Don't shoot the messenger

 

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Don't shoot the messenger

Patrice Naparstek

Wed, 25 Sep

The silence was dense, and still, and mysterious.  it was as I had read described in countless novels - but had never experienced until now.  A silence that had weight and even form.

And then it was broken by a shout from above and the thundering of feet, breakneck down the stairs.  He had been upstairs packing a bag, getting ready to leave while I was to apologize to this woman for never having trusted her, nor liking her, nor letting down my guard while I was around her.  For wanting to close my door to her, for wanting time with my husband without her presence, to drink my coffee without her clatter in my ear.

When he went to pack, his parting words to her as he passed beneath the archway was, “Tell her who you are.”  He left the room and she pulled a stool in front of me, sat down, her knees almost touching mine, and began to speak.  As so often happens to me when emotions become too big, too fast, too soon, I couldn’t really parse what she was saying though I heard words.  

“Seven years, we feel it’s fate, you knew and did nothing, you never liked me and I deserve to be liked, I am valuable.”

I heard the phrases, I knew their meaning, and I understood that they paved a road that I would traverse in the very near future.  As she talked I thought of all the  past conversations about my fears, my discomfort with their closeness, about her presence, like a second wife, in our lives.  I thought of all the times he told me I was imagining things, I was being immature and I felt wounded in the softest part of my being.  

I thought of his cowardice, the way he hd made her his messenger.  He left the room to pack a bag while I was to sit there

and listen to her tell me “who she was”.  And god help me, I did.  For a while.

I put my hand on the table beside me - letting my fingers rest on one of the small collections of stones and rocks that were scattered throughout the house.  I collected them while gardening or hiking, filling my pockets with their lovely shapes and colors.  I could name every place each was taken from: the hike, those who were with me.  I let the weight of my arm and hand drape my fingers over a handful of the stones and felt their connection to the ground fill me.  

She was still talking.  Earnestly, but beneath I could feel her sense of superiority, her belief that what she was saying was what she should say, that it was a right for her to explain that she loved him, that she was on this earth to help him fulfill his life’s purpose, and in doing so her own.  She was his messenger.  

I thought, “Don’t kill the messenger! Don’t. If you are going to kill anyone let it be him.”  And then I laughed.  Well, at first it was a bubble, a giggle, but then it was an outright guffaw, proportionate to the ridiculous situation.  And with the laugh came a mobilizing energy that broke my docility, my inaction.  I took up the largest rock on the table next to me.  A round white one that I had recently unearthed from the garden and couldn’t put back.  It felt warm in  my hand, I cupped it for a moment and with surprising agility I stood, wound my arm like a pitcher, and flung it as hard as I could across the room.  

I hit my target.  Dead center in the middle of the bay window.  The glass cracked then the pieces fell.  she had  jumped up from the stool, a very satisfying look of fear on her face.  The silence followed.  And then his feet on the stairs.  I turned to see him, bag in hand - I was surprised that he had the foresight to bring it down with him - and I laughed again.  

I thought tea was in order, a sit in the garden, a call to the glazier.  They would do what they had been doing.  I had begun.

 

 

 

Geraldine's story    - DON’T SHOOT THE MESSENGER

 On this very important day, all the citizens, those who felt citizens in the city, in the country,  of the world, were gathered on the main square of the small town they belonged to.

It happened to be a period of history where everything had got crazy : nobody knew the difference between a real and a fake element, nobody knew where to spot the lyers and how to detect  the reliable people, nobody knew what was right from what was wrong anymore.

Where did the devil stand ?  Were was God, and which one ? Why this God and not that one ?

What were the rules for living in Society ?   Who took decisions, why and for whom ?

And in this complete and utter muddle, the citizens were asked to choose the person who would lead their country for the next few years ahead !

 Quite a few of them, completely muddled up, didn’t know what to do, so they didn’t do anything – they quit – they left it to the others !

Some others tried to untangle the different elements and to find a window through which they could start seeing something that looked like possible, maybe naive, but where goodwill was a central feature, others were lead by the character that had the money and the power, a few tried to understand what was going on and how they could really participate to what was still called a « democracy ».

