The Tyrant's Novel by Thomas Keneally Page A

at weddings or triumphant football matches to stand on a seat and let off celebratory shots at the ceiling or into the sky; though Great Uncle himself was sometimes known to celebrate in such a manner, Kalashnikov in one hand, pumping rounds into the ether, he was also known to like lowered tones from his subordinates, and the nickname of the palace branch of the Overguard, the Praesidia, was the Whisperers. This though they were generally recruited from raucous families, most of them related to him, in his own northern hills. Hence the hushed dialogue at the gate, and then our car rolled through, and drove slowly for perhaps half a mile, the music of fountains and the dominant tenor of the occasional designed waterfall reaching us from the opened front windows. Could any of this have been water Mrs. Douglas's nephew failed adequately to test? The oaf in me, who wanted greater security than this moment provided, had decided my hands would sweat. The sage was full of his normal insistent questions and timidities. Whereas the true “I” awaited events with something like a lively curiosity. I thought that revelation was close.
    As the limousine pulled up, the Overguard men removed our blindfolds. We were outside a white-columned building. The back doors of the limo were opened for us and the beaming Chaddock asked, All here? All right. Upstairs.
    He led Matt McBrien and myself up the front stairs and past Praesidian guards in glittering white helmets. Inside, however, there were normal-looking office doors, and I saw a Praesidian administration officer walking up the corridor towards us armed only with the revolver at his hip, almost like a normal clerk.
    Okay, he murmured, shaking hands with Chaddock and then with McBrien and myself. McBrien's eyes glistened with a touching, edgy fraternity, so that I was tempted to reach out and tell him it was all okay.
    Got your passport, Mr. Sheriff? asked the administration man. I presented it and he briefly riffled its pages before clipping it to his other documents.
    What if I need it?
    You'll get it back in a month or so, he assured me.
    He dismissed Chaddock and led McBrien and me to a room with a settee and chairs, and a little table with a bowl of peaches, apples, and oranges.
    Help yourself if you get hungry, he said, implying we would be there for a little time yet. But McBrien had barely time to ask me whether I would behave myself when another, more heroic-looking Praesidian officer entered, and asked me to come with him. If I expected revelation soon, however, I was disappointed. I was taken to a bathroom—something akin to a bathroom in a good hospital. I was told to strip down and take a thorough shower. The guards left me alone to shower but asked me to knock on the door when I was finished. I was to wear only the towel they'd provided. They took my clothes out with them, muttering about how I would get them back afterwards.
    I showered thoroughly for the second time that day. I dried myself scrupulously with the towel, wrapped it around my loins, and knocked on the door.
    I'm ready, I cried. One of the Praesidia came in wearing rubber gloves and handed me a urine sample jar.
    Can you manage that? he asked. Or do you need a drink of water?
    I moved off towards the urinal.
    No, do it here. That's the rule. I have to see you. Don't worry about the floor, we'll wash it.
    Naturally, like any man raised in an urban tradition of personal modesty, I tried to piss the exact milliliters needed for the sample, and then to close off the flow. It was not entirely possible, however, and the guard, though he stepped back to avoid urine spots on his glistening boots, nonetheless said, Don't worry, don't worry. Can't be helped. Screw the top on and give it to me.
    He accepted my offering in his gloved hand and left. But instantly another man, a white coat over his khakis and gloves on hands, entered and asked me to prepare myself for an examination of my mouth and anus. I passed both