Idolism

by Marcus Herzig

  By the early 2000s, MMC was making such insane amounts of money that we started running out of ideas what to do with it. Even with virtually unlimited funds there were only so many newspapers, phone carriers, ISPs, and radio and TV stations you could buy. We were already dominating most media markets in the world, and most countries’ anti-trust laws prevented us from expanding much further. So what do you do if you cannot grow your market share any further? The answer to that is surprisingly simple: you grow the market.

  In the late 1990s and early 2000s, the market had already grown considerably all by itself, due to the advent of the Internet. However, I was very adamant to ensure that MMC wouldn’t make the same mistakes that many of our competitors were making, and that was to throw billions of dollars at the emerging new media and pretending that the days of the traditional media were numbered. Everyone was so keen to take that huge leap into the 21st century that they completely forgot about the hundreds of millions of people in the developing world who—technology wise—hadn’t even reached the 20th century yet.

  “Our problem in these countries,” I said to Mr Maddock one day, “is not the size of our market share, it’s the size of the market. In Zimbabwe we own 80% of the media, but we’re only reaching 5% of the population because most of the people can’t even afford a TV set, let alone electricity.”

  “Yes, yes,” Mr Maddock said. “Poor souls.”

  “And even those who can afford a TV set will never turn into loyal, long-term customers because they have a life expectancy of 37 years. The average person in Zimbabwe buys 0.12 TV sets in their lifetime. The average American buys almost a hundred times as many.”

  “What are you saying, Pickle?”

  “What I’m saying is that if we’re giving free or heavily subsidized cellphones to people in America and Europe so they can spend their money on using our services, then why not give free TV sets to the third world? And electricity. And better living conditions so they can live longer and remain our customers longer?”

  Mr Maddock looked at me, still skeptical. “And how are we going to do that, Pickle? I can see how free TVs will work, but how do we raise the life expectancy in fucking Zimbabwe?”

  “Education,” I said. “Education is the key to everything. Educated people will get better jobs, they will earn more money, they will be healthier, they will live longer, and they will be better and more profitable customers. We are making so much money at the moment. Isn’t it our holy duty as good Christians to help the poorest of the poor lift themselves out of their misery? Let’s build schools, let’s build wells, let’s build hospitals. Let’s build factories in the jungle and manufacture TV sets that are so cheap that even the labourers who assemble them in excruciating twelve-hour shifts for less than the minimum wage will be able to afford them. Let’s build our customer base for the next 50 years.”

  “Are you done with your speech, Dr King?”

  “Yes, Mr Maddock.”

  “Good. Then shut the fuck up and get to work. Let’s do this.”

  So that’s what we did. We set up the MMC Cares foundation, and we invested our profits in the future of the poorest countries in South America, Africa, and Asia. We gave them electricity and running water, we built hospitals, and we built schools. And when I say schools, I’m not talking about mud huts in the jungle with a few chairs and desks, a blackboard on a crumbling wall and a crooked sign above the door that read ‘School’ in scrawly letters. I’m talking about solid, bright, modern buildings with proper doors and floors and walls and windows, and with state of the art equipment that would put many a school in so-called developed countries to shame. I’m talking about a computer in every classroom, and I’m talking about the flagship of our education initiative, 92-inch flatscreen TVs—again, one of them in every classroom—with built-in access to thousands of hours of educational programming courtesy of MMC. We invested dozens of billions of dollars, but it was well worth it, because with those dozens of billions of dollars we bought our way right into the heads of a whole generation of hundreds of millions of kids and future customers. It went so well that we decided on taking that same concept to Europe and America. They get free computers and free 92-inch flatscreen TVs; we get access to millions of young, impressionable minds.

  Mr Maddock and I spent most of the noughties travelling from one developing country to the next, him opening schools and libraries and hospitals, me staying in the background as always, pulling the strings and taking care of the business side of things. It was there in the background where I someday somehow dropped the ball, and the only reason I was able to forgive myself for dropping the ball was because my team captain picked it up and scored a game winning touchdown.

