The caucus took place in the love nest he shared with the young and buxom airline hostess because his wife was holding a meeting of her own at the villa in Kastri with the executive committee of her feminist movement trying to find ways of getting Freak husbands, instead of wives, to brew the post-siesta kafedaki every afternoon.
The gang filed into the small living room· of the love nest where Papandy was sitting by the fire with a rug round his knees while the love of his life leaned over the back of his chair and warmed the top of his head with her heart.
When his eldest son, Georgy Papandy (who was being groomed as the successor to a great dynasty of Freak rulers and had already grown the appropriate moustache) saw this tender scene, he let out a small cry of anguish and was about to walk out of the room, blinded with tears, when he felt a firm grip on his arm. It was Limpygeorge, his father’s closest and most trusted henchman, who muttered:
“Cool it, kid. It ain’t the end of the world, y’know.”
Georgy bit his lip, wiped his eyes and said bitterly: “I know. But it hurts, Limpy. By God, it hurts!”
When all 266 members of Papandy’s cabinet had crowded into the room, some sitting on the floor, some standing, and some hanging from the drapes, Limpygeorge called the meeting to order by saying: “Okay, you guys. Settle down now an’ listen closely to what da boss has to say ‘cos he ain’t gonna say it twice. Okay?” There was a murmur of assent from the gathered throng.
Papandy raised his head from under the enveloping bosom and his eyes slowly took in every person in the room, sending a cold chill down their spines and making them avert their gaze as the dark gimlets seemed to pierce their very souls.
Then, in a thin, quavering voice, he said: “I am told datsome of you don’t like de way I’m ruinin’ de country.” His cold eyes swept round the room again sending more chills down more spines. “I am told, also, dat some of you ain’t too crazy about de way I’m ruinin’ my family life.” Another pause as his eyes ran round the room again.
“I hear, too, dat some of you feel we should’ve done sump’n about de guy who was puttin’ de heat on Biscottas an’ not let him go on de lam.” A murmur came from the audience and two undersecretaries hanging from drapes in opposite corners of the room started shouting at each other. Papandy pulled a poker from the fire and lifted its red-hot tip for all to see.
“Anyone who interrupts again gets this up his o#i:f’J’.” He stopped as the love of his life gave a little cry. “Excuse me, honey. For a moment I forgot dere was ladies here. Anyway, you know what I’m gonna do wid dis if you don’t shaddap.”
When all was quiet again he went on: “I am informed, also, dat some of you feel I’m losin’ my ratings an’ dat de Tall Guy is gonna head de charts next June.”
Another murmur ran round the room, this time one of protest. “Dat ain’t true, boss; you’re still de greatest!” someone shouted from the back of the room.
Papandy bowed slightly and a smile played on his thin lips.
“I’m glad somebody thinks so,” he replied.
“Now, to get back to de beefs. De Tall Guy don’t have a chance in June an’ ya know why? ‘Cos he don’t have de charisma? You know what charisma is? Charisma’s what I got and what he ain’t got and it’s de guy wid de charisma ‘dat wins every time.”
There was loud and prolonged applause from everybody in the room.
“As for Biscottas,” Papandy shrugged, “let’s say he was a good laundryman who ran out of soap. Let’s leave it at dat.” Angry murmurs began to be heard again and Papandy picked up the poker once more. The murmurs subsided immediately.
“As for my family life, I wanna ask which of you mugs in dis room who been hitched to de same woman for 40 years wouldn’t like to change places wid me right here an’ now?”
This question provoked a ripple of titters from all present while the love of his life blushed profusely.
“Come on, speak up. I ain’t aimin’ to change places wid anyone. I just want to know who wouldn’t like to? Nobody? Dat’s too bad. Then dere’s nuttin’ more to say about my family life, is dere?” He looking inquiringly around the room while everybody averted his gaze.
“As for de way I’m ruinin’ de country, we’re all in dis together. We ruined it for four years and de people liked it so much dey asked us to ruin it for anudder four years. An’ as I said before, I’m gonna head de charts dis June and we got everythin’ sewed up nice an’ cozy for anudder four years. So what’s de big beef, eh? Tell me?”
“What’ll happen when there’s nothing left to ruin?” asked one intrepid undersecretary who was hidden behind an armchair and couldn’t be seen. Papandy shrugged. “Then we all go home, live off our pensions and give a little prayer of thanks to you-know-who for providing us with a comfortable old age.”
There was a pause as some of the audience puzzled over who “you-know who” was. Then, as it dawned on them, they all raised their voices and sang out the hosanna; “Grazie , mille tante grazie, Biscotta,” ending the meeting with whoops of joy and with long and enthusiastic applause.
