Peace is Hell

Philando Gravila, Ambassador from Loodst, was hiding behind a dusty fern outside of Conference Room G in the United Nations Building, Vienna. No one had passed him in the twenty minutes he had spent crouched behind the planter, but he dared not move, knowing that the moment he did, someone would spot him and destroy his advantage. So he suffered in silence, assured that his pain would be rewarded, just as Mr. McKenna had promised.

Aside from aches, boredom was Gravila’s greatest enemy. He had left his cell phone in his office, so the only thing to occupy his attention was his watch, a tacky, industrial monstrosity, which was not worth a tenth of the $100,000 USD it had cost him if his secretary was to be believed. Staring at its smooth-sweeping second hand seemed to slow time, so Gravila traced the veins in the fern’s fronds until that grew dull, then made patterns in the carpet by dragging the tips of his shoes through the threads. The first and only time the timepiece ever brought him any joy was when it finally revealed that he was a quarter of an hour late for his meeting with Ambassador Etiene Wutre, of Farew, which meant he was precisely on time.

For two years, Gravila had purposefully arrived at all of his meetings 15 minutes late. He had learned this strategy from, The Board Room is the War Room, a book written by Gary McKenna, an American businessman who ran a successful chain of hot dog stands in the fat center of the United States. Though Mr. McKenna’s text was primarily concerned with how to best negotiate meat prices and secure sales territory, Gravila found his tips equally applicable to international diplomacy. He had codified Mr. McKenna’s advice into a system which he followed with near-religious fervor. Other tenets of the system included: asking but never answering questions; refusing to eat, cough, or sneeze in front of an opponent (bodily functions being a sign of weakness); and wearing a concealed .22 caliber Sig Sauer under his suit jacket.

Like any new convert, Gravila enjoyed nearly every act of supplication to his new faith. In fact, since he began following the Gospel of McKenna, the only hardship he had suffered was that, to be sure to enter a meeting late, he had to arrive early, so he spent a lot of time hiding behind plants or in janitor’s closets, sneering at his ugly watch. But this was a small price to pay for a splendid life. He was an ambassador, after all, and had a thriving plastics business back in Loodst. He also had a wife, a number of children, and both misters and mistresses he housed in apartments throughout Europe and the Americas. It was a good life, and he had earned it.

His father was a pork merchant who sold scraps of meat to peasants as though they were choice cuts. Gravila had grown atop dirt floors on a diet that consisted of meat which was too ghastly to be ground into sausage. Sometimes he liked to remember his youth when he padded across his marble foyer or carved steak with a gilded blade, other times his memories barged in unannounced like the secret police. It was one of these intrusive thoughts that made Gravila’s hand linger on the doorknob of Conference Room G. He saw his father, with snow on his shoulders and patches on the elbows of his coat. The old man wrapped his arm around a peasant woman and described tripe as though it were a pork loin. She was about to buy when Gravila shook the image form his mind. He felt flush and struggled to breathe. He wanted to run back to his office and hide, but even here Mr. McKenna came to his aid.

Gravila employed what his prophet called, “Crazed Bull Fury”. Gravila breathed deep through his nose, like a bull preparing to charge a matador. Mr. Mckenna was always employing large, angry animals in metaphor to serve his book’s thesis, that this is a world for the strong, not the clever or the wise. Soon Gravila’s heart rate slowed, and he remembered who he was, where he was, and what he was there to do. He threw open the door, and stepped into Conference Room G, ready for battle.

Gravila had to stifle a laugh as he took in the small circular room. It had burgundy walls, a chintzy chandelier, and an oval table in its center. If ever a room fit the man, he thought, as he pulled one high backed leather chairs from the table. It had been Wustre’s idea to meet in the UN’s smallest conference room, which was furthest from the assembly floor where the votes were cast. His system called for Gravila to argue about the venue, fighting about everything being central to Mr. McKenna’s philosophy, but Wustre had offered such a depressing room that Gravila had readily agreed, reasoning that a man like himself would only appear grander in the vulgar space. He now he saw that he was right. He was debating which concubine to celebrate his victory with when he heard the snoring.

