24 December 2015
The Sixteen Days of Christmas
by Neil Tidmarsh
First sunrise, December 25th. Christmas, day one. A team of United Nations stewards woke Idliff in the F2 Zone. Another team woke Merak in the B5 Zone.
Both men breakfasted separately with their aides. Idliff hardly touched the food. He conferred seriously and quietly with his entourage (three ministers and two lawyers), yet again going over the clauses protecting the country’s mineral resources. But Merak and his two generals and three colonels set about the cold meats and pastries with enthusiasm, laughing and joking loudly with each other, eager to get the day’s historic business over so they could start on the champagne and roast turkey and Christmas pudding promised for after its completion.
The blood samples taken from both men as soon as they’d left their beds showed no traces of illegal substances, and the extracted DNA confirmed their identities. “Those two characters aren’t going to pull any surprises today” said the first doctor testing the samples. “It’ll be smooth and easy. The difficult stuff, all the details – cease-fire, decommissioning, demobilisation, new constitution, interim government, elections – that’s already sorted. They just have to sign on the dotted line now. Simple.”
The second doctor was sceptical. “You think so?”
“It’ll be all over by day seven. Day eight at the latest. Then it’ll be champagne and roast turkey and Christmas pudding all the way. Peace and goodwill unto all men.”
The second doctor shook his head. “The last hurdle is always the most dangerous. It’s where the favourite often falls flat on his face.”
“Day eight at the latest” the first doctor insisted. “Not convinced? Care to bet on it, then? Double share of champagne to the winner?”
“If it ever gets to the champagne” the second doctor mused, but he shook on it anyway. I hope I lose, he thought. I hope peace and goodwill do triumph today. The fate of a whole country – the lives of thousands, the livelihoods of millions – depends upon those two men reconciling their differences.
The first doctor licked his lips. He could almost taste that champagne already. “What could possibly go wrong?”
Idliff and Merak were shown into the conference room at the same time (the scanners spotted no concealed weapons) but through opposite doors. Their eyes met for a moment across the width of the room. They glared at each other with hatred and contempt. No polite greetings, no ‘Merry Christmas’. Then they turned away and took their seats at either end of the room, their aides beside them.
Both men were young and dark-haired, but that was where any resemblance ceased. President Idliff was tall and slim. He was clean-shaven, his short hair was neatly-parted, and his old-fashioned dark suit, white shirt and grey tie were hand-made by the best tailors in London. Commander Merak was short and fat. He had long, tangled hair and a long, tangled beard. He wore old military fatigues, camouflaged and filthy, and his army boots were scuffed and worn.
But appearances were deceptive. Idliff, not Merak, was the career soldier, the accidental politician. Idliff had been born in poverty, in a peasant’s village far from the capital. He’d joined the army as a boy, immediately finding his feet in what was clearly his natural element. He was promoted to sergeant within a year, to lieutenant within three years, captain within four. Then major, then colonel – and then the coup which overthrew the King. Then President. He’d governed the country with scrupulous honesty and impressive efficiency, a dazzling contrast to the corrupt and lazy regime he’d replaced. But he’d dealt harshly and ruthlessly with all opposition, and his clumsy nationalisation of the country’s mines had antagonised the ousted multinationals and impoverished his people. He’d soon found himself facing internal and external hostility…
Merak, not Idliff, was the privileged prince, the accidental soldier. Merak, a nephew of the King, had been born into luxury and had spent most of his life abroad – at school in England, at university in the USA, at play in the night-clubs and casinos of London, New York and Paris. He’d kept his head down when the civil war broke out; he’d only abandoned his playboy life when the powers funding the rebels against Idliff’s dictatorship convinced him they could put him on his uncle’s throne.
Idliff and Merak had fought themselves to a standstill after three years of carnage, tens of thousands of deaths, millions displaced as refugees, the country’s four major cities reduced to rubble. And now here they were, about to sign a peace-treaty brokered by the UN. After today, a new country could rise from the ashes of war. Free elections, a parliamentary democracy, a constitutional monarchy. No more violence and destruction. Peace and prosperity…
Everything was ready. The UN chairman and his aides and secretaries, the consoles which displayed the terms and conditions of the treaty to hand on the table, screens on three of the four walls (the fourth wall was a huge window through which the dazzling light of the sun flooded the room) broadcasting scenes from their country relayed in real-time via satellite links. Idliff peered at the big screens. He could just make out the tents of a refugee camp (somewhere up by the northern border, perhaps?); the rubble of a bombed city (which one? his capital? it was hard to tell – all cities looked the same after a year or two of bombardments); and a sand-bagged artillery battery by the gates of an army base (loyal or rebel?). The world on the screens was still dark. Night-time. A digital display of local time in the top right corner showed it to be almost 1 a.m. there, 25 December.
