Hidden Colours, page 30
A myriad of foils fell from the rafters. The foils became swooping dragonflies, flitting around the tent, looping through the stands, lending their fragile light to distant corners, and finally escaping out of the exit in jubilation. Yusuf’s euphoria mixed with an aching melancholy at the thought this might be the last time, and around him, his family hugged one another, openly weeping through their smiles.
The Chancellor stood, absorbing the applause around her, and the faces in the circus ring.
Emir stroked his top hat as if it were a cat and grabbed the microphone. “Thank you for letting us make this our home,” he said, and Yusuf smarted, because as long as weapons and the ambition to own and conquer territory existed, there would also be displaced people who didn’t belong.
Old Sayid picked up his sousaphone and led the band in a jam, and soon the crowd danced in their seats, but not before the Chancellor’s team ushered her away.
A few rows back, willowy Marina stood head and shoulders above those around her, fawning at the performance, although she must have been inwardly seething. She tossed her glossy hair, and for a moment, Yusuf wished one of Esme’s doves could be trained to empty its bowels on her head. How satisfying for her to be here, to see the euphoria of this evening despite her scheming.
He didn’t want this night to end.
When he left the circus ring, Yusuf’s limbs seemed to drift of their own accord, but despite his exhaustion, he stood with the performers in a receiving line to greet the Chancellor. Imam Saeed conducted the introductions and the Chancellor smiled at them, asking meaningless questions. Her eyes shone with kindness, and when she reached Emir, she congratulated him on the home he had made for them all with no trace of hypocrisy in her voice.
To Yusuf, she said, “I enjoyed that very much. Tell me, Herr Alam, what would you do differently, if this project wasn’t constrained by the rules of the Internal Ministry?”
“That’s easy,” said Yusuf. “I’d teach classes for local children, teach them all about what we do here, the focus, the strength, the creativity. But I’d also have street troupes, where the circus branches out from the tent, into the lives of ordinary people, brightening up the day of people in nursing homes and hospitals, in schools and on street corners. We’ll send in the clowns, the musicians, the dancers and the acrobats. Community can save lives. Looking at things from different perspectives can save lives, too. It saved mine.”
She nodded. A trail of thoughts sped across her face. “Will you come and see me tomorrow?” she said.
And he dared to hope.
Chapter 43
Ellie darted between the rows of seats, hoping to spend a few minutes with Yusuf after the performance, but the Chancellor’s security guards blocked her access to the performers-only section of the tent. Disappointed, she turned to locate Isaiah only to find herself facing Marina.
“Oh.” Her cheeks flushed with warmth. “I thought you’d be hiding,” she blurted out. It wasn’t every day that you crossed paths with someone you’d rubbished in black and white. Ellie pushed her shoulders back and squared up to Marina. She wasn’t a coward or a troll who threw insults at victims without ever intending to show her face. Ellie could defend her decisions.
Tom lurked behind his boss, sheepishly holding her enormous Louis Vuitton handbag.
“Oh yourself,” said Marina. She combed her hand through her hair, drawing attention to her widow’s peak and the stern lines of her face. “My lawyers advised me to give you a wide berth, but I had to speak to you. You know what I don’t understand? After everything I did for you, how could you expose me like that? You made it seem so clear-cut.”
“That’s your complaint?” said Ellie, anger surging through her veins. “You accepted money for telling lies, Marina. You used my byline knowing I’d been forced into writing what I didn’t believe in. I’ve handed over my recordings to the police and I hope they come for you.”
“The board will have my head first.”
Ellie shrugged. “You’re probably right.”
Marina’s expression softened. “Maybe I should have taken the time to tell you before. The reason I’ve been so hard on you is that I see in you who I once was. Come back to BAZ, Ellie. You’ll have a clean slate and a portfolio of your own. You’re resourceful and determined, and your instincts are good.”
Ellie’s eyebrows flew up. “Are you serious? I was expendable then so why not now?”
