novemberdays | LOG: a lingering disappointment

LOG: a lingering disappointment

Title: A lingering disappointment
When: Late autumn, 2010.
What: The end of one crisis and the continuation of another.

Philippe takes his time, reading the final corrections over. The current draft is only a few days old, written in tandem by the minister of foreign affairs, the minister of security and at least three different lawyers. Jean Louis has read it over about fifty times and by the time he entered Barrault’s private quarters three hours earlier, the paper was already lined in red and black, circles and notations almost masking the original text. Together, they’ve probably used up all the energy available to the old man at the moment, what with this rather untimely flare-up of his disease but need’s must. It’s been a very chaotic three weeks, after all. If he’d actually had any real need of Philippe’s help or guidance, Jean Louis would have been mildly resentful about his current laying-about in bed but happily, he doesn’t and thus, he’s not. Come next week, he’ll be sure to make it obvious to everyone as well – that even though the media would like to think of Philippe Barrault as the real head of state regardless of his actual position, this crisis wasn’t solved by old hands. No, it was solved by the government as a whole and certainly, under Jean Louis’ leadership primarily.

He does look old, though, these days. Their current spokesperson for cultural values, a title he’s worded himself with as much care as he does everything else. Jean Louis has no sentimental feelings tied to Philippe Barrault, not as such, but he does recognise human decline when he sees it and it’s regretful, isn’t it? Ever since this mess with the Americans and their ridiculous surveillance neuroses erupted on Luxembourgian soil, he’s clearly been withering away. They say that sclerosis doesn’t have to be deadly but if the man persists like this for much longer, his case surely will be.

Adding a couple of extra corrections with a shaky hand, Philippe hands him back the paper with a nod, doing his best to look alert. Like a man who’s been sleeping all day whilst the rest of his party has been slaving away – nothing a million cups of coffee won’t fix, obviously, though he’s fairly sure his head is going to confine him to bed during the weekend. Nothing to be done about it. He thanks Philippe, reminds him to relax, bids him a nice weekend and heads for the door without another glance back, tired from a month of too little sleep as well as (and perhaps, more so) the feel of sickness lingering heavily in the room behind him.

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Mother met Mireille in the door upon her arrival, informing her that Jean Louis was currently keeping Father company, meaning (of course) that he’s keeping him occupied beyond his capacities and beyond what his doctor has dictated. She waits in the living room, Mother drinking a glass of wine while reading the Paris Opera’s members magazine – Mireille has no subscription herself, her cultural interest limited squarely to Luxembourgian soil, one of her party’s key issues national culture and tourism. Though, in exchange as well, naturally. She didn’t spend close to a decade in France and not feel influenced in terms of language and values – and surely, no one would expect her not to. The tabloids like to treat her as a foreigner, Philippe Barrault’s daughter who has struck out on her own now and lived apart for longer than she has gathered herself together. She allows them to, knowing full well that it is not an inaccurate portrayal, merely misunderstood. Merely misunderstood.

Finally, she chooses to sit still no longer. Excusing herself to Mother who hardly even acknowledges her as she stands up, Mireille leaves the living room and moves down the hallway – to the door, closed currently, that leads to Father’s private room. A combination of temporary bedroom and permanent office facilities. She can hear two distinct voices on the other side, Father’s – raspy and raw from exhaustion and Jean Louis’ – dark and determined in comparison. Younger by years. Younger by decades. Feeling how her lips press together into a thin line, so familiar an expression in relation to Monsieur Duroc, she stops next to the door. Simply -- stands there. Stands still. With her chin raised and her head held high. Her styled construction of hair is heavy on her head, like a burden on her shoulders, but no heavier than her concern for Father who is being prompted to overwork himself in spite of his better judgement.

Hers, too.

As soon as he opens the door, he notices her standing there. Her stance reminds him strongly of her attitude during a particular unrelenting debate; strong, unyielding and cold enough that any resistance feels mostly like a slap of ice. Some people believe that Mireille Barrault's approach to politics is too coloured by both her sex and her upbringing - too little of both and too much, as well. Never quite right. But then, people are sheep. Pausing, he closes the door behind him and gives her a neutral smile.

