The Fahrenheit Twins by Michel Faber Page A

our country,’ said Mrs Sampras, ‘blood of all kinds is in plentiful supply.’
    She did not look at his face to note his reaction. Instead, she stared at the vase of flowers standing on his desk, troubled by its presence there. Evidently the dictator had observed yesterday how the aridity of the office had struck her. So, today, he’d softened that aridity with flowers. Especially for her.
    The vase was iridescent blue, as if kiln-glazed with toilet disinfectant. Red, white and pink carnations sprouted up from the neck. They looked so ghastly and ill-at-ease, Mrs Sampras wondered if they were real.
    ‘You’re wondering if they are real,’ remarked the dictator.
    ‘Yes,’ she said.
    ‘Of course they’re real,’ he purred. ‘Touch them.’
    ‘I believe you, Mr President,’ said Mrs Sampras, motionless.
    ‘Touch them.’
    Mrs Sampras hesitated, spastic with distaste. She wondered if her future, the future of her husband and children, was somehow hanging in the balance at this moment. In the labour camp she had sunk to licking her tormentors’ boots and worse, and yet she could not bring herself to touch these flowers.
    ‘Brighten up the place no end, don’t you think?’ said the dictator, letting the challenge go.
    ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘Shame to cut them, though, isn’t it?’
    The old man half-closed his eyes, as if weary of people with a poor grasp of realities.
    ‘There are more,’ he assured her, ‘where those came from.’ And, without warning, he leaned across the desk and handed Mrs Sampras an envelope.
    Gala strove to remain calm as she examined the photographs of her family. She breathed deeply and blinked a few times. Her hands were steady as she shuffled the images over and over.
    At last she said, ‘The photographs of my children are very good. Very clear. One can see that they were taken very recently.’
    The dictator leaned back in his chair, creaking with satisfaction.
    ‘Well, they grow up so fast, don’t they?’ he said.
    ‘Yes, by the grace of God they do,’ said Mrs Sampras. ‘But … the photograph of my husband seems less recent. In fact, it could have been taken years ago.’
    There was another, even louder creak as the dictator leaned forward and interlocked his hands on the desk.
    ‘I assure you it is recent.’
    Mrs Sampras held the image close to her face, frowning.
    ‘He doesn’t look anywhere near as old,’ she said, ‘as I would expect him to look.’
    The dictator laughed.
    ‘Would that flatter him, I wonder – or cut him to the quick?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ said Mrs Sampras. ‘I will have to ask him myself.’
    ‘I do hope you get your chance.’
    ‘Ah, yes …’ said Mrs Sampras doubtfully, as if she were in danger of losing focus in all sorts of matters. ‘The question is when.’
    ‘And the answer is,’ the dictator assured her, ‘as soon as possible. It would gladden the heart of an old man to witness such a reunion. In fact, I’m looking forward to it enormously. I’m sure it will be a high point of my convalescence.’
    Gala licked her lips, swallowing, swallowing. After some effort, she succeeded in giving up – for the moment.
    ‘You will still need to lose some weight,’ she sighed.
    Startlingly, the dictator sprang to his feet and swung his arms vigorously, as if running a marathon. Hidden behind the desk, his legs moved feebly, if at all.
    ‘See!’ he teased, jovial and breathless. ‘I’ve begun already!’
    A week later, on the morning of the operation, Mrs Sampras and the dictator met in his office one more time. The dictator was identical in shape and appearance, but invited praise for having shed a number of pounds. Mrs Sampras praised him, solemn-faced. There was no point antagonising him about his flab; she was reserving the showdown for the arena where it really mattered.
    ‘You cannot have men with guns inside an operating theatre,’ she pointed out, when they were discussing the arrangements for the