Short Story: Election Day

Election Day

“It’s election day today…will you do your duty?”

“Of course, monsieur,” Farouk said, bending slightly over Mr. Wedgewood as he slid the gold-enameled pot of Turkish coffee onto the bone-white saucer atop the white-and-silver tablecloth with a single white-gloved hand. With the other hand, he carefully set the white sugar bowl down to the right of the saucer, with the centers aligned, then laid the silver sugar spoon on top of it at a precise 220 degree angle.

Farouk was a tall, slightly stooped man with a long thin face wrinkled like a raisin under a round head covered in tightly-packed, jet-black curls. Customers often asked him if he dyed his hair; each time they did, he would smile primly, pressing his thin lips together, and not answer. They also often asked him how old he was: each time they did, he would open his lips, revealing carefully-polished teeth, and say, “Forty-five, monsieur.” Then he would chuckle once–a quiet, rich noise from deep in his throat–and continue his rounds. These moments were some of the happiest in his days.

But Farouk would get no such pleasure today. “I’m sure you know what’s at stake this election,” Mr. Wedgewood said, eyeing him a little coldly from behind his OmniGlasses, and not picking up the cup. He was a rather corpulent man of fifty or so, with dark skin and a totally bald head that he ran his fingers over frequently, as though searching for his missing hairs. “If the Neo-Revanchists are able to get the Presidency this time…well, that’s it for Democracy. If you’re not scared, you’re not paying attention.”

“Yes, monsieur,” Farouk said, smoothing out a wrinkled spot in the tablecloth. “Would monsieur care for one of his usual Pistachio Creams?” He avoided looking into Mr. Wedgewood’s eyes: though Monsieur Beauvilliers, when he had trained him for this position long ago, had emphatically taught the importance of eye contact with customers, Farouk had found the shifting melange of light and color that danced across the semi-transparent surface of the OmniGlasses gave him a headache. He stared as courteously as possible at Mr. Wedgewood’s star-shaped diamond lapel pin instead.

“I would think you would take this more seriously,” Mr. Wedgewood said, a little louder. “You know that it’s people like you and I who will be the first to suffer.”

“Of course, monsieur,” Farouk said, bowing slightly and stepping away from the table. “Your humble servant will give you a moment to think about your order.”

He stepped over smartly to Mrs. Kumar’s table, bowing again before rapidly removing the remains of her cake and coffee. “Would Madam be wanting anything else today?” Surreptitiously, he brushed the cake crumbs off the tablecloth: Mrs. Kumar was a messy eater. 

He straightened up and waited; but after a moment realized that Mrs. Kumar had not noticed him. She was glued to the images and text on her OmniGlasses, her mouth slowly open to reveal yellowing teeth. “Madam?” he repeated, touching her lightly on the shoulder. “Would you care for anything else?”

“Dammit, Farouk,” she said, shoving him roughly away, so that he stumbled and nearly fell. “Can’t you see I’m upset? That damned Liberal Transhumanist Greenway is going to win the Presidency again.” She glared at the little screens again, her upper lip projecting, small tears glittering on the edges of her eyes. “Oh, damn you, bring me some of that what’s-em-you-call-it, the, um, you know, what I had last week.”

Farouk straightened up, then bowed once more for good measure. “I believe Madam is referring to our Vanilla-Cardamom Cream Cake. Madam has again made an excellent choice. Would Madam be wanting any tea or coffee with that?”

“You know what I want,” Mrs. Kumar said. “Just bring it to me, God damn you. Before these fucking do-gooders wipe me out and I have to start begging.”

“Yes, Madam, a rose-water tea as Madam prefers,” Farouk said. “Your humble servant will make sure it arrives promptly.”

He went up to the counter, where his fellow waiter, Roger, was leaning idly and staring into his OmniGlasses. “Bring Mrs. Kumar a glass teacup of Rosewater tea,” Farouk said, his voice increasing in speed roughly three fold, but not growing harsher, “but dilute the tea by half with simple syrup and add a dash of lemon juice. I will attend to her cake.” There was a pause as Roger continued to stare. “Now, Roger,” Farouk repeated.

“Farouk,” Roger said slowly, as if just noticing him. “Do you think if Exmoor becomes President, he can really end the Eastern War like he says?”

