Money and its vicissitudes

In any mystery, scandal or crime, veteran investigators always say, “follow the money” and you will find the crime or culprit. Perhaps this is true, but in Roberto Calvi’s case, it was not so simple. The fact is that he lived in money, it was his life. So when an investigation into the alleged illegal movement of some several billion lire from the Banco Ambrosiano, to an undisclosed recipient or recipients was commissioned by the Bank of Italy,  Calvi was naturally targeted because he was President and Chairman of that bank. It is possible that the missing money might  have been overlooked were it not for the fact that the bank was closely associated with the Holy See. And of course, the Vatican was a perennial target of far left politicians and various agents of the PCI (Italian Communist Party). In retrospect, after many commissions and inquiries, we now know that there were many other “parties of interest” involved in this alleged irregular movement of funds. Those parties included, but were not limited to, the CIA, MI6, the FBI, and Italy’s various spy agencies: SIFAR, Armed Forces Information Service (Servizio Informazioni Forze Armate), SID, Defense Information Service; SISDE, Service for Intelligence and Democratic Security; SISMI, Service for Military Intelligence Security.

If there were any stalkers following Calvi therefore, he would have led them to the Vatican Library on a regular basis, once every week. That he would do this, a man so loaded with work and personal problems, find the time to come from Milan to Rome once a week and spend the afternoon in the Vatican was amazing; incredible that Calvi was physically and mentally able to find the time,  incredible to his watchers who recorded his every move.

#

Dr. Ferrapotti’s official consulting room was tucked away on the second floor of the Vatican library, between the Biblioteque Pontificale and Cortile S. Damaso. He was such a busy man, what with his students at the University of Rome and his research at UNSDRI, that he had no time for regular patients, so he confined his psychiatric practice to the referrals he received from the Vatican. He had developed a lucrative and very effective practice, essentially dealing with patients who were sent to him by the upper echelons of the Vatican, by far the majority of them involving problems of a sexual nature. At the time, homosexuality was a crime in Italy, punished by various amounts of prison time. Further, if prosecuted, the Vatican of course preferred to avoid the inevitable media sensations that would result. Dr. Ferrapotti therefore provided an essential service. He diagnosed such patients as mentally ill, unfit to stand trial, so the case would never reach the court, and his congenial relationship with the various prosecutors and judges he knew in the Vatican and even outside, assured that the case would be stamped “cleared.” Thus the patient remained free, but usually required to meet with his psychiatrist on a regular basis, for a particular period of time.

One can see, then, that it was most unusual for Ferrapotti to have invited Roberto Calvi to come to him regularly for therapy (a vague word if ever there was one), not to mention that his office was inside the Vatican. The media and others, unspecified, would be watching Calvi like hawks, and undoubtedly report that Calvi had been seen entering the Vatican.

#

At the time, there were no privacy laws, so what went on between therapist and patient was not, technically, legally protected. This fact was actually irrelevant in Calvi’s case, or any of Ferrapotti’s cases for that matter. Ferrapotti was, as we have seen, a very talkative person, who loved passing on information, embellishing it, manipulating it, and exchanging it for other information he deemed necessary for his personal and professional life. Every sentence he uttered was laced with intrigue, and delivered in a loud whisper. Thus it was, when he responded to the light knock on the door to his clinic, he opened the door quickly, pulled Calvi inside, then poked his head out and looked up and down the corridor. He quickly retreated into his clinic and locked the door, turning a huge key in an ancient lock almost half the size of the door itself.

“Welcome to my humble clinic,” smiled Ferrapotti in a whisper. “Make yourself comfortable on the couch.”

Calvi, looking thin and a little haggard, smiled a little and sat on the couch. The decor of the clinic was hardly comforting. There was no window, only a faint incandescent light  hanging from the ceiling,

“You can lie down if you want,” said the good doctor.

“I don’t know if I can keep this up every week. A lot of things are happening. I feel like I’m being hunted like a dog,” complained Calvi.

Ferrapotti picked up the small wicker chair from beside his modest mahogany desk and placed it in front of Calvi. He sat down, his rotund weight causing the chair to creak. He then broke one of the first rules of psychotherapy. Never physically touch the patient. He took both Calvi’s limp hands and squeezed them gently. “Roberto, I am your friend and counsellor. Tell me. Tell me anything you want. No matter. You will be better for it.”

“Doctor, Franco, do you mind if I call you that?”

“Si, senz’ altro!”

“You are a member of P2, right?”

“Si. What of it? I only do it to keep up with what is going on. You know?”

“Yes. But I thought I was protected. But now I’m not so sure.”

“What are you saying?”

“My bank. I think they’re trying to destroy it.”

“My friend. Who? P2? They couldn’t even if they wanted to! It’s not really organized. Just a club, you might say.”

“Franco, I’m afraid you are very naive. It is now dangerous to be associated with P2.”

“What do you mean? Oh..ar..the communists?”

“Maybe. But there’s a lot of others. They have infiltrated P2.” Calvi looked away. Then back. “I tell you. I don’t really know exactly. But I suspect either the CIA, MI6, SID or maybe all of them.”

“But the Vatican. I thought you had a close relationship? They will protect you, no?” asked Ferrapotti as softly as he could.

“I can’t count on it. I think they are after them as well.”

“I don’t understand. Why the Vatican?” asked Ferrapotti, probing.

“They are, have, you know how they helped before, saved the Corriere Della Sera…”

“But now P2 runs it, no? So you will be protected from the media, at least,” said Ferrapotti leaning back, giving the impression of reassurance.

“Not here in Rome and everywhere else but Milan and even there I can no longer be sure. I may have to get away…” Calvi looked around the room as though looking for a way to escape.

Ferrapotti leaned back on his chair and it squeaked appropriately. “Anyway,” he said, “this is just a way of you avoiding what is really ailing you. Your, shall we say, trysts? Will you be calling upon anyone while you are here close to the seminary for young priests in training?”

“I think I had better be going,” murmured Calvi, looking distractedly around, squirming a little on the couch.

“We have only just begun,” said Ferrapotti, sitting further to the edge of the chair, once again reaching for Calvi’s limp hands and squeezing them tightly.

“Let me go, Franco. I feel better already. It may have been brief, but it doesn’t take long to lift the weight of deeds that have not yet happened.“

“Guilt, you mean?” asked Ferrapotti conveying his incredulity.

“Of course not. What’s done is done. I’m sure you know that. But future acts, if you know of them. They can be pushed away and provide a narrow path to hope. The hope that they will not happen.”

Ferrapotti frowned a little. “Perhaps. But I do not agree entirely with your assumption that the past cannot be changed. There are many ways to cover up, falsify, construct counterfeit histories, perhaps you have indulged in those practices yourself? Some call it disinformation, at least that is what today’s intelligence agencies call it.”

“If you are talking about how my bank advertises itself, its public image. Yes, that is true. But when it is completely damaged, as is about to happen, the bank, even its false front, is beyond repair.” Calvi looked down, his face the picture of calamity.

“And you?” asked Ferrapotti.

Calvi looked back and stared aggressively into  Ferrapotti’s ever-blinking eyes.

“Ok. I completely understand,” said Ferrapotti as he gave a deep sigh. “It’s too bad these things are happening, because I was hoping to help you more with your personal problems of relationships, like we talked about before. My next patient who is due here any minute, was going to help us out.”

 As if on cue, there was a faint knock, and the door handle jiggled. Calvi looked anxiously at the door then to his doctor. He was about to get up and remonstrate, but Ferrapotti quickly rose from his wicker chair and opened the door.

Calvi couldn’t help himself. The young priest was as beautiful as could be. He entered quickly and leaned forward, arms crossed as if to hold himself together.

“Michael. Meet Roberto. Roberto, meet Michael,” purred Ferrapotti, in a soft whisper. He then quickly retreated behind his desk, leaving the two to stare at each other.

“I was just going,” mumbled Calvi.

“Ok, my apologies. I am a bit early,” answered Michael, a happy smile on his very white, Aryan face, his big crop of wavy blond hair dazzling Calvi as he stood rooted to the spot.

At that moment the phone rang and Ferrapotti picked it up immediately.

“Yes, OK. Definitely. Oh..ah..er. Good. Good. I will be right there.” Ferrapotti looked around furtively. “I have been summoned,” he said mysteriously. “One of my sources.”

Calvi looked at him, and had Michael not been there he might have asked what sources. Instead he turned to Michael and said, “well I suppose I should be going too.” He looked at his watch and said, “I need to get back to Milano.”

Ferrapotti already had his briefcase packed and was on his way out. “Pull the door shut when you leave. It should lock automatically behind you, so make sure you don’t leave anything behind.”

A very excited Ferrapotti rushed out and away. He had been summoned to the Ministry of Defense to join a secret and select committee to review the causes and prevention of terrorism in Italy. As Italy’s top criminologist, he would later tell everyone he met, he had been called to duty. However, an important factor that may have contributed to his selection was his membership in P2.

A Language of the Dead

Since Di Napolitano’s kidnapping, the atmosphere at UNSDRI remained tense. Two uniformed militia men, young conscripts, stood at the entrance, their automatic weapons slung over their shoulders. This did not stop them though, from smoking and chatting with each other. The few cars that came by, usually dark colored government vehicles were made to slow to a snail pace and their drivers were questioned. Dennis found it very uncomfortable to come into the office, to be looked up and down by the several guards and various couriers and functionaries, and hangers on, as he bounded up the steps and into the great old building. 

It was the morning of March 16 1978. It was a day that Dennis would remember for many years to come. As he entered the great hall, he heard the voices of his twin bosses echoing down the corridor. They were louder than usual, and he guessed that it would not be long before they went out to Ferrapotti’s car to drive round and round the block arguing. Andrea emerged from her office looking distraught, yet dignified in her carabiniere colors. She turned towards Di Napolitano’s office, but then looked away and came to the Dennis.

“What’s going on?” Dennis asked, “are you OK?”

“Haven’t you heard?”

“What?” The fact was, Dennis never watched the news on TV because he didn’t have one, and generally never even looked at the headlines of the newspapers. The whole world could be coming to an end and he would not know it. He was too much absorbed into the “carpe diem” of Italian life. Enjoy today, tomorrow may never come.

Andrea stepped aside as though to let Dennis pass. “Aldo Moro has been kidnapped!” she cried.

“Who’s he?” asked Dennis, very much the Aussie.

“You don’t know? He’s the most famous politician, was the prime minister of Italy! They cornered him on Via Fani, shot all his guards and drivers and took him away.“

Dennis stepped back into his office. “Oh! That’s terrible. What is the world coming to?” was all he could think of to say.

Andrea hurried towards Di Napolitano’s office. She met Ferrapotti half way.

“I knew this would happen,” he said, “I told them so. They wouldn’t listen to me.”

Dennis came out of his office. “Is there anything I can do?” he asked.

Ferrapotti looked at him with his usual grin. “No…er…ah…” He fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette. “Got a light?” he asked.

“Sorry, don’t smoke,” answered Dennis.

“Oh.. Er… ah… He’s had it. They’ll kill him, you wait, I know those people. It’s a Red Brigade faction. Di Napolitano was just a trial run. This time they’ll kill their victim.”

“You think so?” asked Dennis.

“Oh.. Er.. Of course, they will issue ridiculous demands. But you wait and see. They’ll kill him. They can’t risk keeping him alive. Besides he’s an ardent anticommunist.  Believe me, I know. I have very good contacts.”  Ferrapotti looked sideways and all around as if he were worried someone was eavesdropping.

Dennis looked around too, then realized how silly it was. “Will the carabiniere negotiate with them?” he asked trying to show concern and interest.

Andrea replied, “my father says that they will do their best but that there is a rule that they never negotiate with terrorists.”

“Your father?” asked Dennis in disbelief.

Ferrapotti replied, with his biggest grin, “her father is Director General of the Carabiniere, and a very good friend of mine.”

#

There followed 55 days of negotiations and debacles. As they did in the Di Napolitano kidnapping, the Red Brigade put Moro on “trial” the charge being, generally, that he headed an immoral, unjust and corrupt imperialist party (The Christian Democratic Party), and demanded that Moro be exchanged for a number of prisoners. Moro wrote a letter to the Pope asking him to negotiate on his behalf. In response the Pope gave a speech asking the Red Brigade to return Moro to his family without conditions. Moro took this to mean that the Pope had abandoned him because it meant that the Pope would not negotiate.  Most journalists, especially the Corriere della Sera took a hard line.

Ferrapotti marched up and down the hall of UNSDRI talking to anyone who came by, informing them that the day chosen for the kidnapping was the day on which the PCI (Italian communist party) for the first time would gain an active part in the Italian government. Ferrapotti was so concerned that he had packed his bags and already sent his wife and children to Puerto Rico. He was sure that there would be a major insurrection any time now. As he said, over and over, he had his sources.

Di Napolitano, for his part, stayed away from the limelight, even though he was the most obvious one to consult, having had the personal experience of being kidnapped  by the Red Brigade (though some argued that it wasn’t really the Red Brigade but a different faction). He shrewdly refrained from giving any advice, saying that this situation was quite different from his own, since he was not directly involved in politics or government, as was Moro. Ferrapotti agreed with him, for once, though they differed on whether the government should negotiate. In fact, unbeknownst to any of the UNSDRI staff, including Di Napolitano, Ferrapotti, a psychiatrist after all, had offered to negotiate with the terrorists, since he understood, he claimed, their thinking. When this became public knowledge, Ferrapotti received a hurried phone call from his patient Calvi warning him to stay out of it, that certain parties saw it as a soft way to let the Red Brigade get away with murder, since they had, after all, killed all five of Moro’s guards and drivers. Ferrapotti argued that he was not looking to go light on the kidnappers, indeed, once he got them to give up Moro, the government could do whatever it liked with them. He was only interested in saving Moro’s life. Moro did not deserve the death penalty on any grounds.

In any event, no resolution could be found and the kidnappers whether tired, confused or both, stopped communications. On May 8, 1978, Moro’s body was discovered in the trunk of a Renault 4, in Via Michelangelo Caetani, a tiny street just around the corner from UNSDRI and not far from the building that housed the growing Italian Communist Party. Moro had been shot ten times.

#

“If only they had listened to me,” complained Ferrapotti.

“There’s nothing you could have done, Franco,” cried Di Napolitano. “Believe me!”

“I tell you, there’s even worse to come. Mark my words!” warned Ferrapotti.

“I know, I know, you have your sources,” quipped Di Napolitano.

“No, no. There is also a secret committee, Ugo, that I am chairing, set up by Cossiga, Minister for Interior. We will get to the bottom of this.”

“What bottom could there be? What can you tell them that they do not already know, which is next to nothing?” asked the prosecutorial Di Napolitano.

“We can figure out what will be the next move of the Red Brigade,” countered Ferrapotti.

Di Napolitano looked up from his desk, adopting his serious magistrate’s expression as though delivering a judgement. “What is required is a tough, no nonsense prosecutor and then the courage to administer the required punishment.”

Ferrapotti was about to respond when he suddenly thought that maybe it would be interesting to have a third or even fourth opinion, so he called out down the hallway for Dennis the Aussie and for Andrea to come.

Andrea came running of course, her notepad in hand. Dennis at first did not respond, as he had never before been called upon. So he waited a little until he heard his name called clearly, this time by Di Napolitano, whom he considered not actually to be his boss, but anyway knew that he had to respond.

The two appeared in Di Napolitano’s office standing uncomfortably aside, while Di Napolitano sat back in his large office chair, and Ferrapotti walked up and down in front of the desk.

“Oh..er..ah..should there be a special committee of experts to assess the operations of the Red Brigade in the Moro case?” asked Ferrapotti.

Andrea did not hesitate. “They should all be tried and found guilty and then be shot, just like they shot Moro!”

“You mean,” said Di Napolitano looking a little superior, “that we don’t want a committee, just a trial and its aftermath?”

“In my opinion a trial is not needed. Just take them out and shoot them,” insisted Andrea. “The same way they shot the body guards, three of whom were carabiniere. That’s what my father says anyway, and who could disagree?”

“Oh.. Ah..er..” Ferrapotti turned to Dennis, but just as he did so, a loud explosion, or crack of a gun, sounded throughout the corridor and office, and the noise of shouting followed. Di Napolitano jumped up from his chair, crying, “someone has a gun!” The noise of shouting continued, but there were no more gun shots. Di Napolitano led the way, taking big brisk steps. “The noise is coming from downstairs at the entrance. Someone must have tried to break into the building.”

Downstairs at the entrance pandemonium reigned. The two armed military conscripts stood at the ready with their automatic weapons. They looked very young, blushing perhaps, and very frightened. Just inside the doorway on the cold stone steps lay the body of a well dressed young man, sprawled on his back, blood pouring from his chest, his eyes staring blankly, through the lids slowly flickering.

“What happened?” asked Di Napolitano, the judge, and proper person to take charge.

The official guard stepped forward, gun in hand. “I thought he was trying to sneak in. I told him to stop. He didn’t seem to understand spoke some crazy language.  He put his hand inside his jacket, I thought he was a terrorist pulling out a gun. So I shot him.”

Ferrapotti called out “make way, move back! I’m a doctor. Get back I tell you!” He kneeled down to examine the body and felt his neck for a pulse. “He’s alive, just! Call an ambulance!”

The body’s eyes slowly opened, and mumbled, “Ego te quidem Anglorum…”

Ferrapotti stood back, aghast. He felt inside the body’s jacket pocket and withdrew a letter typed on UNSDRI letterhead.

Di Napolitano took over crowd control. “Come on now, move along. There’s nothing to see here. Give the poor fellow some air.” He turned to the conscript soldiers, “come on now, get everyone moving away.”

Dennis remained in the background, inclined to sneak back to his office where it was safer. But he had heard something of what the assailant had muttered. It was Latin, but he heard not enough of it to translate, though then again, had he heard it clearly there was a good chance that he would still not have been able to understand it.

Ferrapotti looked at the letter, then down to the assailant, whose eyes now remained open, dead.

“Mio Dio !” he muttered, “it’s the Englishman!”

Dennis was aghast. He jumped down the few steps and pushed his way to the front of the onlookers. “Dr. Ferrapotti, did I hear you right?” he asked with timidity.

“Er.. Ah.. Oh.. That’s what this letter says. It’s the letter I wrote a long time ago.”

“That makes sense,” said Dennis. “Those Cambridge types all learn Latin, and that’s what he was saying. He said, if I am not mistaken, ‘I’m your Englishman.’ He probably thought that his Latin was near enough to Italian.”

Ferrapotti looked down at the lifeless body. “Oh.. Er..ah..Well, here is one more innocent victim of the murderous Red Brigade.”

 P2

The Englishman never did show up, so his wisdom and learning at the University of Cambridge criminology school never reached the United Nations. However, the project, as far as Ferrapotti was concerned was well under way, and had no need of the Englishman, given that he had hired a well qualified Australian, who had  taken his class at the University of Pennsylvania when he was a visiting professor there.  In fact it was there that the idea, and subsequent Ford Foundation funding for the project on World Crime had first been explored. A bunch of very bright Ph.D. Students who came there from all over the world took his class.

For his part, Dennis, the scruffy Aussie, who ended up running the project, after what seemed a year or two, though time, he had learned did not seem to matter in this life, was still at a loss as to how to proceed. The Council of Europe meeting had provided little direction or ideas of substance to even begin to design the project. So he sat in his office, shared with a visiting expert from Iran, who did little but talk to him of how things in Iran were done, what a wonderful university he had attended in Iran before he went to Ohio State University, all of this as he laughed and smiled, such a happy person. His main concern was to find a good trattoria for lunch every day, which certainly made Dennis’s life much richer. Lunch, at least for U.N. Experts was a three hour affair. Most often taken in one of the many trattorias or hostarias hidden away in the alleys around Via Giulia, Campo dei Fiori and the like. Iranians were just like Italians. They liked food, that was Dennis’s incisive observation. And as each day went by, so did he.

Yet Rome in the days after Di Napolitano’s kidnapping had taken on a somber outlook. People in the street seemed to be tense. They did not stop and talk to passersby as had been the practice, as far as Dennis had noticed from the first day he arrived. Perhaps this was aggravated, or even caused,  by the garbage collectors’ strike. There was trash lying everywhere, in the gutters, in any corner or crevice where the winds of Rome blew them, piles of trash in plastic bags making mounds in front of apartment buildings covered in graffiti, and especially in the front of restaurants that, naturally, produced large amounts of rubbish every day. As well, carabinieri appeared to be everywhere, on street corners, cruising in their Alphas or motorbikes,

While the kidnapping of his friend and colleague Judge Ugo Di Napolitano shook the entire staff of UNSDRI, Ferrapotti remained his hurried self, constantly stopping to talk with anyone who may pass him in the corridor, darting into offices, looking this way and that. His arguments with Di Napolitano were more frequent, and the Judge’s voice reached crescendos like never before. His most common words that could be heard, maybe even out on the street were, “Franco! Do you know what you are doing? Non fai niente! Next time the kidnappers will kill me, and you too if you keep going on this way.”

It was now almost three years since his kidnapping, and Di Napolitano’s kidnappers had been caught, so to speak, their colleagues had been released, just as Di Napolitano had promised when he was in captivity. So it was a kind of twisted quid pro quo. Ferrapotti stood at the door of the judge’s office.

“Si! Si! But don’t worry! I know what is going on,” Ferrapotti whispered so loudly that surely most of the experts in the UNSDRI building heard it. And as if to demonstrate his superior knowledge, he added, “something’s coming down, and I can tell you it won’t involve you or me.”

“Franco! What are you saying?” cried Di Napolitano.

“Oh… ah…eh… Don’t say anything to anyone else,” responded Ferrapotti in English, looking over his shoulder, then all around.

Flabbergasted, Di Napolitano threw up his arms in alarm. “Ferrapotti! Franco! Basta! “

Ferrapotti grinned and nodded, as if to say, “I’ve got a secret and nobody knows it but me.” He stepped back into the judge’s office. And muttered, “don’t worry. I know what I am doing. Anyway, I have to run. Have a special case in Milano.”

Di Napolitano eyed him distrustfully. If they weren’t such good friends, he would terminate him immediately, except that he wasn’t his boss anyway. “Milano? What’s there? I thought all your cases were in the Vatican?”

“That is true. Mostly, you know priests with, er..ah..oh.. Personal problems.”

“Then Milan?”

“I have a special mission.”

Di Napolitano eyed his friend with a  mixture of amusement and concern. “Franco. I know you. You will get yourself into all sorts of trouble if you are not careful.”

Ferrapotti inched forward a little into the office. “All I can tell you is that the Vatican has money problems, and for reasons I do not fully understand, the chief administrator of the Vatican has asked me to look into the dealings of one of their major bankers who is located in Milan. After all, it’s Milan where all the money is, right?”

“But you’re a psychiatrist. Not an investigator. And I am sure you know nothing about money!” said Di Napolitano trying to keep his voice down.

“True again. But psychiatrists are in a way investigators. We investigate the mind, do we not? And it so happens, I think that one of the Vatican bankers is having such trouble. Or should I say, has already suffered much angst. Then  in English, “Or, ah… eh…oh… that his decision-making when it comes to finances is becoming impaired.”

The perceptive Judge of the Supreme Court leaned forward at his desk.   “I see. Penso di averlo capito. Say no more.”

“Ciao. I will see you in a day or two.” Ferrapotti turned to leave.

“Perhaps you are going to Sardinia?” called his friend with a grin.

“No time for that.”

Ferrapotti stepped off the plane and at the bottom of the steps a young man, could have been his son, held up the palm of his hand on which was written UNSDRI. The man nodded towards the terminal and Ferrapotti followed.  Once inside, the young man turned his head slightly towards him and said in a quiet voice, a slight northern accent, “I am Wolfgang,” I will be your assistant for the day. The meeting, or should I say the announcement, will be made just before we break for lunch.

Ferrapotti grinned slightly and looked at his watch, and in English he asked, “oh.. Ah..you are German?”

“Not quite. Swiss, but my father was Italian, from Torino. But either way, we are of the same race, are we not?”

Ferrapotti was not quite sure what this meant, but he just nodded in assent. A deep blue Alpha pulled up at the curb. “Dopo di te,” said Wolfgang as he held open the door.

“Oh.. Ah…er… So you are a journalist for Corriere Della Sera?” asked Ferrapotti in English.

“I was, or actually I am, though for the past several months I have been the personal assistant to Dr. Gelli. He is an amazing person,” answered Wolfgang in almost perfect Oxford English.

“Oh… er…ah..no doubt he is.  And also very brave if I understand correctly what he is up to,” said Ferrapotti.

“I don’t think bravery comes into it. He just knows what has to be done, and he does it, and we all agree with his goal.”

“Of course. It is essential,” said Ferrapotti with a frown. “But there are many road blocks, the Vatican being one. I take it that is why I was invited?”

“Well, probably, though I do not know. I try not to get too involved. I just carry out my boss’s orders and I am so busy I have no time to think about what he is trying to do at any particular moment.”

Wolfgang looked out the window, trying to avoid Ferrapotti’s gaze. Ferrapotti responded:

“Oh.. Ah..You know, I think it is important that the United Nations understands the situation. But there are certain colonne sotterranee that would oppose and undermine all he is trying to do. And that includes the Vatican.”

“Yes, we know about that. But the Vatican has very little power, and, well I probably should not say this, it is running out of money, and Dr. Gelli is the only person who can save it. The banks, you know.”

“Oh… ah..si…I know all about that. One of my clients….”

“Shhh! Never know who is listening,” warned Wolfgang.

The car turned into Via Angela Rizzolli and pulled up at the front of the Corriere Della Sera headquarters. Wolfgang leaned over, annoyed and tapped the driver’s shoulder. “Not here! Go to the back entrance!”

Ferrapotti grinned. As the car pulled up, the door opened and a number of individuals, talking loudly and clearly angry, poured out, gesticulating wildly.

“It looks like we missed the opening,” said Wolfgang. “Never mind. The important thing is that you are here and representing the United Nations.” With that, Wolfgang leaned over and pinned a name tag on Ferrapotti’s lapel, the tag simply saying UNSDRI.

They pushed their way into the building, against the crowd of people exiting.

“What’s going on?” asked Ferrapotti, somewhat annoyed at being pushed and shoved aside.

“Oh, I thought you knew. Dr. Gelli has taken over the Corriere della Sera, and is bringing his own team to run the paper.  Although I think that a good number of the lead journalists will remain.”

Ferrapotti’s eyes immediately darted this way and that. Who was who of those rushing out? And could those remaining behind be trusted? “Is he that much of a threat? That bad?” asked Ferrapotti.

“No of course not. You know as well as I do that he’s not a fascist. He is simply a sensible businessman who understands money, who has it, who should have it, how to get it, and how to spend it,” answered Wolfgang as he pushed through large double doors. “This way. Dr. Gelli is looking forward to meeting you.”

They entered a big meeting room, a large oblong table in the middle, many chairs crammed in all around it, a terrible din of many Italians talking loudly and all at once, and of course, gesticulating wildly.

“Calma! Calma!” called Gelli who now stood at the head of the table, running his hand lightly over his plentiful greying hair. “Those of you who want to stay may do so, and in your current positions. I am simply replacing the top editorial staff. From now on, this great newspaper will report the news without communist bias. The communists must be kept out. You have seen what they have done to our cities, the violence of kidnapping and terrors they bring with them all in the name of  equality.“

Silence suddenly descended. Then it was replaced with murmurs and a buzz of excitement. Gelli continued:

“We have the Vatican and its bankers to thank for their willingness to step up and save this paper, and quite frankly, save this country.”

Quiet applause erupted followed by a light chant of, “P2! P2!” at which Gelli raised his hands and called “Calma! Hush! We in the P2 lodge do not look for loud accolades. We work quietly in the background. Now go back to your families and tell them that your job has been saved and that you will, beginning tomorrow, be reporting all the hews accurately and faithfully and without bias. Thank you! Thank you!”

Gelli left quickly by a side door. Wolfgang managed to pull Ferrapotti close enough to the door so that Gelli could see the UNSDRI name tag. Ferrapotti, thoroughly entranced, thought that Gelli looked at his tag and smiled, but could not be sure. In a flash, Wolfgang had left him and trailed behind his boss Gelli.  Ferrapotti turned and pushed his way into the small throng of chattering journalists, showing his UNSDRI badge. Many were instantly interested in the United Nations and what it had to do with P2. Some disparagingly called the UN a great organization corrupted by communists, others that it was essentially a tool of imperialist countries that was built on the back of slaves, dedicated to maintaining white superiority.

The year was 1977, the year that the clandestine Masonic Lodge known as “Propaganda Due” or P2, infiltrated and took over the failing left wing daily newspaper, Corriere della Sera.

#

Ferrapotti stood in front of the Corriere Della Sera headquarters and hailed a cab.

“Take me to the Banco Ambrosiano and hurry!” shouted Ferrapotti.

“I hope you’ve got plenty of money,” quipped the driver.

“How’s that?”

“They’re going broke, everyone knows that. But then you’re from Rome, I can tell, so you wouldn’t know,” joked the driver again.

“Si, si. I mean I don’t have money in that bank. You think I’m crazy?”

The driver laughed into the rear vision mirror as he wove through the Milan traffic, beeping his horn continuously, waving and yelling epithets at motorists who were in his way.

Ferrapotti grinned and caught the driver’s eye in the rear vision mirror. “Hah! I keep all mine in the Vatican bank, that’s where all the money is,” he joked.

“Si, si, I know. But I heard it’s all going to the Banco Ambrosiano to bail it out.”

Ferrapotti looked shocked. “How do you know that?”

“You’d be surprised what I hear in this taxi,” he grinned.

“I would, you’re right.”

The taxi screeched to a halt, Ferrapotti paid the driver, gave a generous tip, thanked him for his information, and stepped out.

The bank was closed. He pressed and repressed the bell button at front, and after what seemed like an eternity, a small side door opened and an old man, looking well into his eighties, squinted at him through rimless glasses.

“We’re closed. Can’t you see the sign?”

“Take me to your boss, Roberto Calvi. He’s expecting me,” ordered Ferrapotti.

“And you are?”

“The man from UNSDRI.” That’s all you need to know. Go on! Tell him and let me in.” Ferrapotti pushed past the old man and pulled the door closed behind him. The old man had no alternative but to lead the way through a maze of corridors until they came to a very large rosewood door, beautifully carved, and knocked feebly.

“Come!” came a gruff voice.

The old man opened the door and with what strength he had, pushed Ferrapotti through, and quickly pulled the door shut behind him.

“Doctor Ferrapotti of UNSDRI, at your service, Dr. Roberto Calvi, I presume?”

“Ah yes! How good of you to come all this way. I hope Wolfgang managed for you to stop by the Corriere della Sera. Very exciting news indeed!” smiled Calvi, “please take a seat over there and I will sit on the couch. That is what a patient is supposed to do, right?”

“Well, I don’t think we will be doing any deep analysis today. And if we get to that, it would be best if you came down to my consulting rooms in the Vatican,” said Ferrapotti in the best of bedside manners.

“You are the official Vatican psychiatrist?” asked Calvi as he tweaked his small mustache, pulled the knees of his pin stripe trousers up neatly between thumb and forefinger, and sat on the edge of the couch.

“Yes, they trust me. Many of the cases are, one might say, are delicate. Privacy and secrecy in both of my professions are vital.”

“Then let’s get on with it.”

“Tell me when you first had these thoughts,” said Ferrapotti, putting on his most serious expression, a deep frown.

“When I realized that the bank was fottuto.”

“I see. So you have never had such thoughts before?”

“No, never! When you live your life making money, you have to be positive all the time. I always expect to make money, never to lose it, or if the latter, only temporarily, if you see what I mean.”

“Si, ho capito perfettamento. Immediately, I would advise you not to stand by an open window that is more than two levels above the ground.”

“Oh, no. I think you have misunderstood my problem. It is not the loss of money, although it will no doubt affect many people badly, unless the Vatican steps in and saves us, which I think they will.”

“So this is not what is bothering you?”

“Well, not really. You have to take risks if you want to be successful in finance. And with banks, well, I’m just taking risks with other people’s money, aren’t I?” said Calvi, a faint smirk, the moustache rising a little as his upper lip curled.

Ferrapotti crossed his legs, his mahogany chair, though beautifully crafted, was a little high for him and made him uncomfortable. “Then why am I here?” he asked, his perpetual grin breaking out.

“I’m having….” Calvi looked down and wriggled on his seat even further forward to the edge of the embroidered couch.

Ferrapotti waited, raising his eyebrows, his tongue quickly wetting his lips in anticipation.

“… I can’t, I mean, well, my friend…” stuttered Calvi.

“Friend? asked Ferrapotti, suddenly guessing what Calvi was trying to say.

“I can’t…”

Ferrapotti leaned forward from his chair. He tried to look as kindly and understanding as he could. Empathy was what it was all about. “Oh, I get it. You have a male friend…” he said, deliberately not finishing the sentence.

“Yes, that’s why Bishop Marcincus advised me to consult with you. But it’s not exactly that. After all, my preferences in that direction are not at all new.”

“Then…what?”

“I can’t raise one. At first I thought it was boredom or that my partner was no longer of interest to me. But I tried others, and it was the same. A gorgeous young neophyte came on to me when I visited the Vatican last month, but it was no use. I wasn’t up to it.”

Ferrapotti worked hard to hold back a grin. Wasn’t up to it! “Are you having dreams or fantasies of encounters?” asked the good doctor.

“Nothing. Can’t sleep though. Try to think of past encounters, but nothing comes.”

“Yes. Well. I can see what your problem is. It’s depression, pure and simple, but exhibiting itself through sexual dysfunction, rather than in that other major symptom of depression, suicide,” announced Ferrapotti with authority.

“Well, either way,” said Calvi, looking away, “if I can’t have sex, I might as well be dead.”

“There is a new anti-depressant drug under trial that I could prescribe for you. It’s popularly known as ketamine. They’re using it in Vietnam. Very experimental though. It is essentially used as an anesthetic, but in very small doses, can stave off depression.”

“If it’s experimental, I’m not sure about that. Besides, I haven’t had suicidal thoughts as yet.”

“Perhaps it’s not a good idea to wait for the inevitable. Depression is a very serious disease.”

“That’s why I’ve come to you, Doctor Ferrapotti.”

“Then I suggest we meet weekly if possible in my Vatican clinic. It helps you know, simply to have someone to talk to about your problems. Unless you have someone else to talk to? Your priest perhaps?”

“Penso di no. I know these Vatican types too well. All they think of is money. And I do not have a local priest. I will try to see you once a week, but my schedule is so busy.

“Excellent! Here is my UNSDRI card. You can always get me there, even if an emergency,” said Ferrapotti with a happy smile as he stood and reached out to shake hands.

But Calvi did not respond with a handshake. Instead, with tears in his eyes, he embraced his doctor in the Italian way, kissing each cheek. “Grazie mille! Can’t thank you enough!  This talk has helped me already. And if you need any financial advice, don’t hesitate to come to me.”

“Thank you. But I have most of my important finances and transactions done in Puerto Rico. That’s just in case the Communists take over this country.”

“Makes sense. Do you have American citizenship, then?”

“A green card. Just as good, maybe better.”

Ferrapotti turned and departed, the old man was waiting outside the door to show him the way out.

 You be the Judge 

After the fall of Saigon in April of 1975, the cynics and critics of the United Nations, not to mention insiders who were well acquainted with the subterranean antics of Italian counter intelligence, so called, predicted that the United Nations Social Defense Research Institute in Rome, the baby nurtured by various politicians and top bureaucrats of the Italian government (such as it was, though any sensible person would also include the Mafia as part of the top governmental bureaucracy), would be short-lived, most likely a few years when what money it managed to raise from knowing or unknowing member states’ donations, had been milked dry. Few could believe that the giant of the United States of America could have lost a war against a tiny, though as was now clear, dedicated band of communists. Many blamed the US entrapment in Vietnam on the dalliances and incompetence of the CIA, given its pathetic history of failures, such as the Bay of Pigs disaster, and the near self-destruction of the CIA brought about by the incompetence of top spy Jesus Angleton who was convinced the Russians had totally infiltrated the CIA, yet was himself duped by his “best friend” Kim Philby who turned out to be a double agent. Fired by CIA director William Colby  in December 1974, Angleton spent some of his early boyhood in Italy and was certainly closely linked to many influential people in the Italian counter intelligence elite (SID and its various ancillaries). Angleton was anti-communist to the core, and probably fascist as well, given his friendship with Ezra Pound. His role in Italian counter intelligence has never been seriously investigated. But  there is little doubt that he laid the foundation for the CIA in America to establish important ties with the Italian Mafia, upon whose resources it would draw in the assassination attempt of Castro in Cuba, not to mention the assassination of JFK in 1963 by Lee Harvey Oswald, spied on when he was in Russia, cunningly manipulated and fingered by the CIA.