He hasn't had the time to talk to her properly the past month. Talk to, naturally, because Mireille has been doing her utmost to discourage any further proposing and using the word 'with' would be too generous. He ended up throwing the ring at Marcel's dog and the dog, predictably, ate it. A fitting end to that particular waste of energy, surely. Ever since, he's been preoccupied. With politics at day, thoughts of her by night. Her rejection doesn't bother him so much as it... makes him want to change her mind. To experience the moment when she'll turn around and give in. Properly.

"Mireille."

He greets her, by first name. She, on her part, keeps a more pronounced distance and calls him Monsieur Duroc as is his title as long as he’s not on the podium in Parliament, answering interpellations that he deems either too long or too complicated when the two don’t happen to coincide. Become one and the same. She still remembers vividly, the first work day after his proposal – when the CDP, completely unexpectedly, chose to shoot down every of Lisa’s carefully worded and carefully worked out inquiries. Father had been less than pleased in the aftermath, of course, but it couldn’t change the bitter taste at the back of her throat. To be vindicated by her father. It didn’t soothe the feeling of complete humiliation that she felt as the leader of a party so utterly unable to defend itself. One shouldn’t doubt that she’d answered in kind when the turn came to her to speak, but the insults stuck to every of her pitiful comebacks like burdocks. She won in private. He wins in politics, does Jean Louis Duroc. Her three mandates, however impressive that number is for a first term, change nothing.

Waiting for the door to close behind him, so that Father won’t realise that she’s there and request her company when he’s obviously too tired – thanks to the time spent with Jean Louis, Mireille steps forward. Closer to Jean Louis, placing them face to face, their difference in heights aside. She focuses her gaze on his features, the inherent broadness to his nose and lips. It fits his ego, isn’t that so? With a face comprised of such prominent features. One must wonder about the size of his -- feet. She buries her fingers in the soft fabric of her dress, then addresses him: “Father would have continued throughout the night.”

Had Jean Louis not chosen to leave now. Usually, it may be Jean Louis who’s on a leash, but when Philippe Barrault’s sick it’s undeniably Jean Louis who’s pulling his strings. Like a puppeteer.

It’s an accusation, of course. He doesn’t bother trying to play around it because Mireille is too clever by half. Yes, he takes advantage the way anyone would, anyone driven enough to care about the next step more than the one that came before. He doesn’t doubt, however, that the reason will be a lot less important to Mireille than the blame; after all, she is her father’s daughter.

“And I would have let him, had the need arisen. He’s a grown man, I trust his judgment.”

He keeps his voice down, though he wouldn’t actually mind Philippe hearing these particular words through the door. If there’s one thing he loves, it’s playing a well-known, well-working string on repeat because it’s the most predictable thing in the whole world. In this case, he knows for a fact that the old man will appreciate his efforts to vindicate him, just as he’ll happily place Mireille in the role of his caring little daughter - child - once again. Of course, she must have hated the way Anisette used her interpellations to her own gain after he’d shot her down in Parliament and her father had to pick up the pieces. Must have felt the impact of it, how she can refuse him and degrade his efforts if she chooses; but the end result will be worse than stagnation. Hopefully, her little rebellion was worth it.

“Besides,” he adds, stepping a bit closer and looking down at her with a thin smile, “he always says that politics are a way of life, doesn't he?” Just like fatigue. Exhaustion. Death. If he lets Barrault work himself beyond endurance, the man will breathe his last with a smile on his face.

Had the need arisen. They are in the middle of a moderate, political crisis at the moment – what with the US tapping into Luxembourgian soil as freely as if their own will overrides all else. As Lisa had said at one of their most recent party meetings: Thank God, we are not in government right now, huh? Mireille had emphasised firmly their position as a supporting party, a party whose mandates are still perfectly capable of tipping the scales, but it had been evident – easily read on their faces, Lisa’s and Batista’s, that they were merely (greatly) relieved that they were not in Jean Louis’ undoubtedly large shoes. If not in Father’s, once it became known that another of his flare-ups had made itself a presence. As a result. His room is full of get-well greetings, a few bouquets of flowers still clinging to life in Mother’s Royal Copenhagen vases. Tonight, however, he hasn’t fulfilled his role as a patient, but rather the one of a politician and Jean Louis is right, of course – pointing out to her that it’s how he prefers it. Nevertheless, one can’t always have everything the way one wants it and Father, least of all, is so spoiled as to believe that. Jean Louis, on the other hand, may very well be. And he may just as well be inspiring the same attitude in Father as well. Call it a flare-up of its own. Mireille’s eyes narrow.

