Declaring Independents

Archives
Categories

Chronicles of the Shade – Episode 5 – “Remembrance of Things Past”

by Editors

Chronicles of the Shade©*

Episode 5 –

Remembrance of Things Past

Mid June 2007.

Lancelot Stanley Carter, II sat at late afternoon in his Reagan, D. C. townhouse, thoughtfully sipping his Gen Levitt single-malt Scotch as he listened to Billie Holliday sing “Am I Blue” on his old RCA Victrola. Although he had a state-of-the-art Bose sound system, he preferred listening to his old 33-RPM records on the Victrola because it sounded more authentic. The western sun streamed through the tall windows and burnished the mahogany wainscoting that covered every room. As he swirled the amber liquid in his glass, listening to the soft tinkling of the ice, he reviewed in his mind how he had spent the day.

He had awakened early, showered and shaved, and then driven his 2001 black Honda Accord to his gymnasium, where he had worked out on the treadmill and the elliptical machine for exactly an hour. He had then breakfasted at his favorite restaurant, the “Brasserie,” ordering two eggs over easy, wheat toast, and black coffee. Then it was time to visit his office, The Shade Detective Agency, where his secretary, Lucienne, greeted him with a smile.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Carter,” said Lucienne, pronouncing his surname “Car-tay.”

“Bonjour, Lucienne,” replied Carter, “Comment ça va?”

“Ça va,” said Lucienne, as she returned to her typing.

Lance Carter knew that today he had to return to the Elliptical Office. He again had to assume the persona of The Shade. He had promised Wil B. Goode—in his mind he now thought of him as “Wilby”—that he would overcome the obstacle of the hidden tape erasers and deliver evidence of wrongdoing by the most powerful people in the world. He briefly scanned his mail—nothing of importance—and he made ready to leave.

“I’m going to visit a client, Lucienne,” he said, as he passed through his outer office. “If anyone calls, say that I probably won’t return until tomorrow.”

“Très bien, Monsieur Carter,” said Lucienne sweetly. “Au revoir.”

“Au revoir,” replied Carter, thinking how lucky he had been to hire Lucienne, who was the daughter of a good friend of his Aunt Viva. Dear Aunt Viva, how he missed her. When Lucienne had decided to leave Nancy, France, and come to Reagan, D.C., her mother had written to Carter about employment; and he had hired her sight unseen. Although she spoke perfect English, and could type 95 words a minute, he encouraged her to speak French so that he could practice his own linguistic skills. He recalled with delight the year he had spent with Aunt Viva in France—some of the happiest days of his life.

During the time it took to walk from the parking garage to the Grey House, Lance Carter had become The Shade. He easily slipped by the guards at the gate and stood outside the double doors of the Elliptical Office. He tried the door handle. The door was unlocked, and The Shade eased into the office of the most powerful person in the world. The office was empty, so The Shade set himself to discover the location of the hidden tape erasers.

Suddenly the doors to the Elliptical Office opened, and The Shade backed into a corner, seeming to fade into the paneled woodwork. President B. A. Liar slowly entered his office, sighing noticeably. “What am I gonna do?” he mumbled. “Just what am I gonna do?”

The President slumped into the chair behind his huge glass-topped desk and put his head in his hands. He hunched his shoulders and let out a loud sigh. “Awww,” he groaned, “sometimes I almost think it ain’t worth it bein’ the decider.”

Just then another person entered the room. It was Condominium Spice, his Secretary of State, B. A. and M. A. from the University of Chicago, where she was Phi Beta Kappa, and Ph.D. from Yale. She had written her dissertation on the use of tactical atomic weapons to subdue recalcitrant states. Between obtaining her undergraduate and graduate degrees, Ms. Spice had also studied at Julliard, where she had won the grand competition with her performance of Rachmanivov’s second piano concerto. Fire and ice, but mostly ice, said the judges in granting her first prize. Dr. Spice had been President of the Colorado School of Mines before being selected for B. A. Liar’s cabinet.

The Shade was well aware of Ms. Spice’s intelligence and artistic qualifications. After all, she had won her prize playing one of his favorite pieces. He could also see into her heart, which was as black as her hooded, cobra-like eyes; and he could also see that her prime motivating force was a driving, naked ambition. The Shade watched as Ms. Spice moved behind the President’s desk and put her hand on his shoulder. “What is it, Mr. President?” she said, “Why so glum?”

“Aw, Condo, you don’t know how hard…how hard it is to make decisions. But that’s all I get. Decide this. Decide that. Now I don’t know what to decide.”

“Perhaps I can help,” said Condo, moving her hand from his shoulder to rest it lightly on his neck. “What is it you have to decide?”