Necessarily, all of this is a long-winded prelude to the memorable day on which Ugo di Napolitano, Supreme Court Judge of Italy, and de-facto expert director of UNSDRI  failed to show up at his office in Via Giulia, on Monday, May 11, 1975. He had not been in the office since Wednesday May 6. At first, no one thought much of it since the directors and experts who moonlighted from their other official positions in the Italian bureaucracy came and went as they wished. On Thursday May 6 the Director General of UNSDRI, who was not often in the office himself because of his “many diplomatic responsibilities” had received a call from the Carabiniere, asking to speak with Judge Di Napolitano.

“It seems that Judge Di Napolitano has disappeared,” announced the Carabiniere.  We just received a call from his wife who says he did not come home last night.”

Director General Supreme, as he called himself when he answered the phone, smiled and said into the mouthpiece, “Oh, don’t worry. I am sure he is on mission, often these are secret you know, as I’m sure you would, being of carabiniere.”

The carabiniere said thank you and hung up. Director General Supreme placed the receiver on its base and reached for his car keys. No sooner had he done so than there was another call. He picked up the phone and said, impatiently, “I have important diplomatic business to attend to, do not allow calls to come to me unless they are urgent.”

“Director General Supreme?” came a loud voice, the sound of typewriters clanging in the background. “This is the Corriere della Sera. I understand that Judge Di Napolitano has disappeared?”

Supreme stood up and snapped his heels together as if saluting his troops. “I do not know who told you that, but it is definitely not true. I know where he is but I cannot reveal his location. He is on mission, as we say in the United Nations.”

“His wife, we understand, called the Carabinieri. She’s worried that he did not come home last night. Are you sure that this is a UN mission?”

“You are Italian, I presume?” asked Supreme, in an impudent manner.

“Well yes, of course I am, I am a top journalist for the Corriere della Sera.”

“Then you would understand that men, especially those of highly respected status among Italians, have their, shall we say, dalliances?”

“You’re sure of that?” replied the journalist, dumbfounded.

“Of course, but you should not print that. It is surely also a well-known fact that such relationships are well publicized Italian secrets, if you see what I mean?”  Supreme joggled on his feet, itching to get out to his Mercedes, but proud of what he thought was his ability to frame in English, nuances and hints that hid the truth, as it were.

#

Next day, there was a small entry on the back of page 1 of the Corriere della Sera, mentioning that the Supreme Court Judge Ugo Di Napolitano was reported missing by his wife to the Carabiniere and that they were investigating. People close to the matter indicated that it was not unusual for Di Napolitano to be on mission for the United Nations for a day or two, probably staying at his holiday house in Fregenae, which was closer to the Rome Fiumicino airport. Of course, people close to Di Napolitano knew that he was with his mistress, Sabrinetta, a buxom beauty from the Sardinian mountains, where, it must be said, kidnapping was a routine affair.

However, over the weekend the Corriere della Sera received a handwritten note that stated:

“Judge di Napolitano is our captive and will be tried in our court charged with corruption and cruel detention of our people, heroes and liberators of the nation. We demand the immediate release of our three compatriots held in Viterbo prison. If this is not done by Tuesday, May 10, if found guilty, Di Napolitano will be executed according to our law.”

The note was signed “NAP” (Nuclei Armati Proletari).  And over the next few days they released manifestos detailing the “trial” of Judge Di Napolitano,  this very much reflecting the modus operandi of the Brigate Rosse (Red Brigade) that reaped havoc throughout Italy in the 1970s. The details of the manifestos were, however, made up. That is to say, they did not accurately report what really happened. This not surprising since the Red Brigade and its various factions had been, as was later to be discovered, or maybe was already known by SID, the brainchild of a well-known publisher and journalist.

#

Just across the river from UNSDRI lies the infamous prison Regina Coeli. It is an unattractive stone building,  as older buildings in Rome go, dating back to the 17th century, facing Via Lungara that runs from the busy Lungo Tevere and the River Tiber. One can see it from the toilet next to Judge Di Naplitano’s office in UNSDRI. Known for its brazen acts of terrorism, the NAP had taken over a small apartment just down the street from the prison, reached from an alley that led off the Piazza Trilussa. It was a one room basement apartment, accessed via a winding stone staircase, recently renovated; that is, everything was painted a bright white. Three scruffy, unshaven, stocky men, obviously from the south, probably Calabria or thereabouts, their demeanor sullen and sour sat at an oblong table, wooden and bare, scrubbed clean, its top soft and rough. Di Napolitano sat tied roughly to a chair, facing them, set back against the whitewashed wall.

“You are responsible for the condition of prisons in Italy, is that correct?” asked the slightly larger of the three, sitting at center.

Di Napolitano wriggled a little. Then spoke in his familiar, sonorous high pitched voice, loud and piercing. “You cannot get away with this. Give up now and I will ensure that you are looked after.” He eyed each of his captors carefully, finding it difficult to hold back a grin. They reminded him of the Marx brothers, Harpo on his left, Groucho, the boss in the middle, and Chico on his right.

“Shut up and answer our questions,” growled Groucho. “We  demand that our three colleagues in Viterbo be released.”

“Who are they?” asked Di Napolitano. Though he already guessed who they would be — the threesome whose escape from Viterbo prison had been foiled because of a tip-off from a Mafia confidant inside the prison.

 Groucho responded. “Pietro Sofia, Giorgio Panizzari, and Martino Zichitella.”  If they are not released by the end of the week, you will be sliced up into many pieces and spread out over Rome’s filthy streets.”

One should add that there was a garbage collectors’ strike, the direct result of the incompetent administration of the city by the current occupants of the city’s administration, the Communist Party.

Unperturbed, Di Napolitano replied, “you may well kill me, but that will not get you what you want, will it? In fact, it will more than likely end up with you all going to jail forever. Or, if a fascist party wins the next election, you may even hang, if they bring back the death penalty.”

“Are you in charge of the conditions and treatment of prisoners in Italy’s jails? Yes or no!” demanded Groucho.

“Let’s kill him now to be done with it. He’s not going to do us any good,” muttered  Chico.

“I am not in charge and have no authority over any prisons. I am simply an expert consultant. That is all,” answered Di Napolitano.

Harpo stirred as if coming back from a deep sleep and said, leaning across the table, “if you are such an expert, why don’t you recommend the abolition of all prisons? It’s obvious to all of us that they are brutal, cruel places. Nobody, including terrorists or murderers deserves to be in such places.”

Di Napolitano was taken aback by the  intelligence displayed by this otherwise oaf, his very red face obviously the result of too much wine. “You have been drinking too much wine, my friend,” he said haughtily, “you know that if you were in charge you would put your enemies in prison, that is if you did not kill them,” answered Di Napolitano.

“I am not your friend. And you are right. It is better to kill your enemies than pretend to forgive them by putting them in jail,” Harpo answered. And as if to drive home his point, he reached under the table and brought up a bottle of red wine and took a swig. 

“I see,” said Di Napolitano, “I see, indeed. I see that you lack courage, and find it in the wine. There are many terrorists like you.” Had his arms been free, Di Napolitano would have waved them to drive home his point. As it was, his high pitched lilting voice, and sonorous Neapolitan accent, were enough to carry the weight of his intellect and, perhaps more important, his position in the Italian bureaucratic hierarchy. It angered all three of his kidnappers. They stood up as one, knocking the chairs backwards, and thumped the table.

And so it went on for three days of interrogation and presentation of “evidence” of the judge’s guilt, the proclamations and reports of the proceedings conveyed to the press that hungrily consumed every word and printed them on their front pages.

The authorities, at first the director of Italian prisons, responded with the standard, “we do not negotiate with terrorists.”  But as the proclamations and threats became more and more violent, by the third day the person who ended up responding was the Prime Minister himself,  Aldo Moro.

In the meantime, the apartment was beginning to smell of stale pizza and the toilet, a small closet with a rickety door that would not stay shut. All men were now unshaven and disheveled. The judge did his best to retain his composure as a Supreme Court Magistrate, but it was undeniable that his face was haggard from lack of sleep, which was difficult if not impossible to get, given the constant interruptions and questioning, and the severe discomfort of being tied to a hard wooden chair.  So by the end of the third day, something or someone had to give.

Di Napolitano, his sharp intellect a little numbed, remained continuously alert for an opportunity or advantage to show itself. A sign of weakness was all he needed. Harpo now was frequently dropping off to sleep. Chico remained vigilant and kept muttering to himself to keep awake, stirred and stood from his chair and shouted at the judge, always with threats of violence, even getting so close with fists raised, but never actually attacking him. Groucho slumbered, occasionally grabbed Chico to restrain him from beating the judge, then snoozing, only to wake suddenly and pepper the judge with more questions, then sleep as he awaited an answer.

The resilient judge managed never to sleep, refused to look distressed. He stared at them individually to make strong eye contact. And just as Chico had made another death threat, Di Napolitano raised his head and spoke in his best magisterial voice. “Release me now and I will arrange for the release of your colleagues from Viterbo Prison,” he said as if presenting the verdict of a trial.

Groucho blinked, Harpo awakened after a big snore, and Chico snarled in response. “Liar! Let’s kill him now. I’ve had enough.”

Groucho sat up. “You heard what that filthy piece of shit Moro said. “He will never negotiate with a terrorist.”

Di Napolitano replied with confidence. “That is right. He will not. But I will, and I am now. As my position as expert consultant to the Department of Prisons I can issue an edict for the release of any inmate if I can show cause.”

“But what of Moro? Isn’t he your boss?” responded Groucho, full of suspicion.

“Have you forgotten that this is Italy, and in politics no politician is anyone’s boss. The politicians talk. We in the bureaucracies, the labyrinths of power, the complexities of which you could not even begin to imagine, anything can be done. And I mean anything.”

“I don’t know. What you said, it sounds like bullshit to me,” murmured Chico, clenching his fist and now standing threateningly right beside the judge.

Groucho blinked and fingered his heavy moustache. “You mean you can get them out?”

“Of course,” replied Di Napolitano confidently. “I am very powerful in the corridors of prisons and courts. Is that not why you chose to kidnap me?”

Harpo snored again, then woke. He looked around with his heavy eyes, then stood and muttered more to himself than to anyone else. “Fuck this. I’m leaving.”  And when he opened the door to leave, the cool air of the night breeze and the sounds of people playing around the fountain in Piazza Trilussa wafted into their apartment that had become a smelly, disgusting cavern.

Chico stared at Groucho in disbelief.  “You didn’t stop him? What if he goes off and talks to everyone?” he cried.

“He won’t talk,” said Groucho belligerently, turning to Harpo,  “would you?”

“You know the answer to that, asshole,” growled Chico. “I tell you, if you let this piece of shit live, we’re fucked. I’m leaving. Fuck you all.”

“And we’d be properly fucked if we killed him. And to what end?” answered Groucho, now realizing himself, that their venture had been unrealistic and pointless right from the beginning. They had expected an Italian bureaucrat to plead for his life. Di Napolitano had outstayed them.

Di Napolitano saw his opportunity. “I state on my word as a Supreme Court Magistrate that I will order the release of your three colleagues once I am released from your captivity.”

He was about to repeat his promise when Chico walked past him, pushing his chair backwards, though thankfully it did not tip up, and left the cavern. That left Groucho. He reached down to his leg and pulled out a knife that he kept strapped there, just in case he needed it. Di Napolitano stared at it, then at Groucho. “You wouldn’t,” he said, frowning, pursing his lips.

“I would, if I thought it worth it. But you’re not worth it,” snarled Groucho with disgust.  He threw the knife at the judge and it landed softly in his lap. “You can take it from there,” he said, “and see you keep your word, or someone will pay for it.”

After an hour or so, Di Napolitano managed to grip the knife and cut his bonds. He staggered to the toilet, relieved himself, and splashed a little cold water on his face. It was drawn and haggard. He ran his hands through his copious hair and felt around for his comb, but it was gone. His captors had taken everything from him, including his wallet. With difficulty, he staggered up the steps to the door that led to the street.  It was somewhere around late afternoon, he guessed. He went to look at his watch, but they had taken it.  He sat down on the old stone step to gather his bearings. He could hear laughter and music coming from around the corner. The noise of traffic hummed loudly in the background. Perhaps there was the faint trickle of a fountain. 

#

The famed criminologist Franco Ferrapotti, the co-director expert of UNSDRI along with his friend and compatriot Ugo Di Napolitano went, one hates to say it, haywire. He rushed into the Director Supreme’s office without permission and ranted and raved, while the Supreme sat, cowed, fingering his car keys.

“Oh, ah, er… how could you do that?” Ferrapotti ranted. “Have you no sense?  And all the time he’s been kidnapped? And what did you tell the carabiniere? He was with his mistress? And you leaked it to the newspapers? His wife’s in my office now, crying. Dio! Dio! What if they kill him?”

Supreme buried his head in his hands. “I was only doing my job,” he cried lamely.

“Your job? Your job is to shut up! That’s what your job is!” screamed Ferrapotti in harsh Roman Italian.

Ferrapotti ran out of the office and back to his own. Phones were ringing all over. He picked up his own and immediately walked to the corner of his office and covered his mouth over the hand-piece, looking sideways and beckoning to Andrea, everyone’s secretary, who stood at the door of his office, to close the door, and to take Di Napolitano’s distraught wife with her..

“Ferrapotti here. Yes. I know. Yes, I do know who it was, or at least I have a good idea. No. Don’t know where he is being kept. But don’t worry. I have my sources. Yes. I will find him. The carabiniere? No. They know nothing. Useless. Just remain calm. I will find him. I have my sources. I have my sources.”

Ferrapotti banged down the phone, rushed out of his office, bounded down the steps, and out the  door to Via Giulia, leaped into his Alpha Romeo, which was of course illegally parked right at the door.  In challenging times, he always got in his Alpha and drove it round and round the block wherever he happened to be and sooner or later it would come to him what to do. It was as if his Alpha spoke to him. And many times, when he and his friend-come colleague-come nuisance, Di Napolitano had a serious disagreement, they rode round and round in the Alpha until it was resolved. This created quite a spectacle, since their voices carried far out of the car, though the words and secrets they held were not comprehensible. He drove down Via Giulia as far as Via Dei Pettinari, planning to drive left, past the Casa Palotti, then back on one of the many narrow medieval streets. Normally, he would not bother to look right or left, simply drive where his whim took him. Other cars, this being Rome after all, would have to swerve to get out of his way. It was the unwritten law of the road: first there first served. Every turn or stop or crossroad was a race.  But he was so distracted with worry for his friend’s safety, that he hesitated and looked right instead of left where he had planned to go. And then he saw a figure, stooped, but at the same time trying to hold his head up high, staggering over the Ponte Sisto(Sisto Bridge). He blinked, and stared. Someone behind him tooted an awful horn, others yelled at him to get a move on. He drove left, just enough to get a better look at the pathetic figure. Cars came from everywhere zooming down the Lungotevere, coming up behind him from Via Giulia, others trying to turn into Via dei Pettinari. He drove his Alpha, or maybe it drove him, whatever it was, straight across the Lungotevere, a suicidal act, especially as one could not drive over the  bridge because of a chain stretched across the entrance. It was for pedestrians only. No matter! Ferrapotti stopped his car right in the middle of the road, facing the bridge and leaped out, waving his arms, screaming at the top of his voice, “Consigliere! Ugo! Here! Over here!” Yes, it was his friend and now what a big nuisance he was right this minute. The traffic on Lungotevere was choked to a standstill. Horns tooted loudly, people got out of their cars, shaking their fists, yelling obscenities.

At last, a carabiniere showed up, initially preparing to take Ferrapotti into custody and charge him with any number of crimes.  But Ferrapotti ran, something he rarely did because of his rather corpulent condition, calling, “Ugo! It’s you! How did you do it? Come! Let’s get you home!”

Di Napolitano staggered some more, and with a great effort managed to reach Ferrapotti’s extended arms, and he fell into them, sighing, “Ferrapotti, I never thought I’d get this close to you!” This was Di Napolitano! Even in exhaustion, he sees humor.

“Come diavolo hai fatto?”  cried Ferrapotti, then lapsed into English for no apparent reason,  “Oh…er…ah…How the hell did you do it?”

The astounded carabiniere recognized Di Napolitano. “Judge! I will call for an ambulance. Where are the kidnappers? Tell me which way they went and I will radio for a car. And an ambulance for you as well,. You look like you need attention.”

“Can’t you see he’s exhausted?” complained Ferrapotti. Here, help me put him into my Alpha, and I will take him to the hospital. And get all these the cars out of the way!”

Di Napolitano fell into the car, Ferrapotti beside him. He revved the engine, as if to say, “get out of the way or I’ll run you down.”  The flustered Carabiniere tried to get the cars to back up so that Ferrapotti could turn his car around and move with the traffic. “I need to turn around. The nearest hospital is on Isola Tiburtina.”

“Franco. I’m all right. Just need a good glass of wine and a small plate of pasta. Then some sleep. Let’s go to the office. It’s the closest, and we can send out for something.“

#

Ferrapotti managed to turn the car around and drive back down Via Dei Pettinari, then into Via Giulia. He gunned the Alpha, its front wheels screeching, and drove like a madman, his hand on the horn all the way, the tires skimming over the cobblestoned street. He pulled up in front of UNSDRI and was met by several of the pezzi grossi, as well as the security guard waving his pistol, and two young soldiers, probably no older than 18, their rifles at the ready. 

Ferrapotti wound down the window. “Out of the way! Out of the way! I have the Judge! He escaped! Stand back!”

The security guard opened the passenger door and, annoyed that he had to put his gun in its holster, helped Di Napolitano out of the car. “Call an ambulance!” he yelled to the doorman.

Di Napolitano, with a superhuman effort, stood up straight, indicating that he was the boss. “No! No ambulance! I am good. Tell Eduardo at the Trattoria Giulia to send over pasta fagioli and a bottle of red wine. That’s all I need to recover.”

“And no one is to enter this building without my consent,” added Ferrapotti.

Ferrapotti and one of the pezzi grossi helped Di Napolitano up the steps and down the corridor to his office. Andrea came running, tears in her eyes. “Oh! Consigliere, you’re safe! I will ring your wife immediately!”

Thus ended this troublesome incident. The one who suffered most, probably, was Sabrinetta, who had remained in Fregenae, waiting for her lover who did not arrive, unable to receive any sympathy from anyone, friends or relatives, because her existence was a well-known secret, which in practice meant that she did not exist, except in the imagination of others.

Story 37.
The Spy that Wasn’t
Part 3. Resolution

Next morning, the Council of Europe Debating Chamber.

“I am pleased to open this, our second session, of the United Nations and Council of Europe collaboration to address the problem of world crime,” announced the Rapporteur with greatly affected pride.  “After conversations delegates had at dinner and afterwards, there is a draft of our resolutions now available, and our beautiful administrative assistant Mademoiselle Andrea will now read out the draft of our deliberations.”

Andrea, now dressed in a sleek two piece suit, the top a snug fit and the bottom styled as a miniskirt, always the colors of the Carabinieri, stepped up to the podium that had been specially erected for her.  Dennis was spellbound, both by her amazing composure and by the shock he felt that these people had already drafted a report of deliberations, even though the major aspects of the project had never been addressed. He could —  almost — accept that he was not included in the out-of-meeting deliberations, given his apparent very junior position as accidental director of the research, nevertheless, he had to gulp very hard to swallow the  inferior position into which he had been relegated. So far, he could see no reason why he was even dragged along to this meeting.

Andrea began:

“Considering, that in light of increases in crime worldwide, the World Crime Project will collect crime data from all member countries of the United Nations and the Council of Europe, and…

“Acknowledging the implications world crime has for world order, the project will be carried out in a timely, if not urgent, manner to address the many concerns of world crime for citizens.

“Observing, that the rise in world crime will place a burden on the capacity of prisons of most if not all member nations, particular attention will be given to the numbers of inmates currently residing in prisons.

“Understanding, that the definition of crime varies according to the different procedures and laws of each member country, data will be collected concerning only the general categories of crime such as homicide, assault and theft.

“Accepting the fact that crime also varies according to economic conditions, data will be collected concerning the social status of the offenders, whether rich or poor, the particular measures of these categories to be left to the appropriate technical experts.

“Realizing the importance of this research for the economic and social progress of developing nations, the Director of Research will give special attention to developing countries and their social and cultural problems and differences concerning crime and criminal justice.

“Recognizing that for many member nations, crime and justice are politically sensitive problems, the project results will not be published in any public forum, without the permission of every member nation.

“Accepting furthermore, that this research is highly technical as well as sensitive politically, significant research design decisions must be approved by every participating member nation, before the project can continue forward.

“Approving the general design of this important project will be contingent on the director of the research project presenting a research design and preliminary report to this body one year from now.”

Andrea looked up at her audience, collected her papers, and stepped away as light applause followed her to her seat. The Rapporteur from his supervising chair stood and clapped excessively.

Dennis, however, had shrunk back into his padded seat, angry as he had never been before, or at least since he was a three year old. His immediate impulse was to call them a bunch of nincompoops. In fact, he raised his hand, waved it actually, but the Rapporteur’s eyes had already landed on Der Groot, who responded accordingly.

“May I congratulate you, Monsieur Rapporteur and your very hard workers, for having drafted an excellent report of our important deliberations.” He turned to look at Dennis. “And Mr. Cotter, I congratulate you on your position as project director and urge you to undertake the recommendations of our meeting as soon as you are able. Mademoiselle Andrea has provided an excellent blueprint for going forward. I commend her and thank you all for your insightful contributions.”

Dennis forced a smile, the corners of his mouth quivering with pent up anger. He spied his boss Ferrapotti, grinning gleefully, as he did the rounds of all participants, whispering loudly in their ears. Then, without quite realizing it, he found himself standing in his place, his hand up as though asking to go to the bathroom. “Monsieur Rapporteur!” he called.

“The chair recognizes Mr. Cotter of UNSDRI.”

“What about race? Why is that not included as a variable?”

Immediately he had said it, he knew he was in trouble. It was the way he said it. He should have said simply, “Do you think race should be included along with the other social factors you recommend?”

For once, Ferrapotti stopped his whispering and his persistent grin faded. The Rapporteur’s jaw dropped, and Der Groot, now also angry, rose from his seat. He looked across the cavernous chamber, no more than a dozen people scattered around the front rows, a chamber built to seat several hundred, his lips dripping with pomposity, his countenance so patronizing, informed Dennis of his utterly ignorant mistake:

“I cannot speak for the rest of Europe, but The Netherlands certainly does not collect crime or any other type of social data according to race. That would be a policy of outright racism. It is racial profiling, as your American government even calls it. It is time that the United States learned from Europe how to include its ethnics into its supposed diverse democracy.”

Dennis went very red, his lips quivering, at first unable to make them say the words that lay stuck in his head. He saw out of the corner of his eye Ferrapotti making his way to Der Groot. “I’ll have you know,” he mumbled in a weak voice, “that I am Australian, not American.”

As if this were an excuse or even substantive reply to Der Groot’s powerful observation, indeed, accusation! Der Groot waved Ferrapotti away, who adroitly changed course and made his way to Dennis.

“Did you not receive your Doctorate at the University of Pennsylvania?” asked Der Groot.

Dennis sat down in his seat, an act that helped calm him. Ferrapotti was now approaching him from the aisle, still with his grin, though obviously concerned. 

In response to Der Groot’s question Dennis rose again. He looked at the Rapporteur who was flummoxed and did not know how to intervene in a respectful way. The issue was too controversial. He dare not get caught up in an argument about race.

“You are right, professor doctor Der Groot,” noted Dennis sarcastically, “but may I point out that, if you do not have valid data on the racial component of crime, and especially of those who are in prison, how will you ever determine whether the criminal justice system is racially biased? Without such data, there is no empirical evidence on which to develop policy that guarantees racial equality.”

There, he had said it. True, what he had said was a paradox of sorts. In order to show racial prejudice, especially systemic bias, you must be able to show that in actual fact the bias exists, and for that you must collect data that profiles — dare one say the word — the race and other  attributes of those who commit crimes, who are victims of crimes, who are processed through the criminal justice system.

Der Groot did not offer a retort. He assumed that all present would see that everything the young man had said revealed his racist view of the world. The Americans, the Australians, everyone knew that.

“Oh, er, oh,” Dennis heard, in loud whispers in his ear, and smelled Ferrapotti’s stale nicotine breath, “of course you’re right. But you can’t say it to these people.”

Dennis turned to reply and thank his boss for the support, but Ferrapotti had already left and was on his way to whisper to Der Groot.

Buoyed by the support of his boss, Dennis stood again, and addressed the chair. He was learning how to make himself seem civilized.

“Monsieur Rapporteur,” he said, “may I speak again? This is such an important issue in our times.”

The Rapporteur, glad of a way to be included in this difficult exchange, replied, “the Chair recognizes Mr. Cotter.”

“I have one small question to ask Professor Doctor Der Groot. Does he know how many ethnic Indonesians are in Dutch prisons, and are they over-represented according to their portion of the total population of the Netherlands?”

Der Groot stood stiffly. “As I have said, we do not collect such information. It is racist to do so.”

“May I?” asked Dennis again respectfully addressing the chair.”

“You may.”

Ferrapotti was now hurrying back to Dennis with more whispers, this time no doubt to tell him to shut up.

“Do you collect data on sex of the offenders or inmates of prisons?”

Der Groot pretended to busily write something down and did not respond.

“Does the delegate from The Netherlands wish to respond?” asked the Rapporteur.

“I do not,” replied der Groot, clearly sulking.

“Of course you do,” said Dennis, now feeling a rush of adrenalin that comes with winning. “According to your argument, collecting such data would be sexist.”

Dennis smelled the nicotine breath. Ferrapotti was panting, no longer whispering. He squeezed Dennis’s arm quite strongly. Dennis’s cheeks were still flushed with the feeling of winning, though none present perceived the incident as such. But he then thought of the wonderful last lunch he had in Rome with his colleagues and new friends before departing for Strasbourg, and decided that such a life was much more important than winning a small argument. He grabbed Ferrapotti’s hand that gripped his arm and whispered. “O.K. I’ll shut up.”

 Carpe diem? 

The Spy that Wasn’t
Part 2. The Council of Europe

The combined UN-Council of Europe meeting occurred as scheduled. A total of twelve “experts” as they were all called, plus supportive staff to warm the seats for the experts,  take notes, and pass to them special handwritten notes conveyed to them from the Rapporteur, assembled in the cavernous Council of Europe Debating Chamber. Dr. Ferrapotti, Andrea and Dennis attended and sat to one side, though during the entire meeting Dr. Ferrapotti rarely sat, but constantly paraded about the hall, stopping and chatting with whoever was in his path, a look on his face as though he were indulged in some great conspiracy, a smirk of superiority, his eyes dancing around as if to scan the great hall for hidden spies.  On the other side were various representatives of the Council of Europe, though it turned out that the only country sending its representatives was the Netherlands, and there was one country represented by an “observer,” a representative who sat at the far back of the hall, a very large suitcase sitting in the aisle beside him. This man with a ruddy complexion, lined face and very red cheeks, head shaved, was the observer from East Germany, who, as it turned out, spoke only Russian. He had, however, been invited to observe at the special request of Dr. Ferrapotti, as a sign of good will.

The Rapporteur called the meeting to order and made a special plea that all participants come down from their seats perched way back from the dais, so that all could hear each other speak, and besides as an act of international friendship. Without thinking, Dennis, an obedient person who wanted to please everyone, got up and moved and, surprisingly, others did as well, mumbling and joking as they did so. The Rapporteur, Professor of Law from the esteemed Sorbonne, a veritable Napoleon look-alike,  addressed the members in English, with a sonorous French accent that seemed to issue from his large nose:

“Good morning,” he tapped the microphone, “I regret the lack of simultaneous translation, but with our small numbers, we did not we did not qualify.  Esteemed members, experts and observers. I am honored to serve as rapporteur for this important meeting in which we will develop the necessary protocols for the collection of crime statistics worldwide and will, we very much hope, result in the construction of not only a World Crime Index, but establish a framework for universal transparency in criminal justice. This is a pioneering study, a giant first in collaboration between the Council of Europe and the United Nations.”

The delegates and experts all clapped lightly in response to these uplifting remarks. The Rapporteur smiled and raised his hands as if to accept the applause. Dennis was spellbound. He was probably the only person present whose native language was English. How privileged he was! He looked around the chamber and could hardly believe that he was here, among such illustrious people, and most amazing of all, he was going to direct the first ever study of world crime statistics. He was himself clapping. He could not remember having ever before clapped in a meeting of any kind, when he felt a touch to his arm. He turned and looked up to see Dr. Ferrapotti staring down at him, his usual big grin. Ferrapotti leaned over and with his hand cupped over his mouth, whispered loudly, “Oh, ah, this guy is trying to get the Turks into the Council of Europe and the EU. He’s a lawyer and they are writing a new criminal code that excludes the death penalty. You know, it’s a requirement of the EU that all member states abolish the death penalty. Keep this under your hat.”

Before Dennis could answer, though he had nothing to say except some kind of in-awe grunt perhaps, Dr. Ferrapotti had gone to some other delegate to pass on  another piece of top secret information. The Rapporteur continued:

“And with those short introductory remarks, I now welcome you all to the Council of Europe and ask that you briefly stand and introduce yourselves.” The Rapporteur did not call on anyone to start, because as a skilled Rapporteur he did not want to give any impression of who he thought of first. All must be treated equally here in this illustrious place.

A quintessential European, silver haired, tall and straight, arose and announced, “I am Professor Dr. Der Groot, University of Amsterdam, and Director of Research, Supreme Court of Netherlands.”

The mysterious man who had remained at back, stood and said, in broken English, “I observer East Germany, not tell department.” He sat down with a bang and then noisily opened his suitcase, retrieved a bottle of vodka and small glass, which he filled, gulped it down, and cried “За встречу” (to our meeting!).

Dennis waited for other delegates from other countries to announce their presence. None came forward. His boss, that was how he had come to think of him, Ferrapotti made no attempt to announce himself because he was too busy talking to the Rapporteur, his hand cupped over his mouth almost touching the Rapporteur’s ear. Dennis rose slowly. “I am Dennis Cotter, and will be leading the project for Professor Dr. Ferrapotti and Professor Dr. Di Napolitano, for the United Nations Social Defense Research Institute.” All stared at this scruffy individual, dressed in cheap pants and open neck shirt, no tie. His accent, the words rolling inaudibly from his mouth to his chin, revealed his obvious nationality. The East German, greatly excited, immediately reached into his suitcase and pulled out a bottle of beer. “You want?” he called with a big grin.

“Thank you Mr. Cotter,” said the Rapporteur with a forced smile. “And are you able to tell us anything of your preliminary design for the project?”

Dennis, deeply embarrassed, still standing, had started to sit, then nervously stood again. “Like what?” he asked with a touch of belligerence.

The Rapporteur looked away and directed his gaze at the man from Holland, who quickly stood and responded.

“It is our considered opinion that we should start by collecting information only on the numbers of persons in prison throughout the world. This would be phase one. After that, we should then collect information on the crimes that have been committed in every country.”

“Oh, er, ah,” interrupted Ferrapotti, having taken his seat in the front row, “it should be the other way around. First we count the crimes, then count the prisoners.”

Dennis raised his hand and, seeing that the Rapporteur was not looking his way, he stood and coughed loudly. “In America we count crimes by number of crimes reported to the police. It is the most valid, front line measure, unsullied by the complexities of the criminal justice system.”

“You are not Australian?” asked the Rapporteur rudely.

“No, I mean I am an Aussie, but I graduated from the renowned criminology program at University of Pennsylvania.”

“That explains it,” announced Der Groot, full of his cultured superiority. “You are not a lawyer, so you know nothing of the definition of crimes or for that matter criminality.”

Dennis sat back in the padded seat, thoroughly embarrassed, and very angry. “What a pompous asshole,” he mumbled to himself. His boss came to the rescue.

“Oh, er, ah, as a psychiatrist I can support Dr. Cotter’s observation. One does not have to be a lawyer to know what a crime is.”

“Mr. Cotter is a psychiatrist?” asked Der Groot imperiously.

Dennis, motivated by his boss’s support rose quickly and raised his hand. The Rapporteur pretended not to see him and looked back to Ferrapotti. But Dennis was not to be dismissed so easily. “I am a sociologist,” he said proudly, “and we know much more about the entire criminal justice process, the behavior of police who collect the initial information of crimes and who have a well-established procedure for recording and counting them. You have to look at the whole process from the initial report of a crime through to the end result, the punishment, depending on the seriousness of the offence, the final prison term served by the offender.”

“Yes, of course,” ceded Der Groot, “but what you have described would require a lifetime of research and is simply not practical, to collect information of the entire criminal justice system of every country in the world. Besides, many may not even have a criminal justice system as you Americans seem to assume.”

“I am not an American,” snarled Dennis again, deeply offended.

The Rapporteur abruptly stood up. “I see that our morning break is upon us. We shall retire for a  tea or coffee as you prefer, and return in half an hour.”

As they made their way up the steps to the exit of the great debating chamber, Dennis tried very hard to catch up with his boss. But Ferrapotti was already busily talking in very loud whispers to the Rapporteur, then to the Dutchman, ignoring the East German, who in any case, remained in his seat with his suitcase, and beckoned wildly to Dennis as he passed, to join him. But Dennis hurried outside, eager to get away from these most obnoxious Europeans, all of them seemingly ignorant of the simple basics of crime statistics. He walked towards the barred and flagged entrance to the Council of Europe compound, when he realized that he should have gone to the toilet. He did not want to return to the chamber, for fear he would meet one of the delegates and would say something he would regret. He looked around for a convenient place. Hardly a tree in sight, but plenty of green grass, and no significant buildings behind which one could hide. Maybe if he simply stood between a couple of the flags, facing away from the building, no one would notice. But of course someone would. He had a feeling of being spied on all the time. And there’s nothing worse than that feeling when one wants to pee.

Eventually, Dennis found a bathroom in another part of the building and was able to return to the chamber, ready for the next round. His boss caught up with him just as he was entering the chamber, nudged his elbow, whispered in his ear, his lips almost touching. “Oh, er, ah,” he whispered, “keep going. It doesn’t matter what they say. We will do what we want. We have the money, they don’t.” He hurried off to accost some other member, probably Der Groot.

All were assembled, but as yet the Rapporteur had not arrived. Dennis looked around, caught Ferrapotti’s sly glance, and maybe a nod towards the door at bottom of the chamber. And there, he saw Andrea emerge, her cheeks rosy, her hand touching her hair as though it were blowing in the wind. In a few moments, the Rapporteur tried impossibly, given his Napoleonic stature, to walk as upright as Charles de Gaulle, his pin striped suit fitting so snuggly that it accentuated his protruding belly, a great match for Andrea’s simulated Carabinieri attire.

“Now esteemed delegates,” announced the Rapporteur, “we appear to have something of an agreement, or should one say a compromise. Statistics on those convicted of crimes will first be collected. This takes into account the legal definition of when a crime is a crime, which is defined by a conviction. There can be no doubt about that. At the same time, our sociologists will collect information of the number of offenders in prison.”

Dennis could not help himself. “After trial or before trial?” he asked.

His boss looked back and frowned. He should shut up. That was the message. The Rapporteur also scowled and shuffled some papers.

“Yes, we know that France has the highest rate of incarceration awaiting trial of any modern country,” noted Der Groot with a touch of glee.

“Though an important measure that statistic is not available from French authorities. Besides, this assertion is based on rumor, not fact, and cannot be accepted as true without the relevant data,” answered the Rapporteur, looking over his glasses at the rest of the audience, avoiding Der Groot’s pompous stare.

The Rapporteur looked at his watch. “It is time for our lunch break. It will be served in the Council of Europe dining room for delegates. Follow our event coordinator, the beautiful Andrea, and she will show you the way. I am told there will be five courses, as there should be, with the best quality French wines. We will reconvene in three hours.”

Immediately all rose and made their ways to Andrea. The East German had understood well enough and was already by her side, grinning and licking his lips.

The afternoon session was cancelled for reasons unknown, though Ferrapotti had whispered to Dennis that all was well, and that a solution to the difficulties would be reached by the next morning. He, Der Groot and the Rapporteur would meet for dinner. Dennis was not invited. It was a chance for him to get to know Andrea, Ferrapotti had said with a wink.

To be continued…..

The Spy that Wasn’t

Part 1. Rome

In 1966 the United Nations Social Defense Research Institute (UNSDRI) was established to conduct research into the international aspects of crime and criminal justice. It was the brainchild of Aldo Moro, on-again-off-again Prime Minister of Italy. Moro, former law professor at the University of Rome, was the unstoppable head of the Christian Democratic Party, full of confidence, grand master of the endless subterfuges within which decisions were made, and where money, especially money, was acquired and distributed. 

