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has been inaugurated, and he stands atop the palace wall, the throngs gathered under him. Perched on high like a saint, his gestures spastic like a puppet, he makes a new point about the war, about the end to all wars, about peace for the nation. The camera alights on the young face of a woman in the crowd, rapt with attention, nodding with each rehearsed word. That was me, she says. That's still you, he says. Otherwise you wouldn't be here, you stupid bitch. And why are you here, old man? Because you're here. He is sucking at an orange; she keeps a bowl of them at the ready, the skins peeled off. His lips pucker and slurp with a power of their own.  |
You're just desperate. I'm too old to be desperate. I merely want. Want what? She stands before him. The belt of her robe has come loose, and the front of it sags open so he can see all of her there. You want this? His jaw works in agitation. I want you to leave here. I still have my duties. I still follow orders. I know. I knew all along. They told me about you. Fresh juice dribbles down his pancake-white chin. You're the sick one.  |
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