FIC : electoral promises
[Title:] Electoral Promises
[Setting:] AU. Modern day.
[Character(s):] Mireille & Barrault
[Summary:] Fathers do not age. Aren't supposed to.
[Author's Notes:] Inspired by the prompt, "foreigner I remain".
Mother is in the Opera, on a weekend trip to Paris; a gift from Father, seeing as he’ll be away on Sunday, elections about to kick in like a wild horse and thus, naturally, with its point of departure in Boulaide. The party has arranged a public meeting in the conservatory at Barrault Mansion, amongst all of Mother’s flowers and the concomitant canaries. Lemonade for the children, cocktails for their parents and one must hope none of their voters suffer from too severe allergies, with PR of that nature.
Mireille observes him. How he is preparing his opening speech, pen moving across the paper in perfectly straight lines and at an even pace, because she certainly hasn’t inherited it from strangers - the preference for written craftsmanship. Since her relationship to Jean Louis ended, they haven’t seen each other often. Father and her. Jean Louis -- she hasn’t seen at all, has she? Luxembourg has become unknown territory; not to be understood as a no man’s land, but a land of foreigners that she shall have to categorise and compare to herself, were her intentions to mingle. With them. Such are the conditions of assimilation, of course. From which she has chosen to look away, instead. Even without its famed opera house, Paris comprises a country on its own. Of a considerable size. So large that any face remains anonymous in the crowd, merely one amongst many. And gazes have a tendency to wander, if not with the same regularity of a four-year term.
Once the Centre-Democratic electors have taken their tour in Mother’s cultivated rainforest, inhabited by Father’s equally cultivated politicians, it will be imperative. For all parties involved. That focus, too, is election.
She turns hers back to his laptop which he has bestowed upon her in acknowledgement of his own shortcomings. His French is impeccable. Shouldn’t be marred by his difficulties with non-poetic punctuation. Surely it’s the very foundation of his oratorical success - that he doesn’t refrain from incorporating imagery into his linguistic usage. His language not limited to grammatical accuracy, in favour of literary rather than legislative ideals. Not unlike those she studies at the Sorbonne. When printed in a newspaper that will undoubtedly be read and reread for the sake of scrutiny alone, however, there isn’t room for rhetorical pauses. There isn’t time. Chance. In this regard, at least, their sense of realism proves identical. Without exception.
Standing up, Father’s eyes not leaving the pages spread out - neatly - before him, Mireille walks over to his desk. It reminds her of countless evenings in the past, played out in this exact manner. The same golden light filling his office, the same view over the valley, the very same silence. She has never feared the quiet. Prefers it to the mindless chatter Mother is so talented at shaping, into something reminiscent of sculpture. This weekend was a choice between Mother’s company in Paris or Father’s, here. The quietness would be unavoidable. In either scenario, and she decided on the present in recognition of its inevitability. Still, it cannot be denied that it was to be between the devil and a deep, blue sea that doesn’t exist. Luxembourg being landlocked. On all sides.
“I have attempted to maintain the flow, undisturbed,” she tells him, putting the computer down, well out of his way.
“Thank you.” He strikes out a word. Then, another.
Earlier today. In the morning while they were eating breakfast, September in a state of transition between high blue sky and the dilution of October, he had informed her of his plans for the immediate future. The change of direction. Politics belong in one sphere, privacy in another and he is aware, he’d said, that his priorities have gravitated, in the singular. If we win this round of elections, Mireille, which they will - according to all current polls and without a doubt every poll to come as their election campaigns evolve, it shall be my last term. I have neglected my family far too long. It’s time. That his focus shifts. Elsewhere. That he ceases to shy away from labelling himself an idiot, in the original meaning of the term. From the Greek, from the cradle of democracy.
So close, it is impossible not to notice how old he has grown. Recently. Gradually. Furrows emphasising the lines of his forehead, wrinkles near the corners of his mouth and eyes. Father has been the visual representation of the nation for more than a decade now, isn’t that so? It is only to be expected that these elements would eventually insist on their impact; on painting a roughly regular sketch of his silhouette, in grey charcoal and with great integrity. Age is progress by default and they have both progressed, independently of one another. She is no child anymore and although it may sound harsh without further elaboration, he is no parent. Children are unable to detect change within their parental relation, after all. Fathers never become older and mothers cannot withdraw. Once such -- developments are perceptible, it’s an ascent into the final stage of adulthood. The identification of differences, between two separate individuals. All but disconnected.
Like he was forced to face her maturity in black and white, she must accept its consequences. With all its shades. How she is less his daughter than a guest by his invitation. By her own admittance. Nevertheless... As is the visitor’s prerogative, she’ll retire. For the night.
Ensure to send him a confirmation of her homecoming, a calling card that bears her unmistakeable signature. When she returns to France.