The institute was located in Rome, on the beautiful Via Giulia, in a medieval building that was once a prison, and directly opposite one of the ancillary buildings of the Italian Ministry of Justice.  With much fanfare, Moro managed to allocate 500 million lire startup money to pay for the UNSDRI director general, a large man of African descent from Somalia or maybe the Congo, and a fledgling staff, all Italian of course, of three secretaries, one administrator, and several doormen and couriers. Moro pointed out to the UN directorate in New York, that Italy was donating the entire building as office space, and expected that other nations of the UN would contribute their fair share. The matter was urgent. Operating money, especially travel money which was an essential food for all UN officials, without which they withered away at their desks. And the defense of societies against crime and insurrection was surely the utmost role for the United Nations to deliver, especially for developing countries where insurrection and terror had become the rule, when even the Director General of the United Nations, Dag Hamarskjold was assassinated as he tried to engineer peace in the Congo in 1961. Italy, a former colonial power would do its part. The office was always busy. The Director General Supreme of UNSDRI had many diplomatic missions to attend to, endless meetings with important figures of Italy’s foreign ministry, and frequent visits to the Commissary at its sister U.N. Organization in Rome. the FAO (Food and Agricultural Organization), located in a massive building, one of Mussolini’s monstrosities, built to administer Italy’s colonies.

In 1969, the arrival at UNSDRI of an English speaking intern from Cambridge England was expected any day, a newly minted Ph.D. from the Cambridge University’s renowned criminology program. He would head up the Institute’s first research study, funded copiously by the Ford Foundation, to collect international crime statistics from around the world, collate the findings, and recommend to the United Nations General Assembly ways to combat world crime. As the Americans repeated many times over, there was no sense developing policies, local or worldwide, if they were not informed by data. Data, data, data, that was the rant. That said, it was an Englishman who was expected to take charge, for the Italians could not quite bring themselves to acknowledge the superior empirical research capabilities of the Americans.

Professor Franco Ferrapotti, renowned psychiatrist, the University of Rome, and Procuratore Ugo Di Napolitano,  Supreme Court Magistrate,  were seconded from their important positions to supervise the research, approve of its design, and ensure that the results were accurate and infallible. It was their signatures that were on the lucrative contract signed with the Ford Foundation. Ferrapotti, an ebullient, rotund Roman, balding, a veritable look-alike of Mussolini, saw himself as the true director of the project, indeed of the whole institute. His partner, Judge Di Napolitano, was a man of Naples as his name implied, a tall, upright gentleman, spoke in a high-pitched, loud voice, a voice rather like that of the Godfather in the movie of that name, only louder, one that penetrated every crack in the old building. His English was heavily accented, drawing out the wonderful vowel sounds of southern Italy, speaking in long legal clauses, as though pronouncing even the punctuation. In contrast, his colleague Ferrapotti, spoke English with a distinct American accent, smooth, monotone, rambling, like a car running idle. 

The great halls of the institute were therefore full of the echoes of these two directors, constantly arguing (or seemingly so) with each other. Ferrapotti, having served as a visiting distinguished professor in various American Universities, pointed out that there was no American in the institute and that, if the project were to be conducted successfully, its results accepted by the world scientific community, it would have to be carried out by an American. Di Napolitano demurred, somewhat, though he thought that there was no problem that could not be solved by clear, rational, logical thinking. The “facts” he treated as data (if he must use that ugly word)  to be used and interpreted as needed by the policymaker. And since it was the policymaker who interpreted the data, there was no real necessity to demonstrate that the data were “valid” or “accurate” or whatever the social scientists said made their findings “facts.”  In contrast, Ferrapotti, thought of “facts” as something that he found out when he examined a patient (he had many referred to him from the Vatican), got answers from his probing questions, formed hypotheses about the patient’s problem and prescribed the treatment forthwith. Without these “facts” concerning his individual patient, he obviously could not make the appropriate diagnosis, and thus prescribe the correct treatment. It was, for him, as it was for the great father of psychiatry, Sigmund Freud still dominant in the 1960s though slowly being undermined by young radical psychiatrists, a great leap from the analysis of individual cases, to diagnose crime on a mass scale as the project envisaged, dare to prescribe steps to solve the problem of crime at the world level.

Thus, the compromise was to appoint an Englishman.

And now our story begins.

As Di Napolitano and Ferrapotti mounted the few big steps to the Institute, at Via Giulia 52, arguing incessantly, Ferrapotti felt a tug on his leather jacket. The guard on duty stepped out from his glass-enclosed post, pushed past Ferrapotti and grabbed a scruffy looking young man, dressed in shorts, the sign of either an American or Australian, shirt hanging loose, leather sandals, like those worn by many of the neophyte students of the Vatican.

“Halt!” shouted the guard, “non entrare qui!”

The scruffy young man grinned and stepped back. “Doctor Ferrapotti!” he cried.

Ferrapotti stopped in mid-sentence and turned to face this person who spoke English in an accent he had heard only once before, of an Australian he had met in one of his classes when he was a visiting professor at America’s prestigious University of Pennsylvania.

“Doctor Ferrapotti! Remember me? I was in your class…”

Ferrapotti looked this scraggly fellow up and down. Short in stature, thin, nothing of him. “Oh.. Er..ah..You need a good meal of Italian pasta,”  said Ferrapotti with a grin. “What can I do for you?”

Di Napolitano looked annoyed. It was beyond his comprehension that Ferrapotti, or any Italian for that matter, would bother to acknowledge any foreigner, especially an English speaking one, who came up to him in the street. Besides, it was a security risk.  But this did not deter Ferrapotti. He looked for every moment to be flattered. To be recognized by a former student or anyone else for that matter, he welcomed.

The Aussie looked up, pushed the guard’s hand away from his arm. “This is an amazing coincidence,” he said, “I’m here for a two day stopover on my way home to Melbourne. I thought you were at the University of Rome.”

Ferrapotti looked at him, and without any hesitation asked, “oh.. Er..ah..do you want a job?”

“I, I…” stuttered the Aussie, taken aback.

Di Napolitano turned away and sprinted up the steps leading to the Institute, calling back over his shoulder, “basta, Franco. Non fai niente stupido!”

Ferrapotti grinned at the Aussie. “Oh.. Ah.. Don’t mind him,” he said, “he’s a  judge so he’s used to giving orders.”

“I, I don’t know what to say.”

“Yes or no? Oh.. Er.. It’s a great opportunity to work for the United Nations. On the frontier of international criminology,” urged Ferrapotti.

“But I, I’m on my way back to Australia. I have a research assistant position lined up there…”

“Ah.. Er.. Come on!” Ferrapotti grabbed him roughly by the arm. “Come see your new office! Beautifully frescoed ceilings. Just like the Vatican library!”

The Aussie allowed himself to be pulled up the steps and past the pezzi grossi, the several doormen and couriers, through the double doors, the well-armed guard staring at his log book, trying not to notice, dialing a number on the intercom. The long corridor, expansive and frescoed from top to bottom appeared before them. The sounds of Di Napolitano’s lilting voice echoed from his office at the far end. Ferrapotti’s office was right next to his.

Overwhelmed and confused, the Aussie struggled along, his knees weak, his eyes of course taking in the wonders of Italian faux Renaissance frescoes. They were half way down the corridor when a door opened, a very large glass door, revealing the biggest of all offices, two secretaries typing away at their Olivettis, one each side of the massive carved door to the Director General’s office. Ferrapotti dragged the Aussie in.

“Is the Supreme General in?” he asked, looking at one of the secretaries then to the other. None looked up. One, or possibly both, murmured, “he’s in, but does not want to be disturbed. Very important business coming in from the UN Secretariat in New York.”

Ferrapotti of course ignored the response and barged right in, pulling his Aussie charge with him.

“Er, ah, Professor, Doctor Supreme Secretary General, I want you to meet our project director for our new Ford Foundation grant, er…”

The director general of the Institute lounged back in his heavily padded office chair, beautifully crafted with leopard skin, taken from a leopard that he himself had shot on his recent trip back home in Somalia, or maybe the Congo.

“Ah, yes. The Ford foundation. Pity it was not the Mercedes Foundation. But  I suppose, beggars can’t be choosers,” said the general in his very deep voice, and a big smile, one that was required of all African UN Staff members. And what is this you have brought me?” He looked at the small, overly tanned young white male, his hair too long and poorly combed.

Ferrapotti grinned and replied, “Ah.. Oh.. This is er…”

“Dennis Cotter,” put in the Aussie. “My name is Dennis Cotter and I’m from Melbourne Australia.”

“Yes, that’s right. Dennis. One of my very successful students from the greatest school of  America the Wharton School of the University of Pennsylvania, where I taught on their request the history of criminology, which of course you know, is one of Italy’s main claims to academic excellence. We pioneered the science of criminology, Lombroso and others,…”

“Yes, yes,” said the general, fingering his many medals impatiently.  “But if you will pardon me, I must leave on an urgent mission. There is a meeting in Strasbourg…”

“Strasbourg? But that’s where the Council of Europe meets, isn’t it?” asked Ferrapotti.

“Yes, that’s right. I have offered our services to the COE.”

“Oh well done! And congratulations!” said Ferrapotti, knowing full well that if Di Napolitano found out, he would raise hell.

The director general left, carrying his diplomatic pouch, walking cane, and a set of car keys, with a very large key ring made of ivory, the Mercedes logo carved into it. Ferrapotti looked at Dennis, and said in his usual blunt way, “ah.. Er.. oh.. don’t mind him. We need him as our face to the UN, an organization that takes seriously only those from developing countries. We allow them to occupy all top administrative positions because we know we can easily bribe them into doing whatever we want. Did you notice his key ring? The first thing he did when the foreign minister announced his appointment as director of the institute, was to go out and buy a black Mercedes.”

Dennis was taken aback, and should have taken this rant as a warning. But the fact was he saw only the promise of being paid while he indulged in a year or so in Rome, the most beautiful place on earth. It was an opportunity that he could not pass up, no matter how crazy and surreal it seemed. To be offered a job, by a world renowned professor who could not remember his name, to work in a beautifully frescoed medieval building. What  more could one ask for? So, without even asking how much the job paid, he instead asked, “so what is the project I will be working on?”

Ferrapotti appeared not to hear the question. “Oh.. Ah.. Come along,” he said. “I’ll introduce you to my good friend and illustrious judge, Di Napolitano. We call him the Consigliere. Without him, this Institute could not function.”

Di Napolitano stood up from his desk and walked around to shake Dennis’s hand. “Very pleased to meet you,” he said, his voice always loud, no matter where or with whom. “If you are recommended by Dr. Ferrapotti, I know you must be outstanding!”

Dennis managed to release his hand from Di Napolitano’s iron grip, and replied, “well thank you sir, but I don’t know, I haven’t really…”

Ferrapotti looked Dennis in the eye. It was his psychiatrist’s look, one meant to penetrate the facial veneer of his subjects, to make them think that he was looking right inside their mind. “Oh.. Er.. Young man,” he said, “this is an opportunity that will never come again. It will make you famous. It will be the very first study of world crime. And conducted under the auspices of the United Nations, and more important, with the scholarly imprint of the great legacy of Italian Criminology, where criminology was first established as a science.”

Dennis felt the small slap of Ferrapotti’s hand on his shoulder.  How could he refuse? “OK. I’ll do it. But I need a few details.”

“No problem! Just step in here and I will introduce you to our administrative director and she will take care of all your immediate needs.”

Ferrapotti stepped away and hurried to Di Napolitano’s office, just as a glass door opened and there stood a dark headed young lady, dressed in what appeared to be a kind of female designer simulation of a Carabiniere uniform, with a red stripe running down the side of tight pants, and black jacket, stretched across the fulsome chest, collar and cuffs braided with silver, everything edged in scarlet. Her skin was the pale white of a Northerner, her jet black hair, though, flowing in careful waves over her shoulders. All this and more Dennis took in with a gulp of air.

“I am Andrea. Come, please take a seat by my desk and we will get your details,” she said in broken English, though very business-like.

Dennis was, understandably, most confused and not a little concerned. He had a plane to catch the next morning back to Melbourne. He had nowhere to stay beyond this one night. He had no money to extend his stay at the pensione he had found just around the corner from Campo dei Fiori.

“Well, I don’t know. I mean,  I was only walking by. It was pure chance I ran into Doctor Ferrapotti. And I don’t really know what he wants me to work on.”

“Oh, don’t worry!” said Andrea with a big sigh. “È il modo in italiano, sai? You’ll get used to it.”

“Modo what?”

“Oh, sorry. It’s the Italian way, especially in Rome. Take every day as it comes. Lo sai?”

“OK. Maybe easy for you. But what will I do about my plane ticket? And where will I stay if I take on the job? I mean, there’s so much to do. And my family are expecting me to arrive home day after tomorrow.”

Andrea just smiled and began writing on a form. “So, your full name, please?”

“What for?” asked Dennis, defensively.

Andrea looked at him impatiently. “Now, let’s get this done so I can help you find a place to stay and take care of your plane ticket. Hopefully you are on Alitalia?

“Yes, I am.”

“Then there’s no problem. We will get you a refund. Now, your name?”

And so it went. Andrea filled out what she called a “Special Service Agreement” with the United Nations. When she came to the amount that he would be paid, Andrea frowned. “Did they tell you how much you would be paid?”

“No. But I haven’t really agreed to do his yet, have I?”

“Once you sign this form you have. You should ask them for more money. This is not enough to live on,” Andrea said.

“Seriously?”

“Yes. Seriously.”

Dennis found an “apartment”  right beside Piazza Navona. an incredible find, for just 10,000 lire a month. It consisted of a small space under a stairwell with room for a bed and a toilet, a hand basin and an electrical outlet with a small table on which there sat an electric kettle. The apartment had been described as “fully furnished,” which technically Dennis supposed was accurate. Never mind, Dennis imagined himself a top researcher living in splendor in Rome, the most beautiful city in the world. Lygon street near Melbourne University where his research assistant position awaited him, could hardly compete.

The trouble was, though, he had no idea what he was supposed to be doing in his new prestigious job, except that, since the The Englishman from Cambridge had not arrived, he had been called into Ferrapotti’s office and told that he was to be the sole director of the project and given an extra 40,000 lire a month to make up for the added responsibility. Dennis tried to ask in a roundabout way what he was supposed to be doing, what the project was all about, but had received no information from Ferrapotti, who was constantly talking through the wall to his colleague Di Napolitano, laughing and joking in Italian, dictating letters to his (everyone’s) secretary, Andrea who continued to wear her Carabiniere uniform look-alike. But never mind, it was enough for Dennis to walk to his office each day, down the glorious Via Giulia, stopping at a crowded bar for a cornetto and morning cappuccino, peering in the windows of plush shops that displayed costly antiques or fine clothing.

After several weeks he discovered the institute’s library, hidden away on the second floor looking out over the Via Giulia, inhabited by a librarian and her assistant. No one had thought to mention this to him, though he was a little embarrassed that he had not thought to ask whether the institute had a library. Of course, being the United Nations, as Dennis was to find out much later, all institutes and branches of the U.N. had a library, crammed full mainly of records and reports of the countless meetings it routinely conducted. The librarian was a middle aged Iranian,  and her assistant, a tiny shy whisk of a person, who spent her days repairing reports that had been torn, writing in catalog numbers, and rearranging the book shelves. Though she appeared insignificant, almost like a piece of furniture, her darting eyes  seemed constantly to take in all that was going on in the library, and at coffee break, she took her espresso with a small group of well-dressed middle aged Italian men in the corner of the small bar that stood conveniently across the street from the Institute. It was rumored (that is, the librarian told Dennis in the manner of a warning) that she was the daughter of the famed Italian politician Giulio Andreotti.

Another month went by, and still Dennis had no idea what he was to do, had been given no instructions by Ferrapotti. So at last, one morning, Dennis, tired of doing nothing, something that he could not believe would worry him, since doing nothing in Rome and getting paid for it seemed like such a great idea, he marched into Di Napolitano’s office determined to find out what his project was all about and what he must do. He wanted to work, damn it! After his few months in Rome, Dennis should have known better than to do this foolish thing. Indeed, he had consulted Andrea as to whether this was a good idea, and she had warned him against it.

Di Napolitano did not look up, but continued with his eyes closed, dictating a letter to his secretary, Andrea (everyone’s secretary), in careful grammatically correct English. Dennis coughed a little and advanced to the edge of Di Napolitano’s desk. Andrea tried to help by asking her boss to repeat a word. This annoyed him as it always did, to be interrupted, even though he was himself the world’s worst interrupter. He assumed, as he was a judge of very high standing, that all must stop when he spoke and he must never be interrupted. But Andrea’s question caused him to open his eyes and it was then that he saw standing in front of his desk the scruffy Aussie, dressed in his usual open neck shirt, and worst of all, again something Dennis had been warned about by Andrea, Aussie shorts.

“What is this?” barked Di Napolitano. “Mr. Cotter, you are not dressed. Please do so before you enter my office, in fact, before you enter this institute.” He closed his eyes again and continued to dictate to Andrea who looked down, trying very hard to hold back a laugh.

Dennis about turned as though he were a soldier and hurried out of the office and the building, then to Campo Dei Fiori where he would try to find a pair of cheap long pants that fitted him.

Dennis could hardly be blamed for concluding that the fiasco of his attempt to consult with Di Napolitano had at last brought about action. The very next morning, Ferrapotti summoned him to his office, all very business-like.

“Er, ah, Dennis. Good. Come. Sit. We are going to Strasbourg tomorrow to begin the project.”

“Tomorrow? But Dr. Ferrapotti, I don’t know what the project is about, so I haven’t done anything on its design.” He squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. He received no direct answer. Instead, Ferrapotti called for Andrea.  Dennis timidly asked, “why Strasbourg?”

“Er, ah, yes. Of course, you wouldn’t know anything about the Council of Europe, coming from where you come.”

Dennis guessed that Ferrapotti was telling him that because he was not a European, he is uninformed, probably ignorant. He simply looked blankly back at Ferrapotti and waited.

“In a first for the United Nations, we are combining our project with the Council of Europe. Ford Foundation has given us its permission, in fact they are very pleased. This will  be a pioneering project. A world first!” announced Ferrapotti grandly.

Dennis, now agitated and losing his cool, asked belligerently, in typical Aussie style, “and what exactly is this project that I am supposed to be directing, all about?”

Ferrapotti grinned, looked at Andrea then to Dennis. “Oh, ah, er, I thought you knew, you’re the director of the project after all.”

“But Dr. Ferrapotti, I have tried to ask you what the project is about, even to see the proposal that you sent to the Ford Foundation…”

“Ah, er. oh, that’s nothing. But if you want to look at it you can. Andrea make him a copy will you? But I tell you, it’s only a very rough outline of what we will really do.”

Dennis looked at Andrea, who excused herself so she could go to the library and retrieve a copy of the proposal. He went to follow her out, but Ferrapotti called him back. “She will get it. Come, er ah, sit.”

Dennis sat.

“Oh.. Er.. The United Nations works very slowly,” said Ferrapotti, gently, or at least for him it was so. “The way we do research in the UN is to have meetings and then we meet again to discuss the reports of those meetings. And then, it will be your job to carry out the recommendations in those reports.”

“But who designs the project?” asked Dennis with a frown.

“Oh.. Those at the meetings do. That way we can be sure that everyone is on board and nobody’s concerns are ignored.”

“So I don’t have to do a research design?” asked Dennis, almost relieved, but very worried.

“Not exactly. That’s just what they teach you at University. In the real world, especially the complex world of the UN, it’s not the way it works,” prattled Ferrapotti.

“I think I had better go to the library and read some reports,” mumbled Dennis.

“Ah.. Er.. Oh.. By all means,” answered Ferrapotti, amused. “And ask Andrea to come to my office so we can arrange the plane tickets and per diem for each of us. Strasbourg is an expensive place.” 

To be continued……

Who Wants To Be Secretary General?

The Greatest Quiz Show on Earth

 Download the print version from Friday Stories archives

Quite some time ago,  Isaac Asimov proclaimed: “There are no nations!”  Lauded as the greatest science fiction writer of all time, he was, and is, considered by many as a kind of fortune teller, that his novels often turned out to be predictions of the future of society and human kind. His claim that there are no nations was, of course, a statement of his own moral position that all peoples are equal, or at least ought to be equal. At the same time, though, he, and many who have followed in his footsteps (Star Trek and Star Wars for example) also heralded the idea of diversity, speculating on the enormous range of humans and humanoids and whatever living creatures that might exist throughout the universe, as yet unexplored. There appears to be no difficulty in adopting these two contrasting, actually, contradictory moralities  of the future, often confused or blended into the present. If there is diversity — that is,  each individual is different, unique — is not all such differentiation  eradicated by the word equality? Ah, you say, I am playing with words. Indeed, I am, because I want to prepare you for the greatest quiz show on earth, maybe the universe, who knows?

The show is called, “Who Wants to be Secretary General?” and is aired every night at 6.00 pm and On Demand for people around the world on Australia’s amazingly diverse TV channel SBS, that caters to viewers in all of one hundred and sixty-three languages. If you are a seasoned TV viewer of quiz shows, you will recognize that this show is a take-off from the blockbuster “Who wants to be a millionaire?” And in general, it does follow the format, offering contestants the chance to “call a friend” for help in answering a question, or to “ask the audience” for help. But the similarity ends there. For, as the promotional videos show,  this is a real life quiz with real life outcomes. The final winner actually takes up the position of Secretary General of the United Nations. How, you may well ask, is this possible?

Until now, the position of Secretary General was selected by the U.N. General Assembly, subject to the approval of the Security Council. But over the years, after the appointment of nine Secretaries General, those countries not represented on the Security Council got together and complained that it was unfair that their choice of candidate was always rebuffed by the security council, dominated as it always has  been, by the most powerful nations, generally those with an imperialist past, who have fought and won great wars both foreign and domestic. Why should such warmongers dominate the United Nations, an organization that is supposed to be the icon of peace and goodwill to all?

All past attempts to appoint a Secretary General who was brave enough to thumb his nose at the Security Council had been thwarted. It was time for a change, and this change was brought about by none other than Australia, a country not without its warlike blemishes, having also dabbled in imperialism with its close neighbor Papua New Guinea, (the destruction of its own indigenous peoples blamed on its imperialist mother England), but by and large had a tradition of towing the line with the big powers, especially its pacific neighbor, the United States.

It all came about in a raucous meeting of the Security Council, Australia at the time occupying one of the rotating chairs. But the man behind the scenes was none other than Australia’s gruff, ulcerous media mogul, the father of one-day cricket matches, Perry Smacker, and his U.N. Representative (well, Australia’s U.N. Representative) Bevan Mudd, a former Prime Minister, much admired by the Chinese. In fact, Mudd spoke only Chinese in the meeting, refusing to speak one word of English. The very large Smacker, sat immediately behind him, prodding him in the rear constantly, when he thought it necessary.

“Esteemed Members of the Security Council,” began Mr. Smacker. “We are all well aware of the recent impossibilities of electing a new Secretary General. Some five nominees have been rejected, and the last meeting of the General Assembly was in an uproar, verging on bedlam. A number of members were carried off to hospital. Australia proposes an entirely new way of electing the Secretary General. We propose a contest, and the winner of the contest to be automatically appointed to the position, no vetoes allowed. We could argue about the merits of this solution, but we must face up to the fact that all regular methods of making the appointment have failed. We think that a contest, in the form of a quiz show be adopted. It would run for some six months or more, weeding out losers, and end up with a single winner who would be well qualified for the position. The questions would, of course, be asked specifically on the core attributes of the United Nations and its policies and practices. We have already begun to compile the lists of questions, and members of the Security Council as well as the General Assembly will be canvassed for questions. We will distribute the format for questions and answers at the end of this meeting. I thank you for your attention, and now declare this meeting closed.”

Of course, the show was not open to just anyone. We could not have unsavory sorts participating.  We must have individuals of high moral standing and who are comfortable working in a setting that is devoted to diversity in its extreme, which defines the United Nations, an amazing organization that seeks to understand, promote, and develop the ethnicities, cultures and economies of all nations, the ultimate aim being that all the nations of the world, all the ethnicities, come together as one.  That one day there will be no super power or a few nations with huge economies. That all nations, ethnicities and cultures are unified into one nation, that no nation monopolizes military might, economy, or politic.

Finally, and perhaps the most pressing, is that no person who works or has worked in the employ of the United Nations is eligible for the position. This also includes the many consultants used by the United Nations. We are of the opinion that we need a fresh mind to steer the United Nations on a clear course, one that is not sullied by the deadening bureaucracy that the United Nations has become.  We therefore have developed a check list of attributes that we seek from quiz contestants.

Of course, the obvious attribute that any candidate must have to be successful in our quiz show, is that they must be proven quiz show performers. Thus we have made a list of all those who became finalists in the world wide quiz show Who wants to be a Millionaire? and will use these obviously successful quiz contestants as the basic pool from which we will draw our candidates. That show is aired in over one hundred countries and many more languages. Indeed, the show is a wonderful example of bringing nations and languages together into one format, shared, and diverse. Every single version of that show features the now well-known final question, “Is this your final answer?” though, of course, each language has its own way of expressing this question. Each of these finalists was invited to try out for our quiz, the initial screening done by a check list of attributes, that the contestant had to answer, truthfully, of course. The check list is as follows:

1.     Are you any of LGBTQA? Yes= 1 point

2.     Are you white? No= 1 point

3.     Are you fat?  Yes= 1 point

4.     Are you a gang member? Yes= 1 point

5.     Are you or have you ever been a terrorist? Yes=1 point

6.     Are you a rape victim? Yes= 1 point

7.     Is your primary language English? No= 1 point

8.     Is your primary language European? No=1 point

9.     Is your primary language African ? No= 1 point

10.  Are you or have you ever been an illegal immigrant or refugee? Yes=1 point

11.  Are you married? No=1 point

12.  Are you a university graduate?  No=1 point

Candidates scoring above 8 are automatically accepted as quiz contestants.

The obvious choice for host of the first episode of Who Wants To Be Secretary General? was Eddie Squire, famed  former president of the much loved and hated Collingwood Football Club, and perennial host of the  Australian TV hit, Who Wants To Be a Millionaire?.

After many preliminary rounds conducted by hosts in the different countries in which qualifying candidates competed, the grand final was at last scheduled in Melbourne, Australia. The show opens with a door on which is inscribed a large old fashioned clock, the hands racing round and around to the dramatic sound of Beethoven’s 5th, the ominous door knock. The door opens and out of the mist emerges Eddie Squire. He walks to the center of the stage and with his devilish smile in his most resonating voice says:

“We are excited to announce our grand finalist, multi-sexual, Francois Malkovsky II, from the Euronat permanent nudist community of France. If he answers the final question correctly, he will be appointed Secretary General of the United Nations, a position he will retain for the standard period of seven years, or less should he choose to retire, or be fired if he says or does anything that violates the equity and inclusiveness policies of the United Nations. We apologize in advance that Mr. Malkovsky is not black. He is, however, classifiable as “brown” all over, a result of his sun tanning regimen at the Eurostat resort. Also, I give those of you watching at home fair warning that because Mr. Malkovsky is from a famous and most respected nudist community, he will be appearing naked. Squire would have appeared naked himself out of respect for nudists everywhere, but our diversity and inclusion consultant advised us that it might be misinterpreted as his mocking nudists, cultural appropriation, as they say. After all, if Mr. Malkovsky were black, it would be shocking for him to color himself “black.”

The music repeatedly blasts the first two measures of Beethoven, and Mr. Malkovsky steps through the door, all smiles. There are gasps from the studio audience as it gapes at the rather ugly naked overly tanned body of a middle aged man, somewhat over weight, his breasts somewhat enlarged, and his hips covered with a roll of fat.

“Welcome, Francois Malkovsky, may I call you Francois?” says Eddie as he offers his hand and Malkovsky shakes it.

“Thank you!  I am very excited to be here.”

“And Francois, I understand that you had a great deal of difficulty getting down here to Australia to participate in this first ever quiz grand final that furthers the spirit of One Nation World Government.”

“Yes, it is difficult for we nudists to travel. We are forced to cover ourselves which is very intimidating. People gawk at us, you know, and some even make insulting remarks about our bodies.”

“Well I’m sorry to hear that,” says Eddie  with his mischievous grin,  “but let’s look on the bright side. If you win and become Secretary General of the United Nations, you will be able to oversee world legislation that will allow nudists to go naked wherever they like.”

“I look forward to that very much,” says Malkovsky.

Eddie leads the way to the two seats suspended as though in mid air. He ushers Malkovsky into his seat, then steps up to his own,  suspended a little higher than Malkovsky’s. “Are you ready to play, Who Wants To Be Secretary General?”

“I am.”

“We have four questions. You will have thirty seconds to answer. You have two life lines in which you may ask for help either from a friend or from the audience. Is that clear?”

“Yes, perfectly clear.”

“All right then. Here is the first question. U.N. General Assembly Resolution A/RES/217 A (III) Human rights addresses what issue:

A. Disabled people

B. Gender conversion

C. LGBTQA name tags

D. None of the above”

Malkovsky wriggles a little in his seat. For reasons of hygiene, the seat is hard and shiny. Certainly no cushion.  “None of those,” he answers.

“That was a quick response, Francois. Are you sure you want to go with that?”

“I am sure.”

Eddie grins and frowns. “Is that your final answer?”

Malkovsky looks Squire in the eye. “It is my final answer.”

Eddie leans back in his nicely cushioned seat. “Your are right! D, None of the above was the correct answer!”

The audience cheers and claps. Eddie continues. “You can stop now, if you want, and take up the lower position of deputy under secretary general of the U.N. Food and Agricultural Organization.”

“No, thank you Mr. Squire. I want to be Secretary General.”

“All right then. Let’s go to the next question, this one for you to qualify as clerical assistant grade one, to the secretary of the current deputy under secretary general of the International Court of Justice. Here is the question: The General Assembly Declaration of Imperialism Erasure is addressed in what document?

A. 1514 (XV) A/4494, Supplement No. 2.

B. A/RES/9 (1) of 9 Feb. 1946

C. A/RES/1514 (XV) of Dec. 1960.

D. All the above.”

Malkovsky nervously crosses his legs and replies immediately, “all of the above.”

“Now take your time, Francois, you have all of thirty seconds, you know.”

“Thank you. But I spent a lot of time researching U.N. Documents. I know the answer is all of the above.”

“You’re quite sure about that?

“Quite sure.”

“Then it’s your final answer?”

“It is.”

Eddie looks around to the audience. He then looks back slowly to Malkovsky. “The answer is… D, all the above! You are right once again, Francois. You are on your way to Secretary General.”

Malkovsky uncrosses his legs. “Let’s get on with it,” he grins.

“You can stop now, if you want,” says Eddie, looking serious. “A position at the U.N. F.A.O. Is quite a good appointment. And it would be for life, so I am told.”

“No, Mr. Squire. I want to be Secretary General. No good settling for less.”

“All right. Then let’s proceed. You are now two questions away from becoming U.N. Secretary General. Are you ready, Mr. Malkovsky?”

“I am ready.”

“One Nation World Government is addressed in which of the following documents:

A. Secretary-General’s remarks at the World Government Summit with Q&A.2017.

B. Eichelberger: World government via the United Nations. 1948.

C. World Government Summit hosted by Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum. 2017.

D. All of the above.

Malkovsky takes his hands from his lap, where they had been most of the time, and runs them through his greying hair.

“Thirty seconds starts now!” says Squire.

“I think I would like to ask my partner,” says Malkovsky.

“Are they in the audience or do you want to phone?” asks Squire.

“My partner could not join the audience because they would not let them sit in the audience naked. I would like to phone The U.N. Vienna, where Sheehee is sitting hidden in the U.N. Archives kept there.”

“As you wish!” says Eddie. He presses a button, an image of a phone is projected on a screen behind them, then someone answers. We do not see an image of the recipient of the call. Just a shadow.

“Oui allo ?"

“Is this SheeHee?” asks Squire.

“Qui appelle s'il vous plait Yes, it is. Who is this, please?”

“This is Eddie Squire from Who Wants to be Secretary General.  Your partner would like your help.”

“Allo? Sheehee?” asks Malkovsky. “Are you watching?”

“Oui. sur mon téléphone.”

“I think the answer is D All the above,” says Malkovsky. “The trouble is I can remember no official U.N. Documents that refer to these topics. They must be speeches or other unofficial documents,” says Malkovsky with a  frown, clearly worried.

“Mr. Squire. Must the answers be in official UN documents?” asks Shehee.

“I am sorry, but I am not allowed to add or answer any questions directly bearing on the various answers,” says Squire in a most formal manner.

“I am inclined to D,” says Malkovsky, “because ABC are all similar.”

“But it might be none of them,” says Sheehee, in highly accented English.

“If it were, then that would be an option, wouldn’t it?” muses Malkovsky.

“Je m'excuse. Je ne sais tout simplement pas quelle est la meilleure réponse,” says Sheehee.

“Five seconds to go!” interjects Squire.

“Then D, all the above,” says Malkovsky, head in hands.

“That’s your final answer?” asks Squire, grinning and frowning.

“Yes. That’s my final answer.”

Squire looks down, the smile on his face gone. Silence intensifies. The audience shuffles. He looks up, then announces:

“The answer is D. You are right, and you are now qualified to be appointed personal secretary to the under secretary’s deputy assistant of the UN representative to the World Trade Organization.”

Relieved, Malkovsky leans back in his hard seat, the surface sticking uncomfortably on to his naked bottom.  Eddie Squire continues.

“You may stop now and enjoy a wonderful career as the United Nations representative dealing with the World Trade Organization, or you may go on to the final question.”

“Let’s go for it!” says Malkovsky, shaking his fist, and jumping up and down on his seat.

Squire turns to the audience. “Audience, are you ready?”

The audience cheers and claps in response.

“All right, then. Here we go. Are you ready, Mr. Mal­kovsky?”

“I am ready!”

“Which of the following policy topics is NOT essential to world governance by One Nation?”

A. Inclusion

B. Diversity

C. Happiness

D. Inequality

“Mon Dieu! What is this One Nation? Did you not mean United Nations?” cried Malkovsky.

Eddie Squire remains silent. He looks down, then out to the audience. Then he says, “You have one help left. You could ask the audience. You have thirty seconds, starting….”

“OK. Ok. I will ask the audience, please,” says Malkovsky running his hands through his hair, and crossing his legs.

Squire looks out to the audience. “Mr. Malkovsky, the next secretary general of the United Nations needs your help. Audience, your remote answer box is activated. When I say ‘Answer” press A, B, C, or D button to send your answer to Mr. Malkovsky.”

The audience stirs excitedly, and loud thumping music plays as the lights flash on the big board hanging above the heads of Malkovsky and Squire. The results were not helpful. Twenty five percent for A, same for B, Twenty eight percent for C, and twenty two percent for D.

Eddie Squire looks at the audience and then to Malkovsky. “You have thirty seconds starting now!”

Malkovsky uncrosses and crosses his legs nervously, “I don’t know, it could be D inequality, but I’m sure that the U.N. favors equality. I’m going to have to guess. Happiness. What is that? Maybe the audience knows better than do I. OK. Happiness it is.”

“Is that your final answer, Mr. Malkovsky?” asks Squire, a serious frown, and still that small grin.

“Yes, C, happiness. My final answer!” Malkovsky pushes back on his chair and uncrosses his legs. The audience titters as it gawks at the contestant’s nudity. He appeared at that moment, incredibly vulnerable.

Eddie Squire, enjoying the suspense, surveys the audience and tries not to look at Malkovsky’s male body. “Would you like to change your mind?”  He asks with his devilish grin.

“No! No! I have made my decision!” cries Malkovsky. The audience titters once more.

“The answer is…” Squire hesitates for effect, “…C,  Happiness! You have won the grand prize and will become immediately we close this session tonight, the tenth Secretary General of the United Nations!”

The audience erupts into cheers and applause, Malkovsky jumps up and raises both fists, and dances around the stage, prancing full on to the audience. Fortunately, the show was not aired live, so there would be time to insert a warning to the viewing audience that the show included partial and complete nudity.

France hailed Francois Malkovsky as their greatest international achievement ever. Statues were erected in many towns, and an outsized one in Paris right next to the grand Egyptian Obelisk on the Place de la Concorde. This turned out to be a mistake, and probably marked the beginning of an underground movement to remove Malkovsky from office. The huge nude statue of Malkovsky was placed in such a way that, viewing it from the East the obelisk appeared as Malkovsky’s giant erection. This was, of  course, not by design, but either way, came to represent all that Malkovsky’s administration stood for. Besides, the U.K., still bruised from its crazy Brexit, blaming especially France for making it so difficult, began a not so secret campaign to replace Malkovsky with Boris Johnson, as soon as he stepped down as Prime Minister.  

Nor was the third world happy with yet another imperialist in the top U.N. job. However, those rising and emerging nations continued to squabble among themselves, so were unable to mount a successful campaign to unseat Malkovsky. Besides, they had never had a Secretary general who was stark naked, just like many of the third world’s ordinary, oppressed citizens. The Russians and the Chinese also made feeble attempts to make Malkovsky’s life difficult, beginning a campaign to move the United Nations Headquarters to a much colder climate in  Mongolia. As it was, people everywhere marveled at how this new Secretary General tolerated the cold winters of New York. It was rumored that he in fact, during the entire winter in New York, never stepped out of his office. This was not true, of course. But what was true, and struck a chord with the many developing nations that happened to inhabit areas of the world that were temperate and hot, was that Malkovsky had begun an immediate effort to move the U.N. H.Q. to Fiji somewhere in the Pacific. Besides, Malkovsky argued, he wanted the United Nations to reside in peace, thus his choice of the Pacific Ocean.