“I haven’t been scalped yet, and bringing you in-house could be just the thing to make amends. It’s more than that, though. You’re good, but you’re just starting out. Don’t turn up your nose at the chance of coming back in house. You’ll get more readers than on your little blog, or freelancing for that matter. I take it that Simone hasn’t offered you a staff role?”
Little blog. “I wouldn’t go back if you begged me.”
“Come now, I know it was you who raided my office.” Marina tossed her hair. “I found the scrap with my password on it. Don’t think I don’t know how you got in. I could have you up on breaking and entering charges if I wanted.”
A bitter tang filled Ellie’s mouth. “Maybe, but something tells me you have more problems coming your way than going after me.”
Marina set her mouth in a grim line.
“The answer is no,” said Ellie. “If you want to make amends, how about using your editorial to eat some humble pie? Isn’t news supposed to help people understand the world? Isn’t it supposed to keep the powerful honest? You inadvertently became the mouthpiece for angry white men, who are anxious about their declining power. But that didn’t matter to you. All that mattered was keeping Silberling happy and saving your own neck.”
“Those angry white men you so scathingly refer to–they need a voice too. Would you silence them?” said Marina.
Ellie didn't know what she wanted. She just didn't want to give fake news a chance, and she certainly didn’t want fearful people to warp public life with their twisting logic, but perhaps exposing flawed arguments to discussion was the cleverer route. Hadn’t even Yusuf and Karl been able to come to some kind of mutual understanding?
She wouldn’t give Marina the satisfaction of even moving a millimetre closer to her viewpoint. “They can’t be silenced. Their voices are amplified by the algorithms of social media and search engines. It’s our duty to challenge them. Why do you ride the wave and never crest it, Marina? Why not go back to old notions of journalism and hold power to account rather than be beholden to it? You mistake loudness for authority. The public trusts us with their minds. Every word we write holds power and you wield it with such contempt for the people we serve. We are in service. Not to the advertisers, or the gods of parliament, or the businessmen on diamond-crusted thrones. To the people.”
Marina rolled her eyes, her body rigid. “It’s not my job to educate the people. Your idealism will die with your youth.”
“I honestly think you’re trying to help me, so thank you.” Ellie gave her a hard smile. “But your way is outdated. It’s cowardice dressed up as wisdom. I see how in thrall you are to the purse strings. I don’t see a role model in you anymore. I see a world that will be better when you move aside.”
A few rows away, Isaiah waved at Ellie to capture her attention. She stepped past Marina without saying goodbye.
“Way to go,” said Tom in a whisper as she passed him.
Ellie squeezed his arm. Despite her bravado, uncertainty plagued her about whether she wanted to be a journalist in a post-truth world. News had lost its link to the minds of readers and instead sought to rifle through their pockets. At any given moment of the day, a dozen breaking news articles competed for the reader’s attention in a decontextualised screech which took no responsibility for advancing understanding. It served only to damage the reader’s equilibrium or reinforce existing prejudices, like feeding an addiction.
Worse still, she recognised she’d failed to save the circus. Doris had been notified that contractors would be dismantling the circus within days, and the case files of the refugees were to be reviewed. The outcomes could not be guaranteed; some could find their status rescinded, and they would be separated from all they knew.
She weaved her way to Isaiah, fixing her brightest smile to her face, though she ached to sink into Yusuf’s arms.
The next morning, a gentle wind washed over the city as Ellie dismounted from her bike in her parents’ front garden. Her phone rang, startling her.
“Good morning. Is this Frau Richter?”
“Yes.”
“The Chancellor would very much like to meet you.”
Ellie lowered her bike against the fence and her bag spilled out.
“Frau Richter?”
She scrambled to pick up her things. “Yes.”
“Can you come at four o’clock and bring Herr Alam? The Chancellor has a free window.”
Her pulse raced. “Where should I come?”
“The Federal Chancellery. Please don’t be late.”