Idliff looked at his own watch. Almost an hour since they were woken; almost time for the first sunset.
The UN chairman opened proceedings by beginning to read through the document listing the details for demobilisation of troops on both sides. Sure enough, less than five minutes later, the sunlight streaming through the huge window was cut off in a matter of seconds, and the room was plunged into darkness. The first sunset. The lights automatically came on overhead and the chairman continued to read, his voice barely faltering.
Idliff attentively followed the demobilisation document on his console as the chairman read it aloud. He sat stiff and upright. Every now and then he interrupted to suggest a different word, or the insertion or removal of a punctuation mark. Merak slouched in his chair, bored and impatient, and waved Idliff’s suggestions through without objection but with an expression which made it clear he thought they were pointless and petty and a waste of time.
The chairman finished reading the demobilisation agreement and began on the document dealing with the decommissioning of arms. But barely a minute after he had started, a sudden blaze of sun-light burst through the big window and the overhead lights automatically turned themselves off.
Second sunrise, 25 December. Christmas, day two.
Idliff glanced at the big screens. The time back in his country was now 1.45am. Still dark, still night-time. The whole country sleeping while its fate was being decided here, so far away. The UN chairman paused to drink from a glass of water. In the silence Idliff realised that the screens were relaying faint sounds as well as images; he could just about hear snoring from the sleeping refugees and soldiers, and whimpers and shouts and screams from minds gripped by nightmares, unable to escape the horrors of war even in sleep.
The chairman read through the draft documents covering the terms for a permanent cease-fire, for an interim government, for elections. The second sunset plunged the room into temporary darkness again, and the third sunrise restored the light forty minutes later. Christmas, day three. Three more days came and went, in regular ninety-minute cycles of sunrise and sunset. At twenty-five minutes after sunrise on day seven, the chairman finished reading through the draft constitution – the last document.
It was time to sign. To put an end to three years of war. To set the country on the path to peace and reconstruction.
President Idliff stood up. He made his way stiffly to the chairman’s podium. The chairman put a pen in his hands. He was vaguely aware of Merak standing on the other side of the chairman, but he didn’t look at him. In a moment they would have to look at each other, shake hands, smile, pretend goodwill and friendship, even if they didn’t feel it. Could I do that, Idliff wondered? I must. It’s a question of duty and responsibility, and they are my watch-words.
There were two identical documents on the podium, one in front of each of them. Iddliff and Merak would both sign at the same time, exchange documents, then counter-sign at the same time. Idliff heard Merak laugh, making some sort of joke with the chairman, saw him lean forward to sign. Idriff leaned forwards, pen poised.
Once he signed he would no longer be president. Merak would be king – a powerless figurehead, it was true, but still a king – while he, Idliff, would be… what? A lowly politician, the head of a party which would have to take its chances among many others in the elections. He straightened up. Was this a victory for Merak, then? No, that wasn’t what was bothering him. It wasn’t jealousy. Then what was it? Once he signed, he would be letting the country go. He would be surrendering it into other hands. And that felt like a dereliction of duty. He felt like he was abandoning a responsibility, an act of cowardice completely foreign to his nature. Had he really done all he could to safeguard the country’s future? The mineral deposits, for instance, the mines – did this agreement really secure them for the nation?
He glanced round at the huge screens. It was now daylight in the refugee camp, the bombed city, the army base. Almost ten o’clock in the morning. People were visible, moving about, standing talking in groups, sitting around radio sets. Clearly waiting for something. Waiting for news of peace. Everyone in the whole world knew what was happening here. Everyone was waiting for him and Merak to sign away their hostility. But would he be betraying his country and people by signing? Had he done all he could for them? Should he try for an even better agreement for them? Was this deal really the best he could do for their future?
“Mr President?”
He turned, and saw the chairman inviting him to sign. He saw Merak at his shoulder, frowning with impatience. “The mines…” Idliff began.
