–Look at me, said Chidimma Agu to the Minister for Trade and Communications.Chidimma’s kitchen was warm and the Minister was drunk – her eyes had begun to close.
–Look at me!
The Minister’s eyes shot open.
–You are wonderful, said Chidimma. –You believe that, don’t you?
–Aye.
–You are a beautiful woman.
–I’ve heard no complaints, said the Minister.
She was wide awake now, smiling a smile that was almost under control.
–You are, what age? Chidimma asked.
–Low to mid-40s.
–No!
–Aye.
–You look significantly younger, said Chidimma.
–Ah, now, said the Minister.
Vanity was powerful medicine: it wobbled the sober, and sobered up the drunk. The Minister had stopped wobbling.
–You have so much to offer, said Chidimma.
She almost yawned. She was happy with the way she was directing the session but she didn’t know how many times she’d had to listen to herself recite that line.
The Minister belched.
–Sure, I know, she said. –But –
–Yes?
–This downturn –
This conversation took place, remember, in late 2008, before any Government politician would have said ‘recession’.
–This downtown, said the Minister, –is umpress–
She tried again.
–umpressed –
–Unprecedented? Chidimma suggested.
–Aye, said the Minister. –Umpresidented. And we’re getting the blame for it. Especially poor feckin’ me.
Six months later, still wet after her night out canvassing, Chidimma walked into the Sanctuary Bar of the Crowne Plaza Hotel in Blanchardstown. She was looking for Gerald McKeefe, Fianna Fáil’s director of elections. She was curious but also disorientated: she thought she’d walked into an aquarium. It was the strange blue lighting, and the fact that the place was very quiet. It was also the fact that, now that she saw him, Gerald McKeefe resembled a cheerful fish – in a blue suit.
He waved.
–Over here!
She swam across – it felt like that – to Gerald and the young man who was sitting with him.
–You survived, said Gerald.
–Yes, said Chidimma.
–Good girl, said Gerald. –I’ve been busy, myself.
–Good boy, said Chidimma.
And she sat down; she sank deep into her chair. She wanted to take her shoes off – quite literally, they were killing her.
She smiled.
–Chidimma, said Gerald. –This man here is Eric Dove and he’s going to help us to win this thing.
–How do you do, Mister Dove, said Chidimma.
–I do well, said Eric Dove.
The answer surprised her, because he didn’t look well at all. In fact, he looked quite unwell. And young – he could not have been much older than fifteen. Perhaps it was the blue light. Perhaps it was the fact that he was drinking Coke from a bottle, with a straw.
–Eric’s an ideas man, said Gerald.
–Michelle, said Eric Dove.
–Michelle?
–Michelle Obama.
–Gentlemen, said Chidimma.
She was tempted to stand up – but she didn’t.
–There is perhaps a misunderstanding here. I am not Mrs Obama.
–She’s a black woman, said Eric Dove.
And?
–So are you, said Eric Dove. –Use it.
–But –
–Because they’ll never vote for a white man. Not if he’s running for Fianna Fáil.
Six months back, the Minister for Trade and Communications sighed.
–I liked Agriculture, she said. –I miss the farmers. I could tell them to feck off. They loved it.
–You charmed them.
–You betcha. Did you ever try to charm an economist?
-No, said Chidimma.
–Can’t be done, said the Minister. –You might as well be flirting with a feckin’ calculator.
–I see.
The Minister sighed again.
–This must stop, said Chidimma.
–What?
–This sighing business, said Chidimma. –We cannot have it.
She stood up.
-Please, stand up.
The Minister stood – it took a while. The alcohol had gone from her head to her knees.
–Say after me, said Chidimma. –I am wonderful.
–I’m wonderful.
–I am wonderful, said Chidimma.
–I am wonderful, said the Minister.
And she started to cry.
–Don’t stop, said Chidimma.
–I am wonderful, I am wonderful, said the Minister. –I am wonderful.
She smacked the table.
–Bastards! she shouted. –I’m wonderful.
–That is right.
–Ask the farmers. Ask any of them.
–You may sit down now, said Chidimma.
–I am wonderful.
–Yes, you are.
–It isn’t my fault.
–Sit down, said Chidimma.
She watched as the Minister found the chair and sat.
–I’m wonderful.
–Yes, said Chidimma. –We are making good progress.
–Big Mary said you were great.
–That was very kind of her.
–She said your fortune telling was spot-on, said the Minister.
–Look at me, please, said Chidimma.
She waited.
–I do not perform magic tricks, she said. –I offer advice.
–Give me some of that, so.
–Advice?
–Anything, said the Minister.
Six months later, Chidimma hung her coat in the hall and walked into the kitchen.
–The girls are asleep?
–Yes, said her husband. –How did it go?
–It was a bit strange, said Chidimma. –Apparently, I have become Michelle Obama.
© Roddy Doyle 2009
The story continues next week
