WHAT IF? (part 3 & Last)

 WHAT IF?  (part 3 & Last)

  By Richard Banks

                                                   

Having listened to Sarlek’s long appraisal of the dilemma that was North Korea she was not short of good advice. She remembered her mother’s maxim that ignorance of a subject was no reason for withholding an opinion. She had begun by suggesting that the leaders of China, North Korea and America should simultaneously come to their senses and start being nice to each other, but this was rejected on the grounds that no one could override the basic programming that determined their personalities. They were as they were, as was everyone else on Earth. All he could do was subtly manipulate the lesser events around those he was attempting to influence. It was cause and effect; even the fluttering motion of a butterfly could sometimes cause a hurricane. She wondered what a butterfly was and the relevance of hurricanes. Possibly he was more drunk than he looked.

         “What if,” she said for the thirteenth time that evening, “the United Nations occupied North Korea with a multi-national peace keeping force that included American and Chinese soldiers.”

         He grimaced, “and risk the launching of their missiles. Who knows how many countries might be hit.”

         “Then what if the North Korean people did it. I mean, rise up in revolt. After all they must be totally fed up with all those sanctions.”

         Sarlek shook his head and took consolation in another glass of bubble wine. “It wouldn’t work they’d all be killed and even if they were successful who’s to say that the Government they formed would be any better than the present lot.”

         “So, what do you suggest?”

         He replied darkly that he was considering an assassination or two. Kim Jung-un was a definite starter but he might not be the only one. “It’s like this,” he continued, “behind every problem is a person. Get rid of the person and you get rid of the problem.” Noting the look of horror on Mia's face he hastened to reassure her that the person who first said this was an earthling called Stalin who went on to murder millions of his countrymen. On reflection, he considered this was not such a good idea.

         Behind every person,” she murmured. That sounded familiar and then she remembered what her mother had told her; that behind every great man was a savvy woman who knew a good deal more than she was ever likely to be given credit for. So, who were the wives? As usual Sarlek was a mine of information. She learned that the President of China was married to Peng Liyuan, an elegant folk singer who was almost as well known in China as her husband, while Melania Trump, the American First Lady was a former fashion model born in what was then the Communist Republic of Slovenia. As for Kim Jong-un’s wife little was known except that Ri Sol-ju was in her early twenties and was responsible for the cutting of his hair. Clearly she had a mischievous sense of humour, and being the fun loving girl Mia took her to be she would definitely enjoy hanging out with the other two.

         Sarlek looked puzzled. “What, you want them to meet up? How is that going to help? They’re not in the loop when it comes to foreign policy.”

         Mia raised her eyebrow and resisted the urge to elbow him in the ribs. “Are you sure? Why don’t you give it a try.” Why not, he thought. Everything else had failed. What harm would it do.

                                                                 *****

        

         It was the work of a single morning. Sarlek dangled the bait and the Executive Director of Melania Trump’s favourite charity snapped it up, as he did all good ideas. He wondered why he hadn’t thought of it before. Having confided his good idea to his PA he instructed her to invite America’s First Lady to a fund raising concert in Sapporo, Japan at which Peng Liyuan had already graciously agreed to perform.

         “But what about South East Asia?” Asked the PA.     

         “What about it?”

         “The concert’s in Japan. If we invite Melania the region’s leaders will expect their wives to be invited.”

         The Director looked thoughtful but was not to be dissuaded from his good idea. “What the heck. Invite them all.”

         On the evening of the show Sarlek observed the Director greet Melania at the stage door and with much ceremony escort her to a seat in an executive box. As the lights dimmed another VIP to accept the Director’s invitation made a less heralded appearance. Having quietly slipped out of her country on the pretext of visiting an ailing comrade Ri Sol-ju was now continuing a pleasurable day by attending the free entertainment provided by her bourgeois hosts. To her surprise their generosity extended to an after concert party that allowed her to mingle with an array of well heeled people who seemed in little need of the culinary hospitality now on offer. In a room conspicuously short of comrades she immediately attached herself to Peng Liyuan, and was politely commending her performance of a Cantonese folk song when they were unexpectedly joined by Melania.

         Sarlek turned up the volume on his monitor and listened intently. What happened next was up to the women, but to his disappointment none of them were talking politics. This should not have surprised him. Politics was something they heard far too much of. Their husbands talked of little else, even in the bedroom they talked politics, had nightmares about politics, were sometimes woken in the early hours of the morning by political aids talking politics. At a girl’s night out they had better things to discuss. Of these the clothes each other wore were of particular interest. It was, in fairness to them, part of the job they were required to do. They dressed to impress and could not help but be impressed by the expensive attires of their fellow wives. There was much they could learn from each other and soon they were exchanging the names and addresses of their favourite fashion houses and the independent designers who worked for whoever paid them most. Of particular interest were Ri Sol-ju’s shoes, the creation of a revered craftsman who apparently worked for next to nothing.