But what Malkovsky failed to sense was that, even though he had made great efforts to promote inclusiveness and diversity in the United Nations, it was not enough. On his first day in office he proudly announced that his administration would be completely open and transparent, and ruled that from that day on, all workers and consultants to the United Nations (which meant just about everyone, since it was by consultants that the U.N. conducted most of its everyday activities), would be naked, the only dress allowed was tattoos and painted nails. Many hailed this as a brave and exciting edict. But it soon became apparent that those who embraced this policy were those with beautiful bodies, or so they thought. When this awkward fact was brought to Secretary General’s attention, he quickly announced that the words “fat” and “ugly” were never to be used and must be replaced with “shapely” and  “gorgeous.” Many other difficult, really just small details, but for some reason seemed overwhelming, bothered and annoyed his administration. All the seats in the meeting rooms and the general assembly had to be redone, so that people’s bottoms did not stick to the shiny surfaces. They also had to be heated, because many complained that the hard shiny seats were cold. But by far the most difficult problem for Malkovsky’s administration lay more deeply in the subconscious of his staff and consultants.

Meetings mark the manner in which the life of the United Nations had always gone forward. Meetings, large and small, assemblies, all of these require lots of people in one place, all drafting policies and statements, all arranging further meetings to consider the accomplishments of previous meetings. It was the small meetings, however, that marked the eventual downfall of the 10th Secretary General. These meetings occurred in small rooms, all seated around tables arranged usually in a rectangle, sometimes in a circle.

The U.N. Security Council had been quietly taken over by the gender dis-advocates, as they called themselves. And while the Security Council still held a veto power over the General Assembly, it was in fact through that council’s manipulations and sheer brutality of language, that the important decisions of the United Nations were made. The important fact was — and this  is an amazing eventuality that is completely in line with the grand ideals of the United Nations, that all nations put aside their differences and be united into One Nation — that gender differences be eradicated, or if not possible, be treated as  small and inconsequential matters. People in the U.N. therefore were no longer to refer to each other by gender. Because English was the only language that had the flexibility of using pronouns in reference to people of gender — but that did not imply their gender —  it was ordained by the Secretary General, that English was the only official language of the United Nations, and the languages of all other nations unacceptable until they had erased all gendered pronouns, nouns and matching adjectives, from their languages. A new United Nations Language Board of Control was set up to receive applications of languages that had been revised according to the U.N. Guidelines. In most cases, however, the Language Board strongly recommended that the easiest and simplest way to solve the gendered language problems was to simply adopt English as the national language.

 You can imagine how outraged the French were when they heard of this new edict, coming from one of their own, no less! He had to be dealt with, and severely. They may not be able to cut off his head according to tradition, but maybe there was another way, given the modern techniques of personal destruction now available to all.

As is usual in clandestine operations, various competing, indeed, infighting, factions arose among the gender dis-advocates. In the name of transparency, many meetings passed motions of diversity and inclusiveness that required surveillance cameras to be installed in every nook and cranny, wherever there were meetings, formal and informal. The French undercover agents saw this as a perfect opportunity to take down yet another corrupt French sovereign, to whom they referred as King (yes, the strongest gendered term in the English language) Malkovsky II. To think that one of their own would destroy their country by blithely abolishing its language!

The opportunity inevitably arose in a small meeting chaired by Malkovsky, in the  anteroom next to his office on the 38th floor of the United Nations building that offered a stunning view of  the East river. He had called the meeting of his immediate staff, planning to inform them that he was so pleased by their performance that they would be receiving a ten percent increase in their salaries. There were twelve staff, including his personal driver, the only one who had complained directly to him, that he caught a very bad cold having to get out of the warm limousine to open the door for him when there was a blizzard. Malkovsky had ignored him.

Yet the first move was not made by the driver. Instead it came from one of his secretaries, Philomena, a sweet little thing, by Malkovsky’s standard, with a most inviting body, and a wonderful sweet smile. He liked it especially when she spoke, which was constant, she was a real talker, from Rome after all, wagging her head from side to side, a bright smile on her face. Always happy. Or so it seemed. He should have known, however. She was Italian, that much he knew. And the Italians were incensed at him also, because their language was thoroughly debased by his edict that there were to be no gender pronouns or nouns. All were to be abolished. It left the Italians without any names or basically any nouns, unless all agreed on a word ending that was neuter. Already several governments had fallen in Italy because no agreement could be found as to the neuter endings of nouns.

Malkovsky sat at his seat at the middle of the oblong table.  He surveyed his staff, all of them of course naked as was his edict. And on this day, his eyes briefly settled on Philomena as she lowered herself, chatting away to her friend next to her, smiling and happy. As she sat, she leaned forward a little and her smoothly shaven breasts seemed to stand out, the nipples he was sure were calling to him. He quickly sat down and tried to focus on the bodies of others around the table. But it did not help. His eyes came to rest on Philomena. He looked down at his notes, hoping that it would go away. His driver coughed a throaty cough, he was still getting over his cold. The pandemic was not quite over. All stared at him. Malkovsky gave his boss a disapproving look, and took his leave.

The meeting proceeded as planned, and all staff were most pleased at the promise of an increase in their salaries.

No sooner had Malkovsky returned to his office, than the computer screens of all those whose position in the U.N. qualified them to have their own computer in their office, were lit up by a surveillance video. Immediately he saw it, he knew he was done for. Right there, on the screen was the image of his very own penis, gradually raising its beautiful head. The surveillance cameras installed under the table had caught him in his moment of weakness. And immediately his very own engendered undercover agents entered his office, unannounced, followed by his favorite little secretary Philomena. And even then, he felt a little twinge between his legs.

Philomena stood just inside the door. “That’s him! She shouted! He raped me! It happened in our meeting just minutes ago! You can see the evidence for yourselves. Look at his disgusting erection! I saw him looking at me. It was awful! I felt like a piece a meat! And I just had to sit there while he looked at me and raped me!”

Malkovsky was read his rights of which there none, as the U.N. had legislated that there was no defense against an accusation of rape. Besides the evidence was all there on the video.

However, the story does have a happy ending, of sorts. Malkovsky was not tried in a criminal court. He had insisted that all infractions were to be dealt with as mundane administrative infractions, the punishments to be appropriate to the “crime.” In his case, once the U.N. had settled down into its old routine, his “punishment” was that he was never again to appear in public (defined broadly) naked. He must be fully clothed for the rest of his life. And as a side-effect of this scandalous behavior, all surveillance cameras were removed throughout the United Nations offices. The arguments about official languages and the degenderization of languages did not go away, however.  All U.N. meetings everywhere and every minute of the day were taken up with this vexing and most complicated problem.

The hit quiz show Who Wants to be Secretary General? continued, and became an annual hit. However the guidelines for its format were rewritten forbidding nudity of the slightest amount of any contestants and show host, though the studio audience and those viewing at home were excepted from this regulation.

Moral: It’s the thought that counts.

Couples

 Download the print version from Friday Stories archives

Damascus and his scribe vet entrants into Noah’s Ark.

To be honest, the true story of Noah’s Ark has never been told. At least, that is what we now know after the finding of more fragments of the Dead Sea scrolls announced in March of 2021. After many hours of deciphering and putting together the jig-saw puzzle of the fragments, we slowly began to realize that the fragments we found were in fact a retelling of the story of Noah’s Ark. In a retelling, we admit, there may be some embellishment. But we ask you to bear with us while we reconstruct the story to the extent that the fragments allow. Carbon dating, by the way, suggests that these fragments date well before the bible, old testament that is, as we know it. This story predates the bible, probably by several thousand years. But the measurement of time so distant remains malleable, something like a time fog. We walk into it at our own risk, arms extended, eyes lost in time, feeling our way with each uncertain step. 

A further -- embarrassing to some -- difficulty is that there is much argument over what the ark looked like, how big it was, and, horror of horrors, there is no way such a boat could fit all God’s species. Not to mention that the pundits of history insist that the number that got off the boat after the terrible flood subsided, was the same number as got on. Are you kidding me? Especially as they were on the ark for whatever number of years, how is this humanly or earthly possible?

The preoccupation of experts with the size, structure and building of the ark blinded them to what is by far the most impossible, certainly hugely challenging problem, of how to actually select and process the candidates for entry into the boat. Here are just a few small details. We know that there are countless species of life in our world, from plants and insects, to birds, animals and humans, not to mention microbes. Indeed, we can assume that in biblical times they had not yet discovered microbes as individuals, but rather only knew them as plagues sent by Gods of one kind or another, to punish humans for their existence. Just imagine the chaos. Every living thing learns of the impending disaster of the biggest flood ever to occur (in the past or future what’s more), so wouldn’t they all be clamoring to get on the boat? 

Indeed, they were. And that is why Noah in his wisdom (obviously guided by God) immediately hired the best bureaucrat he could find, whose name was Damascus, who founded the city of that name. That’s right, who begat, and begat, and begat after many thousands of years, the eventual progeny John Damascene, who became the Chief financial officer to the Caliph of Damascus. 

And Noah said to Damascus: “I need you to select as many couples up to about three hundred, as I will be able to fit on my boat.”

“How big is the boat?” asked Damascus.

“I won’t know until I’ve built it,” said Noah, impatiently.

“You must have some idea,” complained Damascus, looking at Noah, trying to discern what was going on in that head, ninety percent of which was covered by hair, whiskers and a beard growing in all directions.

“Honestly, I don’t know yet. I’m waiting on instructions,” said Noah impatiently.

“From whom, may I ask?”

“You may not,” snapped Noah. I prayed last night, and I usually get an answer after a few years.”

Damascus rubbed his closely shaven chin. “You must have some idea, even a rough ballpark figure would help.” Damascus wanted to tell his boss to get his hair done and have a shave. But he resisted. He was beginning to regret having taken on this impossible task.

“All I can say is that there have to be couples, male and female couples, all from different kinds,” muttered Noah, annoyed by this fastidious bureaucrat.

Damascus turned away, grumbling, “All right, I’ll see what I can do. But you better hurry up with more information, or I’ll…”

“You’ll what?” asked Noah, shaking his hammer, clearly a threat.

“Never mind,” called Damascus as he hurried away into the small town, if that is what it was, more like a honeycomb of caves. 

Noah dropped his hammer and fell down onto his rough, leather-like knees, to pray yet again. Surely he must get an answer soon.

In fact, no sooner had he dropped on his knees than a huge flash of lightning struck the rock beside him, accompanied by a few drops of rain.

“Count the drops and you will have your answer!” came a voice from somewhere inside his head.

And so Noah counted. And counted. And counted. He made it up to one thousand and sixty nine, but then had to stand up because his knees were hurting, then lost count and had to guess where he was up to. 

Damascus hurried to the caves, looking inside, trying to see how many beings were in there, asking any couples who were there to come forward. All he found were scruffy humans, a snake or two, though no snake couples. This was going to be a challenge, he could see. It would require expert organization and most of all, an effective way to communicate the availability of a free ride on the only boat that will be afloat when the great flood arrives. And who would believe that the flood will be so big that it will drown everyone and everything? Was that really going to happen? Damascus decided that he needed another information gathering interview with Noah, whose communication skills seemed wanting.

After doing the rounds of the caves, followed by a scribe he had hired on the promise that he would be allowed on the boat when the flood came, so long as he was accompanied by a partner making an acceptable couple. He described the couples to the scribe and their rough location identified by an X he had made on a rough drawing of the cave locations. He could see that this was not a sensible way to record this information, so he immediately set about numbering all the caves and giving names to the inhabitants. Many did not have names, they just referred to each other as “this,” or “that” and pointed. The snakes kept biting at his heels until he stamped on one and warned that if they did not behave he would not select any couples from snakedom. That had an immediate effect, and to his amazement, the snakes quickly proffered up a few couples of different looking snakes, pythons, tigers, adders etc. Those are the names Damascus gave them. But he had heard that there were many more strange animals, big ones with four legs, some with long noses, or long necks, striped, and of course there were birds, some of them he had seen roosting way up the top of the cliff, eagles or something like that he called them, huge things that swooped down on the snakes and gave them a terrible life, living in constant danger of being grabbed up and eaten. 

Damascus turned to his scribe. “You need to go off to the jungle and see what else you can find. Spread the word that Noah is prepared to take legitimate couples only — that is, male and female couples — no hermaphrodites or whatever. Just keep it plain and simple. And if anyone argues, strike them off the list.”

 “What if they don’t want to come? I mean, who would want to get on a boat for who knows how long, maybe several lifetimes if what you say Noah said is true?” asked the scribe.

Damascus looked at his scribe, now well washed and shaven, according to his orders. “You have to tell them all that a huge flood is coming, so big, according to Noah, that it will drown everyone and everything in its path. That should scare them.”

“But if what you said Noah said that he hasn’t got room for everyone, only one couple of a kind, we’ll have a riot on our hands with everyone wanting to get on the boat,” complained the scribe.

“Scribe,” sighed Damascus, “please do as you are told, and let me worry about the rest.”

The scribe, hunched over and frightened of his boss, trotted away mumbling, “all right, all right, I was only asking.”

*

“Noah! Are you there? Where are you?” Hearing nothing except hammering, Damascus cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled again. “Noah? Noah?”

A faint voice came from somewhere inside the almost complete boat, somewhere deep  in the bottom of the tremendous structure, nearly as big as an aircraft carrier, a huge monstrosity. “Come down here. I can’t come up right now. Lining the hull with bitumen,” came the muffled cry.

“I’m coming,” answered Damascus as he carefully picked his way through the timber planks, some laying loose, others nailed (wooden nails of course) in place. He descended a long ladder down to the bottom of the boat and there was Noah, filthy with bitumen all over him, applying it to the cracks between the boards of the hull. It was hot and steamy. A dreadful place, like Hell, thought Damascus.

Noah put down the wooden bucket of pitch, and said, obviously annoyed, “well, what do you want this time?”

Damascus stepped carefully off the ladder and stood in the one spot he could find that was not covered in tar. “Just need a clarification. You said two of everything. Do they have to be perfect couples?”

“There is no such thing as a perfect couple, ever since Adam and Eve. You should know that,” growled Noah.

“By couple you mean…?”

“Don’t you know anything? Male and female, of course. What else is there?”

Of course, Noah could not possibly know what we know today, that there are at least six variations on the idea of coupling. So he should have accepted six by six instead of two by two species representations.

Damascus bowed his head. “I’m sorry, Noah. I will have my scribe look for the closest to perfect couples he can find. Male and female. It’s just that I thought…”

Noah interrupted him impatiently. “It’s not your job to think. It is your job to find and count what you have been told to do. Now, off you go, and don’t come back until you have your selections all lined up and ready to board.”

Damascus bowed his head even more. “I apologize, sir, great one…”

“And none of that great business. You think I’m God or something? Don’t be so blasphemous, or I will not allow you to join us on the boat when we set sail.”

Damascus retreated, but could not help asking one more question. “Noah? May I ask, when is the flood coming? How much time do I have?”

Noah took a large handful of bitumen and sploshed it on the boards of the hull. “It will be ready when you have them all lined up, and not before. The flood will come only after we have loaded the boat. Stop your worrying. It’s my job to worry. Yours to get the species all lined up. Now get out of here and do your job.”

Damascus retreated up the ladder, thoroughly confused. He had received no real answers to any of his questions. But at least if something went wrong, he could blame it on Noah. He came away from Noah feeling humbled, actually worse than that. He feared Noah’s wrath, and resented that such a bully was so close to God. It did not seem fair to him. But, a job was a job, and he was prepared to put up with the abuse if it meant that he was assured to have a spot in the ark, along with his extended family. They would be the only humans on the boat. 

And so the years went by, who knows how many. Noah was supposed to have lived for some 950 years, so you can imagine the challenges Damascus faced ferreting out and lining up his couples, supervising his scribe, recording every species and its couples, lining them up. Then there was the superhuman challenge of keeping the couples all in line, well fed so they would not start eating each other, entertained and engaged. All in all, the species behaved themselves. After all, they were promised a spot on the ark, all the rest of their species doomed to drown in the coming flood. 

Unfortunately, there was just one problem. A species, just a single, not a couple, showed up and insisted to the scribe that it must be included. The scribe looked it up and down. “Can’t you read?” he asked impatiently, The sign says Couples Only, No Exceptions.”

“What?” asked the single again, ‘read’? What’s that?” 

“No wonder Noah only wants couples,” thought the scribe to himself, “if singles are all as ignorant as this one, the world would be better off if they went down with the flood.”

The scribe repeated, “you have to be a perfect couple,” said the scribe, “step aside” and he scratched away at his enormously long scroll of papyrus. 

The single species refused to budge. “I am a perfect couple,” it said. 

“You can’t be,” said the scribe looking up and around. “There’s only one of you.”

“I should be at the head of the line,” complained the single. “I’m super special. There’s nothing like me anywhere.”

“I’m not surprised,” mumbled the scribe, writing away. “In any case, even if the boss let you in, you’d have to be at the back of the line. No pushing in allowed. You have to wait your turn.”

The single stood (it had legs, body and arms, looked suspiciously like a human) and refused to move. “I demand to see your supervisor,” it ordered.

“He’s busy counting the couples right now. Has to have the count by sundown, and ready to board at dawn tomorrow.”

The single grabbed the scribe’s stylus and threw it away. “I demand to see your supervisor!” it yelled, hands on hips, a most threatening manner.

The scribe stood up and stepped back, frightened. “All right! All right!” But I can tell you it will be of no use. He’s around the other side of the boat. But don’t blame me if you don’t come back.”

The single pushed his way past the scribe who fell back on the rock he usually sat on, and the first couple (foxes) kindly retrieved his stylus for him.

The single hurried around the side of the boat, an immense construction, walking towards where he heard hammering. 

“Hey, are you the boss around here?” it called.

Noah continued hammering. He was putting up a welcome sign on which were carved ten principles for behaving on the boat. 

“Are you deaf or something?” yelled the single. “Haven’t you got any manners? Answer me when I call you.”

Noah had certainly heard this grossly indecent individual. He continued hammering.

The single impatiently ran up to Noah and grabbed the hammer just as Noah’s arm was at the top of its swing. But Noah, a very strong man if ever there was one, his tough muscles well formed from the years of building the ark, easily shook the single off and swung the hammer so that it just grazed the chin of his assailant. The single fell back, and found itself sprawled on the rocky ground, trying to push itself up on its elbows.

“This is species abuse!” cried the single in a pathetically thin voice. 

Noah at first ignored the single and turned his back, but then thought better of it. The individual was clearly an unsavory type and should not be trusted. 

“Who are you and why have you jumped the line? And why are you not a couple?” asked Noah, swinging his hammer to and fro.

“Because,” said the single, “I am a couple, but my other is inside me. I am really two. Actually, more than two, potentially.”

“You speak gibberish,” said Noah. “Get away and be damned! I’m surprised you even made it this far. You can’t get on the ark unless you have been checked in by Damascus. And since you are clearly not a couple, you are not welcome here.”

“You mean I’m doomed?” asked the single, now contrite, starting to sob.

“I wouldn’t put it that way. But yes, you’re doomed, both of you, if what you say is true.”

“But have you no pity? Mercy even?” cried the single.

“I do,” replied Noah, “but such decisions are up to God.”

“Then can’t you at least ask Him?”

“No, I can’t. I’ve only been able to speak to Him a couple of times in a few hundred years. Anyway, He speaks to me. I don’t get to speak to Him. Now get out of here, and let me get back to my work that will save all of humanity and animality.”

Noah returned to his hammering and the single, crushed, retreated. He would have to find another way. So he went back and as he turned the corner at the bow of the boat he ran into Damascus.

“Oops, sorry” said the single.

“What are you doing here? Only couples should be behind the boat. Who gave you permission?”

“I don’t need permission. I’m special,” answered the single.

“Couples are special, singles are not,” said Damascus impatiently.

“And I suppose you’re a couple?” asked the single, sarcastically.

“My wife and I. Of course we are,” answered Damascus. 

“So where is she, then?” asked the single cheekily.

“None of your business. Anyway she’s with our children.”

“And they are all couples?” persisted the single.

Damascus looked him up and down. “Who are you, anyway?” asked Damascus, “why should I waste my time talking to you? Get away from here, go back to where you came from.”

“I will not leave. I insist I have a right to get on the boat. Just because I’m special, different that is. I am a couple in myself. There’s nothing else I can tell you.”

“That doesn’t give you the right. The rules are the rules, and they’re made by God.”

“But I have a right.”

“Says who? I’m the boss here, and I say get to the back of the line where you belong.”

The single now became very cross. “I have every right. I’m a human. I have every right.”

“You can’t be human, because if you were there would be two of you.”

“There are.”

“I see only a single. Where’s your other? How can you procreate if you have no other?”

The single looked away. There was no answer to this. Damascus continued, seeing that he now had the upper hand in this silly argument. “I’ll tell you what.”

“Yes?” asked the single full of hope.

“Find a partner, and when there’s two of you, I’ll let you join the line.”

“But I am two, even possibly more.”

“Let’s not start that again. You are obviously one, otherwise you would be two. And Noah said that no hermaphrodites were allowed. Now go!”

The single reluctantly withdrew and slouched towards the end of the line, though it snaked away to the horizon, where the end was, maybe.

*

“All aboard!” called Noah. He stepped back to peruse his sign with great satisfaction. The sign said in large letters:

NO COPULATION ALLOWED ON DECK

COUPLES MUST STAY TOGETHER

NO CROSS-SPECIES INTERMINGLING

HUMANS MUST NOT STRAY INTO ANIMAL QUARTERS

SINGLES WILL BE THROWN OVERBOARD

“Don’t all rush at once, now!” called Damascus, “keep in line, there’s room for everyone.” At that moment, he felt a small drop of rain. He looked towards the horizon. How on earth would all these couples fit? Damascus and the scribe stood at the entrance, making sure that all the couples were perfect couples, the scribe checking each one off as they entered.  But then out of nowhere, the single appeared tugging at the scribe’s elbow, jostling to the front of the line.

“I’m back, and we are a perfect couple” announced the single with much satisfaction, almost cocky.

The single had found a mate, who looked like it had come from the ice age, some kind of prehistoric thing, maybe a human. Now the rain came down in torrents. Damascus squinted through the rain at the single and its partner and pointed in the distance, “then get to the back of the line and wait your turn,” he ordered. They were hardly visible through the torrents of rain, accompanied now by frightening thunder. 

“But I was here before a lot of the others,” whined the single, “it’s not fair.”

“Go to the back of the line,” ordered Damascus once again, with a very tired sigh. “You may be different, but that doesn’t make you special. Go to the back of the line and wait your turn.”

As the end of the line appeared, the scribe, exhausted, but still checking off the passengers, hardly noticed the unpalatable couple shimmering through the rain that poured into his eyes and down his face. He was overjoyed that it was the last couple. Too tired to bother questioning them, he simply entered into the ship’s manifest, “couple, species unknown.” Damascus was so tired he fell asleep, and unbeknownst to him, the scribe with the assistance of the last couple dragged him on to the boat just as it broke away from its mooring. 

Now, God sent great flashes of lightning to indicate that the voyage was beginning. And the ship sailed to who knows where, and to this day has never been found. But we know that it must have survived because couples abound everywhere and in every species all over the world. And the singles, who, having remained silent for thousands of years, have at last come forward and pleaded for their recognition as something special, and continue to demand that they be placed at the head of the line rather than relegated to the end. But as humans have developed the wonderful system of democratic government, there is no line with a front or an end. There is simply a mass within which everyone must find a place; of course, an impossibility.

Moral: Being different might be special, but equity makes no allowances.

32. Civilization

A tribe of cannibals begins the path to civilization

One can readily understand the feelings of revulsion and disgust we felt upon hearing how Ockabunga killed and ate his friend, Doctor Lewis Berger. Indeed, that is how I felt as a longtime friend and student of the great Doctor. But as an anthropologist trained in Doctor Berger's tradition, I must try to see the event from the point of view of Folijot culture, which leads me to conclude that to kill and eat his friend was, for Ockabunga, the supreme act of love; the climax to an intensely intimate relationship. One might even put it in Western terms by saying that Ockabunga took Doctor Berger “into his bosom.” Admittedly, this is a little farfetched because in Western Culture the saying is meant to be symbolic, whereas in Folijot culture the “taking in” is actual.

I anticipate that this observation leaves me open to the charge that I am judging Folijot Culture as “less developed” than Western Culture in the sense that the Folijot are unable to separate the symbolic from the real. I hasten to reply that indeed I consider that they have not made this distinction, but that there is absolutely no basis whatever to claim that the splitting of these two, as has occurred in Western Culture, is either “progress” or desirable. The trouble in Western Culture — and many theorists as well as myself have noted this — is that we have lost contact with the core roots of our existence, the granite of our natures, that our lives have become too abstract, devoid of real meaning. This is the source of our alienation, dis-ease, unhappiness.

One need spend only an hour talking with Ockabunga to see the truth in this assertion. The simplicity with which he sees the world, the clarity of his mind, the almost clairvoyant look in his eyes. He and his fellow warriors suffer no complexes, alienations, guilt. They live at one with nature and each other. The fact that they happen to be head-hunters and cannibals is mostly incidental. In fact, I would argue that in many ways their cannibalism has a most positive effect on their culture. It keeps them tied to the concrete, real meaning of existence which is the cycle of life and death: by eating the corpse, they gain sustenance from death. Life in this sense is brought into direct dependence on death, so that there is no impossible duality between Eros and Thanatos as there is in Western Culture, where we are so infantile in our denial of death, to the point that we deny life as well.

When I first followed Ockabunga to his straw hut, the one in which he and Doctor Berger had lain together for almost three years, my mind was overcome by the terrible anticipation of seeing Doctor Berger's preserved head. In fact, I almost withdrew from the entire expedition because I was so frightened that I would lose control of myself. My mind buzzed with all the possible things that my body could do to me. I might vomit uncontrollably; I might cry; I might attack and kill Ockabunga; or I might direct the soldiers, who were accompanying me, to kill him. I knew, as an anthropologist, that I must not do any of these things.

“Sit down,” said Ockabunga, and I dropped cross-legged onto the straw mat outside the hut; the exact place where I imagined Doctor Berger had reposed many times.

“Thank you,” I said, looking around for the Doctor's head among the others that hung down from the eaves of the hut by thin strands of hair. 

“Doctor Berger was my good friend!” grinned Ockabunga, rolling his eyes. 

“He was my excellent friend also.”

“He teach me very much.” 

“He taught me a lot too.” 

“He teach anatomy, but not understand.” 

“Why not?”

“We try. Nothing there. No electricity.” 

“I don't understand.”

Ockabunga went into his hut and returned with the dried but recognizable head of Doctor Berger. He threw the head to me, forcing me to catch it. To my surprise, instead of reacting with tremor, I was instead fascinated and suffered a compulsion to rub my hands lightly over and over the surface of the Doctor's head. Over and over, I turned it around and around in my hands, feeling the eye sockets, the hard shiny surface. There was something about the touch of it that I couldn't help liking. Saliva even started to run in my mouth, although I was certainly not hungry.

“You see, we make hole, take out brains, no electricity.” Ockabunga reached forward to take the head from me to show where he had opened the cranium. But I wouldn't, couldn't, let it go; had to keep rubbing it. Ockabunga then reached for his spear, and I suddenly came to my senses and dropped the head as though it had become quite hot. He examined the point of his spear.

“This spear kill good Doctor here,” Ockabunga grinned as he pressed his index finger to my chest. I smiled and had to fight the notion that slipped into my mind: that this guy was a goddamned Primitive Savage! A heretical thought I know! But I confess it in order to make known the terrible temptations to which we scientists are sometimes subjected. One of the soldiers stepped forward menacingly. I let him stay there. 

Although I'd learned a lot from Doctor Berger, I've learned a lot more by myself. It's one thing to love these beautiful natives, but it's another to be permissive and protective of them. I wasn't going to let this guy boss me around like he had Berger because the fact of the matter is that I have worked out an unassailable position as regards these different cultures. If you subscribe to the view of the cultural relativists — pioneered by the great Doctor Berger, and now largely adopted worldwide in modern anthropology — it follows that the only thing that counts is how powerful one culture is against another. For example, the Folijot Warriors feast mainly on another neighboring weaker culture; they take it for granted, both the Folijot and the tribe whose members they eat. It's a concrete fact of nature if you understand me. It follows, therefore, that if my culture is stronger, it's only natural that it takes over the Folijot. This is why I came on this expedition with soldiers. It may well be that the Folijot, once very happy, will become unhappy now that they have been brought into contact with the West. This is not to say that the influence of the West is “bad.” It is simply to note the facts of relativism: one's happiness can only be evaluated relative to another. And it is the one whose interests dominate who will be happiest.

It might be argued that this will lead to the destruction of Folijot culture. That may well be so. But who are we as scientists to interfere with the inevitable march of history? To do so is to play God. Dr. Berger in many ways played God by protecting the tribes he discovered because he dared to decide which culture should survive and which one not, while all the time claiming that every culture was as “good” as any other. He was, however, a weak God and suffered a weak God's very ancient fate. I, on the other hand, am a purist. I am determined to allow all events to play themselves out. We must not impose our values on history, and as well, science is a part of history and must be allowed to take its place.

The grant that I received from the A.I.C.F. (American Inter-Cultural Foundation) was substantial. It will allow me to study these natives in far greater depth, and with much greater precision than was ever possible. And, because it will be an open study, my data, in contrast to Doctor Berger's, will be verifiable. Briefly, the research design is as follows.

First, my research assistants will live among the Folijot, participating in head hunting and eating human flesh. We consider this to be absolutely necessary as a preliminary exercise so that we are sure we understand the content of Folijot culture fully. The field workers will then interview (using, of course, a standardized structured schedule) those whose heads are about to be severed, to obtain their attitudes to life and death.

Next, comes the most crucial and innovative step in the research. We will randomly assign members of the tribe into two groups: one group, the control, we will leave alone. The other group, after we have interviewed their potential victims, we will instead provide the potential victim with the opportunity to kill his assailant. (The exact method has not been adequately worked out. We would prefer a gun, which would do the job quickly and cleanly, but the problem with this is that the victims would have to be selected in advance and taught to use the gun, thus introducing an extraneous factor into our carefully controlled research design). Then we will immediately interview the would-be assailant as to his attitudes to life and death. One can see that this experimental intervention creates a situation of crisis which we consider to be very conducive to interview response depth. We have termed it the” generative crisis technique.” After the “victim” has killed his “assailant,” we will then re-interview him to check whether his attitudes to life and death have changed. One can see that the research design is quite complicated, but very rigorous, and, most important, achieves a blend of two heretofore competing approaches to research: the experimental method is applied in a real life setting.

It will be seen that an experimental intervention is also an attempt (unashamedly, I might add) to introduce a distinct change in the dynamic structure of Folijot society. It introduces the notion of reciprocity —that is, if you kill someone else, you must expect to be killed in return. The Folijot, while remaining warriors, become no longer predators, but rather kill with the expectation of being killed. 

Thus we have introduced the rudiments of a just society.

31. A Meeting of Relatives

Famous anthropologist unravels the primitive mind

Dr. Lewis Berger was an anthropologist who became famous in the 1950s for his daring expeditions into the depths of dark continents and other far-away places. He was the first, and sometimes only, white man that many of the lost tribes of his discovery ever knew. Dr. Berger's fame also arose from his great humanism. He was always concerned that, by bringing these Primitive Peoples into contact with Western Civilization, their cultures would be destroyed, their “souls ripped from their bodies.” Therefore, when he judged that a particular tribe was, on balance, living as happily or more happily than the people of his own culture (Oxford, England), he thereby left them alone and refused to give up any information as to where they might be found. Naturally, this led to lots of criticism from his fellow anthropologists, because it required him to conduct many of his expeditions in deep secrecy. There was no way of establishing the “validity of his findings,” as they say in social science. Matters were made even more difficult for Dr. Berger when it came to convincing funding agencies to finance his expeditions since they were simply not courageous enough to risk their money on “some wild safari,” as one evaluator so coarsely put it. And Dr. Berger wrote so colorfully, many suspected that he sat underneath one of those shady date palms, the exciting sounds of the jungle around him, and dreamed it all up. None of these things concerned Dr. Berger one scrap. In fact, they played into his hands since all he wanted was to “lead” lone expeditions, which cost, comparatively speaking, very little money -- just sweat and exertion on his part.

Dr. Berger's last expedition was into the jungles of central Indonesia, where he had heard of a fierce tribe of head hunters that had resisted, indeed repelled, all attempts by explorers and even the soldiers of the Indonesian government, to penetrate the seclusion of their villages. There is little doubt that Doctor Berger, somehow, slipped into this tribe and lived among them for some time.

The full story of his disappearance will never be known because it was three years before anyone became alarmed that something may have happened to him: people had become used to his many secret and solitary withdrawals from civilization. In reconstructing the events that led to the doctor's disappearance, I have had to rely on the rare jabberings of his friend, Ockabunga, who was one of the tribe's young leaders. Snippets of the Doctor's field notes were found sewn into Ockabunga's delicately feathered head-dress, and these have been of inestimable value. For the rest, I have had to imagine it:

Friday, June 14, 1959

After five days tracking around the colorful ghettoes of Djakarta, I at last found a capable native of the Ung Fungo tribe who agreed to be my guide for six pence a day, meals provided. This tribe is thought to have contact with the Folijot warriors. The sun is baking me, the sky seems white hot. But this is the dry season, so at least I'm thankful that the steam of the tropics isn't yet closing in.

Thursday, July 30, 1959

A quick note. Have walked for days and days, chopping our way through grass, 8 to 10 feet high. Snakes, reptiles, all those animals that slink about. The stench from black mud under foot. It's like Hell, the sun's heat penetrates even the thickest cover. My guide Tojo doesn't even sweat. Sings a monotonous tune over and over. I'm getting old. May turn back. Exhausted—

*

No field notes describe Doctor Berger's first encounter with the Folijot warriors, although we are relatively sure that his guide abandoned him in fear, and that he remained alone in the jungle for several days, resting and gathering his strength. In what follows, I have reconstructed what I think may have occurred. 

When he was searching for a snake that he could kill for food, Dr. Berger pushed back a large succulent leaf, and there standing before him was Ockabunga, short and stocky, with fatty breasts, a huge smile on his face; a forehead that reminded Doctor Berger of the pictures he had seen of prehistoric man.

“How do you do, I'm Doctor Lewis Berger.”

“!” replied Ockabunga, laying his spear aside, and extending the other hand out in a friendly gesture. 

Ockabunga was a man of few words, his most common one being a deep grunting sound that came from somewhere in his chest. No English phonics reproduce the sound accurately, so I will use the notation “!” when it is necessary to represent it.

From Doctor Berger's notes, and from what we now know about the Folijot warriors, it remains a mystery as to why the natives received Doctor Berger when they had so violently rejected all others. And Doctor Berger a white man, too! My own theory is that Ockabunga fell in love with Doctor Berger, in the sense that he was fascinated by the Doctor's toothless smile, reddish sunburnt skin, and twinkling eyes. It seems that Doctor Berger moved in with Ockabunga and that they developed, what one might call, an intimate relationship:

*

Tuesday, October 22, 1959

I have been unable to communicate with Ockabunga except on a physical level. He has said, perhaps, no more than 3 different words to me. Physically, however, he is most forthright. Each night after a large meal of juicy meat and vegetables, we sit in front of his grass hut, sipping coconut juice. I talk and talk and talk, telling him of the wonders of our civilization. He nods his head, smiles, grunts. Then, after some hours, he leans toward me, grips my arm firmly and grins widely. We go into his hut and lay on his straw mat together—

December 1959

We talked about medicine last night. Ockabunga seems very interested. I drew diagrams for him, he got excited, pulled me into bed. The Folijot sex and kinship patterns are still a complete mystery. I have so far seen no women or children. This small village of 12 huts, arranged in a circle, houses 24 young men of Ockabunga's age. One of them goes off into the jungle and returns with cooked food each day. I have asked to see the women and children, but Ockabunga pretends he doesn't understand me. Yet I know he does. His eyes are frightening, they are so lucid and penetrating. During our evening talks, he sometimes looks at me as if he knew it all and much more. Very unnerving—

March 1960

— I’m losing track of time. Dates no longer matter. The lethargy induced by tropical heat, and my liaison with Ockabunga, is destroying my soul. He's no longer an exotic native. I hate him. He's kept me, prisoner, all this time, and I've only now understood this. I have resolved that tomorrow, I won't go to bed with him.