“To speak of any way of life whatsoever,” she says, “it’s required that you are alive. In the first place.” The implications are loaded. Dropping to the bottom of a pool of accusations. She isn’t directly telling him that he’s slowly killing her father for the sake of personal (political) gain, because whereas it would not be untrue, neither would it be the entire truth. Father is not without fault, either. He allows it. He lets himself. Lets Jean Louis. Lead the way. That way of life. “Surely you wish to see him recover?” Her voice may be calm, but her tone is sharp. She nurses many thoughts in regards to Jean Louis Duroc, but that he doesn’t care about Father doesn’t count amongst them. She has grown up as a spectator to the relationship that has developed between the two of them. She knows that Father matters. She’s certain of it.

And it’s nothing, if not a redeeming feature.

Surely you wish… He takes a moment to answer her, eyes searching her features for a moment, trying to figure out what sort of emotion she’s putting behind her words. With Mireille, it’s always a difficult thing – like trying to decode a snowflake before it melts in your hand. He hears the accusation plainly but the weight of it seems less unequivocal. Rightly so, actually, because while he’s been talking about assassination attempts and poisonings with Marcel many times in private (let’s hope the US isn’t listening in on that), the fact is that Philippe Barrault remains very much alive. Unless the man actively gets in his way, Jean Louis doesn’t particularly want him gone faster. Time will take care of that – has already done so, in fact, because Barrault doesn’t lead his party anymore, does he? Hasn’t lead it for several years, either.

“I’ll pretend you didn’t ask me that question,” he says, leaning in closer, the smile fading into something more neutral again. He doesn’t have to fake the touch of annoyance in his voice now – after all, she’s being a bit discourteous towards him, albeit for the wrong reasons. If he’d wanted the old man dead, surely he wouldn’t actually be alive to weaken away in private, day by day. Jean Louis is all about efficiency. “You’re worried for your father, naturally. I am, as well.” He holds out his arm for her with a curt nod. A little bit old-fashioned, yes, but that’s his way of things. “Walk with me, please. I promise I won’t propose to you again.”

Spoken with the slightest tint of humour, though there’s a mocking edge to it that she probably can’t help but notice. She wouldn’t expect gentleness from him and he doesn’t particularly want her to think he’s being false with her. Or planning out her assassination, perhaps, though Marcel’s made a few suggestions over the past four months to no avail. Aside from having no inclination to get rid of her, killing people off in a country like Luxembourg takes… some planning. He’s reminded of that every time Mireille’s little fangirl steps onto the podium in Parliament.

Offering her his arm, he reminds her that Monsieur Duroc can be many things and is able of wearing many faces, sometimes multiple expressions at once. Such as now when he's being altogether courteous in the Victorian manner that would make many women swoon, recognising only its Jane Austen romance, not its inherent misogyny while at the same time, quietly mocking her for the laughingstock that she made of him last time they truly spoke. It is what makes him quite the talented politician, isn't it? It is also, however, what makes him completely unappealing in terms of companionship. Jean Louis Duroc makes a reputation of himself, not as a man who is ever caught lying, but one who at times tend to paint reality in the crudest colours possible. Simply staring at him, at his arm, for a long moment - Mireille finally reaches out and places her hand near the crook of his arm. She can feel the warmth of his skin, even through the thick fabric of his jacket. They do say that he ranks amongst the hottest men in Europe, after all. Number 35 on the top 100. Lisa feels certain it’s the Armani commercial he featured in when he was younger that has moved him up to that particular position, nothing else. Much to Florian’s dismay, though – Mireille has as openly as it ever gets when you’re in private company admitted that she thinks Jean Louis possesses a winning personality. The evidence not any subjective opinion that she has on him, surely, but rather as objective and as strong as the loyalty of an entire nation.