“Of course, monsieur,” Farouk said automatically, then caught himself. “Rosewater tea. Diluted by half syrup. Dash of lemon juice. Now!” He snapped his finger by Roger’s ear, just like Monsieur Beauvilliers had done with him. It did not make nearly as loud a sound: Farouk’s fingers lacked their old strength, and he had never quite gotten the hang of the technique anyway. Still, Roger seemed to get the point, and stepped away with reasonable speed, while Farouk sped back over to the tables.

“More coffee, Mr. Tyroli?” Mr. Tyroli was nearly as tall as he, with a grey beard and long lanky hair. He always wore a grey three-piece suit, though today it was spattered with strawberry cream. Surreptitiously, Farouk reached for the napkin on the table and began wiping off the man’s front.

Mr. Tyroli slammed his hand on the table. “Damn you, Farouk.” He said. “You’re not planning to vote for that bastard Marchman, are you?”

“Yes, monsieur,” Farouk said, bowing. “I mean–no, monsieur. I mean–” Luckily, Mr. Tyroli did not appear to be listening: he was glaring into his OmniGlasses, his eyes red as if he had been crying. 

“They really think they can get away with assassinating President Raoul in cold blood? It’s absurd…impossible. Surely this time the people will see. Before it’s too late.”

Wearing his OmniGlasses, Mr. Tyroli looked, as people often did to Farouk these days, cross-eyed, which made for a strong contrast with his brooding demeanor: Farouk had to suppress a sudden urge to laugh. “Yes, monsieur,” he said, to cover himself. “Would Monsieur be wanting more coffee? Or perhaps some more light refreshments?” 

“It’s so obvious what they’re doing…those forensics reports, President Raoul’s autopsy. And the investigation report linking General Denning to all of it. How could anyone vote for General Denning for President after that? How could he win the Proto-Realist Party nomination? Have I gone completely insane?” 

Farouk waited for a moment as Mr. Tyroli continued to glare into his glasses. Finally, he gave a slight bow, said “Yes, Monsieur,” and walked back to the counter, where Roger was again standing slackly. “Bring Mr. Tyroli another coffee americano,” he said. “Now.” This time he didn’t bother snapping his fingers, and Roger waited a good ten seconds before sidling over to the coffee stand.

There was a loud noise from behind him, and Farouk turned as quickly as he could manage, which in these days meant a slow, shuffling motion. He grimaced to himself: in the old days, he had been able to turn on a dime, with a loaded tray.

He sighed as he saw the source of the commotion: it was Dr. Wang, clad, as usual, in a tweed suit over a black T-shirt, his OmniGlasses flashing red, his gold watch glinting as he waved his arms. Standing in the highly decorated antechamber to the Hotel Restaurant, with potted palms on either side and the great, gilded Corinthian columns over his head, he looked, Farouk thought, somehow symbolic, like a picture from history he had forgotten. 

“Feckless creeps!” Dr. Wang shouted, continuing to wave his arms. “No dignity, no integrity, no soul. I finally understand why socialists kill liberals. It's because of cretinous filth like Maxwell that fascists come to power. And he smiles, thinking himself a clever little mummer. He and his ilk deserve nothing less than endless torment in the frigid pits of the Cocytus for their constant treachery.”

Steeling himself, Farouk stepped to the entrance and bowed. “Good evening, Monsieur,” he said carefully. “Would Monsieur be wanting his usual table?” 

“What does this mean?” Dr. Wang demanded. Farouk flinched; but after a second, realized that Dr. Wang was speaking in response to something displayed on his OmniGlasses. “How is this not: ‘In the face of stubborn authoritarianism, total submission by the opposition is laudable and moral, no matter the exigent circumstances or consequences’?! I tell you, if Dr. Makuch becomes President, this country is over. We’re finished. Fascism has won!”

Trembling slightly with suppressed fear, Farouk reached out and took Dr. Wang gently by the elbow, leading him to the table under the wide window decorated with pomegranates (the best in the dining room in Farouk’s opinion, and he had sat in them all), with a beautiful view out onto the Hotel grounds and the glistening city below. Settling Dr. Wang as easily as he could manage into the slight, Louis XVI-style chair (Dr. Wang’s weight crammed his arm sharply into the chair back, causing spots to appear, briefly, on his vision), he straightened back up slowly and bowed once more, for good measure.