*

The remainder of Doctor Berger's notes is scribbled furiously, often both horizontally and vertically across the same page. Most of it is illegible, none of it is dated. I have tried to piece together the remains of his field notes along with my own interviews with Ockabunga to construct the rest of the story.

It seems that the next evening, when Ockabunga beckoned Doctor Berger into his hut, the doctor said, “No!” Ockabunga replied, “!!” and sat down again. He pointed to the doctor's mouth, to his throat, to his own head, then traced a shape on the ground. The doctor quickly recognized that Ockabunga was, at last, communicating positively, he wanted to be educated. The doctor was elated, immediately began to teach Ockabunga to speak English, and in only a few months, Ockabunga was speaking it, “like a native,” as they say.

Then it was Doctor Berger's turn to be educated. He was taken head hunting, taught how to stalk another native, how to chop off the head leaving enough skin on the neck, so that when the head was boiled in special herbs, the skin had room to shrink, and settled smoothly over the hardened flesh of the cheeks.

“When will I see the women and children?” Berger asked.

“When you have cut off your first head,” replied Ockabunga.

Many months went by. The good doctor could not, of course, bring himself to kill someone and cut off his head. He wanted to leave this tribe and get back to civilization. The more he learned about their language and lifestyle, the more he began to hate them, Ockabunga especially. This upset him because he had never felt this way about the many tribes he had previously discovered. He had always felt a special kind of love for them. He never judged them, he always accepted them for what they were. His role was not that of judge, but of scientist and humanist.

One day, Ockabunga touched his arm gently — the first time he had touched him since the doctor's loud rejection — and smiled:

“Today you will see your first child,” he said. “And as well you may have your own hut and may take in your own companion. We will have a feast to celebrate.”

The doctor was both pleased and worried. He had waited so long to see this child. But he was being moved out from under Ockabunga's protective wing.

The feast began. Two natives emerged from the jungle carrying a large wooden dish, garnished with big banana leaves, and in the middle, the still sizzling, dark brown child, the legs trussed up under the chin, roast yams spaced around the dish, a paw-paw slice wedged into the mouth. Cheers of approval went up from the tribe.

The doctor feigned illness, which was not so difficult under the circumstances. He emerged from his hut several days later, weak and emaciated from lack of food. Ockabunga approached him.

“Come back to my hut,” he said. “I don't think you are ready yet.”

And the Doctor gathered up his things and moved back in with his host. The days passed, the doctor regained his strength, and with it, his resourcefulness. He had realized that many bodies were going to waste. He looked around Ockabunga's hut and counted 63 heads of all shapes and sizes, as well as 37 skulls. The bodies could be made use of. He would teach Ockabunga some anatomy.

That evening, they sat in front of Ockabunga's hut, as they had done now every night for over two years. It was hot, steamy, and the insects buzzed around the little camp fire. The soft smell of the straw mats on which they sat oozed upward, mixing with the odor of their bodies. Ockabunga had one of those all-knowing looks in his eyes.

“!” he said.

“Have you ever taken the time to look inside these corpses that you throw away?” asked Doctor Berger.

“We want only the heads. They have the spirit.”

“That may be true.” Doctor Berger paused, realizing that perhaps he should begin his anatomy lesson with the part of the body in which the Folijot were most interested. “Now take the human brain,” he continued, pointing to his own head, “it's the most amazing part of our bodies. “Yes, it is the spirit,” nodded Ockabunga, looking wise.

“It's more than that, Ockabunga. Do you know that it's made up of millions of tiny little cells that turn on and off, and talk to each other in electricity? You remember what I told you about electricity, don't you?”

“Yes.”

“The brain controls all the rest of the body, you know. It receives electrical impulses, processes them, then sends messages back. You see? When I raise my hand, my brain has told it to do so.” The doctor tapped his head with his finger to emphasize the point.

“Different parts of the brain control different parts of the body. The front part here, for example, controls speech, and the amazing thing is that the right side controls the left side of the body, and the left the right, isn't that amazing?”

Then Doctor Berger broke his rule never to make an advance to a native. He reached across and stroked Ockabunga's cheek with his open palm. “Tomorrow, or the next time when you bring in a head, we must cut it up, and I'll teach you what is inside. What do you think of that?”

“!” said Ockabunga, and he rose up, stretched his hand down and softly felt all over the Doctor's head. Then he walked over to his long spear which was leaning against the hut. Their eyes met, and the Doctor was frightened by the all-seeing clarity of Ockabunga's gaze. There was no silly grin. “No simple savage this,” thought Doctor Berger, as Ockabunga raised the spear carefully, then thrust it deep into the Doctor's heart. He died with his eyes open, according to Ockabunga who explained, “he had seen the truth.”

The next day, the women and children of the tribe were invited to the feast of the white man. Ockabunga severed the head, then very excitedly explained to the rest of his tribe what was inside. They carefully opened a cavity in the back of the skull and scooped out the brains. They found no electricity, just a thick pulp which, when lightly fried in the fat of a wild pig, and sprinkled with jungle herbs, has an exquisite taste. 

30. The Zoo of Enlightenment

An exciting exercise in woke punishment

In the magnificent Museum of Old and New Art, in Hobart Tasmania, there was once an exhibit composed of a middle aged  man, cropped hair, naked to the waist, sitting upright on a chair, motionless, only the image to behold, enhanced by various tattoos on chest and arms. That was it. The man did nothing. Just sat staring blankly ahead. Visitors gawked at this unexpected sight. It was a fad in zoos many years ago to exhibit a human behind bars, going about his daily business for people to stare at, just as they might stare at other animal species in the zoo.  It was in the early days of the second enlightenment (late 20th century) that made people in the west accept the idea that the world should not be centered on humans as something special, that all species were equal, that therefore animals should be treated as humans, and if that were not possible, humans treated like animals. That was the small, if not a little confused message in those days. Of course, some eastern religions had long recognized this, much to the criticism by the west, the worship of cows as sacred, for example in parts of India. This enlightened view of life expressed itself in the west in many ways, the most obvious, by the rise of the vegetarians and their more extreme relatives the vegans. In the 21st century, the second enlightenment continues to flourish,  traditional boundaries between species now blurred, and has expanded its influence among the intelligentsia and their handmaidens the media, to eradicate the traditional boundaries between genders and their respective intercourses. We look forward to the new forms of art that will be created and discovered during the second enlightenment. 

Such is the modern zoo established recently in California, by far the most progressive state of the United States of America, indeed, the progressive leader of the rest of the world, especially the Twitter world. It therefore comes as little surprise that San Francisco, with money donated by the dark knights behind Google, Twitter, Facebook and other beacons of 21st century enlightenment, has torn down its old zoo completely and established it anew on the island where Alcatraz, the infamous prison, once stood. This zoo is like no other. It has no walls or bars except the wall that encircles its entire perimeter. Nor is it free range, although some might insist that it really is. But the popular free range zoos only allow certain animals to roam their paddocks and fields. They do not allow a free for all—the classic animal kingdom if you like, to range at will. In those zoos, lions and tigers are well fed, so they have no need to eat other animals that roam the zoo. 

Think of any animal species. It is there in the Alcatraz zoo. You may not see it, depending on where you roam. That’s right, not only do the animals roam, so do the humans, visitors or specimens. That is why there are many large signs that warn visitors against being eaten. The zookeepers do not feed the animals. The island is refreshed in such a way that the animals feast on each other and on whatever the perfectly reproduced “jungle” provides. So if humans are silly enough to offer themselves up to the animal predators, so be it.  The zoo has only been open for two months, and so far, there has been no formal complaint laid concerning any ingestion of a human. It is true that one elephant was attacked by a pride of tigers, and every last morsel eaten by tigers, dingoes, and the like. There were no public complaints. So why should there be any if it happened to be a human? A human is no more special than an elephant. Or an ant, for that matter (so the extremists say).

Visitors to the old Alcatraz island, when the prison was still in its pristine, ugly condition, may complain that a great icon of America’s criminal history has been destroyed.  The builders have retained two of the original cell blocks, though they have been refurbished to provide the proper physical and cultural environment for visitors and specimens alike.  Cell block one is what might be called the justice block—where the unique ability of human species to punish each other is on display (more about this exciting exhibit shortly). The second cell block is reserved for overnight and extended stays of animals and humans upon their request. That block is closed to the public once it has reached full capacity. Some have called this the animal brothel. For the moment only two species, humans and monkeys are permitted in that experimental cell block. This does not mean that other species are discriminated against. Simply we must take small steps in our great progressive agenda. But be assured for those of you who doubt us: we are committed to breaking down the boundaries of all species. To keep species separate, in our considered opinion, is tantamount to racism, the higher form of which is speciesism.

One more important point. Animals of all species do not carry weapons, though there are rare species (monkeys for example) that have been known to pick up a big stick and hit someone with it. We do allow that level of tool acquisition and use by any animals or humans that are capable of it. However, we do not allow the carrying of any other weapons, whether guns, arrows, or spears. Sharp sticks and stones are permitted. So is using stones as projectiles. 

It is quite understandable if you are already thinking that this is a plan for disaster. Of course, being killed and eaten is a disaster for the one killed. And you may also be thinking that the odds for survival in our real life zoo are very much in favor of the “lion king.” That remains to be seen. Besides, we object to the imperialist tone of that expression. America was established to get rid of the tyranny of a king. That was a result of the first enlightenment. This is a new age. Further, it has a genderist connotation. We think of all species as on a level playing field. All species are born equal. None is assumed to be greater than the other. All species matter. There is no better example of our commitment to this progressive idea than the cell block two exhibit.

Cell block one, the justice block, is not really a cell block. We retained only a few of the originals cells of the block (Al Capone’s and the Birdman’s for example), since we all know now that the major form of justice produced by the 18th century so-called enlightenment was prison, of which Alcatraz, one of its many monstrosities, is a shining example. The remaining cells were demolished to make way for the construction of the gaming room where we have perfected a justice system that eradicates all bias and systemic speciesism from the justice system. It is the opposite to enlightenment justice in which there is a finite set of crimes defined in language that only lawyers understand, presided over by judges whose fallibility is well known, and lawyers make much money off the backs of their clients, whether offenders or victims. Instead, we have erased the entire notion of offender and victim. We consider all persons, actually all species, capable of crimes, or we prefer to call them accidents or simply events that must be punished. What these events are it is unnecessary to define or even identify. In fact, of course, everyone knows that you cannot punish an event. You can only punish a person, or should I say, one of a species. Or, more precisely, one must have an object to punish. For example, kicking one’s dog is an act that, in the old world, might be punishable. But again, one cannot punish the act, only the individual who did it. 

Our solution to this unnecessarily complicated problem of who should be punished and what for is simple. It eradicates completely any possibility of injustice or bias. We leave it to chance. Hence our gaming room on Alcatraz. Visitors to our zoo must sign the waiver agreement that they will abide by all rules and restrictions of the zoo, and that they enter the game room at their own risk and choice. When they enter, they receive a number and when the room is full to capacity, we literally spin the wheel and the first number up identifies the first receiver of justice. In the outside world we know that about one person every ten minutes commits some kind of crime. Thus, we spin the wheel every ten minutes. If your number comes up you step into the pain infliction machine and are subjected to a brief, but very painful, electric shock to the buttocks. The shock is administered by whatever species happens to step on one of the large levers that are hidden about the zoo, including outside the game room. Thus, the randomly chosen justice recipient may be punished by an unknown species, and that punisher may even be ignorant of its role in punishing. There are many difficulties with administering this justice and we have much to do to make sure that it cannot be tampered with. Our aim is to produce truly pure justice that is incorruptible, applicable to all regardless of their species. The misleading portrayals invented by the corrupt 18th century enlightenment officials of “lady justice” blindfolded holding the scales of justice in one hand, has always been a lie. Our justice is pure, simple, and incorruptible. In cell block one you not only see justice administered, but you also have the chance to participate, if you are lucky.

Pleas of “innocence” by the way are never accepted. Our justification for this rigid rule is the famous and prescient observation made by the only great mind of the old enlightenment, Franz Kafka, whom we hold in great awe. He wrote in his wonderful story The Penal Colony: “Guilt is never to be doubted.” It is inscribed above the entrance to the justice room. The idea was born in the old enlightenment. We have put it into practice.

Now for cell block two. Be warned. To some, what follows may be stressful, and may cause sleepless nights. However, we do not provide prurient descriptions of the experiences in cell block two. Here, we provide only a general sketch of what happens, or may happen. One cannot for sure predict exactly what trysts will arise. It depends on many factors, the time of day, when a particular species has eaten, the actual physiological and structural make-up of the species, if you see what I mean. Inter-species intercourse may not be physically possible, though if you have watched birds at it, it is a marvel that they reproduce. The same with a large dog and a tiny dog. On the other hand species that are roughly the same size such as a horse and a donkey, are able to cross, though the outcomes are sometimes surprising. If you buy the premium ticket, you will have the opportunity to experiment yourself. We have had some customers who have a fantasy of being able to fly. At least, would like to have children who could live out that fantasy. Yes, that’s right. The second enlightenment does not accept many of the old supposed adages, such as “pigs can’t fly.” One day, the interactive experiences possible in cell block two may show just how wrong that assertion is.

We have retained the division into cells in this and cell block one. Generally, we have knocked out the walls between every other cell to make them larger, and we have kept the bars, and the locks on the doors. We have found this necessary because, as you may know, some species can be aggressive at times, in fact some, such as certain grasshoppers, will eat their partner after sex. There is also the constant fear—I hesitate to use that word—as generally we do not encourage fear except when it is born into certain species.  Some species live in fear most of the time, such as grown deer and most humans, though their babies have no such fear, and for their own good must be taught it. 

In any case, we keep a selection of species in each cell, having assessed their condition or receptivity, the stage in their reproductive cycle, and so on. We rotate these different species through the cell block, and allow free cellular interaction with our human clients according to their (plural) wishes. Human clients must sign a consent form, indemnifying us from damages, and also identifying next of kin so that should something happen, the species becomes pregnant or dies for example, these outcomes may be transferred according to the client’s wishes. 

Some of the cells that visitors may select, have options for darkening the cell, even making it pitch black. This means generally that visitors who come simply to look, rather than to take advantage of our interactive experiences, may not see what they hope to see. We do provide night vision goggles, but in environments of total darkness that some species live, that may be impossible. However, overnight and even week or month sojourns may be allowed depending on the species. 

Although we have not been operating long enough to see the production of cross progeny, we do anticipate that this will be a popular and natural outcome of our real life zoological experiences. We are working on developing a best practices schedule for those who parent such progeny, and, depending upon the assessment by our highly experienced social workers, we will come to an arrangement with the parents whether a home stay is recommended, or whether the cross progeny should remain here in the zoo. 

No doubt you are already imagining all kinds of horrific scenes in which one species devours—in every sense of that word—its partner or progeny. Once again, we remind you that this is a real life interactive zoo. All behaviors that occur in the wild (a nasty racist word) are possible and indeed encouraged in this zoo. Its outcomes are explored and demonstrated in cell block one.

A modern zoo would not be complete without a performance arena, which is what we made from the old exercise yard of Alcatraz, famous for its image of the criminals walking around and around the yard, single file in a circle, as imagined in many drawings and photoshopped photographs. But even the smallest of animal zoos have always included in their exhibits, a performance section where animals of a wide variety are “civilized” by being taught to do many wondrous tricks by the masters, the humans. In the performances we offer, we try to level the playing field as far as it is possible, though keeping an eye out for acts that animals can do and humans cannot. The most well-known of these is the seal balancing a beach ball on its nose. How many humans can do that? It turns out quite a few, with the right training. Our “ringmaster” as we call our chief training executive will show you how it’s done (additional charge for admission to the performances). However, we do like to keep the performances as part of our overall interactive approach, so the trainer will allow members of the audience to select the method of training, (reinforcement with rewards, or punishment with painful electric shock). Of course, the majority of the audience favors the electric shock schedule. They say electric shock is more “humane” (a species-ist word if ever there was one, certainly an insult to the animals including those that claim humanity), because it does not draw blood of even leave much of a mark on the body, or more correctly the exo- or intro-skeleton, thorax, head, abdomen, legs arms or antennae.

As an aside, you may have taken offense at our use of the word “ringmaster” which on first hearing sounds prejudiced, certainly the nasty connotation of master and slave. The word comes, of course, from the now defunct circuses that treated their animals badly, though we insist, not as bad as regular zoos, since circuses did have humans perform mainly as clowns and sometimes as acrobats and contortionists, performing alongside their equals, elephants, tigers, lions etcetera. 

Here is a brief listing of the performing species, though it changes constantly, depending on what species are available and at what stage of regeneration they have reached. However, we do apologize for not including microorganisms in our displays or performances. Be assured that this is among our forthcoming exhibits, when we have obtained the necessary funding to set up micro-view facilities. And to be honest, the extremists on equality are putting great pressure on us to consider microorganisms as part of the universal species list, so they argue that micro-organisms should have the same rights as larger species. Just because they are small, does not mean they have fewer rights. They have the same right to life as any other species or class of species. Obviously there are very serious implications of this expansive view of universal rights and these are still being worked out. For the moment, our leading science ethicists do not agree that microorganisms, especially those that may cause widespread death and destruction such as a pandemic, should be treated just like any other form of life which we hold precious. For the moment, they advocate keeping alive only a few samples of such species (one never knows whether they may turn out to be a force for the good), and the rest should be euthanized.  

The performances that may be seen in our interactive arena are:

Applying electric shock, teaching a bull terrier to bite a black person’s hand and lick a white person’s hand (and vice-versa).

Applying electric shock to train a person to lick the paw of a dog, and to bite the hand of a monkey.

Using a sharp prodding instrument, such as used by Indian elephant trainers, to teach an elephant to balance on one leg. Do the same with a person except require the balance on an inflated beach ball.

Have humans imitate copulation techniques from a group of macaques, and explore inter-species mating.  

Have humans fight bare handed with selections of species that are upright walkers or runners, such as the gorilla and monkey species, kangaroos, and bears.

We provide this list merely as suggestions and to give the flavor of what to expect. Remember, we are entering the second enlightenment. Anything is possible. We encourage you to send us suggestions for species performances, now that we have opened your minds to these fascinating possibilities.

It was the performance arena that forced us to face up to the biggest taboo of the last many centuries, culminating in the first enlightenment, that raised humans up to a very high pedestal. The second enlightenment, while much has been achieved in breaking down decrepit taboos and old fashioned practices that have no cultural value, or that discriminate with or without intent, has forced us at the Zoo of Enlightenment to face up to the one immovable taboo that has remained unquestioned in civilizations everywhere. This is the taboo of cannibalism. Yes, there have been unique occurrences when cannibalism was forced on people marooned on an island, or lost in a desert, or some other extenuating circumstance. Though as evidence of the depth of this taboo, many of those caught in those unusual situations chose to die before giving in to eating another of their species. Once we saw the insidious speciesism hiding within the expression “Animal Kingdom” as we noted earlier, we realized that we had to confront it. 

Generally speaking, the supposed hierarchy of the animal kingdom puts those at its top (lions, tigers etc. plus humans) of the “food chain” as it is called, essentially an arbitrary ordering of those who live off the lives of those beneath them. This is hardly in line with the idea of species equality engendered by the second enlightenment. Besides, there is also the question of population control. But we are getting ahead of ourselves.

As an intermediate step  towards full species equality, we offer a full funeral service to our premium customers who can have themselves of their loved ones who pass away returned to the “animal kingdom” and thus fed to the lions and other meat eating species. There are certain formal requirements for those offering their bodies, and our brochure outlines all of these. For example, whether you want the bones to be crushed and turned into fertilizer, pecked clean by vultures and other meat eating birds or animals, and so on. Our aim is always to assist you in returning your loved ones to the earth from whence they came. This is, however, an interim step.  By the way, we will offer a wide choice of animals for feasting, and it is part of our ten year plan to add a shark pool on the west side of the island where loved ones can be fed to the sharks.

We look forward to breaking down the greatest taboo of all that has masqueraded as the jewel of civilization, that of cannibalism, exploited by the imperialists of the first enlightenment to justify their colonization of so-called primitive peoples who routinely practiced it. As part of our reparations to those “savages” we will accept applications from those whose natural pre-imperialist societies were destroyed, to join the “animal kingdom” in the arena and stalk volunteer white supremacists and feast upon them. Our ultimate aim, of course, is to have all peoples, regardless of race or color, to feast on each other, to live in “wild” equality. We acknowledge that this is maybe an unreachable goal, but  following the Paris accord on climate change, we believe in setting up such goals to spur societies on, to make the commitment of reparations and repair the damage done to the world by 18th century enlightenment and before. By the year 2050 we will achieve zero inequality.

Moral:  Unequal punishment is the handmaiden of justice

29. Discipline

Parallel fathers discipline their sons.

Some time around 353 BCE, there was a Roman consul Titus Manlius, famed in battle and the most upright and respected politician in Rome. He was also a stickler for discipline, possibly one of the founders of the military discipline and martial laws of modern times. Orders from above had to obeyed no matter what. There was no leniency, the orders had to be obeyed to the letter. 

So it was in one of the perennial battles Rome waged, this time with the Samnites against the Latins, Manlius and his co-consul Publius Decius were convinced that military discipline had become too lax and that it needed to be reasserted. Manlius therefore called his legions together and made a moving speech reminding them of the importance of discipline and that orders must be obeyed absolutely. And he restated his long held views on morality, pointing out his own virtue and total devotion to a moral life. He also recounted how important it was for Roman soldiers to work together as teams, immediately follow orders when formations had to be changed. Legions had to be deployed according to the battle conditions, such as the Phalanx, the tortoise and others. It was the brilliance of Roman discipline to deploy their formations quickly that made the Roman military the great fighting force it was. Their methods dominated the battlefields of Europe for centuries, certainly to the end of the 19th century, particularly by Napoleon.

After his moving speech, and cheers of “Manlius! Manlius!” by the legions, Manlius, sent them into battle. He was particularly proud on this day because his son, Sextus, was a Centurion, commander of eighty men. Eager to make a name for himself and to please his father, Sextus, instead of maintaining the formation he had been ordered to do, saw an opportunity to overcome several groups of Latin skirmishers, so led his men into battle, breaking formation. He and his men crushed the enemy and returned to base victorious. 

When the entire battle was over and Manlius had won yet another battle, he called the legions together.

“Fellow soldiers! You are bathed in glory today, having shown courage and devotion that has no equal. I am so humbled by your great bravery.”

The legions cheered, “Manlius! Manlius!”

Manlius raised his hand to indicate silence. The troops stirred a little as they calmed down. Then Manlius spoke in a stern and solemn voice.

“Sextus Manlius, my son. Step forward!”

Sextus stepped forward, beaming, proud of having led his men to victory.

Manlius spoke again. “Soldiers all! Witness this Centurion, who disobeyed my clear order to remain in formation until the order is given to do otherwise. He broke formation and led his century into battle, and although victorious, it clearly defied my order. The punishment in the military for disobeying an order is death.”

The legions stirred, but of course said nothing, not even a whisper.

Manlius continued. “It is therefore my moral duty, according to military law, to sentence you to be beheaded. This punishment to be carried out immediately!”

Sextus dropped to his knees, tears in his eyes, but also accepting his fate. He knew it was deserved. The camp Prefect stepped forward, raised his sword and delivered the blow.

*

Some time in the 20th century, Freddy lived in a modest house in a distant suburb of Geelong called Norlane. His dad worked at the local Ford Motor company. He had built their house and planted the garden and was very proud of it. Freddy, being just ten years old took it all for granted, of course. He often played in the front yard on the grass and mowed the lawn when his dad asked him to. His mum stayed inside most of the time, cooking and sewing, and knitting. One of the things that his dad was very proud of, though complained all the time about it, was the golden privet hedge that ran across the entire front of the garden. It had become so high that Freddy could hardly see over it. He had to stand on tip toes to watch the cars go back and forth on the Melbourne Road. 

On this day, having mowed the lawn, Freddy decided that he would do something special for his dad. He would trim the hedge to save him the bother. He went into the garage to retrieve the clippers, had a bit of practice opening and closing them. They didn’t seem too hard to use, though his dad had told him on a number of occasions that they were too dangerous for him to use and that he was not to touch them. But his dad complained so much when he trimmed the hedge, Freddy he was sure he would be really surprised and happy when he came home and it was all done.

And so Freddy set to work. It took him much longer than he expected, and his arms got really tired. As well, he had to stand on a box to be able to reach the top. Clipping the sides, his dad had always said, was the easiest. It was the top that was hard, and now Freddy understood why. He sat down to rest for a while, and noticed his mum peaking at him through the front window. But she didn’t come out, although she knew he shouldn’t touch the clippers.

He had just finished the job and stepped back to admire his handiwork, when his dad arrived home in their old A model Ford. He pulled into the drive and hurried over to Freddy. 

“Freddy,” he said, “What have you done?”

“I thought I’d do the hedge to save you having to do it,” said Freddy proudly.

“But look at the top of it,” complained dad, “it’s not straight. It has to be perfectly straight, not wobbly and all over the place. Besides, I told you never to touch the clippers.”

His dad was angry. Not what Freddy had expected. And he was annoyed with himself that it had not occurred to him that the top of the hedge should be straight. Of course it should! But he had been too engrossed in cutting it, he took no notice of whether he was cutting straight or not.

“Gee, I’m sorry dad. I thought…”

“That’s the trouble with you, you don’t think. Think before you act! Aren’t I always telling you that?” 

Freddy knew he was too old to cry, but he was now on the brink of tears. “Gees dad,” was all he could think of to say.

His dad looked at him, and then looked at the lawn. “The lawn looks good. Here’s your pocket money. I ought not give it to you.”

“Thanks dad.” Freddy was puzzled and disappointed. He didn’t expect to be paid for the hedge. He did it to please his dad. It was the same for the lawn, really. 

“But you disobeyed me,” said his dad with a frown. “I don’t know what mum has cooked for dinner, but you will not be getting any. It will be straight to bed for you.”

“But dad!”

“No buts.”

Moral: Discipline gained, empathy lost.

28. Punishment Therapy

A restauranteur seeks counsel during COVID lockdown.

It takes a long time to qualify as a psychotherapist. Matilda White after graduating with a Ph. D. in psychology from Melbourne University, obtained additional certifications in Rogerian and Pavlovian therapy when she served as an intern at New York’s Bellevue Hospital. She then returned to Melbourne and served another four years as psychotherapist at the University of Melbourne Hospital Parkville clinic for mental health, tucked away in one of the fancy row houses on Royal Parade. Now, thirty four years old and unmarried, she at last settled into a private practice. She had no time for a personal relationship. All her time was spent on relationships with clients. For many years, her various colleagues who took it upon themselves to give her advice, informed her, often intrusively, that she was too devoted to her work, that she should “get a life,” that it was unhealthy to work such long ours to the exclusion of all else. She couldn’t count the times that she had been lectured with the old saying: “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.” Putting aside the sexist connotations of that outdated saying, she often wanted to say back to her well-meaning colleagues that devotion to work was the healthiest thing that anyone could do. And besides she had many relationships, all with her clients. She valued such relationships above everything else. By serving her clients she was serving herself. That’s right. It was healthy, she was convinced, that she be dependent on her clients just as her clients were dependent on her. It seemed just. It ensured that each did not take undue advantage of the other. How many relationships had she noticed among her friends and colleagues where the stronger exploited the other? It was an occupational hazard of therapists that they might lapse into exploiting their clients. The pressure of time (as more or less assured by the ways in which Medicare reimbursements worked and the ceaseless demands of insurance companies) constantly weighed on the shoulders of all practitioners who dealt with clients.

It takes a long time to become a patient of psychotherapy. There are a lot of factors involved. Of course the main one is the process of denial, the natural tendency of humans to deny problems that face them, their infinite capacity for self-deception. This is followed by the terrible fear that one’s colleagues or friends or relatives may find out that you are seeing a therapist. “What on earth can be wrong with them?” Or, alternatively, “it’s about time. There’s something really wrong with them.” 

John Paolo was such a person, like any other hard working person, or so it appeared. He owned a very successful Italian restaurant and pastry shop on Lygon Street, Carlton, a chic suburb of Melbourne that served the many professors and students of Melbourne University. He worked long hours, chatted with his regular customers, supervised his young staff (usually students) and worked as a barista as well at busy times. What would such a successful, congenial person like John Paolo need from a psychotherapist?

First of all, you may have noticed from his name that John was Italian, of course. He was raised in a loving Italian family (could there be a family that was not loving?) that migrated to Australia two generations ago. The trouble was, though, that he took a disliking to the Roman Catholic church and the demands it made on his family’s lives, not to mention money. Worse, his loving and doting mother had him pegged to go into the priesthood. The day she pestered him to do so was the day he graduated from high school and immediately got a job as a barista in one of the few coffee shops then in Carlton. She hugged him and said, “I’m so proud that now you’re ready to become a priest.” He lost his temper, raised his voice and in anger, told her to mind her own business and to shut up!

He had felt really bad after that, and of course he apologized. He even went to confession and confessed to the priest, whoever he was, and received platitudes and useless demands of whatever number of Hail Marys to repeat. John Paolo on that day, as he left the church lost his faith and never returned to it except for special occasions when relatives got married, or christenings. As the years went by and he threw himself into his work, and got his own coffee shop and later a restaurant up and running, he had no time for anything else. You might say his work was his faith. And to see the customers come in, the money mount up, what more could one want?

Unfortunately, the year was 2020, the year of the corona virus. All Victoria, especially Melbourne was locked down. His restaurant and bar closed. His life’s work, not so much ruined, he had enough money tucked away to withstand a year or so of income loss. Initially, it did not bother him. But after a couple of months, there were fewer and fewer things for him to attend to with his business. He had way too much time on his hands. Without work. What was there? He began waking up in the middle of the night, thoughts running through his head. Always bad thoughts. Memories of things he had done wrong. Little things and big things. They came to him every night. Perhaps the worst, his yelling at his mother about her wanting him to join the priesthood. It became so bad, he made a list of things he had done wrong, then screwed it up and threw it away. He tried repeating prayers he had learned in chapel when a choir boy, and that worked a bit, but the bad memories, especially those that he had tried to forget, many to do with sexual relationships. He had been a bit rough on occasions. Said some things too. Why must these memories come to haunt him every night?

He tried sleeping pills. But soon realized that they were addictive and blunted his mind, a condition that he could not withstand. He again thought of going back to the church and confessing to a priest. He got as far as the church door, but turned back. He had lost his faith when a teenager and it would never come back to him, he was sure. The trouble was he had too much idle time on his hands. Spent all the time thinking about himself. He needed someone to talk to. And that was when, as he was walking aimlessly around the neighborhood, he passed the mental health clinic in Parkville. The thought that he might be mentally ill, of course, shocked him. But in the end, the sleepless nights, the uncontrollable bad memories, forced him to the edge, and finally on one of his walks, he stepped into the Melbourne University Hospital Clinic for Mental Health.

“Your problem is that you have too much guilt, John,” announced Doctor White. She sat across from her client, John Paolo, on a faux suede couch, her legs together and knees slanting to the side, small dainty feet, and toes, the nails painted in deep purple, peeping out from elegant Italian sandals.

In contrast, John Paolo sat stiffly on a wooden chair with a woven wicker seat, no cushion. “I don’t need a therapist to tell me that,” he said, trying to keep his very strong feelings of aggression bottled up. “That’s what I’ve been telling you the last couple of sessions. That’s why I’m here.”

“Yes, indeed. I was just summing up, smiled Dr. White, unruffled. The long list of bad memories of past, shall we call them events, is certainly overwhelming. And of course, I’m sure you know that it’s not unusual. In fact, if any person sat down to make a list of all the bad things they had done, they would probably equal or surpass yours.”

“OK, so guilt is normal. Is that what you’re saying? That there’s nothing wrong with me?”

“No, I’m not saying that. The fact that you have come to me, says that for you, it is not normal, that you are unable to live with the guilt. People deal with their guilt in many different ways. That it’s bothering you, causing you continuous sleepless nights, is not normal. And we need to do something about it.”

Paolo leaned forward, waving his hand as tough to gear himself up. “So we’ve had four sessions and I don’t feel any better. What do you recommend? And don’t say medication. I want my mind to be clear, not half there, if you see what I mean.”

Dr. White stood up from the sofa, leaving her notebook and pencil behind. She came up to him, then suddenly clapped her hands loudly at his ear, stamped her foot, and screamed “Aahhhh!”

John was stunned and jumped up from his chair. “What the…!”

Dr. White returned to her sofa and sat. She smiled kindly. John noticed the kindness. But he also noticed her slightly purple lipstick. Her mouth was, well, enticing. It was at that moment that more guilt readied itself to descend upon him. He could easily jump up and ravish this woman. He tried to put it out of his mind, more so, out of his body. But the more he tried, the more impossible it became. He remained speechless, crossed and uncrossed his legs.

“I startled you,” purred the therapist. “That was a simple example of fright therapy, or to put it in official terms, the first Pavlovian administration of pain therapy.” 

“It wasn’t painful. I mean…”

“I know. The guilt, it leaped on you, first into your head, then right down to your toes.” She wasn’t sure why she said the last part, about the toes. She frowned slightly and made a mental note of her mental lapse, as she called such occurrences. She could see, however, that her client had been put off guard, placing him in a vulnerable, or should one say, ready state, to receive her therapeutic schedule, one that would drive the guilt out of his head. Pain therapy would do it.

John looked at the floor then up and into his therapist’s eyes. He had to remind himself that she was his therapist, not a potential partner. She scared him. But she enticed him.

Dr. White stood up. “Well, our time’s up. We’ve made good progress today. Same time next week?”

“Thanks Dr. White. Yes, I’ll be back.”

Now, there is pain, and there’s pain. Tearing off the fingernails is pain. It is excruciating. Slapping you on the buttocks is painful too. But it is a different kind of pain. Certainly not excruciating. However, when the therapeutic schedule requires that one administer pain to one’s client, slapping the buttocks is a little too close to other parts of the body that may react differently. That is, those parts may be stimulated in ways that make the pain pleasurable. It seems like a contradiction. But then whoever designed our bodies had quite a sense of humor. Our bodies and the minds that accompany them are full of contradictions. There is an old saying, “she is her own worst enemy.” It sums up the angst in which we all live. 

“Welcome John. Let’s get down to business. Please take your place on the chair. But first remove your shirt, so I can get a look at your bare back. 

John did as he was told. He had thought of little else all week except imagining her in the nude and on the couch. His bad memories had receded. Her therapy was working! He sat on the chair, but then Dr. White gently touched his elbow and said, please sit astride the chair, facing the back of the chair.”

Again, he did as he was told. The therapist went to her desk and retrieved from the drawer a small whip, a little over one meter long, three thin strands of leather attached to a leather bound handle. She held it in front of his disbelieving eyes. She herself was a little worried because she had inadvertently touch his elbow, which broke the therapist-client rules, that there must be no direct touching of bodies. 

John did all he could to hold back a gasp. He gripped the back of the chair until his knuckles were white. And before he could say anything at all, the therapist had lashed his back with a stroke of the whip. He wanted to scream, but held it in. She said nothing. She gave him two more strokes. Red welts appeared on his back. A nice smooth live back, observed Matilda. Actually, a gorgeous back. She stepped back, upset that she had thoughts or were they feelings that she should not have as a therapist? “That will be all for today. How was your guilt last week? On a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst, how would you rate it?

“Can I turn around now?” asked John.

“Yes of course.” Dr. White had returned to the couch and sat writing notes. She did not look up, because she was worried if she saw his naked front, she might make further mistakes.

“I’d say about seven since last week. It’s helping, doctor. Amazing.”

“Excellent. Then same time next week? It will be a double session, as there will be a lot more to do.”

“A lot more of what?” He tried to feel his back. It felt extremely sensitive to touch. Burned a little. But his body felt very much alive, as though he had had a couple of stiff shots of espresso. 

“It depends on what you report to me next week. Oh and by the way, please do not try applying a whip or anything to yourself. It must be done under strict clinical control.”

“Of course. I’m a lapsed Catholic. I don’t do that sort of stuff,” John replied with a grin.

Doctor White gave him a clinical look. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Paolo, we will keep religion out of your treatment. As a matter of fact, I take back my advice about doing it at home. I’ll write you a prescription that will allow you to purchase a do-it-at home whip. These are a smaller version of the one I used, and there are no knots in the leather strands. “

“Really?” asked John in disbelief.

“Yes. Medicare classes it as a prosthesis class B. The pharmacy on Grattan Street has it.”

She handed him the prescription. “See you next week, John,” she said with a clinical smile.

John could hardly wait for his next appointment with Dr. White. His sleeplessness had gone away, that is, after he had finished imagining what his therapist might do with him next time. 

Pain therapy schedules are not widely acknowledged to be effective in treating guilt. In truth there have been no peer reviewed studies of its effectiveness. And it should be acknowledged that Dr. White was trying this therapy after having been disillusioned by the several other talking therapies, none of which worked, in her opinion, especially did not work on eradicating or even alleviating guilt. Some research had suggested that Pavlovian conditioning, applying a painful stimulus to a person to remove an annoying habit or other aspect of behavior had been affirmed by many peer reviewed studies. It was a time honored method of behavioral therapy. What she was doing was simply an extension of Pavlov and his dogs. 

