The Eighty-Five Billion Euro Man

by Donal Conaty

  ‘For a few weeks every five years politicians act like they don't need us,’ he said. ‘They go off to woo the electorate and claim credit for all the hard work us civil servants do. They are so ungrateful.’

  A few days into the election campaign Dermot called a meeting of all the heads of department. I had to stay in the background as they still hadn't forgiven me for referring to St Stephen's Day as Boxing Day.

  ‘We are all going to get shiny new ministers in a few weeks,’ he told the assembled civil servants. For some of you this is new territory. The ministers will come in all eager to make a good impression. Sadly, they are incapable of such a feat. Your job is simple. Give them the impression that they've made a good impression and don't let them know that they are incapable of doing so.’

  For a few days time passed in an almost orderly fashion. Many of the staff at the Department of Finance took leave to help with the Minister's re-election campaign. I thought this very unorthodox but Dermot insisted it was a time-honoured tradition to work loyally for one minister until he or she was replaced by another. The few staff who remained in the office were at a loss for something to do without a minister to brief. There was something of a holiday atmosphere as they whiled away the hours making paper aeroplanes and firing elastic bands at each other.

  Meanwhile I got on with things. After examining the expense reports filed at the Department I had the unpleasant duty of informing Dermot that he had higher expenses than anyone else in the civil service or in the Dáil.

  ‘That's right,’ he said. ‘And for the third year running if I say so myself.’

  ‘Don't you think you should be setting an example?’ I asked reasonably.

  Dermot looked confused.

  ‘I think I am setting an example,’ he said. ‘It hasn't been easy keeping ahead of the posse. I've often risked my health to head the league table.’

  ‘The league table?’ I asked, my heart sinking.

  ‘Isn't that what we're talking about?’ he asked.

  ‘I was just going through departmental expenses for the last few years,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, there was no need for that,’ he said. ‘We keep a league table. It's all very transparent. The winner gets the Charles Haughey Memorial Trophy.’

  Dermot took a key from his pocket and opened a cabinet on the wall behind his desk.

  ‘See,’ he said proudly. ‘I get to keep it now as I've won three years in a row. I dare say it will be named after me some day.’

  There was a handsome trophy and a list of names carved into a plaque on the wall. Dermot and Haughey were the only names to feature three times.

  ‘What about austerity?’ I asked. ‘What about showing the public that everyone is feeling the pinch?’

  ‘Oh, I get what you're saying,’ he said, ‘but I prefer to leave that kind of empty talk to the politicians. After all it really is their area of expertise. Also, life can't be all sackcloth and ashes. The suffering masses need something to aspire to. I like to think they look at me and think: One day, if I work hard, I could be like him ... or some such nonsense.’

  ‘Well, I'm sorry Dermot,’ I said, ‘but this sort of spending cannot go on. You're going to have to tighten your belt. You're living beyond your means.’

  For a moment I thought he looked at me with pure hatred in his eyes, but Dermot's charm quickly took control of the situation.

  ‘Am I indeed?’ he said. ‘Well, we must discuss this further. Let's chat about it in Rome.’

  ‘In Rome? What's in Rome?’

  ‘Such a question!’ said Dermot. ‘What's in Rome indeed! Why the Trevi Fountain is in Rome. The Pantheon and the Colosseum are in Rome. Not to mention the Irish rugby team and my good friend Silvio Berlusconi. Do hurry up. We mustn't keep the government jet waiting, what with austerity and all that.’

  Dermot and I were the only two on the flight so I continued to press the point that I thought he needed to curtail his spending somewhat. ‘If you really think so,’ he said, as he licked some stray caviar from his lower lip. ‘I'll look into it as soon as we get home.’

  When we arrived in Rome I was surprised to see Dermot give our rugby tickets to a couple of Irish fans he met in the airport.

  ‘We won't be needing them,’ he said, looking around as though he was expecting to see somebody he knew.

  ‘There's Anna,’ he said. ‘Come on. We mustn't keep Silvio waiting.’

  ‘Silvio?’ I said.

  ‘Berlusconi,’ said Dermot. ‘You'll like him. He's our host for the weekend. I'm sure he'll be very interested in your ideas on frugal living.’