The polling stations where about to close within the next half hour.

From the far, the people gathered around the main place started hearing rumours on the left side of it as well as on the opposite right side.  It looked like 2 columns of people approaching at more or less the same speed.  As they  started arriving on the scene, you could notice that the men (no women)  were carrying guns and dressed in blue and red.

They marched to the middle of the square, the blue men forming a half circle on the one side and the red ones taking place on the right.  This formed a perfet circle, half blue and half red with riffles held on both side.

More and more people were reaching the place.  By now, it looked quite surrealistic, not very far from the last scene of Sergio Leone’s film « The Good, the Bad and the Ugly » but without that dramatic music…

Breaths were held short, silence grew larger…

Then, from very far away, a cavalcade announced itself, dust and earth being lifted and scattered round the rider.  The sound of galloping grew louder and louder and the silhouette of the horse and it’s messenger became closer and closer….

They were going to know !

As the messenger was reaching the place, all the riffles were pointed towards him, the red and the blue and the crowd ‘s cry grew louder and louder :

« Don’t shoot the messenger » ! It’s certainly not his fault… 

And when the bang went off, I heard this soft redeeming voice right next to my ear:

« I brought you some coffee sweatheart ! Sounds as if you’ve been through a few nightmares last night »

 

Jackie's contribution

Don’t shoot the messenger

André sat in the café slowly sipping his morning café au lait He was hesitating about eating another croissant –   Relishing in the fact that he was a little early for work and had another ½ hour before setting out He was assistant to the High Commissioner in the city.

A group of men sitting at a table just behind him were chatting and bit by bit their voices got louder and louder piercing the quiet and calm of the café with intersperced laughter and cries – there seemed to be a firey conversation going on.     Slapping the table and stamping feet -  and cries of something he thought could be Arabic

 A few choice words escaped from the loudy group - words he heard that made him gulp and almost choke – he froze and paid more attention to what they were saying.     Pretending to be absorbed by his phone – scrolling down, smiling occassionally so as not to appear to be concerned by their conversation

 

He pondered on the way to work as to whether he should tell someone about what he had overheard  -  but who?  

As he passed children on their way to school, young men off to the gym, women out shopping dressed smartly starting their day. He imagined the chaos that could come about if this information wasn’t relayed in time and the project these men were talking about came true..     Injuries would be numerous and there could even most certainly be loss of life.   

 

    He was desperate to talk to someone.     His boss – he imagined would not believe him in the first instance and so it would have to be a neutral person – a friend perhaps –His old school friend worked nearby at some sort of administrative post – he had never quite discovered what.   40 years ago they played cowboys and indians – In play he was always the victim and the play always ended with him shouting I didn’t do it … but he felt this was someone he could trust and help him with his decision.   

 

Later that day he was called into the commissioners office.   A  usually jovial man -  normally of a sunny disposition – but now he was behind his desk and grunted what amounted to a  greeting  as André walked in – his face sombre even dark and threatening.     I have heard from a good source that you are involved in a very serious threat to our country    What have you got to say about this?   André blanched.    I – I - he stuttered, I overheard someone in a café this morning …and  confided the information to a good friend as I wasn’t sure it was for real.  

But its got nothing to do with me Sir - he added

 

Are you the instigater of this information? If this attack does  occur we shall be completely responsible for anything that happens.  I shall lose my job and you deserve to be shot as the messenger of the information.    NO no André cried,  blinking back tears  thinking of his three children and lovely wife at home.    

 

Andre stood in the firing squad of the cities High commissioner’s back courtyard – a place he had never known existed.   His trusted friend of 40 years faced him with a rifle but not a plastic one this time  – he shouted “Don’t shoot the messenger”  Please

 

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Don't shoot the messenger – 4  Prime Minister – revised variation 2

(05.09.2024) by Sarah

 

"Holy crap, what've you got that on for?"  Jake was referring to the blond wig his friend Kevin had on.  "And why the hell are you wearing gloves?"

"Just felt like it."

"You're not planning to celebrate."  It was not a question, exactly, though it was half of one.  Kevin said nothing.  They took their places in the crowd in front of the presidential palace and wormed their way to the front.