“It appears Monsieur is having a difficult day. Alas, very understandable in these troubled times. Perhaps to comfort him Monsieur would care for a selection of our Turkish Delights, with all Monsieur’s favorite flavors? And perhaps with it a glass of the ‘37 Winsome that Monsieur is so fond of to lighten Monsieur’s troubles?” He found, to his annoyance, that he was speaking more quickly than usual: that simply would not do. 

Dr. Wang did not look up, but continued to fume into his OmniGlasses. “Alright, Farouk,” he said finally. “And one of those pastries from last time. You know which one.”

“Of course, monsieur,” Farouk said, speaking as slowly as possible this time, and bowing once again, twice as deep, for good measure. 

He stepped over to Roger, who was back to leaning and staring again. “One must never,” Farouk told the young man, “lower one’s standards in the face of adversity. Standards, moral or otherwise, can be modified by sober reflection: but to yield to force at any time is to surrender the fundamental charge of our humanity.” 

Roger stared back at him. “So you think Exmoor can do it, huh?” He said finally, as if to himself.

Leaving the young man, Farouk went to fetch Dr. Wang’s order himself. Carefully selecting a small white plate with stark black decorative lines in the ancient Greek style known as “meander,” he carefully reached into the glass case of Turkish Delights, selecting three each of the three flavors Dr. Wang had shown the most inclination towards, and arranging them carefully in a triangular pattern on the plate. In the center, he carefully set one of the Meringues still made, at his insistence, according to Monsieur Beauvilliers’ original recipe. Then, brushing the powdered sugar from his fingers with a napkin, he uncorked the wine, selected a crystal glass with an elegant grape-leaf stem, and balancing the bottle of wine, the glass, and the plate on a black enamel tray, set out back across the dining area.

“Damn you, Farouk!” A loud voice sounded from his elbow, and he nearly dropped the tray in alarm. Stopping and looking down, he saw with a mix of terror and relief the small, wrinkled profile of Mr. Green, in his black turtleneck and gold chain. “Yes, monsieur?” he said politely, continuing to balance the tray on one hand; he could feel his fingers trembling with the weight. That would never have happened in the old days: then, he could carry two trays, and carry on two conversations with customers, while continuing to walk.

“Damn you, Farouk, I know you’re one of them!” Mr. Green said, glaring vaguely in his direction from behind his OmniGlasses. “You know exactly what I’m talking about! I saw it all on the news! Someone with your background and connections, it couldn’t be more obvious! But it won’t work, you know! It won’t work! We’re gonna beat you bastards all hollow this time!”

Farouk struggled for a moment with how best to respond. “Would Mr. Green like more of his…” He struggled to remember what Mr. Green had been drinking–another uncharacteristic lapse. He felt his heart beating fast, and his legs starting to waver. “His…” he said, trying to move his head to see what sort of glass Mr. Green was holding in his hairy fist. “His sherry?” He finished, not without some pride. 

Mr. Green continued to glare at him, red and orange lights from his OmniGlasses seeming to crawl across his face like insects. “Well alright,” he said finally, grumbling. “But don’t think I don’t know just why we’re fighting this damned war with the Koreans. Don’t think I don’t…” He trailed off, grumbling.

Almost wilting with relief, Farouk began walking again, with stumbling steps, towards Dr. Wang’s table by the window. As he neared the window, someone tugged at the white sleeve of his waistcoat; to his chagrin, he felt his balance giving out, his knees unaccountably buckling, and he began falling backwards.

Luckily, another hand pushed him forward again, just enough to help him regain his feet; and he managed with difficulty to reach out with his other hand and catch the tray from falling. He sighed deeply: it had been more than a decade since he had had to use two hands to hold a tray.

“Farouk?” A thin, small voice sounded from behind his elbow.

“Yes, Ms. Violet?” he said, looking down at the tiny, red-headed girl in the blue patterned pantsuit: she looked somehow even younger than the last time he had seen her.

He sighed one more time, realizing his faux paus. Never call a patron by their name, Monsieur Beauvilliers had told him sternly, on more than one occasion: but he found it so difficult to call her “Madam.” In the old days, he would have addressed a woman of her age and demeanor, correctly, as Madamoiselle: but when Mr. Thomas had bought the hotel, he had strictly ordered him to call all women Madam. He could never remember why. He had more than once considered bringing up the modification with later owners, but had never found the courage.