He followed the sound and saw Ambassador Wutsre curled atop the table like a cat. His hair stuck up in points like meringue, he was shoeless, and his cream-colored suit was stained and wrinkled.

Gravila gripped his briefcase until his knuckles went white as he stared at the snoring ambassador. Mr. McKenna’s book covered all manner of negotiation tactics but had a blind spot concerning a slumbering opponent. Gravila was excited to write his hero about this oversight, but first, there was a sleeping man to be dealt with. He was puzzling at how to best wake Wustre when he remembered how the escort who had shared his bed the night before had snored and what he had done to wake him.

Gravila reopened the door, channeled the iron will of his people, then slammed it as hard as he could. Metal and wood came together like a thunderclap. Gravila gave himself a moment to pleasure in the sweat on his brow, then turned to watch Wustre, snort, lift his head, and blink the world into focus.

Gravila wiped his forehead dry, then laid his briefcase upon the table, and asked, “Shall we begin?”

“Of course,” Wustre said as he stretched, revealing he wore several days stubble and no tie. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”

“No, I had actually worried I kept you.”

“Perish the thought,” Wustre said, then melted into his chair and ducked under the table. After several moments of bumping and cursing, Wustre reappeared holding a manila folder stuffed with crumpled papers. He laid the folder open before him, selected a page at random, examined it, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it on the floor. “I’m sorry what are we here for again?” He asked as he selected another page from the pile.

“The river,” Gravila said reflexively, then winced as though he had been pricked with a needle. He had answered a question which was a cardinal sin. If he were not careful, Gravila would end up “pants down at church” which was a terrible place to be according to Mr. McKenna. Gravila cleared his throat and resolved to reassert his dominance. “Unless you continue in your refusal to return it to us. Then we can discuss war.” Gravila tented his hands on top of his briefcase precisely as Mr. McKenna demonstrated in illustration 23a of Chapter 4, titled, Power Poses.

“Hopefully not that. War is so dull. Don’t you agree?” Wustre asked. This time Gravila did not take the bait. He just stared as Wustre turned his papers out onto the table then shuffled them like a dealer washing a deck of cards. The papers sounded like rustling leaves, and a memory of his father carrying him through a forest tried to intrude, but Gravila barred it from his mind. Once the pages were thoroughly mixed, Wustre selected one and brought it up to his nose. “Which river did you want again?”

“The Golden.” Gravila snapped, then he shook as though ice water had just been poured onto his neck. Two questions answered! He reached under his jacket and touched the cold steel barrel of his pistol. It calmed him just as Mr. McKenna said it would. He took a deep “Crazy Bull” breath through his nose then charged on. “I’m afraid there can be no debate. So if you will sign my agreement we can both be on our way.” Gravila touched the golden clasp of his briefcase and heard the satisfying click of a $10,000 USD mechanism, if his secretary was to be believed. The lid lifted smoothly to reveal the patterned bottom of the case on which sat a thick, cream-colored sheet of paper held down by a gold Montblanc pen. Gravila pulled the page and pen out with the reverence of orthodox priests gathering their vestments. When he lowered the lid, he saw Wustre holding a paper to the light and squinting at it as though trying to decipher hieroglyphics.

“Sir!” Gravila shouted over the satisfying click of the briefcase latching. Wustre dropped his paper. Once he had the man’s attention, Gravila held up his agreement and shook his pen, so it glimmered in the chandelier’s light.

“Did you happen to see what the assembly was voting on today?” Wustre asked. “I would hate to miss an important vote.”

“I did not sir. Now stop delaying and-”

Wustre put up his hand in surrender, “-I apologize, sir. I suppose we could part with the Golden if it means preventing war.”

“I’m glad you are a reasonable man Ambassador.” Gravila slid the agreement across the table, where it was swallowed by the mountain of stained parchment in front of Wustre, “No one wants war.”

“Agreed,” Wustre smiled, “All we ask in return for the Golden is the Monsteral.”

Gravila felt the unfamiliar weight of his jaw hanging open. “The Monsteral!”