Normally presidential annoucements were made on television, or in the newspaper.  But this president had been making changes, each one bringing the country or the government or himself closer to the ways and habits of royalty.  Jake and Kevin couldn't care less about royalty, but Jake was always ready for a good laugh, and Kevin, though he took politics more seriously, loved a joke in his own way.  So today, partly as a lark and partly out of real interest, the two of them had decided to go in person to see the event and find out, under these highly dramatized circumstances, who the new Prime Minister was going to be.

The President was apparently going to make the announcement himself.  He had dramatically shut down Parliament four months before, calling for new elections and the stunned country had pulled itself together and voted in an opposition majority.  But in this country things did not happen automatically, and it was not for the majority to name the leader of the new government but for the President himself.  And he had found one pretext after another to put off this nomination, and continue to run the country with the old government, theoretically "resigned" but technically still in operation.

"He's been doing it on purpose," said Jake.

"I know."

"He takes us for a bunch of fools."

"I know."

"There's that insane law that allows him to go on as long as he likes and we can't do anything about it."

"I know."

"You keep saying the same damn fool thing all the time, you know that?"

"I know."

But now the President had announced that he was ready to name the new leader of the government and the country was on tenterhooks, in that no law obliged the president of the country to name a Prime Minister of the elected majority; he was free to name whoever he pleased.  Names were circulating: Blodger, of the far right, and Leczinsky of the far left, but no-one expected either of them to be chosen; Banks, the favourite of the right; Edison and Ford of the presidential party; and Anna Morales of the left, which was now the real majority. 

"If he doesn't name Morales, there's going to be trouble."

"He won't."

"How do you know?"

"He won't."

"There you go again.  Have you nothing else to say?"

"He won't."

Now the presidential door had opened and a man came out onto the balcony.  A murmur of disappointment ran through the crowd.  They had expected the President; it was instead someone almost nobody knew, one James Smith.

"Don't tell me he's named him!"  Jake was puzzled.  "What party does he represent anyway?"

More murmurs, of surprise and curiosity, rippled through the crowd.  But optimisim and curiosity were up.  Everyone was hoping the man would be inclined to favour the party of their choice. 

"Shut up.  Listen.  He's only the messenger." 

Which was true.  When the murmurs died down, the man began to speak in suave, educated tones, excusing the President for having taken so long but things were complicated, etc etc., on and on.

A few "boo"s, and "get on with it"s were heard from the impatient citizens, but mostly they listened intently, and finally Smith got around to what they were waiting for.

"The new Prime Minister, you will certainly be pleased to hear, with his long record of experience and efficacity, is ... Ethan Banks."

Anger and disappointment stirred the crowd.  Kevin pulled a gun out of his inner pocket.

"Don't shoot the mesenger," cried out Jake in alarm, before he noticed it was only a toy, made of silver plastic.

The ball flew out and landed square on the speaker's white shirt, leaving a spreading red stain.  As the crowd shrieked and began to run in all directions and police began to close in from all sides, Kevin said "Duck" and he ducked himself, tearing off the wig and the gloves and Jake's red cap, throwing them to the ground with the paintball gun.  Then he straightened up again, and pulled Jake firmly by the sleeve before he could protest, as he intended to. 

"Put these on," he said tersely, handing Jake a pair of black-rimmed glasses.

"What the heck ...?" began Jake, who was feeling very exposed without the cap to cover his prematurely bald skull. 

"Shut up and walk."  And so the two young men pushed themselves through the panicking multitude as the police looked for a blond guy and his accomplice with a red baseball cap.

Well, it was only a joke, but it caught the fancy of the public.  Impromptu marches sprang up everywhere, as official protestations would of course not have been authorized.  Half of the work force went on strike.  The movement grew so monumental that it made the economy tremble, and finally the President himself resigned, there was a new election, and by a close margin Anna Morales was elected.  She chose a Prime Minister from her own ranks, and there were great celebrations in the country, as well as vociferous protestations from all the other sides, as usual.  Jake mourned the loss of his LA Dodgers cap and Kevin that of his blond wig, but otherwise they were happy.

Unfortunately, this is not the way things really happened.

 

+ 960 wds