“Is there something Madam will be requiring?” he asked, with penitent emphasis. “Perhaps another one of Madam’s favorite lemon tarts? Or a nice Jasmine Tea if it is not too late for Madam’s bedtime?” Inwardly, he shook his head; far too paternal.

Ms. Violet looked up at him with something approaching terror, and Farouk fancied he could almost read the little lines of text on her OmniGlasses as they streamed over her large, pale eyes. “I…” she said, then blushed. “I was just wondering…well…I don’t want to be rude, but…well, this is such a terribly important election, and…well…why aren’t you wearing your OmniGlasses?”

Farouk winced despite himself, and nearly dropped the tray again. If asking about his age was his favorite, this was by far his least favorite patron question. It was against his standards to deceive–even if, as he had told himself many times, his accustomed answer was not strictly a lie.

“Of course, Madam,” he said, his face going slightly blank with effort as he struggled to keep the tray upright. “It is just that…well, a man of your humble servant’s age, yes? Your humble servant never learned, like the younger waiters, how to balance the tray, carry the coffee cup, speak to the patrons, all with the OmniGlasses on. It is too difficult for your humble servant’s limited skills.” She looked, if anything, even more frightened, and he felt a sudden twinge of guilt. “Of course, they are at home, Madam, in my personal residence. Have no fear.” 

This was all strictly true. He had never learned to work properly with the damned glasses on: though, if he was being perfectly honest, he did not think any of the other waiters had either. He had never seen Roger properly balance a tray, let alone show a quarter of the attentiveness to patrons that Monsieur Beauvilliers had demanded of his waiters.

It was also strictly true that his OmniGlasses were at home: they were in his closet, in a large black trash bag, smashed into pieces along with hundreds of similar fragments. Every month or so, a new pair of glasses would arrive for him at the Hotel mailroom, in fresh new packaging; and he would remove the packaging, activate the glasses, log in to his account with his ID card, and then carefully step on the new pair with his heel until they broke. It was the most fun he ever had outside of work.

“But…” Ms. Violet looked, suddenly, terribly ashamed: he felt a warm wave of sadness in his belly. “You know, I understand–a man of your age–and well, the concerns about mental health, glasses addiction, they’re all really important– but–well, you know that’s the only way you can vote now? And–well, it’s so important that we all vote in this election–don’t you–don’t you agree, Mr. Farouk?”

“Please,” he said, his voice suddenly very soft. “It is just Farouk. There is no need–”

But Ms. Violet was staring past him, her eyes wide, and still speaking. “Because…because if the Masculinity Dominance Front wins this election–I–I–”

Abruptly, she started to cry, her eyelids pressed together, small pale tears streaming down her face. “I just–” her face was curled into a frown, like a little child. “I just–I can’t believe that–that people would vote for them. How can–how can I trust anyone when people would vote for–that–how can I feel safe when–” Her words were broken by a sob.

Setting the tray down on the table in front of her with shaking hands, Farouk clumsily removed the pressed white handkerchief, edged with gold, from his white waistcoat pocket, then bent down over her and gently wiped the tears from her face. “There, there,” he said soothingly. “Surely things aren’t so bad as that? Mademoiselle mustn’t give up hope. None of us should…” A tear fell on his handkerchief, and he found, to his surprise, that he was crying also. “Perhaps I could bring Mademoiselle some of that chocolate cake she is so fond of? I know Mademoiselle does not think she can afford it so often on her salary, but–this time, I–your humble servant will not charge it to her account. And perhaps–”

Ms. Violet looked up at him sharply. “But you, Farouk–you’ll–you’ll vote against them, won’t you? Tonight, before the polls close? With your OmniGlasses, at home? Tell me–please–”

Farouk stared into her tear-stained face. “Of course, Madam.” He straightened up slowly, more bent than before, and carefully set the tray back on his hand, trembling so much now that he nearly upset the wine bottle. Dr. Wang did not even look up as he stumbled to his table and set the objects one by one, with shaking hands, onto the white tablecloth in front of him.