The man hung up, and Ellie’s hands quivered as she reached for the number at the residences.
Tourist guides and locals had named the Federal Chancellory the Federal washing machine or elephant loo due to its unusual appearance. A sprawling study in curves and cubes, with trellises crawling up its walls and encircled with fountains and miniature trees, the Chancellory dominated the landscape. The building intimidated Ellie and Yusuf on their approach, and they released their grasp on one another’s hands, as though romantic interaction might be improper here.
Once through the security protocols, they followed a slim man with square eyebrows and a clean-shaven face along long white-washed corridors. After a few minutes, he ushered Ellie into the Chancellor’s office, leaving Yusuf feeling very much alone in the ante-room, judging by his downturned mouth and the way he fidgeted with his borrowed shirt.
Inside the Chancellor’s office, sombre tones reigned. Dusky grey and yellow wallpaper covered the walls. A painting dominated one wall: a Paul Klee, perhaps. On the other side of the room, a serving table drew Ellie’s attention: on it, three slices of lemon cake with tiny silver forks waited on exquisite bone china.
Nearby, a vast bookcase rose from floor to ceiling, on the left-hand side of a desk devoid of papers. Ellie scanned the books and found an assortment of political memoirs, encyclopaedias, newspaper cuttings and, stuffed in the corner, a number of feminist classics: some Virginia Woolf, The Yellow Wallpaper in its original English, and Angela Carter in translation. She wondered whether it would be against journalistic etiquette to reveal the Chancellor’s reading choices to the nation.
Opposite the bookshelf, a colossal window frame looked into the distance in the direction of the Jewish memorial. Ellie pictured it: small black cubes of differing sizes, with tourists dotted in between. In Berlin, nothing was divorced from Germany’s past. It coloured every decision made in the present. Germany’s future was safeguarded by collective responsibility: each citizen contained a seed of shame for acts that had preceded their birth. Still, Silberling had shown that even in today’s Germany, it was possible for minorities to be wronged in the most heinous ways.
All it took was one bad egg.
The Chancellor and an aide entered, interrupting her train of thought. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Frau Richter. First, let me offer my condolences on the passing of Frau Kaun. I understand she was quite a woman.”
Ellie nodded, and stood to shake the Chancellor’s hand. “It’s an honour to meet you.”
She took a sip of water, her mouth suddenly dry.
A benign smile washed over the Chancellor’s otherwise stern face. “I very much enjoyed the circus yesterday. Quite something, wasn’t it? And I must say–just between us–I never liked Silberling, that sneaky bastard.”
Ellie choked on her water, then composed herself.
The aide hovered in the corner, holding a stack of files in the crook of his arm.
The Chancellor rounded the desk and settled into her chair. “I asked you here today to say thank you. The constraints of my office mean I must be guarded in what I say in public, but I wanted you to know how grateful I am to you for your spectacular work. What a sad and dark day when the powerful destroy lives in petty acts of ego.”
Ellie couldn’t help herself. “Chancellor, may I ask? Why did you make Silberling Interior Minister?”
“I thought long and hard about it. He always considered himself a shoo-in for leader, and it made sense to keep him close and flatter his ego. He’s very resourceful, you know, but quite Machiavellian. But an internal party struggle is rarely in the interests of the country. It’s safer to keep a man's pride intact. A humiliated man is rarely willing to admit defeat. He lashes out. And so I accommodated him and let him preen, allowed him to think I relied on him when he was simply mediocre. It was only a matter of time before he made a mistake.” She gazed off into the distance. “You see, the men around me like to think they are cleverer than me, just by virtue of having a penis rather than a womb. They think I’m here by accident, rather than by design.” A gentle smile played about her lips, but the crow’s feet at her eyes and the pallid tones of her skin revealed her tiredness. “I can’t tell you the steps it’s taken me to get here. The slights I have endured, the waggling eyebrows I have ignored. What they forgot was that while I always knew what they were thinking, they never knew what I was thinking.”