  In hindsight the signs were all there. Mr Maddock insisted that every ceremonial opening of a new school or hospital he attended took place in the presence of a cardinal of the Roman Catholic Church. Local dignitaries, mayors, priests, not even bishops, were good enough for him.

  “Pickle,” he said, “I’m not paying billions of dollars to have my picture taken with some obscure Ugandan parish priest.”

  It always had to be cardinals he could shake hands with as he grinned into the cameras, and every cardinal he met he insisted on having a private dinner with. I wasn’t invited to these dinners, nor had I any interest in attending them. I was busy enough running our business as it was, and it didn’t occur to me that if Mr Maddock spent the evening with one of the highest dignitaries of the Church, these two old men would discuss anything else but the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. It didn’t occur to me that during all our visits to all those developing countries, Mr Maddock was not playing the Good Samaritan. He was running an election campaign, right under my nose, and I didn’t realize it.

  It was a high gamble, bribing all those cardinals. Be aware that I’m using the word ‘bribe’ figuratively here, not literally, because there is no evidence that any of the money that MMC Cares spent went directly into the pockets of any of the cardinals involved. I cannot speak for what Mr Maddock did with his private money, but all our official payments are accounted for, and I can say with confidence that 100% of the money went into the building of schools, hospitals, libraries, and infrastructure projects.

  We were making these investments with the future of the corporation in mind. At least that’s what I thought. Mr Maddock, however, didn’t care about the corporation. What he cared about was himself, his own future, and his own personal legacy. You’d think that if you’re running the biggest media corporation in the world and you’re one of the richest people on the planet, it would be enough of a legacy; that you’d be looking forward to sit back and relax and enjoy your retirement. But that wasn’t enough for Mr Maddock. He wanted more. He wanted to run the oldest institution in the world.

  As I said, it was a big gamble, but it paid off. It just about paid off. After four weeks and five days, the longest conclave in over 200 years, Robert Maddock was elected Pope, and I became the new head of MMC which—I have to admit—helped to alleviate my anger over Mr Maddock’s coup. I had been running the corporation from behind the scenes for over three decades, so the only thing that really changed for me was my title, but I drew a great deal of satisfaction from the fact that neither MMC nor Pope Pius XIII ever would have existed if it weren’t for me and my relentless, dedicated work.

  I had created a star, one of the biggest stars of all, and I found my greatest satisfaction in the knowledge that the biggest stars would inevitably come to an end one day in a supernova, a huge explosion that briefly but spectacularly outshines an entire galaxy of stars.

  The Gospel According to Michael – 10

  They locked us in one cell, Julian, Tummy, and myself, and Ginger in another. Four walls, no windows; a steel door, a steel toilet built into the wall, a steel sink, and two king-size mattresses on the floor; a broken neon light on the ceiling that kept flickering nervously all night long. They had stripped us of all our personal belongings; our wallets, our mo
biles, even our belts and shoes. Only Julian was allowed to keep his notebook and a pencil after he convinced the guards that he wasn’t going to use it to stab himself.

  In broken English they had explained to us that the kind of public order disturbance we had created was a misdemeanour, not a crime, subject to an on-the-spot fine rather than a criminal charge. However, since we were all minors, they were legally obliged to keep us in custody until they had contacted our parents or legal guardians and someone came down to the police station to bail us out. We all gave them our parents’ phone numbers, got overcooked spaghetti in tomato sauce for dinner, and then we were led to our cells.

  “I’m dead,” Tummy kept yammering as we settled down in our new temporary home. “I’m so bloody dead!”

  We sat down on the mattresses on the floor with our backs against the cold stone wall, staring straight ahead. There was nothing else for us to do, except for Julian who fell into a frantic writing fit, scribbling down notes in his little black book.

  “I’m so dead,” Tummy said again.

  “You still sound pretty alive for a dead guy,” I said.