  With that Dermot walked up to an attractive young woman wearing very short shorts and a very tight top. She also wore a chauffeur's cap at an angle on her head and was holding a sign that read ‘Bunga Bunga'.

  ‘Hello Anna,’ said Dermot warmly.

  ‘Derrrrmmmooot,’ she squealed, and jumped up into his arms and smothered him in kisses. ‘Derrrrmmmooot's friend,’ she said then and did the same to me. In all my years with the IMF I had never felt so welcome anywhere.

  ‘What's bunga bunga?’ I asked Dermot as the delightful Anna drove us under police escort through the streets of Rome.

  ‘You'll see,’ he said.

  Silvio Berlusconi greeted Dermot like a long lost son on the white marble steps of a grand villa in central Rome. The two men kissed, then hugged, then hugged, then kissed. They bore an uncanny resemblance to each other. Like father and son ... except ... it was almost as though Berlusconi had paid surgeons to make him look more like Dermot. The pair continued to embrace for several minutes before Dermot broke free and introduced me to Mr Berlusconi.

  ‘A pleasure to meet you, sir,’ I said and offered my hand.

  ‘IMF?’ said Mr Berlusconi. ‘Pah!’

  He slapped me across the face, turned away and walked arm in arm with Dermot into the villa. I followed at a safe distance. I was so shocked at what had just happened that it took me a few minutes to take in my surroundings. Gradually I became aware that we were not alone in the room. There were about twenty young women in various stages of undress, some lying on couches or giant cushions on the ground or writhing slowly up and down dancing poles. If that wasn't disconcerting enough, there were also three elderly men in thongs. They greeted Dermot warmly as he and Mr Berlusconi stripped down to reveal that they too were sporting thongs – matching leopardskin thongs. I backed away towards a wall holding my laptop tightly to my chest. I could feel my neck pain, which had been easing somewhat, worsen as I tensed up.

  Dermot saw that I was uncomfortable and came over to me.

  ‘Don't spoil the mood,’ he said. ‘Strip!’

  ‘I don't have one of those,’ I said, pointing at his thong, but trying not to look at it.

  ‘I'll lend you one,’ he said. ‘In fact you can keep it.’

  ‘I'm not wearing a thong,’ I said firmly.

  ‘Suit yourself,’

  ‘He hit me,’ I said plaintively, nodding in Mr Berlusconi's direction. ‘You let him hit me.’

  ‘I'm sorry about that,’ Dermot said. ‘It's just that Silvio is very protective of me. He doesn't like the idea of you being in charge of things. He didn't mean anything by it.’

  ‘I'm not in charge of things,’ I said. ‘I'm just trying to help you.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Dermot. ‘Listen, you don't have to wear a thong if you don't want to but you will at least have to strip down to your underpants.’

  I felt a little self-conscious in the Y-fronts I had bought in the Arnotts bargain store. I hadn't been expecting to wear them to an orgy. I hadn't expected to attend an orgy.

  A short while later a bell rang and a butler, fully dressed thankfully, summoned us to dinner. Dermot and Mr Berlusconi sat with beautiful women on either side of them, as did the three elderly gentlemen. I sat alone at a distance from them with empty chairs on either side of me. Somebody was trying to make a point. One by one beautiful dishes were brought to the table. There didn't
seem to be a system of starter and main course involved. Instead extravagant platters of beluga caviar, lobster, fillet of beef and veal escalope, to name but a few, were placed on the table and everyone gorged themselves as the wine flowed freely. I put my head down and concentrated on my meal when the conversation turned to the IMF's arrival in Ireland. Mr Berlusconi listened intently to Dermot's evaluation of the Irish situation.

  ‘It's all very grim,’ Dermot said. ‘There's certainly no bunga bunga budget.’

  ‘This is too sad, what you say,’ said Mr Berlusconi. ‘What about your politicians? Can they not tell the IMF that bunga bunga stops for no one?’

  ‘Sadly our politicians are not men of substance like yourself,’ said Dermot.

  Mr Berlusconi accepted that this was likely the case and gave a slight nod.