It had been argued by modernists that Pavlov used rewards to get his dogs to salivate at the sound of a bell. But rewards, it had been found time and again, simply made the subjects soft and pliable so that they would do anything to get the reward. Witness the dogs who will go half crazy to get a tiny morsel as a reward for doing some silly antic. They do not go crazy when they are taught discipline using pain as the stimulus. It is like everything else. Too much of a good thing, whether reward or punishment is not recommended. Moderation is the rule. However, the trouble with any kind of conditioning (rewards and punishments) is that there is the constant temptation to keep increasing either the rewards or punishments. That is, the danger of the slippery slope.

And so, in the double session, there is a hint that the temptation had already begun, as far as the therapist was concerned. She, or course, is nor aware of this. Rather, she sees it as a scientific step in a carefully arranged schedule of punishments. The ultimate reward being the eradication of her patient’s guilt.

John arrived a little late for his appointment. Dr. White was a little annoyed, but tried not to be. She did not want to waste the double appointment.

“Hell, Mr. Paolo. You may lay flat on the couch, and take off your top clothes first to show your back. It has no scars I take it?” She examined his smooth olive back. Not a scratch or mark. She donned a pair of surgical gloves and rubbed her fingers over where she had lashed him. All fine and smooth. Without another word, she lashed him three times on the back with her whip. John yelped a little, but then smiled, then gritted his teeth awaiting the next stroke. Instead. He felt his therapist’s hand (fully gloved) on his shoulder.

“How would you rate your sense of guilt this week, Mr. Paolo?”

“You can call me John. I’d say a four or five.”

“Then we are making excellent progress. Now slide down your pants to bare your buttocks.” She turned away while he did it.”

He heard the rustling of the leather strands as she raised the whip above her head, then brought it down in a fast lash, but the stroke just grazed his well curved buttocks, so tight for a fifty year old Italian male, she thought. The client grunted.

Matilda gripped the whip tightly and then brought it down with a fierce lash and it connected across both buttocks, eliciting a yell from the client. 

“Did that hurt you badly?” she asked, with concern. “There’s no skin broken, if that’s what you are concerned about.”

John was amazed to hear himself say, “Oh no! It was great! I mean, wasn’t too bad.” Lying on his stomach caused other parts of his body to react to the lash as well. It was a well-known autonomic reaction. His face became flushed. 

“The schedule calls for several more to the buttocks and back. Shall I stop? You look a little distraught.”

“Oh no, doctor White. It’s all good,” John mumbled into the arm of the couch.

Doctor White stopped to make some notes. She then set her timer and returned to the schedule. It recommended a pause of one minute between applications. 

Very quickly, the double session (a total of thirty minutes) was up. John, embarrassed turned away as he pulled up his pants and buttoned his shirt. He rubbed his very sensitive buttocks and tried to place himself in front of the couch so that the stains would not be noticeable. 

Dr. White, now at her desk, said without looking up, “single session next week, Mr. Paolo. You did well today. Let’s get the guilt down to two or three next week.”

“Thank you doctor.” John hurried away.

She’s on the couch. John had thought of little else since their last session. It took an herculean effort to control himself. He had not expected to be assigned the chair with the wicker seat. She sat with her knees together on the edge of the couch, legs bent at the knees, slanted, her sweet toenails painted in that very light purple, peeping at him through her white sandals. He sat in the chair and shifted it a little to face her, his hands clasped tightly in front of his belly. The edge of the whip peeped out from under her bottom. She must have sat on it without knowing, absorbed as she was reading the notes she had taken last week. John wriggled in his chair and moved it a little forward scraping it on the wood floor. He coughed a tiny cough. She looked up and smiled.

“So how is your guilt index today?” she asked.

“It’s a four,” I think. Not all that much progress from last week, I’m afraid. He was lying, of course, hoping for more of last week, and if she gave it, he would take it to another level.

“Well, I’ll soon see to that. But just to make sure, you should come here and sit by me. “

John of course couldn’t wait to get on the couch. “You’re sitting on the whip,” he said as he sat down beside her. He looked for last week’s stains and saw none. She might be sitting on them too. He managed to place his bottom tightly against hers and the whip dug into him.

“Oh, just a minute,” said Dr. White. She felt for the whip and her notebook dropped on to the floor. John leaned over to get it.

“Leave it,” she said, “you need to get naked today.” He needed no second asking. He stood up, and in a flash everything was off. 

“On to the couch,” she ordered as she stood up beside him and raised the whip.

John was half out of his mind. He grabbed the whip out of her hand and gave her a light belt on her shapely bottom. 

“Ouch! Mr. Paolo. That’s not what you should be doing. Now, give me the whip this minute!” 

But he held the whip tightly and stood back, hands on hips. “What’s your guilt rating, doctor?” he asked with a devilish grin. “Maybe we should attend to that. You know, transference and all that.”

“You’ve been reading up on psychotherapy, I see,” smiled Dr. White.

But John was not listening. He grabbed her lightly buttoned thin cotton shirt and pulled it open. It was not enough. He dropped and used both hands to carefully remove her clothes. She did not resist. But she did lean down to pick up the whip, then quickly turned to him and gave him a lash across the front of his legs. The little leather strands found their mark. And indeed over the next few minutes that seemed like a lifetime, they left their marks in every imaginable place. 

“Your guilt index?” John asked as they fell on to the couch together. 

“Ten, she said, “and yours now?”

“Ten!” 

They took it in turns to use the whip on each other. They found themselves on the couch, then on the hard wooden floor, standing or prostrate, it didn’t matter. And by the time the buzzer on Doctor White’s timer went off signaling the end of the session, they were both exhausted. 

“Session is over, Mr. Paolo. Please get dressed and we will continue this therapy session next week.”

“But what about my guilt?”

“Do you feel any? I don’t. I feel liberated.”

“Exactly how I feel. Then that means I’m cured?”

“Unfortunately, that’s not likely. But we will review your progress at our next session. Please keep a record of your daily guilt level. Take a rating morning and night.”

“Thank you doctor. You’ve done wonders for me.” 

Doctor White was at her desk again. “Good-bye,” she said without looking up.

John returned to his empty restaurant and made himself an espresso, double shot. The past hour had turned into a fog, a blur. His body tingled to the point that it hurt, especially from the red marks of the welts doctor White had laid on him. What had happened to him? It was the most amazing thing. But had he done it or had she? He was reminded of when he was a little kid and his mom yelled at him, he would always say, “it wasn’t me, he did it,” blaming his older brother. 

He went upstairs and showered. There was no one he could talk to about this. If he did, they would tell him that he just raped his doctor. And that wasn’t what happened, was it? If you went back to the very first session, it was she who started it all. And now, in the frightening carnal fog that had descended upon him after this session he did not know who was to blame.

And there it was. That word had nosed its way into his thoughts. It signaled that horrible word. Guilt. He walked around his vacant restaurant, polishing tables, cleaning cutlery. The fact was, he could not wait for the week to go by so he could face off in another therapy session. Maybe it was all part of the therapy. After all, it had begun to work. The whipping, that is.

So John Paolo continued to show up for his weekly sessions, and each session repeated the last, except that the ferocity of the exchanges with the whip gradually tempered, and his guilt level remained at five. He began to think that his therapist was no longer interested in his problem. That it wasn’t therapy at all. But just sex.

At last the COVID lockdown had been lifted and his restaurant was almost back to what might be a new normal. A limited number of customers dining in his spacious restaurant. Friends to say hello to, regular customers calling to make reservations. Most of his staff had returned, happy to have work to do, as was he. Nothing like constant work to keep a man happy, distracting him from the carnal fog. He gradually began to miss a session or two, or three. And in the end he quit going. On quiet days in the restaurant he tended to think back to the first sessions with Dr. White. My God! How could he have done it, and worse, actually loved it? But then, the early sessions had really saved his life, mental life that is. They were like a gift from Heaven, though re-living them now was like going into the depths of Hell. He yearned to do it all over again, but with someone else. Because he had to face it, the doctor now disgusted him. He had done a one eighty. 

And so, at the end of a very good day at the restaurant, after he closed up, he had made an appointment to see a priest at the church in which he had been christened. He had not been to church for many years. Too busy with his business, was his excuse to the local priest who pestered him from time to time, and treated him well none the less, each time John treated him to a free lunch. 

The confession got off on the wrong foot. John didn’t want to confess all his sins at once and have them absolved. He wanted just to tell someone about his adventure with his doctor and ask whether it was his or her fault. The memory of those intense exchanges with the doctor dominated his mind night and day, but especially at night when he had no distractions. Working seemed to be the best antidote. Thank goodness the lockdown had ended, otherwise he would have gone crazy, he said to himself many times over. 

In the end, after an acrimonious start, the priest agreed to have lunch with him at his restaurant at which John could reveal everything. And he did tell all, and watched as the priest’s face reddened during the more lurid accounts. The priest gobbled up everything that was put in front of him. John had simply a Campari soda. And when he finished he looked the priest in the eye and asked, “well?” 

The priest, youngish and with a typically well-scrubbed appearance, looked up. “These are shocking things you have told me,” he said quietly and with a very faint Italian accent. “Now I see why you have come to me. The church has had its problems with sex abuse, as you know.”

“Father, I don’t care about the church’s problems. It’s my problem that I care about. If we have another lockdown, I don’t know what I will do. I’m scared I’ll go back to her.”

“Either you should do that right away and continue your therapy, since it got you through the terrible lockdown, or…”

“Or what Father? Go back? How could you countenance that?”

“One question at a time, John. As I was saying, or you should report her for unprofessional conduct and sexual abuse of you, her patient.”

“But if I do that, the press, it will go crazy with it. I can’t!”

“Then there is a third option,” the priest said with a faint smile, perhaps a little patronizing.

“And what is that?”

“You can come back to the church and make regular confessions and receive absolution for all your sins. There is no therapy on earth that can do that, talking or non-talking cure.” The priest took the last spoonful of panna cotta and sat back most satisfied. He put out his hands, palms facing up, inviting John to take them. “In us there is hope. In earthly therapy, there are only false promises, or worse as you have discovered, debased trickery.”

They both sat in silence. The priest’s hands still open. John stirred uncomfortably in his seat. It did seem to be his only way out. But he couldn’t just blurt out that he didn’t believe the church either. They had told so many lies in their sex abuse scandals. “Is there no other way?”

The priest, wily as many are, answered, “well there is a fourth way that could be chosen along with our way.”

“And what is that, father?” John reached out one hand only and clasped the open hand of the priest.

“You could get a lawyer and sue for damages, just like they have done against our church.”

As the routines of his restaurant slowly returned to pre COVID levels, John’s spirits revived somewhat. He did go to church and did begin to make regular confessions. Whether these were to that same priest he did not know, though he thought he recognized the voice a couple of times. He consulted with a lawyer who had successfully brought a number of cases of sexual abuse against the Roman Catholic church and other churches as well, but it quickly became apparent that such a course of action would only lead to money received or spent, and would not relieve his guilt level one bit. He had come to the conclusion after his many confessions that one cannot buy off guilt. On the other hand, he tried his hardest to remember the wonderful feelings of ecstasy he had experienced in therapy with Dr. White, and that managed to assuage his guilt at least down to a level of about 4. So that was not too bad. In fact, it inspired him to go back to her non-talking cure.

It had been a year since he was last in Dr. White’s office. She was just the same, and dressed in just the same clothes, the light cotton shirt, tight business dress, white sandals, light purple lipstick and painted toenails.

 She smiled at him as he made himself comfortable on the couch. 

“Please sit on the chair for today’s session,” she said, very businesslike, as though they were meeting for the first time.

“I brought something for you,” said John, reaching into a shopping bag.

“Oh! Thank you. But our professional rules of conduct do not allow us to accept gifts from our clients,” she said with a serious look.

“It’s not really a gift. More like something I hope will aid in my therapy.”

“Oh, well, Perhaps that’s OK. Let me see it?”

There was a loud rattle and John produced a set of handcuffs that he dropped on her desk. Dr. White leaned forward and picked them up, a serious look on her face. 

“Stand and face the wall, hands behind you,” she ordered.

Moral: Guilt, the God of Life

27. The Punishment Game

A law professor is convicted of evil intent.

In a regular card game, the dealer deals the cards to the players and each player gets an equal number of cards. The dealer, depending on the game, mostly places the remaining cards in the middle from which each player according to rules, draws a card and or deposits a card. Generally, in any game that requires a dealer, the role of dealer is rotated to each player in turn, to neutralize any advantage that the dealer might have. 

One could say that a card game represents the ideal of the distribution of benefits and losses for each player. It is a game of chance, though there are some card games that mix together chance and manipulation, such as poker, or bridge. But even in these games, the attempts to overcome chance by cunning are considerably challenging, depending on the skill of the player, especially the ability to calculate the possibilities of how the cards will fall, whether these are guessing how an opponent will play their card, or calculating (usually card counting) what cards they hold.

In an effort to counteract the intrusion of chance into a game, there are, of course, rules. It is the rules that maketh the game, someone said (maybe not). And it is the ability of each player or team of players to overcome the oppression of these rules that makes for a winner. However, in the wider field of life, the “game of life” one might say, we should understand one very important truism: that rules are made to be broken. The logic of this frustratingly true statement is unassailable. There would be no point having a rule if there were not the expectation of it being broken. There are two ways to think about this conundrum. People do things that others do not like, say for example, defecating in public. “There ought to be a law against that,” exclaims an outraged citizen. And so a rule is made that prescribes a punishment for that act. Note here that the act preceded the punishment. But there is another way of looking at it. I am a lawmaker (member of parliament, city council, senator etc.). We have decided that in order to prevent the spread of a pandemic there will be a curfew that forbids anyone in the streets after 9.00 pm, anyone who does to be fined $10,000 plus six months jail time. This is a case where the rule precedes the crime. It is enacted in order to punish. Traffic laws are a prime example of this. 

In any game though, whether football, cricket, basketball, cards or a board game, losing is equated with punishment. Consider how we routinely deal with little toddlers who love to play games. Until they get older, we “let them win,” knowing full well that losing will result in tears, often very loud. The losing response is built in. People hate to lose. And top athletes unabashedly say, when interviewed and asked what motivates them to become the best, they universally reply: “I hate to lose.”

Those who lose in the game of life are, without any compassion or hesitancy, referred to as “losers.” The hidden assumption is that they are losers because it is their fault, when it is quite obvious that this is a great example of Freud’s notion of projection. We project on to others that which we deny in ourselves. Few can stand losing, though because of life’s vicissitudes, we lose in one way or another, every day. Those who die, of course, are the ultimate losers, in spite of the considerable human ingenuity to deny this awful fact.

Society’s iconic losers are of course its criminals, especially repeat offenders, who are ingested through the turnstile of the criminal justice system, found guilty and punished. This story is about one such person, one of many, one, though, who is always not far away from the “law abiding.” In fact we are all a hair’s breadth away from criminality as this story, based on true events (aren’t they all?) shows.

Before we begin the story there is one more complication that hinges on the manipulation of the rules by those who are subjected to them. Here, the best example is in the very competitive game basketball, though it applies to probably all sports, especially contact sports. There are so many refined rules in basketball that some players have become adept at rule following and rule breaking by “drawing a foul.” Or, in criminal justice terminology, victim-precipitated homicide (or whatever else). This story reveals a complicated web of precipitation, intrigue, trickery, moral superiority, a winning hand, and of course, the loser.

John Jones was a law professor at Temple University, Philadelphia. He commuted each day from his home in center city at 12th and Pine. His two kids, Peter 12, and Mary 10 attended the local school on 5th street, where his wife Laura taught school. Each morning they would all walk to the school together, then John would say his good-byes and take the bus to Temple. On this day, it was spring break, so there was not a lot of pressing work to do, no classes at least, so John went straight to his office and closed the door intending to catch up on a lot of old correspondence, especially email, that he had put aside during the busy teaching of the past several weeks. He opened up his email and skimmed through the list. There were a few from friends and colleagues to which he quickly replied, then one email that he was about to delete, but then, on a whim opened it. The email subject heading was simply, “please help me.”

Now, he knew all about phishing and what not. But every now and again, curiosity or whatever else, caused him to open an email or click on a link that he knew he should not. The email said:

“Dear Professor. I am a teenager and lost my way. Can you help me please? I don’t know what to do.”

John immediately thought it may be a possible suicide and clicked on the reply button.

“How old are you and what kind of help do you need?”

The answer came. “My name is Caroline. I am 15. Home from school because they bully me.”

“I could arrange for you to get help. There’s a suicide hot line.”

“I don’t think I need that. I just need someone to talk to. I’m all alone. My dad left, and my mom, well she's an addict."

“You are on your own, then?”

We need not go into the series of emails that occurred over the next few hours. Eventually, it ended up with John agreeing to go to her house to help her, though she had made it fairly clear that the kind of help she had in mind was not life threatening. In fact she sent him a series of photos of her, each one successively revealing more bare skin. She was very beautiful, looked much older than 15. John, still convincing himself that he was doing good, agreed to come to her house, and see what he could do. He had thought of calling the police and reporting the problem, but knowing the police in North Philadelphia as he did, he doubted that they were the answer. Besides he did not know the address. He then thought of notifying the social welfare department, so emailed the girl asking for her address. The email came back immediately with an address not far from Temple. In fact, when he looked it up, it was only a couple of blocks down Broad Street. 

Another email showed up. “Are you coming soon? I don’t think I can stand this much longer.”

John called up the social welfare department of Philadelphia. It had a branch in North Philadelphia, he thought. Unfortunately, he got a recorded message saying that because of COVID, they were overloaded with cases. He left details and Caroline’s address. Then tried to get back to work. But it was no use. He could not concentrate. He tried not opening up his email. But in the end, gave in. It was just ten minutes since her last email with the address asking what time he was coming. 

Finally, he gave in and said he would be there in fifteen minutes.

It was a bright and sunny spring day, A strong cool wind blew right down busy Broad street. The buses left clouds of blue smoke as they accelerated between stops and cars competed with each other to overtake them. John walked the two blocks, then stopped at the lights at the corner of Montgomery Avenue, crossed Broad and walked two blocks to Sydenham street. The corner house, she had said.

He rang the bell, no answer. Knocked loudly on the door. No answer. He turned to leave, then suddenly the door opened. A man dressed in an old crumpled suit answered. 

“What you want?”

“I’m here for Caroline. She said she was in some kind of trouble.”

“Who are you?”

“John Smith, I’m a professor at Temple University Law School. Is she OK?”

“Come right in. You were expected. This the girl you came to see?”

The man showed him one of the photographs showing a lot of bare skin. In fact she was naked.

“That’s her. But why are you here? She said she had no father. May I see her, please?”

“OK. That’s it,” called the man raising his voice.

Suddenly police in uniform appeared from the adjoining room, one quickly darted forward and stood behind him.

“I am detective Swanson. You are under arrest for soliciting sex with a minor. Cuff him officer!”

John was dumbfounded. He looked around as the officer roughly grabbed his arms and handcuffed him. Another patted him down and removed his cell phone and wallet. “But, but, I came here to help her…”

“Yair, that’s what they all say,” sneered the detective.

“But it’s true! Please! I am a lawyer. You can’t do this! Ask the girl, I had no intentions to do anything with her.”

“I asked the girl and she said you did.”

“Where is she? Bring her out! She’ll tell you,” cried John, now so weak at the knees he was on the verge of collapse. 

“I am that girl,” said detective Swanson, grinning proudly.

“You, you…” John managed to hold back the expletives that sat on his tongue ready to be spat out. “It’s a trap!”

“That’s right, and you helped us spring it.”

They marched John out of the house, down the steps to Sydenham street, then to West Montgomery Avenue where the police wagon stood waiting. And from there, a quick trip to the local holding center of Police Headquarters. The officials finger printed him, booked him, photographed him, signed for his personal items, one of them his phone which he managed to use to send a quick text to his colleague and friend, a trial lawyer. He was led to a holding cell, there to wait. He looked down the row of cells. The depressing look of the place was already unbearable. What would prison be like? He looked around the cell. At least there were no others. Though, he was not sure whether right now his own company was good company. He sat on the bench his head in his hands and asked himself. Was he guilty? Had the thought entered his mind? The naked picture. Was he not like the former President Carter who famously admitted a feeling of lust from time to time? Did this make him innocent? Or guilty?

John’s trial lawyer promised him an excellent, though standard entrapment defense, but warned that the jury would probably not buy it, even though it had a lot going for it. It was the police who had invented this crime and invented the victim, in fact there was no victim. If it was a crime it was they who committed it, not John, and so on. He knew the statistics. Over ninety percent of entrapment defenses failed in court, especially if the prosecution had video, which they did. They had video of John entering the building, seeming to thirst for the nude teenager, or at least that was how the prosecutor would make it look. It would not matter how many character witnesses he brought on, juries were tough on sex offenders. They loved to find them guilty. His lawyer therefore urged John to take a plea. It was like a game of poker, he explained to John, except that he had a pretty poor hand. You try to plea down to maybe a misdemeanor, though with sex offenses it was very hard to do. On the other hand, if found guilty of the major charge against him, attempted rape of a minor, he guessed it would be, then he could get many years in prison if found guilty.

“But I didn’t do anything!” John pleaded over and over again. The more he pleaded, the more he appeared guilty. 

The reasons for pleading guilty to a minor offense were overwhelming. Not only might he avoid prison time, his wife and children would be saved the embarrassment of publicity that follows a trial in open court. And it would save the humiliation of his wife having to get up in court and testify as to his upright and moral character. And if he could plead down to a misdemeanor, then he might be able to keep his law license. 

John sat in jail all this time. Bail was refused, as it often is for sex offenses, especially with a minor. How could he face his children? What would happen to them at school, once it got out that they had a sex offender for a father? And everyone would know because even for the most minor of sex offenses, he would be placed on the sex offender registry, available for all to peruse on the registry web site.

After many, many sleepless nights, John, his legal mind running through all the logical parameters of his guilt and or innocence, the possible ramifications after conviction and punishment, he came to the conclusion that the logical solution that caused least humiliation to those he loved was to confine the punishment to himself, to him alone. He had imagined all the humiliations and bullying his kids would get, but also thought of the opportunities that might arise for his loving wife to start anew, not having to be reminded of her sex offender husband who sat in jail or whatever. Certainly, even if he pleaded to a minor offense, his university would without doubt fire him. So she would have to become the main breadwinner for the family, though he had managed to put away a reasonable amount into a retirement account. It would be a struggle, but manageable. 

She could continue living with the kids without too many hardships, without him.

 Moral: Guilty or innocent, the losers are always punished.

The Hungry Priest

A hermit feeds on the sins of others.

In the small town of Castrovillari at the foot of the Calabrian mountains, there lived a former hermit, who called himself Vashpa, now a priest. He serviced the beautiful (to its inhabitants) church of San Giuliano. 

In his days as a hermit, living in a cave in the mountains, he had learned to live off the land, had few needs except a few morsels to chew on every other day, and water from the streams that trickled down from the mountains. He spent his time meditating, sitting on his haunches, chanting chants that he made up as he went along, and reading ancient scriptures that were supposedly unearthed in the desert of Sinai. Actually, they were dried up and shriveled pages from a discarded copy of Il Messaggero that had washed down from one of the streams. 

How many years had passed he had no idea. Certainly, his gaunt, unshaven figure looked the ideal picture of a hermit and a very wise old man, though he was not that old, he just looked like it. Yet his asceticism had not impressed the powers of above and below, for a drought descended upon all of Calabria, a place where there was never all that much rain anyway, and his source of water dried up. Hardly able to rise up from his haunches, he staggered down the foothills and emerged in the town of Castrovillari. And as it so happened, he staggered into the one tiny convent there, inhabited by sisters of the order of Mother Teresa. 

The sisters were over-joyed to take him in, and in so doing, spoiled him like an only child, which he was—sort of. They told him of the abstemious ways of Mother Teresa, she gave or herself to many, a true saint. The least the sisters of the convent of Mother Teresa could do was to take him in and to set him on the same path as their unofficial (because she was Irish) patron saint, Íte. They marveled at his asceticism, indeed thought it a small miracle for one to have become an ascetic without the aid or even knowledge of the Christian faith.

More importantly for him, though, were the catechisms, biblical studies and readings, hymnals, and all the other paraphernalia of the catholic church. For ascetics of all religions, time, as we common people understand it, stands still. In fact, it might well not exist, for each day is like every other day. Of course, here is where appearances can be very misleading. Time does not stand still at all, it relentlessly pushes forward. But for an ascetic such as Vashpa, it appears so. Without full under­standing of his existence in time, therefore, he was about to ignore his body and devote himself entirely to the Scriptures and rituals of the catholic days.

He showed such devotion, and acquired so much know­ledge, that the sisters petitioned Bishop Giuseppe Fiorini Morosini to ordain him upon their recommendation, without his having to attend school in the Vatican. In their application they listed over one hundred pages of his studies, exceptional grades earned when they examined him, his dedication to the church and especially his renowned asceticism. This request was so unusual that the Bishop immediately forwarded it to the Vatican for His Holiness the Pope to examine and offer his guidance. 

Meanwhile, the sisters, feeling that they had reached the pinnacle of what they could do with their adopted neophyte, broke with past practice and took it in turns of chaperoning him to attend mass at the local church of La Madonna del Castello. Here he learned to take communion (not officially of course, the wine he took was non-alcoholic), and to mingle with other worshippers, who, however, were puzzled at the sudden emer­gence of this hermit, whose fabled existence had been the talk of the town before he emerged as a real person. They knew him as Vashpa and asked the sisters of the convent who was this person and why did he have a strange name. There were many rumors about him, as naturally happens when a person lives as a hermit and never communicates with the outside world. In the absence of information, people will invent it, if they must have it. 

And so it was that the sisters of Mother Teresa decided that they must approach their apprentice and ask him where he got his name, and more important insist that he take on a real name, that is, an Italian name. 

The trouble was that Vashpa liked his name, and he was very used to using it. He had many conversations with himself when he was a hermit, and always addressed himself as Vashpa. He could not imagine calling himself any other name. When asked where did he get the name, he replied that he did not know. It must have been the name given him at birth. Of which he, of course, had no memory. Did he not have parents? Did he not have a childhood? Where did he grow up? To these mundane, though obviously crucial questions about his existence and identity and who he really was, he answered he had no memory. In fact, he became very agitated when constantly asked his true name. He would reply Vashpa. And who were his parents? And he would answer with a shrug, “Mother Nature.” This, the sisters took as near blasphemy, and they spent much time making confession to Jesus for their punitive thoughts and their unkind demands upon their charge. Fortunately, Time, a concept unknown to dedicated ascetics as we have noted, does not stand still but moves forward, relentlessly. And such a notion makes it possible for resentment to be overcome and for the healing of fissures by Time. Thus Vashpa learned from the sisters that “time heals all.”

Had he still been an ascetic he would have responded with “it is healing that demands time, not the other way round.” Such utterances befuddled and frustrated the sisters of Mother Teresa. Their outstanding pupil had become an obstreperous and heartless critic of their own existence and their lives. Yet they had devoted themselves to him, gave him everything he needed to become a saint. He appeared not to appreciate their good will. Such thoughts only made things worse, because they knew that it was a sin to expect gratitude from others. 

Finally, Vashpa could stand the stress no more. And at breakfast (dry toast and sparkling water from the local spring) he announced that he would adopt a name well known to the church. The sisters became excited, and much relieved. Each of them looked up to heaven, crossed themselves and silently said, “thank you Jesus.”

“And what name have you chosen?” asked the Mother Superior.

“Íte,” replied Vashpa as he munched his toast.

One could feel the air sucked out of the sparsely furnished room as each of the sisters put their hands to their mouth and looked up once again to Heaven.

“But that’s a girl’s name!” exclaimed Mother Superior.

“No. It’s a Saint’s name. Is not gender irrelevant to saint­hood?” replied Vashpa once again noisily chewing his toast, then sipping water.

“But you are not a saint,” countered Mother Superior, unable to hide the venom in her voice.

Silence reigned. The sisters looked down at their empty plates. 

Vashpa was tempted to say, “but I will be,” but knew that it was a sin to want anything too much, let alone sainthood.Besides, he had to admit that he had done nothing of good will at all that would qualify him for sainthood.

Mother Superior broke the silence. “God will be the final judge. Sisters, from now on we will call our wonderful neophyte, Íte. She is, after all, our patron saint.” She turned to him and said with a smile, such as it was, covered by her habit, “we are most honored, Íte, to have you among us, for you have allowed us to be part of your life. May the riches of God, Jesus and Mary lead you to a Heavenly place.”

All the sisters wriggled a little in their seats. They were not quite sure whether to clap or not. Íte was himself overcome. With teary eyes, he said, almost sobbed, “I am overjoyed sisters, my holy family.” 

But then, a terrible, portentous thing happened. His tummy gurgled and he reached for another piece of toast. Right then he knew there was something wrong. He felt hungry, and had not felt hunger over his many years of fasting. Worse, it was the last piece on the plate and there was another sister still to come. It should be left for her.

Mother Superior blinked her eyes and looked down. “I think, you must make confession. I will accompany you to the church of San Giuliano. It is a dear little church, and it has a dear little confessional.

It was a typical hot and dusty day in Castrovillari, as they walked together through the small vineyard where sisters were already snipping and tending the vines, then stepped on to Via Giudeca. Mother Superior walked briskly, causing Íte to stumble a little to keep up. He was not used to such physical exertion. And his tummy gurgled some more. They walked in silence, broken only by the crunching of gravel under their feet. Íte felt the need to make conversation. This also came as a shock to him, another sign that there was something wrong. He had preferred silence for so long, and had broken it among the sisters when he con­ducted his studies and ask the sisters questions to explain this or that about catholic rituals, masses, catechisms and other ways of the church. He had never made small talk, as people call it.

Yet it was Mother Superior who broke the silence. “I will go as far as the door of the church. Father Bruno will be expecting you.”

They turned a corner into Largo Giuliano. Íte stopped briefly to take in the most typical scene of southern Italy: the historic, mildly ornate stone church, at the far end of the largo that was more or less rectangular, not a soul (literally) in sight, the hot wind blowing billows of dust around the square, a wall to his right plastered with the latest political posters and the occasional death notices. Mother superior led the way to the steps at the front of the church. Her well-worn heavy black shoes scraped on the cobblestones as they stepped up to the old wooden door. 

“I will leave you here,” she said, “and may Jesus and Mary be with you.” She turned and left.

Íte struggled to open the heavy wooden door, painted an ugly dark green. And upon entering he immediately crossed himself as taught by the sisters. There were two confession boxes one on each side of the main altar that was painted white and edged with gold, surrounded by many trinkets, relics, and ornate cups and boxes on show. Both confessionals were located at the back of the altar, appearing as though they were actually doors to the rear. The question was, which one to enter? Íte walked silently forward, admiring the slender silvery organ pipes that rose up from the altar on both sides. Of course, the entire altar was constructed around the magnificent display, if rather small, of the depiction of San Giuliano himself. He approached the altar, kneeled and crossed himself again. He then thought he heard a slight cough from the altar on the right. So he approached, and entered through the red drapes. 

Unfortunately, the door was simply an entry to the various small chapels that were on show behind the altar. He quickly withdrew and came back to the main church and then spied the confessional in the apse, off to the side almost hidden behind a white column. He knocked lightly and heard the cough again. He opened the simple plain walnut door, and there found himself in what looked like a typical old fashioned telephone booth, only with a seat.

He sat and looked at the ornate grate that separated him from his confessor, who moved and shuffled a little.

“Bless me father for I have sinned,” mumbled Íte.

We need not recount all the sins he confessed. It is enough to say that he had not all that many to confess, since he had spent the last many years in silence alone with himself and his cave. So there was not a lot of opportunities to do anything bad, except of course, those things that had to do with himself and only himself. 

What is most important however, is what came out of it. Íte left the confessional a changed person, or so he thought. A weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and each time he said a Hail Mary, according to the priest’s orders, the weight lifted some more. He was so happy with this first experience of confession that he hummed a hymn all the way back to the convent. And by the time he reached the convent he had a plan. A magnificent plan.

But it was interrupted. 

Íte walked quickly through the vineyard nodding to the sisters as they worked. One looked up and informed him that the Mother Superior had asked that he go straight to her as she had important news from Bishop Morosini

“You are to be ordained by Bishop Morosini this coming Saturday at Holy Mass in the Church of San Giuliano. This is a great honor! No bishop has come to Castrovillari for at least seven years! You must have truly impressed the Vatican. And to do that without having to set a foot in Rome. All of it virtual! We at the convent are so proud of you!”

Íte was overjoyed, another sin to reckon with.

Íte was duly ordained and informed by Bishop Morosini that he would be contacted soon with his orders, the diocese to which he would be allocated. Newly ordained priests were usually sent off to distant parts of the world, or tiny places in Italy, such as where Íte was already stationed, with his sisters in the convent. He almost requested that he be allowed to stay at the convent, but thought better of it. The Bishop might wonder what he was up to. His hope was that the sisters and especially Mother Superior would speak up for him and make such a request. For he could see that they very much needed him. There they were stuck in their little convent, with nobody to confess to. How could the church overlook such a serious need? His grand plan was to build a confession box, and then hear their confessions daily or as often as needed. They must have many, many sins all bottled up. He would free them from their sins! What better way to thank them for all they had done for him!

The wheels of the Vatican turn slowly. No letter of place­ment came. Íte was therefore free to pursue his grand design. He made the treck into Castrovillari and checked out the confession box in the church of San Giuliano. He took a photo and made drawings. He would make a replica for the convent. Where it would be placed, he worried a little, because the tiny chapel in the convent may not have room.

And so it was done. The confession box, the “dark box” as those who envied it (ex-catholics and non-catholics) called it, was placed just outside his own room at the end of the hallway. He had to modify the priest’s cubicle a little so that it could fit into the hallway space. The sisters were so excited when he invited them to come see his handiwork! They came, touched its freshly polished walnut exterior, took just a tiny peak at the confessor’s booth, not of course the supplicant’s booth.

The next morning at breakfast, Íte declined to take toast, had just a little sparkling water. Once all the sisters were at the table, he stood and announced, “The confessional will be open for business this morning and will remain open until all confessions are heard.”

Mother Superior spoke, her face beaming, looking around the table. “Sisters, remember your chores and duties. Though confession is of course the most important part of a good Christian’s life, it must not be undertaken without due consid­eration of your other responsibilities.”

“Would you like to be first?” asked Íte, turning to the Mother Superior.

“I would be most honored,” she whispered. 

Íte excused himself from the table, and Mother Superior followed him to the hallway. Íte squeezed himself into the priest’s cubicle, and Mother superior into hers. He made a small wel­coming cough, and Mother Superior settled down to a long confession.

“Bless me father for I have sinned,” she began.

When Mother Superior stepped out of the confessional, she was shocked to see all the sisters lined up down the hallway, awaiting their turn.

“Now sisters, go off and attend to your duties. There is no telling how long each confession will last. We must rely on each sister, once she has confessed, to report to me, and I will send in the next. I will make up a roster. Of course, if you have something very urgent to confess, we can let you jump the queue.”

The Mother Superior was so happy that the sisters in her charge were able to confess daily, if they wanted or found it necessary. But she failed to notice that the confessional had become the central organizing feature of the convent. Nor did she, or anyone else notice that Íte did not show up for breakfast. He was, in fact, always available, always in the confessional. 

Íte for his part felt no hunger for food. He was used, after all, to fasting from his previous life as an expert hermit and ascetic. He had arranged for one of the sisters to slip him a small glass of sparkling water each morning before he began the morning sessions. And each time at the end of the day when he went to bed, he took a small glass of sparkling water. That was all.

Yet over the days and weeks that followed, he began to notice that, contrary to what happened to his body when he was a hermit, he was getting fatter, and fatter. None of the sisters noticed this because they never even caught a glimpse of him these days. He was entirely in the confessional or in his room. Nor did they notice that he ate nothing. All he took was a little sparkling water each day and that was brought to him by his first and last confessors respectively. 

It took the sensitive and perceptive Mother Superior to suspect that something was amiss. She began to realize that when she did her own confession, Íte did not want to let her go. He kept pressing her to confess more and more, to the point that she began to make up sins in order to please his appetite that seemed to be insatiable. But she said nothing, until one day she heard a cry from the confessional, from the last confesser of the day. She hurried to the confessional and found Íte, his face twisted in pain, wedged in the doorway of his cubicle. He had become so fat that he could no longer fit through.

“Father!” Cried Mother Superior. “What have you become?” And immediately she fell to her knees and asked for forgiveness for having asked such a prying question, lacking in empathy.

“Oh! I knew I should have made the doorway wider. But it would not have fitted in the hallway,” answered Íte. “Just push me back in, and I’ll be fine. I can sleep here for the night.”