  “Very funny, Michael. Your dad is smart. He’ll understand the difference between a misdemeanour and a felony. All me mum will see is that I got thrown into jail for disturbing a religious ceremony on St Peter’s Square involving the bloody Pope! I’m dead!”

  “You didn’t even do anything. You were just standing there. You probably won’t even get fined. None of us will, except Jules.”

  “Yeah, like me mum will care. I’m telling you, I’m dead!”

  “I didn’t even realize I was singing,” Julian said.

  I nodded. “You always do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Sing when you’re not supposed to. Like, when we’re on TV and we’re just supposed to lip-synch and pretend-play our instruments for the cameras. You always sing along.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. TV viewers won’t notice the difference, but in the studio everyone can hear you.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “I’m dead!”

  We fell silent for a while.

  After a few minutes I said, “So they elected Maddock as the new Pope. What do you guys make of that?”

  “We’re all dead,” Tummy muttered.

  “Well,” Julian shrugged, “if something doesn’t happen for ... how long, Tummy?”

  “Five hundred years. Last non-cardinal to be elected Pope was Leo X in 1513.”

  “There you have it,” Julian continued. “If something doesn’t happen for 500 years, people tend to forget that it’s even possible.”

  “Leo wasn’t even an ordained priest yet,” Tummy said, “just a deacon. But his last name was Medici. The Medici were, like, almost as rich and powerful as Maddock is, so that probably explains a lot.”

  I looked at Tummy. “Since when did you become a walking Wikipedia anyway?”

  “Me mum made me learn about all the Popes. I mean, every single one of them. For almost a year every day after school she taught me about a different Pope. Then in the evenings she quizzed me on them, and if I got as much as a birthday wrong she would send me to bed without dinner. Her method was very effective.”

  “So how difficult—or easy—do you think it would be to rig a papal election?” I asked.

  Tummy snorted. “Next to impossible. I mean, back in 1513 only 25 cardinals were taking part in the election. Today we have, like, 120. Plus, the election process is completely transparent, at least for those who take part in it. I mean, the balloting may be secret, but collecting the ballots, checking them and double checking them and counting them is all done right in front of everyone’s eyes. There’s not a lot of room for manipulation.”

  “Unless everyone is in on it,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Suddenly a lot of the news from the last couple of months seems to make sense,” I said. “How the MMC Cares foundation has been building schools all over the place in South America, Africa, and Asia. And we’re not talking about putting a blackboard in a mud hut and calling it a school, we’re talking about proper schools with proper equipment, computers, Internet access, the whole lot. Maddock himself travelled to all of these places to open one school after another, to meet one cardinal after another. And then he used his own TV channels to celebrate himself as this kind, benevolent philanthropist who tried to lift the poorest of the poor out of their misery. What if that wasn’t philanthropy? What if it was bribing cardinals?”

  Neither Tummy nor Julian had an answer.

  We didn’t talk much more that night. It had been a hectic and eventful day, and we were all dead tired. Julian soon dozed off, and Tummy obediently followed suit. I couldn’t sleep, though. My eyelids were heavy as lead, but even with my eyes closed and Julian and Tummy peacefully snoring beside me, I couldn’t seem to find any rest. Too many things were going through my mind, and I felt miserable. Not because I had to spend the night in jail. Being locked up and unable to get up and get out if I wanted to didn’t really bother me all that much. Back home I was used to pulling all-nighters in my dark and windowless basement without getting out or even having the desire to do so. Besides, if I hadn’t had to spend the night in jail I would have spent it in a hotel room, equally with no desire to get out and walk around, so what was the big difference? The police had contacted our parents, and I was pretty sure that in the morning one of them would show up and bail us all out. I thought it would most likely be Ginger’s dad because he was a lawyer who had worked for international organizations in foreign countries before. When the police called him to tell him we were all in jail he probably contacted all our parents right away and told them, ‘Don’t worry, I got this. I’ll fly to Rome first thing in the morning and bring our babies back home.’ I also thought there was a fair chance that my dad would say to him, ‘That’s great, George, but I’m coming with you,’ and that George would say, ‘Sure, Martin, why not?’