Wustre nodded, “Yes. We’d love to have it.”

“I’m sure you would,” Gravila bristled. The Monsteral was the largest river in the region and served, Galeen, Loodst’s busiest port. Galeen’s shipping business was so profitable that it was single-handedly sustaining the Loodstian army which was marshaled at the border with Farew.

“I’m glad you agree. I have an agreement prepared somewhere.” Wustre began rifling through his papers.

“You shall not have the Monsteral!” Gravila felt sweat on his forehead again.

“But if we give you the Golden, we need a river in return. As you know, we are very fond of our flag and would prefer not to change it.”

Gravila grumbled. Farew’s flag was a white sheet with five squiggly blue lines radiating from its center, which were supposed to represent Farew’s five rivers, though to Gravila they looked more like worms that had been covered in paint and hurled at a blank canvas. The flag had been designed two years earlier after Farew had broken away from Loodst upon claims that its government was too corrupt.

The Golden River had become a point of contention between the nations shortly after the peace treaty was signed. The brief civil war had cost Loodst a great deal of money and international esteem, so President Homburg was happy to end hostilities quickly by granting the rebels a small barren patch of land on the Eastern edge of the country. The peace was struck in winter. It was not until the following summer that President Homburg remembered that his favorite villa sat on the Golden River in the east and he realized his mistake. He demanded that Loodst get the river back at any cost. Months of negotiations between the governments had failed, so, a week earlier, the Loodtsian army had marched to the border with Farew. This meeting was a final attempt at peace before another costly war.

Gravila closed his eyes, took two Crazy Bull breaths, and opened them to find Wustre spinning in his chair, staring up at the ceiling. “Do you want a war son?”

Wustre stopped his spinning and the smile drop from his lips. For the first time, he seemed to grasp the gravity of the situation. “No sir,” Wustre shook his head solemnly. Gravila has to suppress a smile as he waited for the Ambassador to sign his agreement. Wustre kept his hands in his lap. “I thought it was clear. I want a river.”

“Damnit!” Gravila slammed his fist on the table. Before he could speak again, the door opened and a boy in a white shirt and black tie pushed a cart into the room.

“I have a ham on rye.” The boy said.

“That’s me,” Wustre waved at the boy.

“You ordered food!?” Gravila asked.

“I waited for you, but you arrived so late...” Wustre said as he pushed his papers away to create a space. The boy wheeled the cart around the table and served the sandwich on a silver platter.

“Everything to your liking sir?” The boy asked.

“The sandwich is,” Wustre replied.

“Sir?”

“This man over here wants a river from me, and he doesn’t want to give me one back. Is that not the wildest thing you’ve heard all day?”

The boy looked fearfully at Gravila. “Sir?”

“It would be almost like I took this sandwich from you and refused to sign that little check of yours. I assume you would not be happy with that transaction.”

The boy puzzled over the question, trying to find the trick. Eventually, he realized who would be tipping him and said, “No.”

“Good lad.” Wustre signed the check, “Do you know when the voting starts?”

“Already begun,” the boy stammered, then rushed out of the room.

“Pleased with your little stunt?” Gravila asked once the door had closed.

“Stunt? Do you mean my lunch?” Wustre took a bite of his sandwich. “The ham is a little dry, but otherwise it’s fine.”

“I meant your little questions and answers with the boy.”

“Oh,” Wutre said with a mouth so full of food his voice deepened, and his words became round, “Just a little business lesson. One always gives to get. I figured you’d know that. Aren’t you always reading that American book about hots dogs?”

Gravila’s eyes went wide, and he felt flush again. “What I read it none of your concern. What should concern you, Ambassador, is war and war is not a business. War is hell! If you want industry, seek peace brother. Peace is where the profit lies.”

“I think you have that backward,” Wutre winked and dabbed the corners of his mouth with a napkin.”

“I’m sure I don’t!” Gravila said with false confidence. “Now back to the matter at hand.”

“Which was?”