It was a very long night. Farouk stumbled from table to table, doing his best to keep everyone provided with pastries, cakes, coffee, and tea: but as the evening wore on, even his unflappable manner began to slip.The overall mood in the hotel–that je ne sais quoi of comfort, elegance, beauty, and joy of which Monsieur Beauvilliers had so often spoken–had rarely been worse. Several times he was cursed at; five people demanded why he was not wearing his OmniGlasses; twice, he was shoved, though not hard. Most distressingly of all, he dropped and broke a glass. Even when the hotel dining room closed at 9 pm, several customers unaccountably refused to leave, and it was nearly 10:30 before Farouk was able to finish his thorough cleaning and take the elevator to the third floor and his permanent rooms.

Letting himself carefully into the room with his metal key–he had persuaded Mr. Rasgoul to keep the metal keys for their charm, though most customers unlocked theirs with their OmniGlasses–he reached over and flipped the electric switch. It had caused the hotel electrician no small chagrin when he had insisted, during the hotel’s last renovations, on the manual switches being retained in every room in addition to the remote OmniGlass interfaces–but again he had insisted. He stood silently and looked around the cluttered room, shaking his head at its woeful state–which his mother would never have tolerated–and then slowly undressed himself and got into his purple dressing gown. 

He had, as usual, brought a small, wrapped roast beef sandwich from the kitchens, and ate it, as he had loved to do since childhood, at the table in his living room over a book. 

Print books were difficult to come by these days, and virtually all he had now were volumes kept from his childhood and youth. Even when, after many years, the totality of the transition to the OmniGlass had at last become clear to him, he had naively assumed that books would still be available for those who wanted them: only to realize, too late, that once production had ceased, and the libraries and bookstores had closed, print books had become an intrinsically limited commodity, and as such had been quickly bought up by private collectors. 

Peering short-sightedly into the closest bookcase, a tall, red-cherry assemblage with clawed feet, he selected a volume of The Adventures of Tintin. Pulling out the cloth bookmark from the middle of The Land of Black Gold, he set it on the rough surface of his heavy oaken wooden table (which had belonged to his parents), smoothing out the yellowed pages carefully. He chuckled to himself softly as he read and ate his sandwich. This Emir’s son was a ridiculous brat–giving orders even to his kidnappers–and it was terribly amusing to watch Tintin struggle to rescue him. But of course, he told himself softly, it was precisely in this that Tintin’s heroism was made manifest. For if one only rescued people unfailingly helpful, grateful, obliging, what was there heroic in that?

After returning the book to its shelf and carefully wiping down the table, he moved to his small kitchen and carefully made himself a cup of strong, black tea, just as his mother had taught him, with a Samovar and several cubes of sugar. He did not sleep much these days, in his old age, and so the caffeine no longer bothered him; in fact, it seemed to have a settling effect on his nerves. Lowering himself gingerly into his yew-wood bed with its carved posts and canvas sheets (it had been his parents too, a gift from his father to his mother on their marriage), he picked up another book from his night-stand: the Complete Father Brown Stories. Taking a ginger sip of tea and running his finger along the spine to yet another cloth bookmark, he began reading. 

In this story, an aging, unhealthy author, obsessed with Eastern spirituality, appeared to have killed himself: but really, it was murder. The paper on which his suicide note was written, Father Brown had realized with characteristic acumen, was the wrong shape. Farouk shook his head softly in wonder as the true killer was revealed. It was the doctor, because he was in love with the selfish writer’s wife, and thought she would be happier with him. When he confessed it all to Father Brown, admitting that the Nature in which he had believed all his life had failed him, and that there was something to human guilt and responsibility after all, Farouk let out a soft sigh of satisfaction. How admirable! He had, of course, read the tale nearly fifty times before–but that did not lessen the effect. It never did. 

Carefully replacing the bookmark and setting the story down on the nightstand, Farouk checked his antique watch, which he only wore in the privacy of his own chambers–Monsieur Beauvilliers had considered watches a sign of status, and so inappropriate for waiters–and found that it was nearly midnight. He found that his nerves were still too strained for sleep, and so he got up and poured himself a glass of the cheap read wine that he bought, from time to time, in the Hotel’s gift shop for his own consumption–he would never have dared to drink the expensive wines sold in the hotel restaurant–and wheeled his small television set from the closet out in front of his red brocaded couch. 