Merak groaned. “That’s all covered in Clause Five – ”
“Yes, but paragraph seven – ”
“We’ve been over Clause Five – how many times?” He laughed, trying to keep his frustration at bay. “I know you’re not a drinking man, Idliff, but I’m dying for a spot of champagne! It’s waiting for us even now, cold and sweet and full of bubbles! I know you never touch alcohol, but how about it, just this once?”
“But paragraph seven – it could be stronger – if we just changed – ”
“No!” Merak shouted. “It’s strong enough! It’s time to sign! It’s done! Just sign the thing, damn it, and let’s get out of here!”
“But I must be certain – ”
“Let it go! We’ve done all we can! Now let’s pass it on into other hands. We’ve dismantled the war, now leave it to others to build the peace!”
“But this semi-colon in paragraph seven – ”
Merak almost screamed. “We’ve been arguing over semi-colons for weeks! Let it go, you pedant! Relax! Why do you have to be such a po-faced puritan? Can’t you smile? Can’t you laugh? Here’s a joke for you – you ruin the mines by nationalising them, your government mismanages them and impoverishes your people, and you’re still worried about protecting them? About Clause Five? You’ve done the mines enough damage, Mr President! The best thing you can now is to leave them alone and forget about them!”
Idliff felt his anger rising, bursting, about to spill out of control. “Of course I’m worried! I’m worried that you’ll sell them off to your international robber-baron friends at bargain prices!” Now he was shouting, too. “I’m worried that the profits will leach out of the country while you’re busy putting your ten-percent bribe on the roulette-wheels of Las Vegas! Just like your uncle!”
“Oh, we all know you’re the only honest man in the whole country, don’t we? Well, if you’d been a bit more clever and a bit less honest you might have avoided ruining our country and plunging it into civil war! If you hadn’t been so po-faced and humourless and intolerant, you might not have filled our jails with people you didn’t agree with!”
“You dare to lecture me? You? A playboy? A spoilt prince? A vain, trivial, worthless tailor’s dummy?”
“Sign the deal, Mr President, or get out of my sight! I can’t stand looking at you, all stiff and pompous in your ancient suit! I want to vomit! A pompous, pedantic, holier-than-thou, superior, stupid, cold, lifeless corpse! With the blood of a whole nation on your hands!”
“You pathetic spoilt child!” Idliff yelled. “Playing soldiers! With your heroic guerilla’s long hair, your noble champion of the people beard! Your pathetic poser’s combat gear! You’re no soldier! The sight of you makes me sick! You order me to sign?” He threw the pen down.
“Right.” Merak was trembling with rage. His fat face was flushed and his fat gut was quivering. He threw his own pen down. “That’s it. No agreement. No peace. I’m going. Now.”
They turned away from the chairman instantaneously, and marched from the room through opposite doors, their aides hurrying out behind them.
Idliff lay on his bed in his room in the F2 Zone. So that was that. No peace. More war. They’d had the twenty-four hours of Christmas to hammer it out, and they’d only lasted, what… He checked his watch. Less than eleven hours. Seven sunrises, six sunsets. The temporary cease-fire would lapse at the end of those twenty-four hours, the UN would pull out, and the death and destruction would start all over again. There was no hope of signing anything now. Not after those insults.
The ceiling of his room was all glass. He looked up at the heavens as the seventh sunset plunged everything into darkness. Day seven of Christmas was over. He had no curiosity about day eight. He wanted the remaining nine days, the remaining nine sunrises and sunsets, to pass as quickly as possible so they could return to Earth and resume the war they were cursed to pursue to the bitter end.
He thought about the vessel they were all on, the UN Space Ship ‘Peace and Goodwill’, orbiting Earth at 17,500 miles per hour, in constant free fall 250 miles above the planet. Sixteen orbits every twenty-four hours; one sunrise and sunset for each orbit, as they passed from the sun-facing side of the planet to the night-bound side; sixteen sunrises and sixteen sunsets; sixteen days of one and a half hours each for every 24 hours of an Earth day.