“But you can’t do that. What will you do if you…” Mother Superior’s voice trailed off, embarrassed.

“I have no need. It’s a kind of miracle, I suppose,” he said with a saintly smile. “Now off you go, get your sleep. I will be here waiting for you in the morning, and come as early as you want.” The earlier the better, he thought to himself. For he had a great hunger. Not for food. But for confessions. He gobbled up all their sins, and with each confession, he became fatter and fatter. 

It finally dawned on Mother Superior that Íte had gone through some kind of conversion. His extreme asceticism had become its opposite. He grew fat on all their sins. She pictured him vomiting up all their confessions, the sins coming out of his mouth like the words in a 16th century bible illustration. What was the equivalent to putting a finger down his throat? Or maybe it was too late for that. Maybe what was needed was an enema?

The next morning, Mother Superior brought Íte his sparkling water. In it she had mixed a triple dose of Epsom salts. She forbade any of the sisters to attend confessional until further notice. She went back to bed and dreamed of Íte whose likeness had taken on the shape of the devil itself, gobbling up the sinners in his huge mouth, spewing out the sinners from his anus, just like she had seen in a Bosch painting.

Moral: Punishment is the insatiable tie that binds . .

The Tommie Felon Show Episode 2

Audience participation at its Best

Before I reveal the guts of Episode Two an episode to beat all episodes—I would like to begin with a small apology, small because I am not really apologetic for having stretched the actual facts in my review of the pilot—dare I say truth, which we all know exists only in the mind of the main stream media that claims to own the truth, a big lie in itself—I could go on. 

To get back to it. I apologize for having twisted a few small details. The Criminal was not killed, or if he was, he was brought back to life for this the second episode, the one that should have been full center of the pilot, in my unhumble opinion. You will see why shortly when I provide a blow by blow account of the second episode, which was shot in our Australian studio, because we had a contract with the major manufacturer of cricket balls in Australia to provide us with several hundred balls for the sole use in the show. Related companies also provided us with a score of cricket bats made of pure and resilient British willow, and dense plastic-like stumps that bounced when hit, and generally behaved in ways that wooden stumps would not. Their very sharp bottom metal-capped tips, however, proved to be of great stabbing potential, a detail that many discerning members of our studio audience will no doubt appreciate.

Because of the potential for misuse of these cricket paraphernalia, we found it necessary to vet our studio audience carefully. Each person was asked a series of questions to determine their suitability to be part of the audience participation. I say participation, this also is an understatement. We planned to engage the audience en masse, to give them a huge opportunity to (1) express their views of the overall presentation of the show and (2) take part in the actual interrogation or should we say, post interrogation part of the show when it became time to decide on the appropriate punishment for the criminal, and once decided, to apply the punishment. 

Those who tuned into the pilot of the Tommie Felon Show already had the chance to assess the extent of guilt or innocence that applied to the criminal. And surely, his outrageous behavior towards our host and disrespect to our audience, contributed to his guilt. Indeed, the more he professed his innocence, the more guilty he became. I’m sure that those of you who tuned into the pilot or streamed it later on NetStyx would agree with that.

The vetting questions we asked our potential audience attendees were:

1. Are you black? (Yes, back row).

2. Are you a Christian? (Yes, disallowed entry)

3. Are you a Muslim? (Yes, back row with Blacks).

4. Have you ever killed someone? (Yes, special front row seat regardless of race or religion, given complimentary cricket bat).

5. How many people have you raped in the past ten years? (one or more, second row seat, regardless of race or religion, given complimentary cricket stump.)

6. Can you throw a cricket ball? (No, refused admittance.)

7. Have you ever had sex in public? (Yes, seated on the knees of front and second row attendees.

8. What does LGBTQ stand for? Must get four out of five letters right, otherwise denied entry.

Perhaps you are wondering whether I am on the level about our choice of Australia for the second episode. It’s a long way from the cradle of civilization, and besides there is much more cricket paraphernalia available in India. The fact is, we chose Australia for entirely different reasons. Cricket was just a coincidental attraction. It came down to either New Zealand or Australia, so now I have given it away. We came to the concl­usion that the Australians, specifically the Victorians were much more likely to appreciate our bombastic and freedom loving show, since the Victorians were well used to doing what they were told by their Premier during the corona virus lockdown of 2020, so we thought we could control our audience more easily. As well, there are plenty of terrorist-like refugees in Australia, living quietly in the suburbs, if not imprisoned on some island in the pacific or somewhere else in the middle of the Australian desert. It was our considered assessment that if we could include as many of these individuals in our audience as we could, their pent-up violence would burst forth, if only given the opportunity by the outrageous behaviors of our star performers.

Finally, you may wonder what became of Tommie Felon, our great performer of the pilot episode. You will be shocked and excited to see him in his new role as terrorist par excellence, masquerading as a Yemeni refugee. He will preside over the entire show, the perfect character to sentence the guilty to their punishments, to prescribe the punishments deserved by the criminals who are lined up ready for our show as I speak.

And now to the show!

Well, not just yet. There is one more issue that I need to apprise you of. While we do like to surprise our audiences, we do not want to disappoint them. The criminals we have lined up for you are not your usual criminals. No, I take that back. They are common, everyday criminals, many of whom you will immed­iately recognize as people who might have been your neighbors. But be assured we have worked closely with the Victorian government officials to locate only those who were absolutely and beyond any measure of a doubt, guilty of their crimes and infractions. It will not be your role (if you are lucky enough to be in the studio audience) to pronounce guilt or innocence of the accused. That has already been decided by the legal apparatus of the Victorian Government. It is your role to decide on the punishment and once done, to see that it is carried out. To be clear. We fully agree with the Victorian Government that there is no relationship between the finding of guilt and the administration of punishment The inherent truth of this claim is demonstrated by the following digression – no, not a digression, a necessary case study that clearly illustrates the Victorian Government’s absolute devotion to good punishment.

Young entrepreneur (actually, not an entrepreneur, but a Melbourne university student from Guandong province working his way through university), was convinced that in fact the evidence collected by surveillance companies was all that was needed to convict the criminal! As he liked to recite to his potential customers, “seeing is believing” (said with a distinctive and exaggerated Chinese accent so as to encourage his customers to correct his pronunciation and therefore feel superior to him), he would run through the many examples of drivers and pedestrians alike ignoring red lights, the technologies of face recognition and license plate recognition combined when needed, to identify within seconds, the name and address of the perpetrator.

“There, you see?” Ling Song would say with a big smile. “Absolute proof of guilt! You can catch these criminals and give them the punishment they deserve!”

At first his customers were a little doubtful. It seemed a little too close to home for some of them. For they too knew full well that they had probably run through a red light, or certainly an orange light, not to mention exceeded the speed limits (hidden and unhidden) at some time or other in their past.

Ling Song pushed his iPhone in front of his customer’s face. “You have big fines for these criminals?” he would ask with his big smile.

“We do. We rake in a lot of money,” would be the answer, said rather sheepishly. “That’s the trouble. We get criticized for not being serious about it. That all we are doing is making money and we don’t really care about the infraction itself.”

“Why not other punishment then?” asks Ling Song.

“It costs money to punish criminals,” comes the answer.

“Why not punish the worst offenders with something else?”

“Like what?”

Ling Song always shrugs and says, “I don’t know. I only sell cameras. You big boss, why not make up your own punishments?”

“Like what?”

Ling Song smiles and shrugs. “You like the cameras? We give you special price and free installation. Charge only for data link to facial recognition and licensing.” 

“And how much would that be?”

“Only one cent per infraction. Very cheap! And with your money you buy more punishments to use for serial offenders.”

The deal was struck and the Victorian Department of Health and Criminal Justice Services (the two ministries of Health and Criminal Justice had been amalgamated into one during the Corona Virus pandemic) signed a contract with Healthy Cameras Pty. Ltd. to install cameras on every corner of every city, town and village in Victoria, and in addition, after considerable cajoling from the talented Ling Song, installation along all border entry points from its neighboring states New South Wales and South Australia. They were, of course, installed in every conceivable location in airports and train stations, as well as beaches around Australia to ensure that people swam between the flags. Thus, punishment was inevitable.

Now, back to the show.

Entrance to the show facility was set up like a turnstile entrance to a cricket match at the Melbourne Cricket Ground. The answers to the vetting questions were fed into a computer and immediately the green light that said “RIGHT” flashed if the participant was designated a criminal, and a red light that said “LEFT” if the participant was designated a punisher. Because the computer assumed that everyone had committed an offence at some time or other, the splitting of criminal from non-criminal was done randomly. Of course the participants did not know this, so some were very surprised to find themselves back stage where the criminals were caged. Others, especially those who had answered in the affirmative that they had killed or raped someone were greatly surprised to find themselves in the front rows of the auditorium. Mind you, as I am sure you, my cynical reader have already surmised, it is very likely that some if not most respondents lied to the vetting questions. That is why the idea to randomly sort the participants to guilty (backstage) or not guilty (audience) made much more sense.

Once the audience was seated, the free popcorn distributed, and the criminals backstage sorted into dangerous and not dangerous, a final sorting of the audience was conducted. This was not so much sorting but organizing the audience into an effective and efficient assault force, to borrow a military expression. Our audience coach, a leading player in the AFLW (Australian Football Women’s League), dressed in the tight shorts of a male footballer, called for silence and easily gained the rapt audience attention. 

“Welcome all!” she cries with a big smile, mesmerizing all with her bright overpainted red lips, “my name is Dolly and welcome, all, to this our second exciting episode of THE TOMMIE FELON SHOW, or possibly renamed, depending on what you, the all-important audience, wants, PUNISH OR BE PUNISHED!

 [Screams of approval]

“We have now just one small matter to attend to before the great show begins. Thank you all for responding to our pre-show questionnaire. We now would like to know if there is anyone in the audience who has played cricket professionally or at the state or commonwealth level. Show of hands please!”

Three hands raised. The rest of the audience murmured their excited approval.

“Thank you,” said Dolly, “please come up to the front so I can give you your badges that mark you as leaders of your team, captains, let’s say, and give you the key to your store of balls, bats and stumps.”

The proud men came forward, shook hands with Dolly and received their keys. 

“You may now select your team members,” says Dolly. Immediately, audience members call out, wave their hands, “Me! Me! Pick me!” they shout. 

“You may give your team member whatever implement you think he or she or it can wield,” says Dolly in the loudest of voices.

Team members from the front two rows began to argue. Clearly the cricket bat was the favorite.

“All the weapons, I mean tools of punishment, are equally effective!” yells Dolly. “It’s a matter of how you use them!”

The captains issue the tools. The killers get cricket bats, the rapists get metal-tipped stumps, and the rest get cricket balls, as many as they can carry or pocket. Each captain, without any provocation by Dolly, begins to berate each other’s team. The competition is going to be fierce.

Back stage there is an unwelcome silence. To seasoned show business people, silence is not golden, when it comes to performance in an auditorium. It conveys an air of uncertainty, of dissolution, of incompetence. Dead air, as they say in the live radio business. People began to whisper. Some were puzzled as to why they were sent back stage. They thought they were there to watch a show, to be in the audience. Not to be herded into small cage-like structures, basically cages on wheels. And upon being pushed into the cage, each participant was given a small card on which was inscribed their crime or crimes. It was when each criminal saw what they were charged with, that the silence gradually broke into low muttering, and then finally, nervous crying, some angrily denying their crime, others pleading to be forgiven, that they didn’t mean to do it, and others flat out admitting guilt and saying “so what?” as if they had a right to commit a crime, to break the law. Of course, all, no matter what their first reaction to the crime of which they had been found guilty, complained that this was not fair, that many other, perhaps everyone, had committed the crime for which each was charged, so why weren’t they here in the cages as well? How could any government claim that justice was done when it sorts people into guilty and not guilty on some unknown criterion, but that looked initially like it was random? 

Now bedlam. People rattled the cages, screamed, sobbed, expressed their anger and guilt in all manner of ways. Some even stripped off all their clothes in defiance. Of course, to the producers of the show, this only served to make things even more entertaining. This episode would be a blockbuster, its streaming to be universally proclaimed, money would accumulate. What a winner!

Stage hands lined up the cages ready to wheel on stage. 

And now the star of the show, Tommie Felon herself (it was a Monday) emerged from her dressing room. She was naked under the black flowing gown of a high court judge. No one would know that, of course, unless she for some reason, perhaps a spur of the moment act, had an urge to reveal her sensational body, scars and all.

You may remember that the criminal who featured in the pilot, and whom Tommie defended against all kinds of wrath and anger, was dragged off the stage in chains, never to be heard of again. You may wonder why he disappeared from the public consciousness. The answer is very simple. He was paroled and became an ignominious nobody living under an assumed name in a back street of North Philadelphia where he was the victim of a gang shooting, when an errant bullet entered his small one room apartment and lodged in his temple behind the right eye. He lapses in and out of a coma where he resides in Temple University Hospital. Efforts were made to transport him to Australia for the special Australian episode, but the Victorian Department of Health and Criminal Justice Services required that he spend one year in quarantine, the explanation being that the Victorian government, indeed the Australian government, were not prepared to risk the importation of criminality into Australia which, as of this date, had the lowest criminality rate of any advanced country (and would be even lower were it not that the Australian government had allowed New Zealanders to migrate en masse without any vetting procedures at all). Besides, Aust­ralia had a very nasty history of criminal importation, indeed embarrassed that it owed its very existence to it.

I know I said that the notorious criminal of our first show would be in attendance, even a star of the show. But I said that just to get your attention. He definitely will not be in the show, thanks to the Australian government strict immigration policies. Besides, Tommie Felon threatened to quit if she had to perform on stage with that criminal again. She had enough scars on her body to last a lifetime. And there was a limit to which she could cover the scars with tattoos. 

I could here revert to the script presentation of the show as it unfolded, but to be honest (if you can believe it) I thought, in retrospect, that the clumsy layout of the text in the script style I presented in the pilot episode detracted from the story I wanted to tell. It is easier and simpler to just tell you what happened. I was there (well, actually I wasn’t, technically, I was safely viewing the show from the production booth across the street). But I didn’t miss anything, in fact saw much more than if I had been there. We have cameras installed everywhere as you can guess. And when I say everywhere, I mean everywhere. Back­stage, dressing rooms, all toilets, under audience seats, attached to participants’ ID cards pinned to their lapels and other garm­ents. Even the cricket paraphernalia have cameras attached to them in certain places. 

I admit, though, that there is nothing like “being there” as they say. I miss being on the spot, issuing commands to Tommie, taking her by the hand, giving her s slap on the bottom to hurry her along. You know what I mean? When I’m there, she can’t ignore my commands. In fact, she typically discards the ear phones through which I convey my commands. 

Here she comes. She’s hidden in one of the cages that the stage hands are pushing on to the stage. There’s a rustle of excitement in the audience. The captains must stand, cricket bats at the ready, and face their teams to keep them calm. It’s too soon to let them have it. If punishment is to be effective, timing is all important.

Tommie pushes open a door in her cage and jumps out. The criminals behind her try to follow, but she slams it shut, with the help of a burly stage hand. She gathers her judge’s robe around her body, sticks out one naked leg. There’s a huge audience applause and yells of excitement. The captains stand uncom­fortably, shifting their weight from one leg to the other. They can’t hold their teams down much longer. Someone cries out, “Criminals! Filth! You’re going to get it!”

Tommie prances across the stage, all smiles. Then she tightens the robe around her, so tight her shapely form appears, exaggerated. Hisses and boos respond. They want action. They want all revealed. The captains frown. They raise their bats, now holding them over their shoulders.

The criminals rattle their cages. Stage hands appear from all over and hand them cricket balls. Tommie turns to face the cages.

“You have the right of a defense, do you not?” she asks everyone.

“Let them have it! Let them have it!” screams the angry audience.

One of the criminals manages to throw a cricket ball and it hits a captain on the back of his shoulder. He turns to face the stage. “Who did that?” he asks, deeply offended. 

“What do you care?” calls Tommie, now prancing across the stage, leaning forward to the captain, extending her tattooed arm. 

The captain takes the bait. He takes her hand in his and tries to climb up on the stage to join her. A security officer runs over and tries to grab him before he can climb up. “No audience on the stage!” he cries.

But it’s too late. The captain’s team is outraged that he has joined the other side. They begin to pelt the stage with cricket balls and stumps, and a couple with cricket bats rush forward and manage to bash his legs. Tommie pulls her hand away. Her work is done here! 

“The innocent must have their say!” she cries, as though she were Moses with the tablets in hand.

The criminals rattle their cages again. They are flimsy cages. It will not be long before they can break out. Those who have cricket balls throw them. Their anger spreads like a huge tsunami throughout the entire auditorium. 

The audience of innocents is now well organized. The errant captain has returned to his team and they have forgiven him for his misjudgment. He is easily the best bowler among them, and a pretty good batsman as well. They line up to take it in turns throwing their missiles. The captain points to vulnerable targets. But the other teams will have none of it. They are totally undisciplined. Throwing cricket balls, stumps all over the stage at no particular target, simply causing bedlam and fear on the stage. Tommie tries to fend off the balls, but it’s no use. A flying stump hits her right in the shoulder and stays lodged there, the metal tip stuck in her chest just above where one of her breasts used to be. The enraged criminals in their cages rattle them more, the violence sure to break them open. But they are hindered by the stump missiles that have turned out to be much more lethal than the hard cricket balls. 

The third team under the leadership of their popular captain, follows him as he rushes forward with his cricket bat. He bashes the security guard who tries to stop him from climbing on the stage. He gets there easily and then turns to his team, “up boys and girls or whatevers! Let’s get them and finish the job! They’ll be all out before they know it!”

Tommie rushes forward, trying to pull out the stump embedded in her chest. The esteemed captain grabs her by the stump and with the other hand gives her a good bashing over the head with his bat. “Stop!” she pleads, “stop! I am innocent. I am just a media personality. I am innocent, I say.”

“You’re as guilty as the rest of them, and now you have to pay for it!” cries the captain of team three. “I’m more famous than you are anyway!”

His team is now on stage as is most of the audience. They rush this way and that, throwing balls and stumps, and the better cricketers swish their bats, pretending they are hitting fours and sixes. At last, one of the criminals manages to break out of a cage, and this is followed by screams of delight and delirium as other cages burst open.

Tommie manages to climb up on one of the empty cages and stands tall, She now has at least four stumps embedded in her body. She is pale and bleeding. She has touched her wounds with her fingers and painted her face with blood. It’s like her lipstick, always bright red. She raises her hands and calls out in a feeble, dying voice, “those who punish shall be punished! The innocent shall be guilty!”

None of what I have reported here is true. Here I sit serving my sentence of one year in quarantine because the Department of Health and Criminal Services of Victoria accused me of conspiracy to break COVID lockdown rules. They stopped me at the Tullamarine airport as I deplaned from the only Virgin flight into Melbourne from the UAE where I had been negotiating the season adoption of the Tommie Felon Show by the Lor-Renz Arabia TV network. I lied to the entry officials and said I hadn’t been to London. I don’t know how they found out. I am serving my sentence in an open cage put up in Melbourne’s Federation Square. There is a sign attached to the cage that reads “I broke the lockdown rules.” Every night on the network news, the Premier of Victoria delivers the verdict and shows me crouched in a corner of the cage. “I know this is painful for you all,” says the Premier, “but we can’t allow the lockdown to be broken. It takes just one who does not do the right thing, and the rest of us suffer.”

Moral: Fairness and punishment are evil twins.

The Tommie Felon Show Episode 1

A new off-the-wall TV series breaks all records.

In Safar, 1442 A.H. a ground-breaking late night talk show was aired on Ozone TV, the new network experts predict will overtake the slowly dying cable and satellite networks of the world. The new technology is far superior to satellite because it can bounce signals back to earth by navigating them via the ozone layer around the earth so that they can be retrieved from any place in real time -- rather like the old short wave radio that found its way around the earth by hitching a ride on earth’s clouds (real clouds, that is). Even more important, the Ozone layer is there to stay, not like satellites that eventually fall to earth and these days can be shot down at any time. Our TV/Internet combination offers customers a simple, basic service, with just the one channel, the Felony Channel, the most popular channel in all TV ever, and the fastest Internet service. The Internet service comes free with a subscription to the Felony Channel. This makes it far cheaper than any of the competition. It also makes the channel accessible and affordable to the poorest customers anywhere around the world. 

By far the most popular show is the Tommie Felon show that premiered in Safar, 1442 A.H. (I repeat myself, a habit of all TV personalities whether in front or behind the scenes). The first episode turned out to be so popular, its viewing surpassed many of the top You Tube videos. When one considers that the Tommie Felon show runs for approximately 20 minutes, including commercials, it makes You Tube, and other competitors look pretty limited. The naysayers had warned us that our viewers would not have the attention span to stay with a twenty-minute show. How wrong they were!

We are currently in negotiations with UAE TV to release the franchise to them with the hope that they will begin broadcasting the show sometime in the fall of 1448 A.H. As part of our promotional literature for distributing the franchise of the show, we have prepared this brief account of the first record-breaking show and a little background on its basic premise. The season premiere was such an important event that we reproduce here a small piece of the transcript, slightly revised and edited. 

The set for this show is modelled on the prison cells of the notorious Kilmainham Gaol in Dublin, Ireland, a classic 19th century multi-level prison, each level lined with bars of cells and railings, iron steps running up and down in the center of the prison, and catwalks connecting each side, seemingly suspended in space. The show opens with the camera panning first with a wide angle to take in the expanse of the prison, then takes us on a quick tour of the cells while the credits appear, finally entering the cell where the moderator sits dressed in a stylized prison guard uniform, her figure accentuated just a little too much, although these days it’s difficult to reach any higher level of excess. Let us just say that her appearance is one of volup­tuousness, admittedly an ugly word, if it is a word, but seems to us to be quite appropriate. No doubt the producers and directors of the show spent a lot of time coming up with the costume, especially the bright green of the uniform contrasting with the dull surroundings of the prison cells, the black bars, grey blankets, and bed of galvanized iron anchored to the floor. Of course, this set is not in Ireland but constructed in the Felony Channel studio in space leased from the new Freedom Tower in New York City, on the hundredth floor. 

The moderator sits at a small round table with polished chrome legs and glass top. The chairs are of black finely wrought iron, nicely crafted curves, no cushions, rather like high-class outdoor furniture. There are strict rules of conduct for the interviews. (Of course, the rules are made to be broken). There must be no touching; in fact, the guests and moderator must maintain a distance from each other of at least one foot. The guest, if a felon and currently serving time, must be shackled at all times to his or her chair and is transported from whatever prison in a high-security van, clear windows all around, a little bit like a squat version of the old Pope-mobile.

Before we proceed with the edited transcript of the first show, a word about our famous moderator is necessary in order to dispel any misunderstandings or misconceptions about what the show’s basic premise is all about. We wanted a moderator who could connect easily with all classes of people (we do not use “class” in the Marxist sense but in the scientific sense), who could convey with ease an air of deep understanding of her guests and of the topics discussed. Naturally, the title of the show conveys to the audience that this is a show about criminals, what they do to their victims, and what is and should be done to them once they are caught. As even the least informed members of our audience know, Tommie Felon has been convicted on several occasions (one of them a cause célèbre when found naked except for a G-string in the President’s office —we do not need to say which president—of course, this was not a crime at the time) and another was falsifying the forms required to qualify for health insurance so as to get maximum coverage to pay for a novel kind of sex change operation. Tommie received two years in prison for that felony, sentence suspended, and there have been a string of events in which she allegedly violated her probation by supposedly soliciting sex from various politicians who sent her revealing photographs of themselves, mistakenly thinking she was a prostitute. We assure you that we conducted an extensive background check (in fact we had the FBI do it for us under contract) and can say that Tommie has never prostituted herself. We admit that there must be one qualification to this postulation, which will become clear when we describe the structure of the show and its now well-known daily schedule.

The Tommie Felon show is aired Monday through Saturday at 8.00 pm. E.S.T. On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, Tommie is dressed out as herself, a voluptuous female, as we described above. On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, Tommie is dressed as himself, a straight, slim, mildly muscled-up male, his correction officer’s jacket short sleeved to show off his upper arms, and his correction officer’s pants, a slim modern cut of shorts, styled after those worn by Australian Rules Footballers, showing his lower thighs, shapely knees, and curvaceous calves. In sum, Tommie Felon is a transgendered individual whom (both he and she) we are totally convinced is able to connect with the amazingly diverse range of people who make up our audiences all around the world. So long as anyone watches the show two nights in succession, the intrinsic conflict built into the show is overwhelming. What more basic, anatomical conflict between humans can there be but that between male and female, yet how dependent each is on the other? The premise is established unequivocally right from the start. And so it easily leads to the conflict of another kind, between good and evil, captor and criminal.

It is a simple logic of the show’s premise, therefore, that the moderator, she or he, conflicted with him- or her-self, sits at the center of the table, flanked on one side by the captor and the other side by the criminal. 

Now that we have provided the raison d'être of the show we may continue to the edited highlights of the very first show that broke all records for a pilot show. It was a Monday show, so Tommie was dressed as a female as we have already described. The guest felon was a serial murderer and rapist who, as the media promoted and we were happy to confirm, made Hannibal the cannibal seem pretty tame, and as well was way smarter than was Hannibal (who was a fictitious character anyway). This guy was real. (We use the past tense because he was killed under suspicious circumstances when he escaped from the Pope-mobile look alike and was run down by a hit and run driver, an old guy driving a vintage K-car, according to witnesses.) The following is an abridged version of the original transcript, reproduced using the exact script format.

Series 1: The Tommie Felon Show

Episode 1. The Sado-Rapist

Directed by Quince Titillatio

Produced by Ozone TV in collaboration with
 the Felony Foundation

The advice and assistance of the society of felons is gratefully acknowledged

TOMMIE prances on to the set and advances to the front of the stage. She wears a bright, iridescent green cloak that she hugs with both arms across her bosom. With a wonderful flourish, she opens the cloak and stands tall, her arms extended up, holding her cloak as though she were Batman. She flings the cloak to the audience, and there are squeals and screams as those in the front seat fight to claim it. Her cloaks, made of recycled and sustain­able tissue and coloured with the slime of the slugs who inhabit the Olympic Peninsula, have become a valued collector’s item. She blows kisses to the audience, steps down to the front few rows and kisses her fingers, then touches them on the heads of worshipping admirers. She returns to the stage, her back to the audience, then suddenly swivels around, her head buried in her hands, lily-white elbows pointing to the floor. It is the cue for the audience to go quiet. She raises her head slowly from her hands, her face showing pain, her eyes tearing, painted eyebrows slanting inwards. 

TOMMIE

Oh, my Dears! What a show we have for you tonight! An evil thoroughly despicable killer and rapist who has done terrible things to his victims, things that even you, my dears, could not imagine!

AUDIENCE
 (chanting)

Tommie dearest! Tommie dearest!

TOMMIE

Yes, my dears. I do this for you! Only you! But can you bear it? Do you really want him? He is so terrible, so frightening, so horrible!

AUDIENCE

Bring him on! Bring him on!

TOMMIE

Then I present to you, our felon of the day, killer, rapist and vivisector, a man whose name we refuse to speak, the felon himself!

A security guard drags the criminal on stage, as he staggers under his chains that clank loudly nearly pulling him to the floor. CRIMINAL swears at his attendants and makes obscene gestures at the audience to the extent that his chains allow. The guard roughly pushes CRIMINAL forward and on to the chair. TOMMIE prances to the CRIMINAL and gracefully places herself on his lap, leans back, kicking her leg closest to the audience out in a wonderful ballet pose. CRIMINAL tries to grope her bosom, snarls, and drools, but TOMMIE quickly slides off and takes her seat at the table, sitting up straight and formal. She speaks directly into the TV camera. 

TOMMIE

And now I present to you our felon’s accuser, tormentor, or is he also his excuser?

TOMMIE looks slyly at the audience.

AUDIENCE (chanting)

Scuser! Scuser! Scuser!

TOMMIE

Yes, yes, yes! I present to you our world famous excuser of criminals, Dr. Fallatious Hood, the greatest Hoodie I know!

AUDIENCE (chanting)

Hood-EE! Hood-EE!

HOOD, the accuser, and tormentor, a lofty forensic psych­iatrist, quietly slips on to the set, seeming to appear from behind our transgendered moderator. TOMMIE extends her hand briefly to HOOD but retrieves it quickly after their eyes meet for an instant. She immediately turns to the CRIMINAL, licks her bright red lips in a tantalizing manner, and grasps his chained hand tightly in hers. She stands and raises the CRIMINAL’S hand with hers.

TOMMIE

My dear friends. I present to you, on my left, evil!

AUDIENCE

Eee-vil! Eee-vil!

CRIMINAL scowls right on cue. TOMMIE stretches for HOOD’s hand and raises it too.

TOMMIE

My dear friends. I present to you, on my right, good!

AUDIENCE

Boo-oo, good! Boo-oo good!

HOOD pulls his hand away and leans forward, staring into criminal’s eyes.

TOMMIE

Dr. Hood. You first. The good must lead the way! Ask the question that everyone wants to be answered!

HOOD

That’s easy. Everyone wants to know why you do it.

CRIMINAL

Do what?

HOOD

Don’t play cute with me, you filthy scum. Vicious, sadistic rape and murder of course.

TOMMIE

Doctor! Doctor! Tut! Tut!

AUDIENCE

Tut! Tut! -- Tut! Tut!

CRIMINAL

I enjoy it, that’s why I do it. I would have thought it was obvious.

HOOD

Enjoy?

TOMMIE sighs and looks bored. She puts on her headset and sways rhythmically as she listens to Iz Mer, Turkish rap star, currently her favourite. 

CRIMINAL

Yes, rape and killing. It's very pleasurable.

HOOD

Pleasurable?

TOMMIE rolls her eyes and signals to the audience to don their headsets.

CRIMINAL

Well, no—more than that!

HOOD

How many have you—?

CRIMINAL

Oh! Who can say? There's been so many—

HOOD

And what methods do you use?

TOMMIE removes her headset and leans over to CRIM­INAL, beckons to audience

TOMMIE

Oooooooh! Aaaaaah!!

AUDIENCE

Oooooh! Aaaaah!

CRIMINAL

Well, I prefer to use instruments that happen to be around at the time. A kind of situational ethics, if you see what I mean. There's a symmetry about it. Strangle her with her own stocking, put out her eyes with her own lip-stick case. Or shoes—shoes are really good. You can do a lot with shoes—

CRIMINAL'S voice trails away.

HOOD

Anything else?

CRIMINAL

Well, I couldn't describe them all. Take too long. I suppose you'd say it's the blood that's the best part.

AUDIENCE (Conducted by Tommie)

Tell us! (clapping) Tell us! (clapping)

HOOD

And, er—the other part?

CRIMINAL

You mean rape?

AUDIENCE

Ooooh!

TOMMIE puts her hand to her ear, leans over to the criminal.

HOOD

Ahem, er, yes.

CRIMINAL

Of course, that's a good part of it too. I couldn't describe them all.

HOOD

Well, just some of the better ones—

CRIMINAL

The better ones you wouldn't exactly define as er—

HOOD

What do you mean?

CRIMINAL

Well, because I don't do it in the er—

HOOD

Oh, you mean anal intercourse?

TOMMIE rolls her eyes, dons headset

CRIMINAL

Oh no! That's nothing!

HOOD

Then?

CRIMINAL

No, well, I —

TOMMIE removes headset, beckons audience.

HOOD

Go on.

CRIMINAL

No, I'm not going there. Let's just say that I do whatever I must to maximize my pleasure.

TOMMIE jumps up from her seat and runs to the front of the table. She conducts the audience in exaggerated gestures.

AUDIENCE 

(chants, clapping)

Tell us! Tell us! Tell us!

CRIMINAL (flattered by audience attention)

Have you ever read American Psycho?

HOOD

I wouldn’t waste my time with such trash.

TOMMIE (chanting)

Yes, we have! Yes, we have!

TOMMIE rushes to the front of the stage, waving her arms.

AUDIENCE  (chanting)

Yes, we have! Yes, we have!

CRIMINAL

Then you’re ignorant. I’ve gone well beyond that smart ass from the Hamptons. Drills, saws, rats. I’ve done way better than that.

HOOD leans forward, aggressively, stares at CRIMINAL

HOOD

Why do you do it?

CRIMINAL

I just answered that, didn't I?

HOOD

Not really. 

CRIMINAL

What do you mean, then?

HOOD

The killing and the rape, why?

TOMMIE waves to the audience again.

TOMMIE AND AUDIENCE  (chanting)

Bor-ing! Bor-ing!

CRIMINAL

I remember there was one time when I felt I would never find one to satisfy me. I'd just finished my finals and was watching a football game in a run-down bar. This raunchiness hit me. I just had to find the hottest, roughest one—

TOMMIE rushes back to her seat, and with an exaggerated flourish sits then leans over to the criminal, hand to ear

HOOD

But why?

CRIMINAL

Why what? I just told you, didn't I?

HOOD

Why kill them?

CRIMINAL

Before or after?

HOOD leans back, exasperated. TOMMIE pivots to him and gives him an exaggerated hug, and looks deep into the camera.

TOMMIE

My poor dear! It must be so hard for you.

AUDIENCE (sighs and swoons).

HOOD

Either.

CRIMINAL

Well, I mean they're not much use afterward, are they? Besides, they might remember what I looked like.

HOOD

Aha! So you're afraid of being caught!

CRIMINAL

Well of course! Wouldn't anyone?

TOMMIE leaps up and runs to the front, laughing hyst­erically, the audience joins in.

HOOD

But you're not just anyone--

CRIMINAL

What do you mean?

TOMMIE returns to her seat and with her chin in her chest, croons to the camera

TOMMIE

Oooh! Dark! Oooh, spooky!

AUDIENCE

Spooooky!

HOOD

Well, you're different.

CRIMINAL

What?

HOOD

Different. You know. I mean not everyone goes around killing and raping.

CRIMINAL

Yes, the pathetic fools! If only they could!

HOOD

Again. Why are you frightened of getting caught?

CRIMINAL

That's a really stupid question—

AUDIENCE

Stu-pid! Stu-pid!

CRIMINAL

As I said before, who wouldn't be?

HOOD

But you keep doing it, you must have realized you'd get caught sooner or later. Surely—

CRIMINAL

So?

TOMMIE  (leaning into HOOD’S face)

Yes, so?

HOOD

So, why keep doing it?

CRIMINAL

Because it makes life bearable if I assume I'll never be caught.

HOOD

But you have been!

CRIMINAL

So that's life. You've probably got terminal cancer. 

CRIMINAL chuckles, looks to audience for approval. 

TOMMIE laughs raucously. Audience joins in.

HOOD  (very serious)

We're going round in circles. 

TOMMIE puts her finger to her lips and raises her hand to the audience. Silence ensues. 

HOOD

Let me start again. Why do you kill people?

CRIMINAL

I just do it. It’s who I am. It's my life. I love my life. Who doesn’t?

HOOD

Don't you care for other people?

TOMMIE AND AUDIENCE  (chanting)

Doesn’t care! Doesn’t care!

CRIMINAL  (outraged)

What?

HOOD

I said, don't you care for other people?

CRIMINAL

Of course, I do. What sort of a question is that ?

HOOD

Then why do you do it?

CRIMINAL

What?

HOOD

Why? Why? 

HOOD leans across the table and grabs the criminal by the throat.

AUDIENCE  (chanting)

Why! Why!

CRIMINAL tries to push back but his chains will not let him. TOMMIE stands back, hands on hips.

TOMMIE

Go Doc! Go Doc!

AUDIENCE

Go doc! Go doc!

HOOD

Tell me! Tell me!

CRIMINAL

You're hurting me!

CRIMINAL stands pulling his restraining chains tight, catching TOMMIE’S extended arm, ensnaring HOOD’S hand as well. They all struggle and fall in a heap behind the table.

TOMMIE

Oh, Doctor! Oh, Doctor! Save me!

TOMMIE flings herself back, legs flying up in a classic V position, kicking the table over. Members of the audience run up to save her, but they are restrained by security guards.

HOOD

Oh! Sorry! I, I didn't mean to—

CRIMINAL

That's what they all say.

TOMMIE crawls, half drags herself to the front of the stage. Her contortions are Shakespearian.

TOMMIE

Oh my dear, dear friends! I thank you with all my heart. Why does the doctor behave so badly?

HOOD (contrite)

All I asked was why he does it.

HOOD stands as if to leave.

CRIMINAL

You must know why. You’re the psychiatrist after all!

HOOD  (glaring at Tommie)

You are a despicable, evil person—

TOMMIE (shocked)

Who, me? 

TOMMIE points at her breast with both hands. She looks at the audience seeking approval.

AUDIENCE

Yes, you! Yes, You!

TOMMIE feigns horror, runs to the doctor and hugs him.

TOMMIE

Please stay doctor. We all need you! You’re the only doctor we have! 

HOOD

There’s no point continuing this interview.

CRIMINAL untangles his chains and gets back to his seat. 