“The gardens are beautiful at this time of year,” she tells him. It’s not an attempt to push him in any one given direction, but she’d rather not disturb Father any further by wandering the hallways and in addition, it’s the truth. The Barrault gardens, more like a grand park behind the house, are truly beautiful in autumn, merely ask the Beautiful Living magazine that pays them visit four times a year, once for every season. To report on the designs and contents of Mother’s carefully tended fruit trees and flower beds. To catch a glimpse of the life that those same elements reflect.

He chuckles, setting the course for the gardens without further ado. She doesn’t have to tell him that the gardens are beautiful, of course, seeing as Anisette keeps track of that ridiculous magazine for housewives; the one that keeps reporting about the Barrault gardens like there’s something particularly innovative about grass and trees. In any case, he’s seen the pictures and the gardens themselves several times over the past many years. He knows that she’s asking him outside to spare her father the continuous disturbance outside his private quarters, something you really can’t begrudge her. Jean Louis is more than happy to get as far away from these halls as possible, too – whenever Barrault has one of his attacks, he looks and seems almost paper-thin. Disturbingly unlike himself.

As he leads them towards one of the garden doors (having very consciously chosen an exit as many rooms away from Violette’s company as humanely possible), he glances around the small living room – halfway a library of sorts, supposedly, with all those books lining the walls. He’s reasonably certain Barrault Mansion has a bigger library further down the hallway, though he hasn’t yet taken the time to visit it. He’s never been particularly impressed by the luxury of the higher classes, even with his own background being modest at best, years with the Girards not withstanding. Rather, he’s felt a part of it since he stepped into it decades back, completely convinced that riches are the rights of those prepared to take them. To own them. And to find a use for them beyond simple symbols of status.

Opening the garden door, he moves out of Mireille’s light grip, nodding for her to go first. As opposed to his men in the underground, Jean Louis has manners. At least when it serves his purposes.

They make their way towards the gardens via the study that Father employs for relaxation. None of the books in this particular room are of relevance to his profession, there are no volumes on economics or political theory, rather the shelves feature an impressive collection of Victor Hugo first editions and a complete compilation of the illustrated Dumas which he’d read to her when she was still a little girl. The Three Musketeers by Dumas the Older, The Lady of the Camellias by his son. She still remembers sitting on his knee, leaning in against his chest – his knee which is now stiff from a temporary (or so they say, with MS one can never truly know) paralysis and his chest which is heaving as he breathes, because he’s stressed and overworked and no less sick today than yesterday… As Jean Louis steps aside to let her pass through the door first, she glances up at his features, a frown on her face. Father may loathe to admit that his career and the lifestyle it represents match his condition very poorly, but she shall eventually have to do so for him, if he continues in this manner. Not tonight, of course. Tonight he’s had enough of a burden placed upon his shoulders, but tomorrow… Tomorrow, perhaps. She will mention it to him and he’ll listen politely, telling her not to worry for an old man. She nurses no illusions and she knows her father well. It will lead to nothing, yet she’ll never cease to try. A stubbornness which may be futile, but it is a personality trait she still prides herself of. It has led her this far, after all.

Passing Jean Louis in the doorway, the hem of her long dress brushing over the toes of his shoes, she steps out into the gardens, the cool evening air enveloping her immediately. Running along her skin like a caress, the differences in temperature almost chilling. It would have been wiser to bring a jacket, she’s in no position to catch a cold now, but they have both rushed through the motions somewhat, Jean Louis and she. She’d forgotten and undoubtedly, he hadn’t even considered the thought. Yes, undoubtedly, Jean Louis Duroc is considering other things entirely – one must hope, the crisis that the government is diverting as they speak, kicking and screaming and swimming for their lives on deep water. It shan’t kill them. She has enough confidence in Father’s party and Jean Louis’ leadership to believe that nothing ever truly will, but it’s hard work and it’ll leave them terribly wet. Behind the ears.

A few metres out on the veranda, she turns around to wait for him. “We already have an appointment in the morning,” she reminds him, indifferently. The CDP and the AC have a coalition meeting planned, to determine the AC’s stance on the American monitoring of Luxembourgian institutions. If he so desperately wanted to speak to her, he could have waited, if not for the fact that Jean Louis Duroc is known to wait for no one and be about as patient as a ten-year-old boy with attitude issues.

