Re: Fast fiction
Apologies, it's a bit longer than you asked for. I tried cutting it down from its original as much as I could. Not exactly mistaken identity - shall we say ambiguous identity? Here goes ...
SPEAKING IN TONGUES
He was a meticulous man impatient with prevarications, and for this monumental occasion he knew it was imperative to be word perfect and project exactly the right image. He had practised his speech for months, hand gestures, head movements, number of blinks. Excessive blinking showed nervousness. He knew; he had studied books and watched hours of famous orators, some of whom he frankly thought pathetically emotional and downright ineffectual. It had become an obsession and he was aware that it was an obsession, but it was vital there were no mistakes. He couldn’t afford to hesitate, stumble over words or appear anything less than completely confident, otherwise who would take him seriously? Oratory was powerful, persuasive, spellbinding in the right hands. He had listened to so many public speakers waffling on about their woolly ideas for improvements, production increases, plans for a better world and didn’t fail to notice the audiences fiddling, casting covert looks round the room, checking their watches.. Were they blind? Surely they must notice the glazed eyes and fidgeting?
It wasn’t engaging his audience either, he realised that. It was vital to look the part. Here he was a little less confident. He strode over to the mirror in his locked office and dispassionately viewed his reflection. Well, nobody could have called him a handsome man, he thought with a wry smile. Shorter than average, stocky, nondescript features, dark hair. He did have commanding eyes though, even he could see that. They stared back at him, two pools of blue, challenging him to do what? Change his mind and return to being forgettable?
As a child he’d certainly felt unforgettable, one of the millions of poor kids living in the country with his strict, cold father and ineffectual mother. Life had been a struggle for them all and he’d been a sickly child, in and out of hospital with lung infections. He hadn’t been expected to survive, and he didn’t think his parents would have been heartbroken if he had died. After all, one less mouth to feed in those days would have been a blessing. He didn’t resent the realisation, it was just life. Poor children dropped like flies, as did their parents, and it happened with depressing regularity worldwide. Poverty was no shame; it was no fun either, and when it bled over into young adulthood, with dreams of fame and comfort fading, it cut deeper.
He permitted himself a grim smile as he remembered hesitantly telling his father of his desire to enter the priesthood. That was a much more terrifying speech than the one he was about to perform today, and it was about the only time he had heard his fierce father laugh, a rusty wheeze like a poorly oiled machine part that had sprung into life after years of neglect. The derision hadn’t deterred him, at least not immediately; he was well accustomed to self denial and penury and had felt it a lifetime commitment worth small sacrifices. He grew out of it though, as young men will. He moved to the nearest city along with others of his class, hoping for – what? Adventure? Love? Riches? None had come his way, and time on the streets as a penniless drifter soon re-formed his idealistic daydreams. He was nothing if not a realist. And now here he was, a middle aged successful man of substance. He was still not rich and lived simply enough. He had no desire for the trappings of wealth and despised vulgar ostentation such as some of his staff flaunted.
As for love, he wasn’t fool enough to think women found in him movie star looks, and he was indifferent to the many women he met socially and officially. He could appreciate them aesthetically, their soft shape, the clouds of scent that enveloped them, the way they hung onto his every casual word now he was no longer a nobody. He had bedded a few, of course, he wasn’t entirely made of stone. Nobody would ever call him abnormal, but they distracted him with their chatter about things of which they had no real understanding. Women had their place, but it wasn’t here, today. Today was special, a pivotal day for him, and it had to be right.
There was a tap on his door. He strode over, unlocked the latch and a young man peered round nervously, clutching several files and rolled up sheets, a pen behind his ear and the harassed air of a clerk burdened with too much important work and too little time in which to do it.
“Er – ten minutes left, sir. Then I suggest you make your way to the stage. Everyone out there seems very enthusiastic; there’s a huge turnout!” His pink face glowed with excitement.
“Very well. Keep them waiting eh? It will be worth it.”
“Yes, sir. Good luck, sir,” murmured the clerk, softly closing the heavy door behind him.
He glanced down at his notes one last time, mouthed a few lines and cast the paper aside. It wouldn’t do to be seen to refer to notes out there. The long mirror caught his confident image briefly as he walked quickly over to his office door. He straightened his back, smoothed down his jacket and glanced down at his hands. Steady as a rock.
As he walked down the corridor towards a door leading into the arena an insistent chant could be heard in the still air, thrumming ever louder as he neared. It filled up his head and his soul, and his heart jumped in time.
“Fuh-rer! Fuh-rer! Fuh-rer!”