Rhetorics

4. Book delivery (Madara)

I crossed my legs casually on the divan of my couch, sipping my mug of hot tea, the other arm casually slung over the back of my couch. I was to watch a speech to be held by a member of the largest party on the right side, our nemesis party, if you will, and I was curious. It would be a person who'd never spoken for the party before, and he'd only been a member for one year. The fact that he was now speaking was impressive, and I couldn't help but feel excitement as to who he was, and what rhetorics he would use for his speech.

I leaned my head back, felt my marine blue T-shirt stretch over my chest. I wonder what kind of rich, white man this one would be. They all seemed to be clones of one another, really; CEO's, doctors, lawyers who'd seen nothing of the world but their own bubble, yet still dared believe they knew everything there was to know because they'd been to the Maldives on their honeymoon. During my ten years in my party, since I was nineteen, and four years in parliament, since I was twenty-five, the members of the opposing party had openly mocked me for my simple job as a librarian, as well as my job as a barista in a cafe. It didn't bother me, really. I loved my jobs outside of politics, working only 75% as a librarian and once a week as a barista to be able to spend as much time with politics as possible, even if it was unpaid. My apartment was simple, but I'd bought it and it was mine. 

I sighed contentedly, waiting for the speech to begin. It was a TV program tied to the evening news who invited different party members to speak before the elections. And the elections were drawing closer.

And it began.

Onto the stage came the most handsome man I had ever seen in my entire life.

He was tall, slim and strong. He wore a light green shirt, a dark brown suit and beige suit pants. His hair was a gleaming chestnut brown and long, reaching his waist just like mine was, but whereas mine was choppy and wild, his was cut in a sharp line and silken. His eyebrows were very well-shaped, his nose thin, as were his lips. And he carried himself with such a poise, I was immediately drawn to him, leaning forwards on my couch, elbows on my knees, mouth slightly parted. Oh, this will be fun...

And he began speaking.

Throughout his entire speech, my lips were slightly parted, my body tensed in anticipation, trying my uttermost to catch his every word even though I didn't need to work for it at all; he delivered them so clearly. He didn't look into the camera as I did, but whereas that gave other politicians the aura of not being aware of anyone outside of House of Parliament or the television studio, his demeanour told a whole different story. I know you're there, but I won't even bother to look at you because I know you'll listen to me anyway. He would move away from the speaker's podium and walk slowly on the stage, clasping his hands together, looking down for effect, then looking up. He was absolutely and utterly in total control of every aspect of me.

And he slaughtered my party and, to my utter excitement, me. He not only delivered clear and understandable points, but he also low-key roasted me. It was so subtle, so skilfully done that nobody could blame him for it, yet nobody would doubt the message he sent. I bit my lip so it bled; the people who had rooted for me would definitely notice.

"We know that if our sister goes to a club, she's more likely to be harassed by a non-native than a native. We know that if our daughter walks alone, she's more likely to be raped by a non-native than a native. We know that if our wife goes grocery shopping at night, she's more likely to be murdered by a non-native than a native. This is despite the fact that the percentage of non-natives in our country is much lower than that of natives. How can I accept this? How can my party accept this? How can we accept this?"

Shit, this is bad.

I leaned forwards, hissed through gritted teeth, pulled my fingers through my hair. I felt terrible for him. Absolutely terrible. Imagine having as little understanding about the world as this man had! The thought was unbearable. I would rather go blind than believe what he believed.

But I couldn't quite bring myself to hate him

I kept listening to him. I couldn't help myself; he pulled his audience in so much. I kept biting my lip, absorbing his every word, listening, learning, automatically designing a counter-speech in my head.

When he left the stage, I felt incredibly alone. I turned off my television and went to bed.

"Any books for me from the library, Madara-jan?"

"Here", I said, opening my backpack where I'd packed down three books from the library for her to read this week. I adjusted my thick-rimmed glasses I wore as I worked in the library instead of lenses, complimenting my black polo well. "Dan Brown's Inferno, Eva Rice's The Lost Art of Keeping Secrets, David Mitchell's The Bone Clocks."

"Have you read them all?"

I smirked.

"Not The Lost Art of Keeping Secrets. My fifty-five-year-old female colleague recommended it."

"Excellent. Is she single?"

"Halima!" I burst out, using her first name to make her understand I was serious.

"What's wrong?"

"You can't become a predator!"

"That's not what I meant", she said. "I mean, what's wrong?"

I sighed. So she has noticed.

"Nothing."

"Is it that Senju man from television?" I gaped. How the FUCK? "Ahh, so I thought." The old lady nodded wisely. "He affected me, too."

I breathed out and I sat down on her bedside.

"It's such a shame. He's good at rhetorics, but he clearly has no sense of how the world works. I feel sorry for him."

"No, you don't."

I frowned. "Excuse me?"

"You don't feel sorry for him, Madara-jan." I put the books on her bedside table but kept looking at her, indicating I was listening. "You don't feel sorry for him."

I decided to leave it, taking her out in her wheelchair for a walk.

"You want hot chocolate, miss Asghar?"

"Oh, no thank you, my dear", she said. "Watching my figure."

I leaned forwards so she could see my questioning face even if I pushed her wheelchair through the crowded shopping avenue in the dark afternoon.

"Aren't you a lesbian now? So you don't have to watch your figure?"

"Yes, but the woman I love..." Oh, dear lord. "Her late husband was a soccer player. So I figured she likes fit people."

"You've always been fit to me, miss Asghar."

She laughed happily.

"So", she said. "Which book should I read first?"

"Your English is advanced enough to take on any of them now, miss Asghar."

"How about the Dan Brown one? He's a hunk."

"I don't think the woman you love would appreciate you calling Dan Brown a hunk, miss Asghar. But that one is good. As are all his books. However, I figured out who the bad guy was halfway through." I was a little ashamed about how proud I was of this. "So the element of surprise was lost to me."

"Now I feel pressure to figure it out beforehand, too", she said. "Maybe, I'll read the last page first."

I stopped dead.

"If you do, I will change political party to that Senju man's party and speak for one political cause only, and that's to have you deported."

She burst out laughing. I loved that about her; she liked my humour dark and raw.

"About that man..."

"Yes?"

She turned to look at me.

"You don't feel sorry for him." This again. "You are disappointed in him."