CRIMINAL

Oh! But I thought you wanted to find out all about my crimes?

HOOD

I did—I do!

TOMMIE

Oh, thank you, doctor! Thank you!

TOMMIE kisses the psychiatrist full on the lips then waltzes down to the front row of the audience and brings up an overweight man in his thirties to help right the table. TOMMIE kisses him too, on the cheek, then dismisses him to the care of a security guard.

CRIMINAL

All right then, ask me some questions.

HOOD

I have, and you won't answer them.

CRIMINAL

You haven't given me a chance.

HOOD

I've pleaded with you.

CRIMINAL

I've tried to answer you, honestly.

HOOD  (despondent)

It's no use.

TOMMIE

There, there Doctor. I’m sure he doesn’t mean it, do you Mr. Criminal?

AUDIENCE  (chanting)

Mean it! Mean it!

CRIMINAL

Why don't you ask me about my childhood? Everybody else does.

HOOD (fed up).

All right then. What about your childhood?

CRIMINAL

Well, I mean, you'll have to be a bit more specific.

HOOD (disinterested).

Yes, I suppose so. You were an illegitimate, only child, I suppose?

CRIMINAL

No, certainly not. I have two elder brothers and two younger sisters. Our family is very close.

HOOD

Your father left home when you were five or six, having beaten you mercilessly since birth?

CRIMINAL

No! Good heavens, you must have had a terrible childhood!

TOMMIE stands, signals to the audience, and conducts as if they were a choir.

TOMMIE AND AUDIENCE

The doctor was abused! The doctor was abused!

HOOD

Well, it wasn't the happiest, but—

CRIMINAL

Were you close to your parents? I was. All us kids were. We were a very close family. Loved each other. The usual arguments occasionally, but generally a wonderful family.

HOOD  (slyly)

And your mother. Why haven't you mentioned your mother?

CRIMINAL

You didn't ask me. Besides, it's implied when I say 'family.'

HOOD

You mean your mother was nothing special?

CRIMINAL

That's not what I said!

HOOD writes down notes.

HOOD

I see.

CRIMINAL

Are you really taking that down?

HOOD

Of course.

CRIMINAL

But you've invented it. That's not what I said at all. That's dishonest.

HOOD

Nonsense! Let's get on with the questions. Your mother—

CRIMINAL

You can't justify it. You're dishonest.

HOOD

Your mother—

CRIMINAL jumps up, one of the chains pulling free. A security guard rushes forward to restrain him.

CRIMINAL

You're nothing but a faker, a quack!

TOMMIE’S eyes light up. She signals to the audience once more, though it needs no asking.

AUDIENCE

Quack! Quack!

HOOD

It's not dishonest. It's a matter of interpretation. I've studied criminals for years. It's my expert opinion.

CRIMINAL

Expert dishonesty.

HOOD

I'm a very experienced forensic psychiatrist. I make careful scientific impartial judgments.

AUDIENCE

Lies! Lies! — Lies! Lies!

CRIMINAL looks to the audience with approval. Blows them a kiss, but gets an unexpected response.

AUDIENCE

Kill the quack! Kill the quack!

CRIMINAL  (enraged)

Barbarians! I don’t kill just anyone!!

TOMMIE

Now! Now! Mr. Criminal. Remember, they will vote for your release as will our viewers!

CRIMINAL

Where’s the pleasure in killing the quack? Now if they wanted me to kill you—

HOOD

Mr. Felon! Look Out! 

TOMMIE

It’s not Mister, and you know it, you insensitive brute!

HOOD

Miss, Mrs., then. Whatever. You’re in danger! Get away quickly!

TOMMIE

It’s Madam, if you don’t mind!

AUDIENCE

Look out! Look out! Madam, look out!

CRIMINAL wrenches himself up off his seat and thrusts his body and chains with all his might towards TOMMIE who puts both hands to her throat and tries to slide under the table out of the way. HOOD pushes his chair back, watches, and takes notes.

TOMMIE

Help me! Help me, my God help me!

Security guards rush forward, but it’s too late. CRIMINAL slipped under the table and has wrapped Tommie in his chains. He bites off her ear lobe and spits it out at the audience. 

CRIMINAL

Fellow barbarians! I give you blood!

AUDIENCE

Blood! Blood! He gave us blood!

HOOD scurries off the set, walking backward, half bent over and hoping not to be noticed. TOMMIE swoons and licks her own blood as it trickles down her face. CRIMINAL follows her example and licks the blood off her cheek.

TOMMIE

Oh! Mr. Criminal! Why me? Why me?

TOMMIE becomes listless and floppy, as though in a drunken stupor. CRIMINAL looks out at the audience.

CRIMINAL

Neck or nose? Neck or nose?

AUDIENCE

Neck! Neck! — Neck! Neck!

CRIMINAL bares his teeth like a snarling dog. But a young security guard, pretending to participate in the blood-licking, has crawled under the table and, after one lick, lifts a leg and fiercely rams it into CRIMINAL’S chin, causing him to bite off his own tongue. The guard unravels the chains from TOMMIE and pulls her free. She envelops him in her not so floppy arms and guides him to the front of the stage as they stagger together. There is blood on both their faces. The audience stands and jumps and screams in ecstasy. 

AUDIENCE

Kiss! Kiss!—Kiss! Kiss!

As the ecstatic couple complies all too well with the audience demands, other guards have not managed to unravel CRIMINAL’S chains from the table and chairs, so they drag him off the set along with the table and a chair. CRIMINAL gasps, chokes, face turning blue, blood pours from his mouth. TOMMIE and the security guard come out of their embrace. Tommie swoons again and waves to the audience.

TOMMIE

My dears! My dears! You have saved me! I owe you my love and my life!

TOMMIE falls back into the security guard’s arms. 

TOMMIE 

Take me! Take me!

Security guard lifts TOMMIE off her feet and carries her off the set while she blows kisses to the audience.

And there we have it. This was the most highly rated season premiere ever of a talk show (to repeat, repetition is good in our business). For your curiosity, the studio audience voted to parole the criminal immediately, but the viewing audience did not agree. It voted overwhelmingly for a continued sentence of life in prison without parole, with a sizable portion of respondents urging that the original death sentence, which was commuted by then Governor Bunyon, be restored. (As an aside, a sizable minority also urged that the psychiatrist’s license be revoked). 

Please be aware that Tommie is well and her ear lobe has been reattached successfully. However, the security guard was fired for the liberties he took in saving her, specifically licking the blood from her face, which, the gender harassment board in its review, rated as an unnecessary invasion of Tommie’s privacy and was, in fact, a sexually tinged touching. As for the criminal, the prison surgeon was unable to reattach the pieces of his tongue since it seems that he chewed them up thinking that they were pieces of Tommie’s ear. In fact, the surgeon had to remove additional parts of the tongue because of the danger that rough edges in the mouth may turn cancerous. The criminal launched proceedings against Ozone TV claiming several million dollars in damages, but the judge threw out the case because (1) the damage was self-inflicted and (2) the contract the criminal signed with Ozone TV clearly specified that we would not be held liable for any damages that resulted from the criminal’s actions. Clearly, all the unfortunate spilling of blood was his doing, not ours. His lawyer claimed that we should have foreseen the events and chained the criminal down more securely, but our consideration, in this case, was that we did not want to treat the criminal in an inhumane manner. As it was, we received a considerable amount of mail from viewers, and media pundits that we had, in fact, weighed the criminal down with so many chains that he was treated like a beast of burden. The criminal has appealed the case to the U.S. district court, but we are confident that the court will not hear the case.

Clearly, we are breaking new ground with this show. This is real time television, in no way edited or scripted. In fact, as can be seen from this “ad hoc” script, if one were to actually write such a script and expect players to act (no, be) the part, we could not write in the actual spilling of blood as occurred in this episode. Of course, we could have people act the parts out and have special effects make the spilling of blood seem real, but that is not our idea of reality TV. There is no script. We do create an environment with participants we have carefully chosen, and we do, of course, employ a moderator who is incredibly talented. Tommie’s behavior we can more or less predict, and the same goes for the audience. However, we cannot predict precisely what the guests will do. This is what makes The Tommie Felon Show so exciting and why people all over the world tune into it with high expectations that we try not to disappoint.

We are confident that the proposed franchise of the show to the new and exciting Lor-Renz Arabia TV network will be equally successful. We are working with them right now to develop the set, which will be based on the notorious Abu Ghraib prison, in fact, may even be shot on site (pun intended!). Guests will include high ranking Al Qaeda or ISIS operatives, one in particular who has perfected the skill of beheading hostages, and others including dedicated suicide bombers of various sizes and ages and genders, and on the contra side, prosecutors and inter­rogators who have perfected the procedures for extracting the truth from their quarry, including the efficient means of punish­ment for the convicted such as beheading and cutting off other limbs with one stroke of the sword, and the use of hot water boarding. 

Speaking of which, we have engaged the services of a well-known Hollywood head hunting team to find the very best moderator for the show. Naturally, we are not looking for a transgendered person, but rather for a terrorist with a strong history of violence who is also a doctor and pacifist, thus providing the standard premise of the show: a balance between prosecutors and defenders, violence and peace, good and evil.

Moral: Being part of the punishment is part of the problem

23

A Notice of Infraction

The punishments of everyday life.

Robert Smith, better known as “Smithy” to his mates (few of them left) lived quietly in his small unit on Walker street in a small seaside village called Anglesea. Not the one in England, the one in Victoria, Australia. He was a widower of twenty years and counting, and had come to enjoy in a quiet way his solitary life, his two bedroom apartment with small kitchen and open living room spacious for his meager needs. His period hi-fi set was the largest piece of furniture in the apartment, which he enjoyed daily listening to his tapes and old LP records of his favorite musical shows, especially those of Rogers and Hammerstein. Even better, he had hooked up his vintage color TV to the hi-fi set so he could watch his videos of the musicals. He rarely watched ordinary TV, though, because he found most of it, especially the news, to be from another world, one he had no knowledge of, nor interest in. Inside his unit he had constructed his own world where everything was predictable, and every day would be like every other day. A perfect environment for an admittedly old man, though he would be offended if someone referred to him as such. 

His daily routine consisted of waking at 8 am. on the dot, no alarm necessary. To the bathroom for ablutions in the following strict order: toilet (standing not sitting), shave with electric shaver (rotary only), then shower, no shampoo (waste of money). Drying quickly in front of the space heater that he had connected to a timer (a tinkerer, he was always handy with mechanical things, having once been a mechanic), powder all bodily crevices, (he did not believe in deodorant), check for ear wax with a match stick (forbidden by doctors), combing hair of which he still had a reasonable amount for a man of ninety, applying a little hair oil. Switch on the electric jug, return to the bedroom to dress, then to the kitchen where the jug has finished boiling. Pour a little hot water into the little brown two-cup teapot, rinse and tip out, then add a spoonful of tea, fill pot to the top, replace the lid, cover with the tea cozy (rather stained after years of use). Pour a little milk into the waiting teacup, then pour the tea through a tea strainer. Sip the tea and take his daily aspirin, then pour hot water into the bowl into which the night before he had tipped half a cup of Uncle Toby’s oats. Stir then sprinkle a little salt and sugar, and add a little milk.

By the time he finished his oats and drank his tea and washed the breakfast bowl it was 9.30 am. Back to the bedroom for his wallet that he kept beside his bed, then his hat hanging up behind the bedroom door. Time to walk to the local store to get the daily paper. Step out of his apartment, lock both the regular door and the screen door, place the keys under the third rock from the edge in the cactus rockery, walk out to the street, check the mail box for junk mail, then on to the shops, cross Walker street at the driveway to avoid stepping off the curb, walk on the shops side of Walker street on the grassy strip, to the corner at Camp road, then down the hill keeping to the left of the footpath, past the Post Office (a quick wave to the post lady), past the Chemist, to the News Agent for the paper. Then a careful retracing of his steps back to Walker Street and his welcoming home. All the while he walked, back straight (required constant effort) head up, and hat pulled well down over his forehead. Should anyone he knew say hello, he would tip his hat and say g’day, but never stop. There was a time when he would stop and chat, which was when he played bowls with the local club for several years. But he had quit a few years ago when he was dropped from one of the pennant teams because, they said, he was too old. This daily routine Smithy repeated every day except Sundays when there was no paper. His paper, The Geelong Advertiser, was not printed on Sundays. There were Sunday papers, The Age and The Australian, neither paper did he find at all relevant to his life. In truth, the only pages of the Addy he read were the births and deaths, mainly the deaths.

On this particular day, January 15 2015, Smithy was returning from the News Agent and had just turned the corner where the mobile library often set up shop, when a group of three teenage boys, late teens he guessed, jostled past him, full of laughter and banter, each carrying armfuls of soda and fast food. One had taken a red shopping basket from the local IGA supermarket full of chips and soda. For some reason, still inexplicable to Smithy, he found himself staring at the young lout with the basket, certainly not minding his own business as he always did. The lout grinned at him, but really, took little notice of his glare, and a glare it was. The young bugger was blatantly stealing the basket. And before he knew it, he heard himself saying, “I hope you are going to return that basket.”

The three boys laughed and one of them said, “what’s it to you, you old fart!”

Smithy was shaken to the core. His day had been disturbed as though lightening had struck the tree next to him. He looked the other way, quickly turned the corner and hurried as fast as he could walk back to his haven on Walker Street. 

The boys kept walking as though little had happened. The boy with the basket had, in fact, intended to return the basket after they had carried their groceries to their house. They had just borrowed it, though it is true that they had not asked for permission. In any case, the brief encounter with Smithy was enough to invoke the obstreperous inclinations of teenagers, to do the very thing that Smithy had accused them of. Once at home, they had no use for the basket, and the boy who took it mentioned that he might get around some day to returning it. 

This encounter weighed heavily on Smithy. It had disturbed the order of his day and, after a couple of days brooding, he decided to phone the supermarket and report the incident. The manager of the supermarket was very courteous and thanked him several times for reporting the theft. Smithy gave a reasonable description of the three boys, and the one who carried off the basket. The manager said he thought he knew who they were and would have his security people look into it. 

As luck would have it, the boys did get around to returning the basket, though no one at the supermarket noticed, and in fact there were no “security people” employed at the super market. It was too small a market to employ separate security. So there the matter lay, the theft eradicated by time and circumstance.

The next day was the day on which every month, Smithy drove into Geelong to do his grocery shopping. He had done this for years because he thought that the prices were lower in Geelong. This presumption was doubtful, given that he had to pay top dollar for the petrol that ran his 1988 BMW. In any case, he drove, being careful to obey all speed limit signs, to the supermarket some twenty six kilometers from Anglesea. There he stocked up on all his groceries for the month, including litres of milk that he would keep in his freezer and use as needed. And lots more. He had a strict routine of supermarket shopping. It would take many pages to outline the procedures, sequences and particular routines. Suffice it to say that this was a typical monthly supermarket day in which nothing out of the ordinary happened. He arrived home after a regular uneventful drive to Anglesea, unloaded his car, all the chilled or frozen things first, placed in their appropriate places in his refrigerator. Satisfied, he made a cup of tea and sat down at his kitchen table and played his usual game of poker (playing both sides) in which of course one of him had to win!

Two weeks went by until the order of his day was once more disturbed by an unexpected and shocking event. He collected his mail and found a letter from the Victoria Police. What on earth could it be? And when he opened the machine-folded and printed letter, he gasped in horror. It was an infringement notice for driving four km. per hour over the speed limit of seventy, the exact location listed in the machine printed notice, Princes Highway in Waurn Ponds, just after the turn-off to Epworth Hospital. But there was more. Apart from the fine of $207, there was also a requirement that he report to VicRoads and do a driving test. The notice sternly informed him that this contravention had automatically tripped a requirement that drivers over the age of ninety who broke any traffic law, be required to undergo medical and driver examination to determine whether it was safe for them to drive. His license had therefore been suspended until he fulfilled the requirements. 

This was too much for Smithy. How could this be resolved? How could he get to VicRoads without a car? He became dizzy and plonked down in his armchair. What are these people doing to him, spying on him with cameras? What right do they have? It seemed like every right. And how could he fight this false charge? And false it was. He had a very carefully worked out routine for driving into Geelong to the supermarket. He drove very carefully, kept to the speed limit exactly, never deviated. 

The next day he phoned up the VicRoads who were very nice to him, once he managed to talk to someone. They told him to read the back of the notice where it said how to appeal the fine. He had done that. It looked impossible. And besides, it still meant that he could not drive his car anywhere until the appeal was processed. And what chance was there of winning? Zero.

There were two weeks until his next trip to Geelong was due. He then took what for him was a momentous decision. He would pay the fine and drive in there anyway and be damned about the license. So he paid the fine online following exactly the directions printed on the infringement notice. He found this all very unsettling. He was a dutiful law abiding citizen. He had never knowingly broken any law or even rule for that matter. He absolutely never, ever walked on the grass even when there was no sign that he should not.

As the day for his drive to Geelong drew nearer, he became extremely nervous. His hand shook when he poured his tea in the mornings. He even forgot to pour the milk into the cup first, before pouring the tea. Nevertheless he was so upset with the government for torturing him in this way that he held fast, though he did stop taking his daily aspirin, thinking that maybe it was the aspirin that was making him jittery. Of course, this was simply silly. He had taken aspirin daily for twenty years or more, ever since they had said it thinned your blood and prevented heart attacks.

The trouble was, though, that when he stopped taking the aspirin he began to notice that his short term memory was not quite so good. It had never been too good for many years, but now he seemed to be forgetting silly little things, like not putting the milk in his tea, or putting it in again forgetting that he had already done it. So a few days before the big trip, he started taking the aspirin again and by the time the day of his trip arrived, he had more or less calmed down. 

He was about to step out of his apartment and into his car when the phone rang, a most infrequent event in itself, as he had only one relative, a son who lived in New York, and rarely called. He almost did not answer it, but finally turned back and took the call. And very lucky that he did. It was a call from VicRoads saying that there had been a mistake and that his license had not been suspended and that he did not need to submit to another driving test, though the nice lady added that for a person his age it was strongly recommended that he visit his GP and get tested. She also thanked him for his payment of the fine, and no, it was not a mistake. Smithy said no word at all, until the lady had finished talking. He then said “thank you” and banged down the receiver. He was very angry, even red in the face. He went out to his car slamming the door behind him. 

Strangely, though perhaps not that strange, sitting in his car in the garage, all silent, no light on, he felt secure and cared for. This old car had done sterling service. It was like an old friend.. He even talked to it when he was stressed out over something. He started the car, then switched it off, and sat silently, thinking some more. “That’s the way old girl,” he muttered to his car. That’s the way.” He took out his handkerchief and wiped a little dust from the dashboard. Then he backed the car out. He was a man of resolve. The cameras had picked on him. He would take steps to even up the score.

So far, you could be forgiven for assuming that Smithy was a silly old man whose life was stuck somewhere in the 1970s. But that would be a mistake. He had always been a tinkerer of mechanical things. When radios first appeared, he tinkered with those and could fix any radio there was. The same with clocks, the same with cameras, still and movie. Anything that was mechanical. So it was a logical step when he bought a computer as soon as they appeared on the market, and upgraded his computers frequently to keep up with the amazingly rapid development. And the appearance of the Internet also piqued his natural curiosity. He started watching YouTube videos that taught how to repair computers, how to manipulate and exploit the huge potential of the Internet. He became something of an expert, and no one knew it. 

As he backed the car out of the garage, still deep in thought, he backed into the fence that separated his drive from the next door neighbor. He got out to look at it, and was pleased to see that the damage was slight, although the fence had been pushed over a little. A voice called out from his neighbor on the other side of the fence. “That was close, mate! You should get a rear camera for that old jalopy of yours!”

Smithy occasionally chatted with his neighbor, though he truly found any such conversations stressful. He was courteous, but really much preferred his own company. “Maybe you’re right,” he answered. And as he drove out the driveway, he headed straight for the auto store and bought a rear view camera, which he would install himself. And on his way into Geelong and back, he carefully noted where all the speed and red light cameras were. There were so many! How could you avoid becoming one of their digital victims? And with some, admittedly twisted satisfaction, he made a point of driving everywhere at exactly the speed limit indicated, and just to make sure, he drove at five Ks below that limit. After all, the rules stated that these were speed limits, so you could drive at any speed under the limit specified, was that not correct?

But now, his compulsive nature was slowly taking a new turn, or perhaps one should call it adaptation. The cameras fascinated him. He watched videos on the internet that explained how they were controlled. He joined so-called “dark web” groups to discover how to hack into wireless devices. It turned out to be not so difficult. All one needed were the right devices and a little tweaking of them if one knew how to do it. And probably the most sure thing he learned from these dark web sources was that the majority of installations of camera and other surveillance devices, some security systems and the like, were relatively easy to hack, that those manning them tended to not really believe that someone wanted to hack into their systems. The passwords were therefore easy to crack, if you had the persistence and the right tools and a little information about the target. 

Some of Smithy’s routines had to give a little. His afternoon poker games stopped. He no longer walked down to the news agent. He stopped reading the daily paper. Instead, he spent all his time huddled in a corner of his garage, a bright light shining over his shoulder, tinkering away, finding his way through the labyrinths of the Internet, until after many weeks, perhaps several months, he sat back with a sigh of great satisfaction. He had completed his task. It was now time to test it.

In Smithy’s opinion the trouble with speed cameras was that they only caught speeding infractions. But few such catches were related to any serious car accidents. Red light cameras were a little better, but the trouble with them was that they too often snared drivers who were caught half way through an orange light. The nearly innocent were therefore treated the same as the clearly guilty. That contravened Smithy’s refined sense of justice. There was not a lot he could do about that, but there was plenty he could do now that he could hack into the speed cameras. It was, however, going to take up a great deal of his time. He was sorely tempted to simply sit at his computer in the garage and randomly pick innocent victims by sending the image of their license plate along with a speed that he made up, to the Victoria Police computer that received all the wireless infractions. But of course, he did not yield to such a temptation. He was a rules man, through and through. No, he would drive slowly to Geelong and all about Geelong and watch for what he considered louts driving dangerously. And there were always plenty of them. He was of the opinion that speed limit was not necessarily in itself dangerous. 

So, he would station himself in the vicinity of a camera, hack into its operation, wait for a dangerous driver, then transmit the license plate number and an outrageous speed to the Victoria Police. That would ensure that the offender received a truly heavy fine. Over the weeks and months that followed he developed an extensive list of types of dangerous driving and the appropriate illegal speeds he would submit. And then he had an even better idea. Why limit himself to speeding infractions?

Smithy guessed that had probably made an error or two in his little game with Victoria Police. He had awaited with eager anticipation for a knock on his door, or more likely an infraction notice in the mail, to appear at the police station to answer for all the speeding reports he was sending to them via their cameras. Several months went by, and nothing happened. He had foolishly assumed that the computerized bureaucracy that received the speeding data and spewed out the infraction notices would sooner or later send someone an error message. Nothing of the sort happened. In fact, one had to assume that all the infraction notices that Smithy had caused to be sent out must have been either not paid by the offenders, or more likely paid without any appeal, eager as such offenders would be to get rid of the threats delivered by those infraction notices. So they would, in effect, plead “guilty” even though they were innocent of the specific infraction listed in the notice. 

And so Smithy returned to his daily routine, all except his poker games in the afternoon. Instead he would park himself anywhere near a camera and send infraction notices to all kinds of drivers whose behavior he disapproved. All he needed to do that was the license plate number. So, he enjoyed sending notices to those who parked in no parking zones, those who parked in spots reserved for disabled, if in his opinion the driver was not disabled. Then he spread his reach to those individuals who behaved rudely to him anywhere, in the supermarket, or even in the street. He would follow them to their cars, note the license number, and shazam! Case closed!

Unfortunately, after some months, Smithy began to realize that he was not getting as much fun or satisfaction out of these mischievous punishments that he was delivering to unsuspecting persons. In fact, it was not long until he started playing his poker games in the afternoon, just could not be bothered getting into the car and driving somewhere where there was a camera. There was no fun in it any more. Why was this? He looked back to the days of labor he put into developing his hacking skills, what joy it was the first time he sent a fake infraction notice! But then it slowly sank into him that he was not enjoying his delivery of punishments by notice because there had been no response from the Victoria Police bureaucracy at all! He then realized that the true satisfaction of punishment was to see the offender actually punished. In this technological infraction bureaucracy the punishment remained hidden. There was nothing to see. The notice arrived in the mail. The recipients swore and complained to themselves. But then paid the fine. He now saw that he had unwittingly contributed to this enormous hidden machine of punishment that wasn’t. He had become a cog in the machine of big brother.

Moral: Punishment hidden is punishment denied.

22. Greatness

Of winners and losers

It is difficult to avoid the impression that there is something terribly wrong with the history of western civilization when the exploits and achievements of its greatest men are constantly recounted. These begin with Alexander the Great, responsible for at least 3.5 million deaths of soldiers and civilians (a rough guess) resulting from his constant wars and pillage; Julius Caesar, so forgiving, but responsible for around 3.5 million deaths (another rough guess) resulting from his battles, not to mention cutting off the hands of all men and boys in a village that refused to acknowledge his supremacy; Napoleon Bonaparte, around 3.5 million including 1 million French civilians, plus the deaths of his enemies in battle and massacre of those civilians.

The numbers, of course, do not carry much weight in and of themselves. We are numbed by their abstraction. Besides, they have been disputed many times over by various historians and other experts. But what is not disputed is that the Great Men, all to a man, obviously loved war. They reported, or more accurately bragged, of their exploits, the battles they won, the territories they acquired, and, especially for Napoleon (he worshipped both Caesar and Alexander) they publicized and basked in the glory of winning. One can only assume that Napoleon actually believed the numbers Caesar reported (many unbelievable), though, one must also acknowledge that Napoleon, like Caesar, was a master at propaganda and communications. He established his own magazine, or one might say today Twitter account, and relentlessly pounded his adoring French citizens with a recounting of his amazing exploits, full of incredible numbers of the vanquished, and the heroic exploits fashioned and made possible by him, the Great Leader. This was a man who was not even French (a kind of Sardinian Corsican), who had sided with the revolutionary movements against royalty that led to the French Revolution of 1789 and eventually the beheading of King Louis XVI in 1793. Yet in the aftermath of the bloody revolution, in 1795 a National Convention was held in which a five member directorate was appointed by parliament to govern France. It had as its direct governing tool, an effective army to suppress any dissent from those (Jacobins and Royalists) who objected to the Directorate. The army was commanded by General Napoleon Bonaparte, who ruthlessly put down any insurrections or even public demonstrations of dissent.

In 1799, amidst financial crises and other objections to the government of the Directorate, Bonaparte staged a coup d’état, appointed himself “first consul,” mimicking the first Emperor of Rome, Augustus, who insisted on being called first citizen, “Princeps” rather than “Emperor.” On the gold coin Napoleon had struck to commemorate this big event, his depiction as “first consul” looks very much like that of Julius Caesar on his various coins. It wasn’t long, though, before Bonaparte called himself Emperor, established a dynasty and obsessed with having  progeny so that the accession to the throne of France would be inherited by his offspring. 

And for a while it worked. But as is well known, after his having fought many battles, broken many peace treaties, conquered almost all of Europe, he did what all Great Men are supposed not to do. He lost a decisive battle, the Battle of Leipzig that alone cost some 90,000 casualties.  He was thus eventually deposed from the throne by the Sénat conservateur, and as part of the peace Treaty of Fontainebleau between France and the Allies (the rest of Europe fighting against Napoleon), exiled to the Isle of Elba.

The story could end there, we all know, it did not. Yet we should pause for a moment and reflect on what made this man so great. His failures up to this point were few, if we think of success and failure as being winning or losing battles. But historians have nevertheless sung praises to him for his great accomplishments in other fields of governing: he completely reorganized the decrepit bureaucracies that governed France, invented an acclaimed legal code that remains dominant to this day, introduced a centralized system of education for all citizens,  a model that influenced much of Europe, enhanced and supported the sciences and the arts, set the bases for introduction of the metric system throughout Europe, and much more. 

All these accomplishments must be measured against the violence and destruction he reaped, driven by his obvious love of war. Would not many of these accomplishments of science, education and law have occurred without his interventions? Were so many wars and killings really necessary to introduce a new education system throughout Europe, for example? This is, of course, a silly “what if” notion. But surely humans, civilized humans, are capable of improvement in their ways of doing things (education, law, governance) without such carnage? Is carnage a necessary requirement for progress?

Putting silly questions aside, what we are concerned with in this small essay is to answer the more serious and human question: did Napoleon get (deserve) what was coming to him? His love of war killed and maimed countless people. Should he not pay a price for this? Any ordinary person who did one tiny inkling of what he did, would surely be punished for it.

No doubt you are already answering my question. He met his Waterloo.

It is by their actions that individuals define what punishment they deserve, or will be visited upon them. The means of this carriage of punishment is expressed in the common observation, “he brought it on himself.” Does this apply to Napoleon, the Great Man of history?

Keeping in mind his love of war and conquest (of quite a few women as well), let us look at how he fared after failure.  One of the perplexing and really annoying things about Great Men who reap terrible devastation is that, even when, on the rare occasions they lose a battle (easily the worst disaster they can imagine), their followers nevertheless rally around, and cling to them, through much of this death and destruction.  Their loyalty is buttressed by certain rules of war that help a great man overcome his losses in battle. Those of the military who see the loss coming, and desert, are often punished severely, often by execution. They are cowards. Those remaining loyal are heroes. This rule serves well to deflect responsibility for any defeat away from the Great Leader, on to the pathetic, cowardly men under his command. The great general is depicted as having empathy for his troops, he eats and sleeps in the same quarters as do they (Julius Caesar, or so he wrote, supposedly also Alexander the Great, probably not Hitler though he was once a common soldier). Churchill, another great man was also a great lover of war and glory. He lived it as an officer in the Boer war and World War I and wrote about it as a war correspondent. He also worshiped Napoleon.

But back to Napoleon. Although he was forced to abdicate, as his punishment, he was sent to the Isle of Elba where, incredibly, he was given  sovereignty over the island of 12,000 people and allowed to retain the title of Emperor. Thereupon he supposedly started a revision of its governmental structure, introduced modern education and  health systems, and much more. It is hard to see this exile as anything other than a cynical joke. Especially, as the promised income was not forthcoming, and it was the British of the allies who were administering his exile. So it was that on 26 February 1815 with 700 men, Napoleon escaped in the brig of a ship disguised as British, while his British overseer was away in Italy visiting his doctor. (Though there may have been a woman involved). Thenceforth, with his small band he landed at Golfe-Juan and made his way north to Paris. Contrary to the expectations of the powers that controlled France from Paris, and totally unforeseen by the allies, most or many of the troops of the standing French army went over to Napoleon, so that by the time Napoleon arrived in Paris, he was once again Emperor and commander of a large, though eventually not large enough, army. King Louis XVIII fled to Belgium. On 13 March the Congress of Vienna declared Napoleon an outlaw and the allies, Great Britain, Russia, Austria, and Prussia pledged to raise 100,000 men to oppose him. Through what might have been, in retrospect, an unpopular move, Napoleon introduced conscription and managed to expand his army to 200,000 men. 

The die was cast. Napoleon, as usual, decided to go on the offensive, and having studied carefully the locations of the allied forces, chose a strategy that had worked well for him in the past: divide and conquer. He  planned to make sure the two enemy forces that sat in quite different locations were kept apart. He would keep them divided, attack and destroy the British force commanded by the Duke of Wellington, and then turn his army against the Austrian force commanded by Prince Blücher. These two battles came to be known as the Battle of Waterloo that began on 18 June 1815. Incredibly, Wellington had ignored the warmings of his spies that Napoleon was approaching. He even attended a ball the night before the battle, a great social event attended by all his top generals and  senior officers. Such was the attitude of the allies who simply could not believe that Napoleon was any immediate threat. Most had also believed that the French standing army would not go over to him. 

Much has been written about these events, Wellington’s attendance and approval of the ball seen as some kind of dereliction of duty. Wellington did, however, since all his top officers were in attendance at the ball, give instructions and orders to his officers while at the ball, so that eventually the army was ready to respond to what would be a tough onslaught by Napoleon’s forces. Wellington had also, days before the ball, reconnoitered the expected battlefield, so knew the terrain and the advantages and disadvantages it would present for his army.

How battles proceed, the thrusts and counter-thrusts, the movement of troops, the delivery or confused delivery of orders and commands, the importance of the terrain at particular points of battle, and probably the most important of all, the morale of the troops, are of great fascination to students of warfare and those whose job it is to do battle.  And in this case, certainly in the early stages, Wellington’s apparent inadequate preparation for the battle, augured well for yet another amazing victory by the little genius Napoleon. After all, Wellington when asked what he thought of Napoleon, replied that Napoleon’s presence on the battlefield was equivalent to 40,000 men. 

In any case, we do not need to concern ourselves with the intricacies of battles, the outcomes of which, in most if not all cases, are largely determined by unforeseen events, including the weather, that is, luck. By far the most important event is the outcome, because we know that the winner is always a hero of great character, and the loser is the one now deserving of punishment.  In sum, Napoleon was vanquished. Wellington was the heroic victor, Napoleon the loser. He met his Waterloo.

But of course, losing is not really a punishment in itself, is it? For Napoleon it almost was because he was not used to losing, though he had lost big the first time round, resulting in his exile to Elba. This time, the powers of Paris and the allies were bent on a more serious punishment. And certainly, given the deaths caused  by Napoleon’s provoking the Battle of Waterloo he deserved considerable punishment, don’t you think? Although battle statistics are notoriously unreliable, the rough numbers are 41,000 casualties on Napoleon’s side (no figure on how many of these were deaths), and 24,000 (4,700 killed) of the allies.

Sit back and ask yourself. What punishment do you think Napoleon deserved for this dreadful loss? How does one match the destruction and damage of the war to the punishment of one man, the instigator of the war? Is the humiliation of the loss a sufficient punishment?

This time, the allies took no chances. The punishment would be exile to the island of St. Helena, way too far from any large land mass, no people for Napoleon to govern. He was essentially a captive kept in a reasonably equipped house, but far from the palatial trappings he had during his stay at Elba. Though, given the death and destruction of the Battle of Waterloo, one could surely think of apt punishments that would match at least a little of the violence and carnage that resulted from Napoleon’s battles and his obvious thirst for war. 

Execution, perhaps? He showed no hesitation in executing Jacobins and others he deemed were a threat to his rise and reign. Not to mention the carnage, destruction, and plunder— which he took to a whole new level, just visit the Louvre to see a fraction of the spoils. The Prussians pressed Wellington to have Napoleon executed. Given the dreadful violence, maiming of his soldiers, blood and body parts strewn over a huge area, bodies piled on top of each other. Surely an execution would at least play a small part in matching Napoleon’s crimes? But Wellington refused, telling the Prussians that, if they wanted Napoleon executed, let them do it. He would not, even though he had Napoleon in custody. And what of Napoleon’s collaborators? Should they not also bear some of the blame for his love of war? Perhaps the practice in Roman times, to sell off the losers of a war or battle, into slavery? Especially as Bonaparte reintroduced slavery into French colonies.  

One could go on. But it rapidly becomes clear that matching a punishment to crimes of such magnitude is an impossibility. Because Napoleon “met his Waterloo” he got what he deserved, that is, he lost. And this, perhaps was the worst punishment of all, given how much he loved war and winning. Yet he was surely rewarded by historians of the future (his future that is). There are monuments throughout France and elsewhere to his fame and glory, to his non-military achievements (the Napoleonic legal code, education and agricultural reform etc.). Do all such achievements neutralize the terrible massacres of millions of lives caused by his wars? 

His actual punishment, exile to British-held St. Helena on October 1815, was still a far more mild non-capital punishment than what he might have received if sent to one of the many horrible prisons of the period (they are not much better today). There he remained, eventually dying of a stomach ailment, probably cancer, on May 5, 1821. He had expressed his wish to have his remains buried “on the banks of the Seine, among the French people I have loved so much.” This was denied to him. Excepting that, in 1840 his remains were removed to a crypt at Les Invalides in Paris, in the dead company of other French military leaders.

And so in the end, Napoleon won perhaps the greatest battle of all, the battle of posterity. He left huge accomplishments behind him that outstripped the destruction of his wars, and for this we have to blame all subsequent historians, even those critical of his reign and exploits, for having recognized them as such. He was clearly not punished enough in posterity to make up for the “rewards” (benefits to civilization) of his non-military accomplishments.

Should the monuments that neutralize his bloodthirsty love of war be torn down? Should his punishment be ignominy, relegated to the dustbin of history? We are often told that these monuments are also a reminder of what happened in the past. That we should never forget them or else we may repeat them. Is this but a fanciful wish that humanity were something else?  We should not forget that it was the “people” after all who made Napoleon possible. As far as punishment is concerned, maybe they also got what they deserved.

In sum. Winners are punished by losing, for which they are forgiven. Losers are killed or enslaved, and rarely forgiven.

Moral:  Winning in war is the moral justification for punishing the losers.