Televisions were if anything harder to find than books–and even harder to repair. This one, though, had a built-in DVD player, and he carefully pried it open, removed a disk from its case, and slid it in before sitting back down on the couch again. For the next half hour, he chuckled slowly to himself, at intervals, as Lucy schemed and plotted to get into show business. How foolish! But was it not, he told himself, still at the same time very sympathetic? “After all, what person does not have foolish dreams?” he murmured to himself over the noise of the laugh track. “And can we help it that when we reach for them even it makes us seem to others foolish?”

When the episode was over, he sat in the dark for a while, slowly finishing his glass of wine. Then he got up, relieved himself in his small bathroom, and got back into bed. He found, as it usually did, that the wine had settled his mood: and after only a few minutes, was asleep. 

He dreamed as he did nearly every night, of the hotel as it had been under Monsieur Beauvilliers; but tonight, the only customers were his aged parents, seated at Dr. Wang’s table under the window, his mother in her flowery formal dress, with her hair up, and his father in the faded grey business suit. Though he plied them both with cakes and teas–brewing the tea himself in the samovar, as his mother had taught him, and adding plenty of sugar, as his father had always insisted–they both seemed to him somehow disappointed, and he felt a childish, inconsolable sadness creeping over him as he looked at them. Finally, it was his father who caught him by the hand, his grey moustache thick with tears: “What have you let happen to your patrons?” he demanded. “What have you let happen?” 

He woke just before sunrise, and within ten minutes had rose and showered, shaving carefully in the steam as his father had taught him, one angle of his face after another, in order. He never had to look in a mirror, and took some pride in this. 

Brushing his hair with a few practiced, economical motions, and snipping the few hairs that showed themselves out of place, he then paused, and looked around himself with an expression like that of a naughty boy caught stealing cookies–as indeed he used to do when he was a small child. Reaching under his bed, he got out the can of hair dye, and sprayed it liberally at any bits of grey showing beneath the black; then he stopped and chuckled to himself, alone in his rooms. Then, after he had carefully ironed each garment, on went the next day’s white pants and black socks and white waistcoat, with the white handkerchief in the pocket, and, last of all, the white gloves. 

He was down in the lobby promptly at 5:45, greeting the night watchman (who was glued to his OmniGlasses and did not reply) and then opening up the dining room with another key on his ring. Arriving so early gave him an opportunity to give the room one more once-over after the thorough cleaning of the night before–a spot of dust here, an unwiped corner of a table there. He found this one of the most enlivening parts of his day, and it always woke him up thoroughly despite the fact that he never drank tea or coffee in the mornings. At 6:30 sharp, he moved the small sign to the entrance announcing the room was now open. 

At 6:35, Mr. Green strolled in the door, grumbling to himself. As Farouk led him to his usual place, under the largest chandelier, he shot a dirty look at him. “Well, you bastards did it,” he said. “I sure hope those Elborians reward you for what you done. He shook his head ruefully. “And that rat-ass Nasr makes a better President than he seems.” Farouk clucked his tongue with what he intended to be a comforting sound, then went behind the counter to brew Mr. Green his Turkish coffee. 

By the time he had brought it carefully to the little man’s table, Mrs. Edwards had arrived, vibrating furiously in the door in a pair of slacks and a loose blouse. “Well, Farouk,” she said as he seated her in the table over which she and Dr. Wang competed nearly every day, “I always knew the people in this country were stupid–I just didn’t realize how stupid. They’ll get exactly what they deserve. I'm sure you've already seen on the news that the shooting's started. A thousand dead already this morning.” To Farouk's surprise, she did not seem upset, but, if anything, rather triumphant. He did not know how to respond, and so merely bowed and went to fetch her chai.

By the time he came back, Mr. Tyroli had already seated himself, as usual, at a totally random table, and was staring despondently out into space, his head in his hands. “Well,” he said as Farouk bowed. “General Denning did it. He’s the new President. I guess I really am crazy.”

This, too, seemed to call for a response that Farouk lacked–so he contented himself with getting Mr. Tyroli a specially-large piece of cheesecake to compensate. By that time, a line had begun forming at the door, and he had to seat Mrs. Kumar, Mr. Incano, and Ms. Almeida quickly, without pausing to fetch their orders in between. (Rogers did not arrive, most days, until close to the lunch rush at noon).

Mrs. Kumar was once again fuming as he brought her cup of diluted rosewater tea. “Well, Farouk,” she said. “That fucking bastard Rosswell is gonna be President. Those damn liberal do-gooders. I’m gonna have to leave this country. Been nice knowing you.” 

