As a matter of interest, there were two irregularities in the esteemed dining room of Salle Rigaut. The first was that the president, a regular patron, sat away from his usual table. The second oddity was the presence of a young anarchist who had every intention of committing a bloody and triumphant murder.
The president had regularly dined at the eminent restaurant for many years before his name became notorious. He usually ate alone, though on occasion he would be accompanied by his wife, a bureaucrat, or his chief of staff. He would, as a habit, order whatever was in season. His table was the finest of Salle Rigaut’s offerings, with clear views of the surrounding avenues.
On this night, the president took his dinner away from the window and any prying eyes from the street below. All was perfectly restless in the crowded dining room—which only amplified the unrest outside. The protest’s rumble pulsed a drumbeat through the walls of the dining room. Here, no matter what polite comment was offered to fill the silence, there was, at all times, bedlam’s roar beneath. The country thundered, collapsing into itself, hurtling towards its conclusion.
the president appeared, to all watchful eyes, supremely uninterested. This was a remarkable feat, as already there had been pointed instances of patrons standing, turning to face the window, and hurrying from the dining room, clutching at their coats and glancing about nervously. These incidents had occurred sporadically all throughout the evening, each event arresting the room and drawing all eyes to the exit. The president, impassive, ordered roasted ortolan with grains and a stout red. Any perceptive gourmand would find the president’s order unconvincing, considering ortolan was well out of season.
The anarchist, whose name was Edward Derby, had ordered soup yet had not made the slightest advance for his spoon in the hour he had now spent in the dining room. Though no one could be blamed for their inattention, the onset signs of imminent homicide were evident all across the young Edward Derby’s face—a thin lacquer of sweat, an impossibly restless leg, or the peculiar fact that his right hand had not once emerged from beneath the table.
Outside, there was a momentary uproar from the nearly 500 people marching beneath the windows of Salle Rigaut. All heads turned mutely to the window. Quickest among them was Edward Derby, whose breath caught suddenly. The president, by contrast, did a plausible job of acting as though this were only an ordinary night at Salle Rigaut.
“Has the kitchen added the soufflé back to the menu?” he inquired coolly.
Edward Derby hated the president, a sentiment shared by the inflammation of protesters gathering outside. Judging by the growing chants, Edward thought it likely more had arrived. For an instant, he stole a furtive glance at the window, betraying a look of brief, momentary shame. Edward Derby’s left hand shook as he passed it across his upper lip. There was no real reason that Edward Derby had been put to this murderous task. Or rather, it could have easily been a different anarchist sitting within Salle Rigaut, sweating before a bowl of cold soup while clutching a peculiar, freshly-printed gun. Every other protester, dissident, and anarchist had been turned away at the door to the restaurant. Yet, however unlikely, Edward Derby had been seated when he arrived at the front door of Salle Rigaut.
Perhaps he’d been dressed well enough or presented himself as an urbane young man. Perhaps, in truth, it was only a matter of time before someone passed through the cracks unnoticed. But it was known, within the protest, that Edward Derby had made it into the dining room, the plastic gun concealed within his boot. One young man possessed the distinct opportunity to act on the very real wishes of nearly a thousand people below and thousands more beyond. Within the walls of Salle Rigaut, a million abuses of presidential power could be adjudicated in an instant. A president who would not step down and had insidiously prolonged his despotic term might well be dead by the end of the evening.
Though the president’s death would be no panacea, on this night a metallic weight pervaded the air—some distant taste of oil or bitumen. Some chaotic odor spilled out over the diners, instilling a quiet belief that anything was possible.
“Is the gentleman finished with his soup?” Edward Derby was asked by a waiter only half paying attention.
Having misheard, Edward Derby mumbled, “What? Oh … yes. Another.” and soon enough a second bowl of soup was placed before him.
Edward Derby had never held a gun before. Since his earliest years, the president, now sitting only feet from him, existed only as a tumor. Edward Derby’s parents, now dead, had edified him on the rot and corruption of the president’s grim and lengthy term. Edward’s friends, some now outside Salle Rigaut, had fostered within him a shared sentiment: that there was only one solution. The flimsy weapon grew heavier for a moment, and Edward Derby slid his left hand, once more, across his lip.