  I didn’t think it was very likely that Julian’s mum would make the trip to Rome—on most days she didn’t have the mental strength to make a trip to the supermarket—but I couldn’t rule out the possibility that Tummy’s mum or dad might come down to Rome, get him out of jail and take him directly back to the Colosseum and throw him to the lions. Either way, we’d be free again in the morning. The police had told us there would be a fine but no criminal charge, so our criminal records would remain squeaky clean. Even so, I didn’t feel comfortable. I had always been aware of the possibility that one day the law would knock on my door and say, ‘You must come with us.’

  It goes with the territory, I guess. If you spend most of your time engaging in borderline illegal activities like snooping around the school computer network or downloading top secret government memos from a politician’s laptop, then legal consequences is something you keep thinking about. It’s not something you anticipate to happen, but you can’t rule it out either. And so you become rather paranoid and extra careful. You cover your tracks as best you can, and you try to avoid giving the authorities any reason whatsoever to take a closer look at you. The others were sometimes making fun of me when I refused to cross the street at a red light. It seems such a trivial thing to do, but what if by chance a police car passes by? They see you and they stop you to give you a warning. And because they notice that you’re slightly nervous, they become suspicious that you have something to hide. That’s all it takes for them to legally strip search you is reasonable suspicion that you’re a terrorist. And in 21st century Orwellian Britain it was really easy to be classified as a potential terrorist.

  The Terrorism Act 2000 redefined the meaning of terrorism. It used to mean violence for political ends. Now it meant action, used or threatened, for the purpose of advancing any political, religious or ideological cause, and action included behaviour to seriously interfere with or to seriously disrupt an electronic system. Action, political, religious, ideol
ogical, interfere, disrupt, all these terms were open to extensive interpretation. Unfortunately, all the interpreting was done in court, by which time the police would already have searched you and your computer, taken your fingerprints and written up a nice big dossier about you. I’d rather not let it come to that, and that’s why I didn’t cross the street at a red light. It’s sad, but I’ve found the only way to protect myself against the state’s paranoia to be becoming even more paranoid myself.

  The longer I thought about it, the more upset I got by the fact that I had ended up in the holding cell of an Italian police station just because Julian had to sing instead of just moving his bloody lips. It had been a stupid, reckless, unnecessary, avoidable mistake that had put us all in jail. And suddenly I felt anger. It was the first time. I had known Julian nearly all my life, he had been my friend—my best friend—all my life, but I had never been angry with him. Apart from my dad there was no one in the world who knew me as well as Julian did, and I like to think that no one in the world knew Julian as well as I did—not even his mum. Of course we had our disagreements every once in a while. Just because we were best friends and we knew each other’s quirks and idiosyncrasies didn’t mean we always had the same opinion on everything. We didn’t. In fact, we disagreed on many things, and we often had long debates about all sorts of stuff, but they were never so fierce as to make either of us angry. We always managed to appreciate the other’s opinion and different point of view. But this time was different. Things had changed. Julian had changed. Ever since that school anniversary that had hurled us into the public consciousness, Julian had become a different person. The change had been slow, even subtle at first, so slow that I hadn’t even noticed it right away, but now Julian’s deterioration into a celebrity seemed to pick up speed. What bothered me the most was that he didn’t even seem to mind. In fact, he seemed to rather enjoy it. Julian had become fascinated with his own fame and with the way people reacted to it. He suddenly behaved like a rat in a lab experiment who had figured out that if he pushed the right button, some stupid human would reward him a few drops of sugary water. There were a lot of stupid humans out there, there were lots of buttons to push, and Julian had become addicted to the sweet taste of TV fame. He had yet to realize that it wasn’t good for him or for any of us.