He contented himself with a noncommittal nod, then rushed over to bring Ms. Almeida her morning ice cream. “Can you believe it?” She asked him. “Borges is going to be President of this country! It is too incredible. He will ruin everything, just as he did in my country. I cannot believe it. It is too much. Don’t you agree?”

“Of course, Madam,” he said, with some relief, and ran to seat Mrs. Abdulin, who was standing at the door frailly fuming in her hot pink ensemble. “These people deserve to burn in hell,” she told him as he tried to guide her gently to a table near the large painting of Napoleon, “And they will, Farouk, they will. Tottenham is going to do it to them. They’ll see. They’ll see exactly what they voted for. I just hope I live to see it.” Once he had brought her a steaming dosa, though, she seemed to take some comfort, and her imprecations trailed off into mere mutterings as she ate.

He found that morning, in its own way, as trying as the night before. Some people were furious, some (he thought) secretly happy, but everyone shared an odd sort of sullenness that made it nearly impossible for him to please them, no matter how obliging he was or how many foods and beverages he beverages. This, he told himself, was the most difficult thing of all: to be unable to comfort those who are suffering. 

So difficult did he find the morning that he briefly considered taking a lunch break–but sternly reminding himself of the charge of humanity, he worked straight through lunch as usual. After all, what would they do without him? Still, for all his efforts, throughout the day Farouk found himself unaccountably looking forward to the short break he always took around 5 PM, before the dinner rush started; his only break of the day.

When the huge grandfather clock in the corner, with its cherubs and gold-tinted clouds, at last chimed five times as he was serving Dr. Wang his custard (to loud declarations of universal damnation), he practically wilted in his uniform, then caught himself and walked with composure to the outside door, pushing it open and walking out into the air.

The Hotel Nouveau was situated on a large hill overlooking the city: it was just about the most beautiful view, he told himself every day, one could find in the whole world: and at this time of year, when his break coincided with sunset, it reached true levels of the sublime. 

Today, though, the brilliant colors and bright lights seemed to sadden him; and he stared at them, long and hard, before taking out the one cigarette he had put in his pocket that morning, next to his handkerchief, and slowly lighting it with a match taken, as usual, from the box he used to light the candles for dinner.

A generational ban on smoking had been passed when he was only a young man; and by now, the activity was forbidden to anyone below the age of 70. That still left him legally able to smoke, though it also meant that anything smokeable was nearly impossible to find: like books, they had all been bought up by resellers and collectors and desperate addicts long since. This time, though, he had at least had the forethought to buy a hundred packs or so, though at a prohibitive cost, before they disappeared entirely. It had been nearly thirty years ago now that he had painstaking counted and rationed them day by day according to his best estimate of his longest conceivable lifespan; and though only about a year was left to these rations, he found that the prospect of running out no longer troubled him. Perhaps that was what his father had meant by the wisdom of old age.

Farouk lit the cigarette and inhaled slowly, savoring the taste and the burning sensation in his mouth: he looked across the valley towards the city. In the streets below, he could see hundreds and thousands of people, some moving to and fro, but most just standing in place, speaking to themselves. On all of their faces, he could see the glint of the OmniGlasses; they lit up every face with orange fire, so that it seemed that it was a city, not of men, but of angels, angels with burning eyes. He closed his own.

“Well, well, the world may be ending, but you’re still here smoking your cigarette, eh, old man?” 

He opened his eyes, and glanced to the side: it was Mr. Rasgoul, the current owner of the Hotel.

“What do you want, Mr. Rasgoul?” Farouk said, with brusque indifference. Though his standards demanded constant attention and politeness with guests, there was no such code of etiquette for dealing with owners, whom he could not help feeling, most of the time, as simply beneath him. Some owners appreciated this, and some did not.

Mr. Rasgoul was a tall, pale man with dark hair and an indifferent accent. He dressed, Farouk thought, very sloppily: not at all like Monsieur Beauvilliers, whose apparel had set the standard for the whole staff. Even Mr. Thomas had possessed a certain sharp-edged charm, with his pressed black business suits and neatly-parted dark hair. But Mr. Rasgoul’s suits were grey and rumpled, and his dull brown hair was always untidy. Farouk shut his eyes.

