truly worthy.” “If it’s truly worthy, as it is, you won’t mind,” I responded quickly . “And if it’s not, then it’s only ten minutes.” “I suppose. How will I know you?” Scott Brown 111 “There won’t be many people there. But I’ll be carrying a leather briefcase. A new one.” “I’ll wear yellow,” she said decisively. “And sunglasses, as well. We’ll see each other.” “Good. Looking forward to it.” “Me too,” she said. Then, with a hint of mischievousness, she added, “You did see our editorial yesterday? ‘How the Dumber Brother Should Be Smothered’?” Though I knew she meant it as a shot to test my character (or to show hers as a journalist), her remark still bothered me, though...