Edward Derby watched the president, and for a moment his target’s face appeared inhuman. He imagined that there was not even blood flow beneath those pallid, fleshy features. It was not even hard to imagine, as the president’s face was smoothed, impossibly unconcerned, formed into a villainous calm. Eagerly, Edward invited visions of the president laughing grotesquely into his mind. He saw a clear picture of the president looming high above the protests and sneering to his advisers, and Edward Derby felt momentarily strong.
Another uproar startled the room into a renewed silence. This time, something had grazed a window. A waiter was sent to check that there had been no damage. Another surge of noise went up as the crowds briefly glimpsed a figure in the window.
The moment was close approaching. The sounds from below had grown, some chants fully discernible, clear as though shouted by one voice: “No more! Step down! Arrest the dictator!” The mob could sense the moment. Every cold, restive body could taste blood.
The president was unmoved, unchanged, uncaring. Tyrants think of themselves as terrifically invincible just before the end.
The hate was a decent amphetamine. Edward had been dosing himself for the better half of the night, reapplying whenever his resolve diminished.
Edward Derby’s sweat was pooling now, accumulating at the sides of his temple and about his neck. His shirt, stuck fast to his tensed spine, felt alien and without texture. Edward Derby’s vision foundered, fading away and reappearing in pulsing instances. Though put to task only hours before, he appeared sallow, as though he had been starving for months.
At last, Edward Derby made a motion to stand. He did so erratically, quickly, as though he was not fully aware of having made the effort, and helplessly he fell back to his seat. A roar ascended from below, and Edward Derby swallowed. The president still sat pensively, having finished his dessert. He would soon put on his coat and join the security detail, hovering anxiously by the entrance and attending to the seething crowd below.
Edward Derby bit himself hard—bit down on the inner flesh of his cheek, drawing blood, which tasted silver and smooth. Standing successfully now, there was a blankness present in every atom of Edward Derby’s being. He was pale as the noose—dead before he stood.
Whatever forces were present in the dining room of Salle Rigaut, be they some ill-suited god or the shameful face of destiny, all conspired wickedly for the president’s escape—whispering unheard things into Edward’s ears. The hidden gun made no noise when it dropped from Edward’s hand. In a starved stupor the young man gathered his things, nodded mutely to his waiter, and left the dining room as so many others had done before.
Standing before the front entrance, the jeers and chants came clearly through the doors, and he was, for the first time that night, unafraid. There was no relief and there was no hope. Edward Derby was weightless and formless, hardly noticing as the concierge held the door. He heard nothing of the cheer that went up at the sight of his slight frame outlined in the doorway. He could not see the spotlight which came to rest on his body or the faces of the onlookers who searched him for answers.
There was hunger in the crowds, and the sight of Edward Derby was enough to confirm their appetite. Though any onlooker who truly saw Edward Derby could tell that he had failed, the masses believed otherwise. A shrill shriek of triumph claimed the night. Many like it arose, and there came a great amount of shouting, which grew to chanting, which grew into further tumult.
“He’s dead!”
“Liberty at last!”
Someone grabbed hold of Edward Derby’s coat and pulled him into the crowd. Here, he was clapped on the back. His right hand was clasped into a hundred handshakes. He felt lips upon his lips, and lips upon his cheek, and lips upon his forehead. He felt every swelling cheer. He felt himself hoisted into the air and onto the shoulders of the movement. His name was murmured at first, and then shouted, and then finally repeated as an anthem. It was a low, full, sonorous chant of his name, repeated with the whole force of vacant victory.
Atop of their shoulders, he looked once at the window and saw no one. He imagined that the president lay dead in the dining room of Salle Rigaut, bleeding out onto the lovely marble floors. He then imagined that there might never be a glorious tomorrow. This thought, blank and impossible, swelled within the anarchist’s hollow chest. Filling his lungs with their breath and the night, Edward Derby, who still looked far too young, smiled at last.