“Well, another election day has come and gone, eh, Farouk?” Mr. Rasgoul said, staring at him. The light had started to fade behind the horizon, so that his head was silhouetted by the electric lights spilling out of the windows behind him: but his face was still illuminated by the light from his OmniGlasses, red and blue, which shone on his round, soft cheeks, picking out the straggly hairs. “And can you believe these rubes keep buying it?”

Farouk frowned, and took the cigarette out of his mouth. “They’re not rubes,” he said after a pause. “They’re people.” He felt suddenly upset, with the same inconsolable feeling from his dream, and took another drag of the cigarette to calm himself. In a few minutes, the cigarette would be burnt out, and he would have to go back inside–he didn’t want to waste his few moments of peace.

Mr. Rasgoul audibly scoffed. “Sure…that’s why each one of them just buys it that they all have a completely different set of candidates and issues and world events…and why they all get mad on cue, every time, when it turns out the bad guy won. And then they all keep themselves glued to the glasses for all the aftermath coverage, the supposed wars that get started, the campaigns of terror, the genocides and alien invasions…and then come back a few weeks later and get ready to do it all again. Without ever paying attention to what’s really going on.”

Farouk inhaled again, tried to shut his eyes, to shut out Mr. Rasgoul’s voice. This was his only break for the rest of the night; all he wanted was for Mr. Rasgoul to leave, so he could enjoy his one cigarette in peace. There were so few left to him. 

“What is really going on?” he said, hoping to make the owner leave.

“Come on,” Mr. Rasgoul said. “We both know it: there hasn’t been an election in this country for decades. Not a real one. Everything is run by the same people who make these damned glasses. They’re the only ones who know what’s going on…the only ones who get what they want.”

“And who are they?” Farouk asked automatically, his eyes still closed, the last glare of the sun on his eyelids. All he wanted, now, was to stand here, forever, and enjoy the light on his face, the smoke in his nostrils, the subtle buzz of the nicotine spreading in his veins. 

“You know,” Mr. Rasgoul said in an overbearing voice. “The banks. The multinationals. The tech companies. The people who really run the world. Not all these politicians–if they’re even real anymore. Capitalism. It couldn’t be more obvious.”

“Are you sure?”

Mr. Rasgoul turned his head sharply to stare at him. Farouk’s eyes were open now, and he was looking directly at the younger man, his mouth twisted with some emotion.

“What?” Mr. Rasgoul seemed for the first time taken aback. “What do you–of course I’m sure.”

“Really?” Farouk asked, still looking steadily at him. “You’re sure it’s all fake–that the banks run everything? Mr. Smith agrees with you, you know, about the elections: but he says it’s the Jews that run it all. And the security guard, Mr. Mumbere? He says it’s aliens, people from another planet. That they’ve been here for decades, and took over the government long ago, and use the glasses to control us. And Dr. Bagadi says it’s no one, just the OmniGlasses themselves, generating their own little fantasies for everyone, running everything on their own. And that nice lady, Ms. Violet? She thinks it’s all run by rapists.” He sighed. “But you all get it from the same place, don’t you?” He paused, and studied Mr. Rasgoul’s pale, frightened face. “So are you sure?”

There was a long moment as Mr. Rasgoul stared at him, and Farouk stared back. Then Farouk turned away, and took another deep breath of the smoke. The cigarette was almost out.

“You know,” Mr. Rasgoul’s voice came small and remote. “I think about you a lot, Farouk. I think about you all the time. I think about you, and…I wonder what it’s like.”

“What what’s like, Mr. Rasgoul?” Farouk said, staring off towards the distant city, now dark but dotted everywhere with tiny red flickers.

“What it’s like to be the last human being.”

Both men were silent; and after a few minutes Farouk heard Mr. Rasgoul’s footsteps slowly retreating. Then a door slammed and he was alone again. 

Farouk chuckled to himself. He took the cigarette out of his mouth and dropped it onto the ground; then, deliberately, ground it under his heel. Then he chuckled again, louder; and again. Then, abruptly, he burst out laughing. 

He guffawed like a madman. He howled with raucous amusement. He clapped his hands and snickered. He stamped his feet and whooped. He threw his head back and howled, waving his arms in helpless mirth. He doubled over himself, wheezing and choking.

In the dark outside, an old man laughed, laughing and laughing, laughing forever, alone under the stars.