Alex leaned over the table.
“You can’t . . .” he said, breaking the diamond rack with a loud crack, “ignore . . .” he rounded the table, watching over the frantically scattering balls, one of which was heading straight to a pocket, “ . . .the rules.”
“I, for one . . .” he slowly bent his arm pulling the cue back, “ . . . respect . . .” the biceps peaked under the thin fabric of his sleeve, “ . . . the rules.”
Another ball flew loudly into the corner pocket.
“Moreover . . .” he studied the table, looking for his next target, “ . . . I always insist . . .” the next target had been identified and Alex confidently headed towards it, “ . . .that everyone . . .” one more ball disappeared from the table, “ . . . respect the rules.”
“Seems to me tomorrow we won ’t get a clue as to Rob ’s past and what the hell he did when he was a schoolboy, ” Paul observed in a low voice.
“Shh . . . Don ’t rush, ” Brandon said. “The game ’s not over yet.”
“It may as well be, ” Paul nodded towards the table from which yet another ball had now vanished. “Rob won ’t even need his cue for this game.”
Robert, paying not the slightest attention to this conversation, watched Alex ’s movements with Olympian calm.
“And this,” Alex slowly curled his index finger over the cue, “is known as Shanghai Bells .”
“W-wow!” Ross exhaled when the colorful stirring at the table had slowed down. Brandon grunted approvingly.
Alex clapped Ross on the shoulder as he walked past him.
“By the way, it looks harder than it actually is. Of all the showy combo shots , this is the easiest. I can teach you later if you like.”
“What is Rob so happy about?” Paul asked Michael quietly. “He ’s grinning like a Cheshire cat .”
“Look at Alex.”
Alex was taking more time than usual to study the combination in front of him. At last, he made up his mind and , in complete silence , leaned over the table. The cue struck.
“Bummer,” Paul said loudly.
“What bummer?” Brandon echoed. “Don ’t you see he ’s done it on purpose?”
“To miss like that on purpose?”
“Of course! He couldn ’t sink any ball anyhow. So he set it up for Rob. There ’s no way in the world Rob can make anything out of it. He ’s got to strike the eight first, and look where it is. It ’s hopeless.”
Alex looked at Robert expectantly.
“Hopeless,” Robert agreed. “Plain hopeless.”
He walked rapidly around the table and, spending a split second taking aim, with a swift lashing stroke sent a ball out on a completely incomprehensible trajectory. A jolly cracking flew up from the table. Then it stopped.
“Did you see that?!” Paul jumped to his feet. “Two balls with a four -rail kick shot? Four -rail? Somebody pinch me! Did you see that?”
“Ah . . .” said Brandon , “it must be luck. Rob, no offence but that was a hell of a luck y shot . You can ’t calculate something like that . Man, I ’ve never seen anything like it !”
Alex looked silently at the table where a lone ball remained .
“You’re good, ” he said , finally turning to Robert with a wide smile. “You ’re real good. Not sure I want to play you for money anymore.”
Five minutes later, the animated discussion about the gems of this game was over and people started leaving. Alex was demonstrating some kick shot to Ross, adding from time to time, “But Rob would know better .” Brandon was nodding and kept attempting to reproduce the shot ; h owever , his persistence was producing no satisfactory results and when his cue ball missed its target for a fifth time , he gave up.
“Screw it,” he said putting the cue down. “It takes more than a one-minute practice anyway. No shortcuts in this business.”
“We can try again tomorrow, ” Alex said encouragingly. “Ross?”
Ross stopped and looked at him, one foot out the door.
“About Shanghai Bells , I meant it ; i t ’s very easy —actually easier than this one. Want to give it a try?”
“Sure,” Ross returned eagerly to the table. “Brandon , are you leaving already?”
“Yeah, I’ve had enough pool for one evening.”
And Brandon disappeared , leaving Ross alone with Alex.
“So,” Alex extracted a few balls from the nearby pocket, “this is how you do this. First of all, the trick doesn ’t always work. But, given the right situation , you should never let this kind of opportunity go by.”
He froze for a moment as if listening to something, then went on again.
“Next, you need to have the right combination .” He laid out the balls on the desolate green surface of the table in brief, quick movements.
“Finally, it ’s all about the partner.”
“Come again?” Ross asked, looking at the table. “The partner —what do you mean?”
“You’ll get it in a second .” Alex made a few steps and stopped next to him. “Put the cue down . You need to analyze the situation first. See the blue stripe? You can pocket it easily with the nine, right?”
“Right,” Ross agreed. “So?”
“What do you mean?”
“So what? That’s an obvious shot. What about Shanghai Bells ?”
“Shanghai Bells ?” Alex glanced at Ross in surprise. “What ’s that got to do with it? This is something completely different.”
“What is it then?” Ross asked, now completely puzzled by Alex ’s words.
“Here it is.”
The white wall before Ross’s eyes had suddenly turned reddish black. Simultaneously , with this terrifying transformation , an overwhelming ly desperate desire to breathe came over him. A moment ago , his lungs had been functioning unnoticeably, silently and steadily pumping the air in and out of his body. Now they clenched convulsively in frantic need of fresh air. But somehow the simple act of inhaling had become completely impossible. Instead of air , it was blood that was rushing to his panicking head. Air was gone, evaporated, vanished from the body. Blood, hungry blood flowed through his pulsating veins around his suddenly contracted and tightened throat, nearly bursting his cheeks and eyes, filling his ears with an intolerable ringing. It felt as if any instant it would tear the skin apart and splash in all directions, covering the table, armchairs and neatly mopped floor.
Then a fresh stream of air poured into his tormented lungs, the black -andred-spotted wall paled, and, replacing the fading ringing, a whisper came into his ears. Alex ’s whisper.
“This is Shanghai Bells.”
Ross sprung away frantically, his mind blank and empty , like a deflated balloon.
“Easy!” something that felt like a piece of wood squeezed his throat again. “Stay put or it ’ll get much worse! Promise.”
“You— you—” Russ inhaled convulsively.
“Yes, it’s me, ” Alex agreed, relaxing his grip slightly. “Now, I ’m telling you once again , and you ’d better get it into your head this time : y ou try to run away and it will get worse. Much worse. Try screaming—and you ’ll be sorry for the rest of your life. Trust me, it ’s not worth it. Got it?”
Ross nodded, to the extent the massive arm encircling his neck like an iron ring , enabled him to.
“Now, listen carefully. I need just a couple of very simple things from you. One, you vote for me. I ’m sure you ’ve figured that out already. Two, you do your best to make me look good. All the time, everywhere, with anyone. Is that clear?”
Ross nodded again, feeling uncontrollable animal fear paralyzing his entire body.
“But . . .” he managed to squeeze out trembling words.
“What?”
“But . . . how do I do that? I mean, how do I make you look good?”
“Not my problem. You ’re a smart guy, I know you ’ll figure something out. If I see that you ’re not trying hard enough, we ’ll talk again. And make sure to keep it believable. Don ’t ov
erdo it. If anyone gets suspicious, guess what—you and I are going to have another chat.”
“But the rules . . .” Ross tried moving, but his feeble attempt failed miserably. “The rules ; we just talked about them . . . you said it yourself, the rules . . . there ’re rules!”
“You moron,” the whisper said sardonically. “What rules? Didn ’t you hear yesterday? There ’re no rules around here. No rules, no limits.”
“You’re nuts!” Ross shrieked, finally having fully realized the situation.
But instead of a shriek, only barely audible hoarse sounds came out.
“You think we ’re in a movie here? I ’ll get your ass nailed in court! I ’ll bury you! I—”
“Or I will bury you, ” the whisper objected calmly, unmoved by this threat. “Literally. As for court, it ’s your word against mine. And trust me, no expertise in the world would find any evidence of our little chat here.”
“Oh, they would, ” Ross protested without much hope.