“The river!” Gravila jumped to his feet. He had committed so many sins he was not sure he could ever atone, but he knew one thing, he was walking out of that room with either a river or a declaration of war.

“Ah yes.” Wustre chuckled. “Well, I would still like the Monsteral.”

“And you shall not have it. War-”

“-Is a business-”

“-Is hell!” Gravila shouted Wustre down, as Mr. McKenna recommended in Chapter 6, The Loudest Voice is Always Right.

Gravila circled the table, dug his agreement and Montblanc pen from the pile of crumpled pages and placed them on the silver plate in front of Wustre. “You are a clever man, Ambassador.” Gravila said leaning in, “Be clever now and save everyone much trouble.”

“And you sir, are a thief.” Wustre rose from his chair, so they were almost eye to eye.

Gravila tried to speak, but his mouth became dry and he could not find his breath. He felt his father’s memory banging at mind again. That man was a thief, Gravila thought, Not me. He was something else, something better, Mr. McKenna had made it so.

When he looked down at Wustre, he was wearing the same expression his father had whenever he closed a deal with a sucker. Gravila felt hollow before he even heard the words leave Wustre’s mouth, “But you will not steal from us Ambassador, because as we speak the UN is voting to sanction Loodst and assist my people as we fight to maintain our independence. I assure you it is too late to stop the vote, but if you accept my terms,” Wustre pulled a carefully folded sheet paper from his jacket and slapped it into Gravila’s chest. “I will do my best to spare you the ugliness of a trial for your crimes.”

Gravila took two wounded steps backward as Wustre uncapped his own MontBlanc pen. His mind flipped through the pages of Mr. McKenna’s book, groping for any handhold as he felt himself slipping off the mountaintop, but he found no aid from his prophet. His father’s memory burst into his mind again, promising quality vittles at low rates. Gravila’s pulse raced, and he worried he was having a heart attack. He reached into his jacket to apply pressure to his chest and felt the warm kiss of steel on his fingertips. That was his handhold. He caressed the barrel of his pistol and felt his heart rate slow. He said a silent prayer of thanks to Saint McKenna, then turned his attention back to Wustre.

“Ambassador,” Gravila said as his hand curled around the pistol’s grip. “My father was a clever man like you-”

Wustre smirked haughtily, “-Then maybe you should have been more like your father.” Gravila drew the pistol from his jacket and aimed, just long enough for Wustre’s eyes to go wide before he pulled the trigger. The shot sounded like a firework, then all sound was swallowed by a high pitched ringing. Wustre fell onto the carpet with blood dripping from his mouth and a hole in his chest that stained his shirt and the carpet beneath him dark red. He gasped like a fish on land and stared at Gravila with a mix of disbelief and hatred.

“This is not a world for clever men.” Gravila said as he aimed at the dying man’s head. Then he squeezed the trigger, and the gasping stopped.

Gravila wiped the blood from his face with one of Wustre’s napkins, returned the pistol to his pocket and placed both his bloody peace agreement and his Montblanc pen back into his suitcase, then straightened his tie and stepped out into the hallway which he found as deserted as it had been when he was hiding. He strode straight to his office where he made a single call. Outside the UN he found a private car waiting for him, which took him to the airport where he was flown home to Loodst on a private jet.

It was hours before Wustre’s body was found by the waiter boy who had come to collect his plate. By that time, the Loodstian invasion of Farew had already begun in spite of the UN’s resolution. The war was over in twelve hours, after which Farew and all five of its rivers were swallowed by Loodst again. Gravila retained his position as ambassador and later wrote his letter to Mr. McKenna about how he handled the sleeping negotiator. Along with the letter, Gravila included the casing of the first bullet that had struck Wustre. He kept the housing of the kill shot in his second beach house on the Golden River. Both shells were engraved with the same message, “This not a world for clever men.” Two weeks after he sent his letter to Mr. McKenna, Gravila received a personalized reply celebrating his achievement along with an autographed copy of the latest edition of The Board Room is the War Room. Both the letter and the book are on display in his office at the UN, along with an ugly watch that has stopped running, and a stained peace agreement that remains unsigned.