  ‘Then there is nothing for it my friend,’ he said. ‘You must become a politician. Your country needs you. Your people need bunga bunga. The IMF,’ Mr Berlusconi paused, and looked down the table at me, ‘clearly need bunga bunga.’

  After dinner I found a quiet corner and managed to get some work done while the others drank and danced. I could see Dermot and Mr Berlusconi in the pool in the middle of the room surrounded by naked women who were competing for the men's attention. I tried to keep my gaze fixed on my laptop but it was a strange atmosphere in which to figure out how public service employment numbers kept rising even though a hiring freeze had been imposed eighteen months previously. I took the opportunity to ask Dermot about it as he passed by, doing a conga train with four naked young ladies and the Prime Minister of Italy.

  ‘Can you explain this?’ I asked him.

  Dermot stopped and the conga collapsed in a writhing heap of flesh at my feet.

  ‘How come there's more people working in the public service today than there were when you imposed the hiring freeze?’

  ‘Oh, I advised against the hiring freeze,’ said Dermot. ‘People always panic and hire all their friends and family members when you introduce a freeze. But no one listens to me any more.’

  Then two of the girls grabbed Dermot and he allowed himself to be led away.

  ‘You work too hard,’ he shouted over his shoulder to me. ‘You should be enjoying yourself here.’

  Another two girls wandered away with Mr Berlusconi, who shot a frosty look at me as he left the room. I couldn't understand his animosity. All the resentment I had expected to encounter in Ireland was instead being directed at me by the Prime Minister of Italy

  Just at that moment, unfortunately, Ajai called.

  ‘I take it you're not in the office,’ Ajai said gravely.

  ‘Ehm, no,’ I said. He could obviously hear Lady Gaga playing on the stereo in the background. ‘I'm in Rome with Dermot. We're being … ehm … entertained by Silvio Berlusconi.’

  ‘Where is Dermot?’ Ajai asked.

  ‘Ehem … in a meeting, I guess,’ I said.

  ‘Well, get him back to Dublin in one piece. The wires are full of stories about Ireland defaulting. The markets don't like it. I don't like it.’

  Ajai hung up.

  For two days and nights Dermot and Mr Berlusconi cavorted and caroused with twenty or more women who took it in turns to dress up as nurses, police officers and, unless my eyes deceived me, some of the ministers I had met in Dublin. They played doctors and nurses, cops and robbers, a peculiar version of charades, and other games that I had not seen played before. All the while I was treated like a pariah. The young women ignored me, Mr Berlusconi glared at me and Dermot seemed oblivious to my presence.

  On the third day as we were preparing to leave for the airport, I noticed that Dermot and Mr Berlusconi were engaged in deep conversation. All of the girls had been dismissed and were waiting at a distance.

  The two men spoke urgently to each other in low voices. I couldn't really hear the conversation but it seemed that Dermot was seeking advice from Mr Berlusconi. Abruptly, they got up and walked towards me. I was wary after our encounter when we arrived and sank into my seat. Then they were directly in front of me, two orange-skinned men, with dyed-black hair and manicured nails, wearing matching leopardskin thongs. Once again, Mr Berlusconi slapped me across the face.

  ‘Brutto figlio di puttana,’ he said. ‘Il tuo cazzo? Minuscolo!’

  I'm pretty sure I could have said the same to him but I bit my tongue.

  With that he was gone. I shook my head and turned to look at Dermot. ‘What the hell was that about?’ I asked.

  ‘He likes you,’ he said. ‘But in future you have to wear a thong.’

  ‘Can we just go now?’ I said.

  Midway through the flight home I was still sitting in a corner clinging tightly to my laptop. Dermot gently eased it from my grasp and gave me a glass of wine. My hand was shaking as I raised it to my lips.

  ‘You'll be grand,’ Dermot said.

  ‘Why didn't you ask Berlusconi to intercede on Ireland's behalf with the EU and the ECB instead of attacking me? They're the ones causing you problems,’ I said.

  ‘I did ask him,’ said Dermot, ‘but Silvio has his own issues with the powers that be in Europe. He wants me to meet Ghadaffi. He reckons he'd be up for buying the Irish banks and that would free us up to manage our sovereign debt.’

  ‘Ghadaffi?’ I said. ‘Are you mad? You'll be international pariahs.’