Ellie shifted in her seat, unsure of how to respond.
“Are you going to argue any differently?” said the Chancellor, amused.
“I know countless good men,” said Ellie. “And I know many flawed women.”
“Well, of course you do. So do I. But tell me, aren’t good men more flawed than good women? Do they put a stop to the privileges that advantage them over women? Do they counsel their mothers to follow their dreams, or do they prefer them at the stove? Do they teach their daughters to be fearless or to be careful and safe and as pretty as a window ornament?”
“We want the people we love to be safe.”
“Even if safety means they make themselves smaller to suit others? Amongst your friends, is there one of you who hasn’t altered her behaviour or tempered her response to defuse tensions because a man might get the wrong impression or take offence? Power, Frau Richter, belongs to all, not just to the ones who seek it. Sometimes, it’s the weakest in the pack who make the best decisions.”
“What’s going to happen to Minister Silberling?”
“I fired him. The scoop’s yours if you want it.”
Euphoria swept through Ellie. “Yes, yes, please.” Silberling had charmed and manipulated his way through life. He’d land on his feet, of that she had no doubt. Still, she celebrated this reckoning, applauded it even, because Silberling’s meddling couldn’t have been the first time. She might even look into his past. Her journalist’s brain ticked. “Will there be criminal charges?”
“Justice has its processes and it’s an unwise leader who intervenes or seeks to influence it.”
“Of course.”
“How about BAZ? It can’t be acceptable to vilify a group of people in the press, and to get away with it.”
“A free press is one of the pillars of this democracy, Ellie. You played no small part in the salvaging of this fiasco. This was your story and others will inevitably look to you to lead the narrative. You will focus on the positives, won’t you? It doesn’t do to muddy the waters for too long,” she said, all brisk and business-like.
“Yes, Chancellor.”
“I very much enjoyed my visit to the circus. I’ve looked at its track record and that of its performers, and despite some isolated troubling incidents, I think it’s been a success. I’d like Emir Karzai and Yusuf Alam to hold monthly meetings with my advisors, but I’m happy for the Treptow Circus to remain open.”
Ellie’s heart burst into colour, and she forced herself to quell the instinct to dart across to Yusuf in the next room to share the news. “Thank you, thank you,” she said, jittery with excitement.
“Herr Alam will find no governmental obstacles to the classes and street troupes he dreams of. There was a small matter of his involvement in the May riots, but I have instructed my officers to lose the footage as a gesture of good will.” She knitted her fingers together. “He would do well to steer clear of further trouble, or it will have a direct impact on his citizenship process.”
“Oh.” Ellie’s throat tightened.
“Is something wrong?” said the Chancellor.
“It’s just, I was hoping... I was hoping you could bypass the paperwork and...”
“Yes?”
“Could you grant the performers and crew citizenship? Like the French President did when a refugee scaled walls to rescue a child.”
The Chancellor shook her head. “I’m sorry, Frau Richter, but you ask too much. I can’t risk factions in my Government accusing me of bending the rules or being too lenient, however much I myself believe in the advantages of giving the downtrodden a chance. I know that within a few years, the refugees will pay more in taxes than the public purse spends on them. I know they enrich our land with culture and create jobs. I know our infrastructure is coping quite well, and our population has remained level since the 1990s. But I can’t force that view on my colleagues or the electorate, and it would be stupid to take my position for granted.” She shuffled her papers, signalling that the meeting would soon come to an end. “The polite political landscape of the post-war years is changing. We have openly nationalistic parties in parliament for the first time since the Second World War. There’s more dissent than ever before, and the changes to our demographics are a challenge. Of course, we shouldn’t swing to extremes in order to shore up votes. Policy debates belong in the open, however difficult they are. What I can’t abide is this abstract fear of immigration. So I’m giving your friends a chance at citizenship, using fair process, and I hope they are grateful for that chance, because not everyone is so lucky.”