“No, they wouldn ’t, ” something resembling pity appeared in the whisper. “Some things are traceable, some are not. This one, for instance, isn ’t.”
Ross felt as if a fire had licked his left palm. He screamed, forgetting all the warnings , at this sharp blood-boiling pain, but the stiff arm enveloping his neck shifted up briskly, completely sealing his mouth. This time his scream turned into a muffled moan.
“Now you get it?” the whisper enquir ed. “This is just a preview. Got it?”
Ross nodded.
“Are you going to scream?” The arm moved back to its previous position on the throat, freeing the mouth.
“N-no . . .”
“Are you going to complain to anyone?”
“No.”
“Are you ever going to talk to anyone about this?”
“No.”
“I knew you were a smart guy. Now, one last thing, ” Alex ’s low menacing whisper lowered even further. “Don ’t even think about slipping away. Any car can be traced by its license plate. And you know how much street crime we get these days . . . It ’s a shame. Streets aren ’t as safe as they used to be. So . . . s tay here for three days, do as I say—and live happily ever after. Try running away—and you ’re finished. And you ’ll have only yourself to blame.”
The iron ring disappeared.
Ross stood frozen for a second. Then, still not completely believing he was free to go, nor being able to accept fully what had just happened to him, he hesitantly stepped towards the table. The fingers of his left arm burned and oozed with pain. He cautiously , as if expecting a sudden punch, looked back. Alex stood by the armchair, smiling.
“Nice shot, isn ’t it?” he asked in his usual voice. “I told you it was easy. Hey, listen, ” he knitted his eyebrows with concern, “you don ’t look so good. You ’re pale. Is everything all right?”
Ross gulped.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“Good!” the smile returned to Alex ’s face. “I ’ll practice a little longer. Are you sure you don ’t want to stick around? No? Well, it ’s your call. I ’ll see you tomorrow then. Have a good one.”
“You too,” Ross replied in a lifeless voice, staring at him fixatedly.
Treading feebly, he crossed the room and, having reached the door, stopped, looked back, and in the same flat , lifeless voice repeated , “You too.”
Alex waived to him cordially and turned back to the table.
They had done a great job crafting the first day. It had worked flawlessly. Every topic brought up today—from Genghis Khan to physiological fear—was a direct result of the seeds they had planted in our heads yesterday. They wanted us to talk about this, they wanted us to argue about that , and on top of everything they wanted us to think constantly about it . They didn ’t want us to simply choose a leader. Not at all. Their plan had been to make us see this entire process in the gleam of fires, against the background of the shadow y silhouettes of the ancient rulers and the men of greatest ambition history had even known. They deliberately kept steering our thoughts in this direction and they succeeded at that. If it hadn ’t been for yesterday ’s lecture, our discussion today would ’ve been drastically different. We would ’ve talked about everyday things in everyday language.
And no matter whether Clark sounded like a History Channel narrator or discussed current affairs , his every sentence was aimed at the same goal. Take these “talented kids ,” for instance. Despite his claims, he wasn ’t referring to the talent to manage others , nor was he talking about the talent to lead. He was talking about that curious spicy talent to walk, crawl, sneak at any cost to the top. About the talent that is truly a make-or-break necessity for everyone in the high ranks. In fact, you simply don ’t make it to the high ranks unless you possess and have mastered this talent. He was referring to the very specific talent that remains invisible and by no means obvious to many people who observe the steady functioning of corporations from the trenches or from the outside.
But unless you read between the lines, his words seemed to suggest that it was the talent of leadership that he had meant all along. And that was deliberate. Whatever his reasoning was, he mixed these two quite different abilities masterfully and purposefully. And mixing concepts that appear similar on the surface and yet are utterly different in their nature usually leads to confusion and later to a delusional state of mind.