         How, asked Melania, could he afford to make such exquisite footwear at a price that scarcely covered his costs?

         “How could he not,” answered Ri. “Better a poor shoemaker than an ex-shoemaker who asked for more.”

         “But these are shoes to kill for,” persisted Melania. “Could he not make some for me?”

         “But that would be treason,” explained Peng. “I’m sure you wouldn’t want to kill the shoemaker.”

         Melania said this would be nearly as bad as not having the shoes. Of course she didn’t want  him to come to harm, that would do no one any good, but surely there must be a way around such foolishness; even in Slovenia they traded shoes.

         Ri sighed. If only it was shoes. Was there a decent coat maker in her country? No, there was not! And, because of the economic sanctions she had to make do with the rag trade creations of a third rate tailor called Na Faw Long. Not even his removal to a labour camp had improved his work.

         Peng said that it was indeed a shame and that she too was a victim of the sanctions. No more could she get those lovely, floral dresses that North Korea used to export. The Chinese equivalents were simply not of the same standard and, to add insult to injury, were three times more expensive. What was wrong with the world that such injustice could exist!

         Melania ordered another round of drinks and declared that if their husbands were incapable of looking after the well being of the world they could, at least, pay attention to the needs of their wives. It was time these men were made to understand their suffering. Enough was enough; the redress of their grievances could no longer be delayed.

         They clinked glasses and made plans to meet again. As they consulted their diaries a red streak passed high overhead before dipping down into the sea. The Director approached them with the grave demeanor of someone about to impart bad news. It was another missile, he said. In the interest of safety all flights in and out of Sapporo had been cancelled. He feared they would be delayed for at least eight hours. The women were not pleased. This was, they agreed, the last straw.

                                                                    *****

It had been a hectic four weeks but now Mia could relax, look out of the window at the rapid passing of stars. In two more days they would be on Alpha. Until then they were free to enjoy the many privileges that came with an executive cabin. She looked across their day room at him sending a voice mail to his parents. They were nice, warm hearted people like she thought they would be. She had not expected them to be present at the Consummation Ceremony, or indeed the other members of his family, but their vocal encouragement had certainly inspired Sarlek. She wondered what other rituals and ceremonies lay ahead, perhaps it was better not to know.

         As the attentive wife of an important official she would shortly take his new uniform from the clothes cupboard and give it a careful brush. It did not need brushing of course, she had done so only that morning but she sensed the pleasure it gave him to see her do it. Indeed her sewing on of his extra stripes had made him almost foolish with gratitude. Only she, he declared could have done so with such exquisite needlework. The needlework had in fact been that of a professional seamstress, but there was no need for him to know that, just as there was no need for Sarlek's superiors in Strategic Command to know that it was she who had solved the problem of North Korea. Not that anyone other than herself would ever know. After that third bottle of wine at Maxi’s  Sarlek’s recollection of their conversation was hazy at best. She, however, with her two brains, remembered every word.

          Sarlek turned off the computer and yet again reflected on the surprising success of his efforts to defuse the North Korean missile crisis. The wives had certainly played some part in the subsequent actions of their all powerful husbands but the absence of any mention of wives in his training manual encouraged him to think that his earlier measures to encourage détente had, after a slow start, proved successful. Nevertheless it was a good idea of his to involve the wives. It showed that he was not afraid to think outside the box, to see solutions not apparent to others of a less flexible turn of mind.

         He looked fondly at his own wife who having brushed his jacket was now ironing the trousers of his uniform. What a help she was to him and so interested in the minutia of the real life problems he now faced. Of course her understanding of such matters was too limited to be of any practical assistance but the speaking of his thoughts often opened his mind to solutions that might otherwise have been overlooked. This was especially the case when he had consumed several bottles of wine. No one enjoyed a hangover more than he; they were so full of good ideas, and when he was unable to remember what they were his dear wife was always there to remind him. With his brains and her steadfast support they would go far. Alpha was no more than a stepping stone.

         The ironing over, Mia was now returning his trousers to the clothes cupboard. He wondered how long it would take her to discover the fur coat he had brought her. She had only to open the wardrobe containing their household linen and there it would be in that pink box with red bunting.

         She saw him smiling and smiled back. How he liked to spoil her. She wondered if he had brought her that fur coat yet, the one in the on-board shopping mall that she had admired but dismissed as being ridiculously too expensive. His pleasure in giving it to her would be almost equal to her pleasure in wearing it. A good man was all the better for the care of a good woman and she was determined to ensure that he was happy, successful and blissfully unaware that his best ideas were not always his own. Her mother had taught her well.

The End

Copyright Richard Banks