The UN had always found that peace negotiations had the best chance of succeeding if they took place as far from the field of conflict as possible. The sense of distance and detachment encouraged the participants to focus rationally on the issues. Eighteen years previously they had commissioned this orbiting space ship for such negotiations, with spectacular results. To be so far from Earth, and yet to be able to look out on it and see it as a single entity; it inevitably bound the conflicting parties together with a poignant sense of common humanity, with a god-like, broad-minded sense of impartiality. And somehow it made the deadlines all the more urgent. Such voyages were inevitably finite; the urge to complete the mission, to return to Earth from this limbo, to resume a productive life, was extremely powerful. And the rapid succession of sunrise and sunset was even better than a ticking clock as a reminder that time was running out. The first Christmas had proved extremely successful, and subsequently the peace-signings themselves were always timetabled for Christmas day.
This was the first time it had failed.
UN mediators shuttled between the F2 zone and the B5 zone as six sunrises and sunsets came and went. But both Idliff and Merak were immovable. Eventually the mediators left them to cool off on their own.
Idliff lay alone in his room, watching the sky moving from light to darkness, watching the great sweep of Earth’s sphere pass by. He could see continents and oceans, mountain ranges and jungles and deserts quite clearly. He could see his own country passing, like a living map. He thought about the screens in the main hall, that refugee camp, that ruined city, that army base. The people there, still waiting, still hoping. Was there really no way back into that hall, no way back to that document which was still waiting for them on the chairman’s podium?
No. He couldn’t back down. He couldn’t give Merak the satisfaction.
But what about his people? His country?
Merak strode angrily around the sitting-room in the B5 zone, cursing Idliff. His two generals and three colonels, lounging in the armchairs, joined Merak in cursing him.
“That up-tight, buttoned-down, t-total, superior, pompous prig! I’d do anything to dump on his dignity, to have him grovel in the gutter! I’d even – !” He stopped, and spun round, facing his henchmen, his eyes glittering with an idea. He suddenly laughed. “That’s it! Go and fetch that UN mediator back! Now! Quickly!”
A sunrise later – sunrise fourteen – a UN mediator appeared in the F2 zone. One of Idliff’s ministers took him to Idliff’s room. “Mr President, a proposition has come from Commander Merak…”
The mediator looked embarrassed. The minister looked outraged. Idliff listened, incredulous, to the proposition. “He wants me to sign the document naked?”
“Yes, sir.” The mediator hung his head. Was he trying not to laugh?
“Stark naked?” Idliff blinked in disbelief. “And I have to drink a glass of champagne?”
“A bottle of champagne, sir.”
“And those are his conditions? He’ll sign only if I..?” Merak..! What a bastard..! “And what about him? What are his penalties?”
The outraged minister stepped forwards. “Mr President, you can’t – ”
“No, wait.” Idliff held up his hand. Right, he thought. Right. We’ll see about this. Two can play at this game. “Tell the Commander that I’ll only sign that document if he agrees to drink nothing but water – not a drop of that champagne – and if he shaves his beard off – and, yes, all his hair, so he’s totally bald, and puts on a proper suit and tie, like mine! And polished leather shoes! He’ll hate that! So sober! So respectable! No more posing as the heroic liberator, the wild guerrilla leader!”
The mediator returned a few minutes later, breathless. Day fourteen was on its way. Time was running out. He could hardly believe that these fantastic bids would lead anywhere, but all the same, it was their only hope… “The Commander says that he will accept your conditions if you accept his. With one qualification; he refuses to shave his head. He will not go bald.”
“Just his beard, eh? Very well. A number one buzz-cut will do for his hair. And I have one qualification myself. I insist on keeping my underpants on.”
The mediator ran back with Merak’s answer. “He accepts. But your underpants must be Happy Christmas pants. And you must wear a Santa’s false beard. And a pair of reindeer’s antlers.”
So it was agreed. But there wasn’t much time. Soon all the 3D printers on board were busy producing the necessary props from the codes sent up from their New York HQ. Everything was ready as the sun set on day fifteen. There were only one and a half hours left of Christmas’s twenty-four. The deadline was only another sunset away.
Idliff was expecting everyone to collapse with laughter when he returned to the conference room. He was ready for it. He had prepared himself to ignore it. But they didn’t laugh. They watched him in silence as he walked towards the chairman’s podium. He was tall and athletic, well-built and well-muscled. He looked good in just his underpants. And the antlers, and the beard, made him look like some sort of archetypal folk figure enacting a solemn and ancient ritual. A mythical spirit or legendary deity. It didn’t undermine his dignity. It enhanced it.