It’s a mixing of this sort that leads people to wonder why mankind can never stay away from bloodshed and war, despite having dreamed for ages of world peace. As if it isn ’t obvious that wars don ’t get started by nations but by the people in power who lead these nations. You add on top the simple fact that any significant power—be it of a political, financial or religious nature—can be acquired only by those who posses certain talents and views, and it becomes a no-brainer. Precisely the same talents and views force those who came into power to go beyond their borders, chasing power they don ’t yet own ; confronting another talented individual who is warily guarding these goods.
It’s so typical for people to confuse different concepts whenever they talk and think about power. Bonaparte is a poster child of this type of confusion. It was his name that was mentioned today more often than any other. A true leader, a true ruler, a true lord of a nation . . . But was he a real master of his nation? Did he ever become the person he had strived to become his entire life? Not at all. An ingenious conqueror dreaming to become a true ruler—that was who he was. But not an inch more than that. His enormous genius did not include the talent of power.
He executed enemies instead of executing his own ministers for betraying him. He left hundreds of thousands of mutilated bodies at battlefield s —and yet allowed his own nation to gossip openly about his personal life. He made kings tremble in fear—but not his own citizens. He conquered almost the whole of Europe, but failed to keep his power in his own country. And , having risen to the Vendome Column, he ended up just five years later on a tiny godforsaken rock in the middle of the ocean where he was abandoned to die, drawing some pitiful satisfaction from the memories of his past glory. Makes you wonder ; had he ever realized what he was missing his entire life? Did he still consider himself the greatest ruler while on his way to Saint Helena? Or did it finally occur to him that the talent for power is not the same as the talent for waging war?
He wasn’t alone, though. His favorite role model, Alexander the Great, and the destroyer of Rome “Scourge of God , ” Attila the Hun, and the hysterical lunatic who had turned twentieth century Europe into a blood -covered smoking graveyard—all of them spent their lives greedily rushing ahead, grabbing everything they could and demolishing everything on their way. But none—literally none—of them knew how to put the conquered lands and nations to any use. They were takers. Not keepers.
And then there were the others. People of a different, totally different kind. They acted unhurriedly and thoughtfully. They started wars only when they were confident of winning them. They never forgave be
trayal, never allowed free speech, never encouraged any unsanctioned thought. They brought the Order to every plot of their land. They knew that true power is not defined by the concerns in the minds of neighbors, but by the horror in the hearts of subjects.
Step by step they kept creating the System—a flawlessly functioning mechanism of power. They destroyed rivals and used servants, they didn ’t trust anyone except themselves, they were unspeakably suspicious and farseeing, they spared no effort raising a generation—sometimes more than one—of people soaked through with The Idea . They were pragmatists right down to their bones. And—unlike the early burned out conquerors and kings who had lost their heads under the executioner ’s axe—they died of old age in their beds, mourned by millions. By the millions who survived under their rule.
Those were people who knew how to create, cherish and keep power. They were geniuses of power. And Napoleons and Alexanders didn ’t have much in common with them. Except, perhaps, an overwhelming desire to be great, a greater—than -the -Universe vanity and an ultimate disdain for human life.
The process of building an empire doesn ’t end with outlining the conquered land on the map. This is where it begins . True empires are first built in the minds of subjects , and only then on maps. It ’s not for nothing that in some languages the word ‘power ’ means both the act of one man controlling another and the control structure itself. Only a nation that has had its hands burned in the fire of true power is inclined to play such linguistic games. What we Americans, who have never in our history experienced the heavy hand of a true ruler , serenely call ‘power ’ and ‘authorit y ,’ Russians express with one word : Power. Power needs . . . Power demands . . . Power wants more power . . . Having faced true power once, a society no longer bothers to differentiate between it and those who have it. And in this lies its highest meaning.
So mixing concepts can be a dangerous business. And Clark knows this, no doubt about that. Yet, despite the shocking honesty that he likes to demonstrate every now and then, he decides to mix everything, and , artfully manipulating the terminology, creates a strong, though unnoticeable, confusion. Why? Because he ’s been trying very subtly, very unobtrusively to program our minds for the next four days. And he ’s been losing no time.
Awakening, 2nd edition Page 14