  ‘What? Like Tony Blair?’ he said.

  ‘The situation is not the same,’ I said. ‘It's in the optics. You'd be seen as Europe's ungrateful child, biting the hand that fed you, turning to the enemy for support.’

  ‘That is such an American thing to say,’ said Dermot. ‘Assuming that someone is everyone's enemy just because they are your enemy. We Irish are friends with everyone. Even the British. Anyway, it's immaterial. I turned down Ghadaffi a couple of days before we called you lot in. His interest rate was even steeper than Trichet's. But I need to keep Silvio onside for negotiations with the EU, and he's pally with Ghadaffi so I had to look interested. You understand.’

  I nodded. It seemed like the simplest thing to do.

  We settled into an uneasy silence. It crossed my mind that Dermot, in a peculiar way, was always working while apparently doing nothing. And since I had met him I was always working while apparently achieving nothing.

  ‘Silvio's a gas man, isn't he?’ Dermot said out of the blue.

  ‘He's something else,’ I said.

  ‘He told me it was my patriotic duty to take charge of my country and lead it out of the abyss, to rid my country of the IMF and lead it proudly as an independent nation,’ he said.

  ‘It's amazing what people say at an orgy,’ I said.

  ‘Isn't it?’ said Dermot wistfully.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ I asked.

  ‘I'm going to sleep on it,’ he said. ‘I'm exhausted.’

  True to his word, Dermot slept until we landed at Dublin Airport. While he snored, I called Ajai and told him it looked increasingly likely that Dermot would run in the general election. Ajai took it surprisingly well. ‘It mightn't be a bad thing to have a politician who knows how to manipulate the civil service,’ he said. ‘Whoever gets into power is going to have to have an efficient working relationship with the bureaucrats. Perhaps Dermot as a politician could facilitate that.’

  I saw very little of Dermot in the few days after we got back from our trip to Rome. He seemed to be continually involved in hushed conversations with the heads of other departments and with his own subordinates. Then on Wednesday morning he strolled over to me with a smile on his face and showed me an article in the Irish Times.

  ‘I see your boys are coming over to check up on you,’ he said. I barely glanced at the article. It was standard procedure for head office to send someone over to review targets and accomplishments. ‘They're not checking up on me, Dermot; they're checking up on you. I report directly to Ajai,’ I said.

  ‘Are they indeed?’ he said and he turned on his heel and left.

  It was the la
st day for election candidates to register and Dermot hadn't said another word to me about it. I was beginning to think he wasn't going to run in the general election after all.

  I was wrong. Just before lunch Dermot came storming back into the office with several officials and a mob of journalists. He stood on a chair in the centre of the room and called for everyone's attention.

  ‘Our country is in grave peril,’ he said, full of importance. ‘For years politicians have ignored civil service advice and exacerbated every problem we have faced. As Chief of Staff in the Department of Finance I have seen successive ministers squander our country's fortune. I am not prepared to bear witness to this economic treason any longer. I have had enough. Today I announce my candidacy in the general election. For the sake of our great nation, it is time for the civil service to run this country and lead it back to prosperity.’

  ‘Which party are you running for?’ a journalist asked.

  ‘The party is over,’ Dermot said. ‘I am running as an independent candidate, affiliated to the civil service.’

  ‘What about your job?’ another journalist asked.

  ‘A colleague will carry out my duties while I am engaged with saving the nation from the politicians,’ Dermot said.

  ‘Have you any policies?’ the journalist asked.

  ‘Of course I have policies,’ Dermot said. ‘I am not running for Labour. It is time for the country to learn from the self-sacrifice and commitment of the public service. It is my intention to ensure that civil service work practices and values be adopted by the private sector. There will be benchmarking for all, a minimum of thirty days’ annual leave and flexi-time for retail workers.’

  Dermot stepped down to rapturous applause from his colleagues and slack-jawed disbelief from the media.

  I asked Dermot who was going to replace him in the Department of Finance.

  ‘Oh, I'm just taking leave of absence,’ he said. ‘Liam will stand in for me if there are any decisions to be made that aren't going to be made by you.’

  I looked over at Liam; he had always struck me as competent. Dermot called him over.