He watches her as she moves past him – oh yes, he watches her carefully. The light sway of her hips, the way her dress clings to her forms. The movement of her body underneath the fabric, her buttocks and her thighs… Stepping out into the cool autumn breeze, he’s almost grateful that she’s chosen an outside venue. His body needs the cold, it seems. Other people might question or debate Mireille’s beauty, mostly on the basis of her being both intelligent and pretty – something that will lead to jealousy and loathing even (or perhaps, especially) amongst her own, gossiping sex. But Jean Louis has only watched her grow more desirable over the years; even now, with the way she’s looking at him with at least a fair share of annoyance. Impatience. It’s not a come-hither look, that’s for sure. What a shame.

“Well.” Closing the door silently behind him, he crosses the small distance between them and pauses next to her. Pushing his hands into his pockets, searching around for a smoke completely by habit. He’s gone through a month’s worth of cigarettes over the past week. “As you know, next week we’ll be presenting our statement to the public – our final words on this matter, if all goes well. After that, I plan to hit the ground, running.” Always straight to the point, of course. He’s got no patience for beating around the bush, especially not around Mireille who is too smart to be fooled. “I want a bipartisan committee, centered around education with a very specific, working hypothesis. In the end, it ought to lead to a proposition, something to help further our international relationships.” He finds a smoke, finally. Pulling it from his pocket, he ignores its slightly battered appearance and pops it between his lips. Time to find a lighter. He glances at her, one eyebrow raised. “The project’s right up your alley, Mireille, if you want it.”

Strategically, it’ll cause some political unrest, yes. A bipartisan coalition always will, no matter what sort of objective you’re aiming for. But with education being a relatively low priority for the government in general compared to economy or UN politics, it’s the most peaceful initiative he can imagine. And they’ve got to do something once this statement has gone out or people will start to notice how carefully worded it really is. They’re getting out of this with very little skin on their noses, truth be told. People – political leaders – have had to step down for less.

He fishes a cigarette out of his pocket while talking, while carefully presenting for her his (yet another) proposition, though this one is of a nature that she can’t as easily ignore, cannot in her position choose to disregard. It’s a weighty proposal he’s making her now, Jean Louis Duroc, one that she may have to consider carefully, but not for too long. In politics, decisions at times require making in a split second, in the blink of an eye or the eye may be fooled altogether, overlooking what it shouldn’t have missed. No one shall say that Mireille is merely a politician for the power of it, nor does she work in Parliament only for the influence, but she was in Father’s party first and has now started her own to see -- the outcome. As much as the people itself does, Mireille wishes to see results and albeit she is by the public presumed made from silk fabric rather than iron, like the leading ladies of the UK and Germany, she shan’t simply (shan’t ever) bow down before she has been presented with those same. Results. It is what she promises her voters and Mireille Barrault doesn’t make it habit to lie. If she can avoid it, however relative the truth is.

Watching him fumbling through his trouser pockets for something, presumably something with which to light the cigarette dangling from between his lips, she steps closer to him – only one step, only enough to reach up and into the small front pocket of his jacket where the outline of a lighter is quite detectable against the flatness of his chest. “One must presume, of course, that we’ll be expected to answer to you to a certain degree, State Minister,” she concludes while coaxing the lighter out of his pocket with two fingers, holding it out to him once she’s gotten it free. It’s a self-evident shift from Monsieur Duroc to State Minister when they’re talking politics, their interaction in that regard usually limited to Parliament and the podium of official address. This is different. A mix of professionalism and privacy. She welcomes it, if only for the opportunities it represents. “The question being, then: How tightly will our hands be bound?”

If she’s to lead a committee of any kind, she must know where her limitations are. She has no desire to toe any lines, not lines defined by herself and certainly, not lines that aren't defined by her. At the same time, she shan’t deny that there’s something rather… attractive about the thought of another project of her own. Her party is doing well, considering its budding age and political range, but to truly set it apart from the rest of the Luxembourgian political terrain with a task such as this? Mireille looks up at Jean Louis. Very deliberately refrains from stepping back. She is only human, she’s aware. The ability to desire something is nothing but a natural part of her humanity.

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LOG: a lingering disappointment

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