“Aw, well, first the Joint Chiefs of Staff say that our military ain’t any good at this guerrilla warfare. What they need to do is to go out there and bomb the stuffings out of some country. That way we can show that nobody can mess around with us.”

“So, Mr. President,” said Condo soothingly, as she began to massage his neck. “Why don’t you just decide to bomb the so-called “stuffings” out of Iroon?”

“Oh, that feels good, Condo. I got myself a heap of a headache. But it ain’t so easy. That leader of Iroon, that Imadimeajob, starts talking peace, peace. How are we gonna bomb ‘em when they’re doin’ things like that?”

“Mr. President,” said Condo, as she began to massage the President’s neck and shoulders in earnest, “you must remember that Iroon is trying to get its oil pegged to the euro, not our dollar. If they do that, then other countries will follow suit. So our dollar won’t be worth anything anymore; and Chinosa and Nippona will stop buying our treasury notes. If that happens, then the jig is up. The country will sink into a deep economic depression, and our great Repugnican Party will never be in power again.”

“So what you’re sayin’, Condo, is go ahead and bomb ‘em?”

“That’s right, Mr. President. It’s simple,” said Condo, continuing her massage. “Remember, I wrote my dissertation on constructive bombing. We’ll just get the media on board and fool everyone just as we did about invading Jiraq. You just keep saying you won’t bomb them until you do it.”

As she rubbed the President’s neck and shoulders, The Shade peered into her mind. Condo Spice was thinking that if only she could gain the President’s confidence completely she could do so much with him. She could take his empty slate and write her own story on it. She would take him to see opera in San Francisco. She would show him the wonders of the Louvre. She would teach him how to say “nuclear.” Most important, she would have him making a wonderful speech nominating her for President of the United States.

“Oh,” said Condo, carried away by her emotion. “Oh, Barnaby, Barnaby, what a good team we would make.” She had used the President’s given name, something only a select few felt privileged to do. Her hands left the President’s neck and began caressing his stubbled cheeks.

“Hey, what’s up, Condo?” said the President, giving an involuntary start. “Why’d you quit rubbing my neck?”

“I just said that we would make a great team,” said Condo, removing her hands from his face. “What’s wrong with that? Just you and me. Can’t you see how wonderful that could be? Just you and me against the world?”

“Whoa, now, Condo,” said the President. “You ain’t talkin’ about any massage-a-nation, are you?”

“That’s miscegenation, Mr. President,” said Condo, reverting to her official demeanor. “No, we don’t worry about such things anymore. I just want you to think about it, that’s all. Just remember, go ahead and bomb Iroon when you think it’s time. You’ll feel good about it the next morning.”

With that final comment, Condo Spice was out the door, leaving the President alone with The Shade. As The Shade peered into B. A. Liar’s mind, he could first see nothing—just a vast emptiness. But then there was a flicker of emotion as the President said, under his breath, “I wonder if ol’ Condo can handle a chain saw. That’d be good.”

The President then put his head on his desk and began to snore. The Shade saw that he would not be able to search the Elliptical Office any further that day, and so he had left for home.

Now, as Lance Carter sat with his feet propped up on his glass-topped coffee table, he noticed that the Billie Holiday recording had ended. He rose from his recliner and put on an album featuring Anita O’Day singing Cole Porter. As the solid sound of Billy May filled the room, O’Day began singing “Love for Sale.” This song always filled Lance Carter with sadness.

He took the golden locket his Aunt Viva had bequeathed him from his shirt pocket and began to rub it absently. He thought of Lara, of the brief but wonderful time they had when he was studying for the M.Phil at Oxford. He had taken a trip to London to go pub-crawling, and he had met her at The Red Lion Inn. She was reading economics at the LSE, and she would be in England for only the Michaelmas term. He was smitten with her, and she apparently with him. He now pictured in his mind her lustrous, dark hair and her easy smile. He remembered her quick wit and her keen judgment.

He had never finished his thesis for the M.Phil. His Aunt Viva had died suddenly, and he had to leave for France to attend the funeral. He had promised to meet Lara in Philadelphia after returning from the mountain-climbing trip arranged by Aunt Viva’s French friends. He did return, and he did see Lara; but the time he had spent frozen in the ice had changed him into The Shade. He gazed at the golden locket, holding it up to the light. It had been found clutched in his hand when a local Sherpa guide had freed him from the ice. Ah, Lara, Lara, he said to himself as he toyed with the locket, my beautiful, precious Lara. Where are you now? He remembered the words of the poem. She walks in beauty like the night….

TO BE CONTINUED….

Next Week: Episode 6: