"THE PETTY DICTATOR: Dream Ego "
by Paki Dechen Palmo
I was sitting in the large theatre, like everyone else, watching the play, like everyone else.
I suspect, also like everyone else, I found the goings-on onstage bewildering.
As the play progressed, the drama made less and less sense, not more. The comings and goings
of numerous characters seemed arbitrary, even pointless. There was no discernible story, no
"through-line" that I could detect.
The people around me in the audience -- I was sitting in the first balcony, which was still
relatively close to the stage -- became increasingly fidgety.
The natives, I thought, are getting restless. I wasn't too surprised, then, when they started
leaving. Actually, that isn't true. I was surprised, because of the possible repercussions, but felt I
understood: they simply couldn't take any more of the nonsensical play.
I, however, am very tenacious. And my curiosity had gotten the better of me. How on earth
would the playwright, a man known to all for his polititcal power-wielding, cunning tactical insight
and downright feral brilliance -- how would he, could he, bring an end to his impossible play?
As more and more of the audience deserted their seats, I began to feel, quite against my will,
a sort of gathering sense of pity. For the playwright, who I knew was undoubtedly somewhere in
the theatre, probably behind stage, watching the debacle unfold.
In spite of his crimes -- and they were legion -- I felt sorry for him. I knew what he must feel
like, and I wished the feeling on no one.
Our leader, a petty dictator, had been brought low before his subjects by his own overweening
pride. All the power, privileges and perks he enjoyed in his position did not fulfill his ambitions. No,
he wanted more, something he couldn't possibly have: dramaturgical talent. Not by fiat, dictatorial
decree, or sheer command could he bring about his desired result.
Still, instead of relishing the outcome, I was pensive as I left my balcony seat. The play did not
so much end as just stop. Nothing was resolved, there was no denouement, no happy, sad or even
indifferent ending. I didn't clap. It would have made things worse, because by then I was the only
person left in the entire audience. As I made my way down the narrow, garishly-carpeted stairway,
cozily-lit by old-fashioned wall sconces, I saw our leader sitting on the stairs with his head in
his hands.
Inadvertently, I spoke. "You know, sir, I'm also a playwright. Sometimes things bomb. It
isn't the end of the world. In fact," I added unwisely, "it can lead to breakthroughs."
Our leader looked up at me. He wasn't a large man, nor was he particularly pretentious. He
tended to prefer khaki outfits, vaguely military in design, but not ostentatiously so. He was dark of
feature and olive of skin, far from unattractive overall; he could be quite charming at times. I have
to say he resembled Saddam Hussein more than a little, though in a milder version.
He looked up at me with his black olive eyes alight. "Really?" he said hopefully. "You're the
only one who stayed through the performance. Thank you."
"You won't be punishing the others, I hope, " I said anxiously. Perhaps his momentary gratitude
could be used to circumvent his well-known wrath.
"No, no," he said firmly. "I cannot dictate matters of taste."
I thought this an odd concession to his otherwise pervasive powers, but was relieved to hear him
say so.
I was about to make my way down the stairs past him, when he startled me with a question. It
was quite personal, so it took me a minute to contrive an answer. One had to be very careful with our
leader, his whims were notorious, as were his about-faces. He was not, in short, someone to trust.
One minute he could laud you to the skies, the next he could tear you to pieces.
My answer must have pleased him, however, because he stood up and put his hand on my back in
a gesture of friendship, if not camaraderie. This was even more startling than his question, which was to
the effect if I was married or single.
"Are you alone?" was how he couched it, to which I had to answer that I was.
Our leader proposed that we repair to a restaurant to talk about playwriting. Nothing would have
pleased me more -- with anyone but our leader. How could I carry on a late-night cafe conversation
with him, knowing the dangers of a wine- and fatigue-loosened tongue? God forbid, I thought aghast,
I might even tell him the truth, that his play sucked eggs, that his autocratic rule was cruel and mindless,
that his subjects, most especially including myself, were dying to revolt. And that, if I had anything to
do with it, his rule would be over. Soon.
So I did my usual. I hedged, making jokes and allusions, witticisms that almost covered the truth,
but not quite. Autocrats love jesters, I thought. I shall adopt that role for the evening. At least it would
be droll, though also somewhat dangerous.
I have to admit I was flattered. Our leader wanted to take me to dinner. To talk to me about one of
my favorite subjects. I could wax eloquent on the subject of dramaturgy for hours, I thought, without
running out of steam, or without getting too improperly personal. The idea of declining the invitation,
so thoroughly conditioned was I, never even entered my mind.
Unfortunately, as we made our way to the restaurant -- it was quite close and sure to be open,
fashioned as it was on a Left Bank bistro our leader had read about somewhere, and heavily subsidized
by the national treasury -- he gave me an unmistakably wolfish smile.
Oh, no, I thought with alarm. Just when I began to believe in my distance, my detachment from him,
I found that our leader wanted, no, more accurately, needed to seduce me. He must have sensed my glib
and giddy feelings of insulation and false safety (I had been meditating a lot lately). I would be the sacrificial
lamb to the slaughter, instead of his other subjects, who had already left the theatre. After all, he couldn't be
expected to let us all escape.
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