Even Merak didn’t laugh. Idliff hardly recognised him. The Commander looked smart and respectable, in a dark, old-fashioned suit just like his own. White shirt, grey tie, well-polished black leather shoes. Clean shaven, short-haired. And he seemed to be standing taller, straighter. He looked like the kind of man who could represent a nation.
They nodded silently to each other.
There was a bottle of champagne and a glass on the podium. The bottle was uncorked, and traces of a smoky vapour spiralled up from its mouth. Idliff took the bottle and filled the glass with a golden fizz. He grimaced as he raised it to his lips. He was expecting to be disgusted, revolted. He poured the liquid into his mouth, was about to swallow it quickly, but the sweet dry taste and the sensation of the bubbles made him pause. I like it, he thought with amazement. Yes, I actually like it. He swallowed, and refilled the glass.
“Sit down, man, for god’s sake. Treat the stuff with some respect.” Merak shook his head. “It’s bad enough seeing it wasted, without seeing it insulted as well.” He sipped at his glass of water, then sat down beside Idliff. “Take it easy now. Enjoy it. Relish it.”
“I am enjoying it.” Idliff found it a little difficult to talk. His tongue was strangely heavy. He laughed. “And I feel good. Relaxed. Cheerful.” He laughed again. “I haven’t felt like this for years.” How odd. He felt very comfortable, sitting there in just his underwear. Free and easy. Liberated. No heavy suit, stiff shirt, tight tie. This must be how those medieval knights felt a thousand years ago, coming off the battlefield and shedding the hot and heavy burden of their armour at last. He turned to Merak. “You’re looking smart. For once, you really do look like a King in waiting.”
“I feel like one. It actually feels good. To be clean, and sober, and well-dressed. It feels strange, but good. A relief, for some odd reason.”
“Have a glass of champagne” Idliff said. “I know, my conditions forbid it, but what the hell, it’s Christmas. Go on…”
“No, I want to make the most of this strange new feeling. I feel serious, responsible, ready for the burdens of duty…”
“Well, I feel ready to shed them.” Idliff finished off his fourth glassful. His tongue was definitely not behaving itself whenever he tried to speak, so he talked slowly and carefully. “Ready to let go, to relax, to move on. Isn’t that what you told me to do earlier? Amazing. You were right after all.”
“And you were right, too. I was a spoilt, vain, trivial playboy. But I’m not any longer. From now on I’m going to be clean and sober. Duty, and responsibility…”
Idliff raised the fifth glassful to Merak as a toast, then emptied it eagerly.
Suddenly the sun rose on day sixteen, December 25th. The last sunrise of Christmas day. The dark curved mass of their planet slid away and dazzling light poured in through the huge window.
“Gentlemen” the UN chairman said. “Mr President. Commander. Are you ready to sign?”
“I am” said Merak.
Idliff couldn’t speak, so he simply nodded and laughed.
Standing side by side they signed, then swapped documents and counter-signed. Then they turned to each other and smiled. Merak held out his hand and Idliff shook it. “Merry Christmas” Merak said. “Peace and goodwill to you, Mr President.”
“Merry Christmas!” Idliff echoed him. He turned to everyone in the room. His ministers and lawyers, Merak’s generals and colonels, the UN chairman and secretaries and mediators. “Peace on Earth! And goodwill to all men!”
Cameras flashed. There was a thunder of applause and cheers. Idliff looked at the barrage of cameras facing him. Every one of them, he reflected, is broadcasting images of me in my underpants, wearing a Father Christmas false beard and a pair of reindeer antlers, all the way around the world. Oh well. He laughed. Yet another sacrifice for his country and people that the noble Idliff can feel proud off.
He looked up at the screens. They were dark now. It was night again in his country. Almost midnight. We’ve been awake for nearly twenty-four hours, he realised. But the refugee camp, the ruined city and the army base were now brightly lit by flaming torches, electric torches, bonfires and vehicle headlamps. And no one was asleep there. He could see that the people on the screens were hugging each other and jumping about and dancing and singing. Crowds celebrating. He could hear their laughter and their cheers and their applause. Peace. Peace at last. They were celebrating peace on Earth and a happy Christmas and goodwill to all men.
Idliff, Merak, their aides and all the UN staff had demolished the turkey and a good portion of the Christmas pudding by the time the sixteenth and last sunset said goodnight to Christmas day.
© Neil Tidmarsh 2015
