Fantastic Metropolis

“We who work so hard for peace are insulted by every act of aggression. When that aggression is committed by individuals, whatever cause they claim, we are outraged. But when that aggression is committed in the name of a lawful people, then we have cause to tremble and fear the apocalypse.”

The sheikh sighed and looked carefully into Jerry’s painted features. He turned his head, contemplating the dust.

“For fifty years I have struggled to bring understanding and equity to North and South. I have brought fanatics to the discussion table and turned them into diplomats. I have overseen peace agreements. I have written thousands of letters, articles, books. I have dissuaded many men from turning to the gun. And all that has been destroyed in a few outrageous moments. Making diplomats into fanatics. To satisfy some pervert’s personal frustration with the United States and to make an impotent president and his overprivileged, under-informed constituency feel good for an already forgotten second. The very law they claim to represent is the law they flout at every opportunity.” Sheikhh Faid was still waiting for news of his daughters.

Jerry took a handfull of pungent seeds and held them to his nose before putting them in his mouth. “They’re trying.”

But the sheikhh was throwing a hand towards his glowing, empty screens. His voice rose to a familiar pitch.

“As if any action the Americans ever attempted didn’t fail! They never listen to their own people. Those officials are all swagger and false claims. True bureacrats. When will it dawn on them that they have lost all these phoney wars. When will they be gracious enough to admit failure? How can they believe that the methods which created disaster at home will somehow work abroad? They spread their social diseases with careless aggression. It’s a measure of their removal from reality. There was a time, sadly, when the U.S. people understood what a farce their representatives made of things. They used their power to improve the world.” He beamed, reminiscent. For a heartbeat his eyes lost their pain.

“I used to enjoy those Whitehall farces when I was a student. Do they still run them? Brian Rix’s trousers fell as regularly as the sun set. Simpler satisfactions, I suppose.”

“Failure,” Jerry said. “They don’t know the meaning of the word. Imperialism’s no more rational than racism. That’s why they fly so well together.”

“Well, of course, you know all about imperialism. You’ll enjoy this.” With both hands the sheikh passed Jerry the intricate cup. “The English love Assam, eh? Now, what about these Americans?”

Jerry shrugged.