Good President Wenceslas: A modern carol by Alexander Mccall Smith

The president is burdened by the cares of office, but he does what he believes to be his duty when he encounters a jobless man hunting for scraps of food in a bin. By Alexander Mccall-smith

Good President Wenceslas was much appreciated by his people, who, being Eastern European, had suffered a great deal, what with the Soviet Union having effectively occupied their country for so many years, and with the painful process of adjusting to a free market economy.

President Wenceslas had managed to protect them from some of the chilliest of the winds, but his hands, like the hands of all politicians – at least, those in power – were tied by the harsh realities of economics. His country had to modernise; ancient, illdesigned factories had to be stripped down and rebuilt; decaying public housing, damp and unheated, with permanently malfunctioning lifts, had to be gutted and rebuilt; classrooms had to be expanded, roads patched, and civic life, weakened by complacency, fear and time-serving had to be rediscovered an ehabilitated. All of this took money, of which th seemed to be enough

The outside world had been encouraging, but had been slow to provide the e mic support that would enable the economy to get going. Other countries lems, had and their while prob-y they might be ready to give advice, when it came to backing that advice with investment, they tended to

ver discover that their own budgets were somewhat more pressed than anticipated and they could not find quite as much money as they had hoped.

The Government’s economists did their best. They gathered economic data, they analysed it, and then tried to see how they might use their analysis to design a recovery programme. But nothing seemed to have the desired effect: there remained a high level of unemployment and a recalcitrant public funding deficit, with both of which nobody seemed capable of dealing.

There was real hardship, particularly among those who had retired after years of service to the state: their pensions were shrinking in value, and they often found themselves at the end of the month having to deny themselves food or heating until the next, pitiful payment reached them. They complained, but nobody seemed to listen to them.

“Everybody has it hard,” said one newspaper editorial. “It’s not just retired civil servants – it’s everybody. The world is changing, and the only way forward is to go along with that change and make the most of it.” This advice was not appreciated. It was hard to embrace poverty; it was hard to be enthusiastic about hunger; it was hard to be cheerful about not having enough money to buy medicine, or coal, or washing powder. Yet somehow people managed to get by – especially if they had families who were able to help them out. Those who were by themselves, though, were not so fortunate, and that was where the worst suffering occurred.

President Wenceslas himself led a simple and frugal life. Although he was obliged to live in an official residence – a 17th-century castle a short distance from the capital – he eschewed governmental extravagance in any form. He used public transport whenever possible, ate his lunch in the parliamentary canteen, helped his wife to do the shopping in the local supermarket – always looking for the best bargain – the items that came with discount coupons for other products; the ten per cent free offers; the things that were markedly cheaper if bought in quantities of twenty or more.

As befitted a popular, accessible president, he was often to be seen cycling around the capital followed by several police guards, also mounted, somewhat sheepishly, on bicycles. The police had initially tried to escort his bicycle with motorcycle outriders, but Wenceslas had quickly put a stop to this. “I am a man of the people,” he protested to the chief of police. “There is no need for me ut a question.” myself off from the I serve. Nor do I need

policemen to uard me from the occasionmphgaa

erson who might wish to The police chief stared at n from people like y. “Even that?” rom difficult people?” he

ven from reactionhfaare Even from visionaries, evolutionaries, obsessives? “Even from them,” said

t Wenceslas. “They k their viewpoint is

.”

The chief of police shook is head. That was not how presidents were meant to speak. Yet people in general approved of this modesty and openness, and he was highly regarded, even by his political opponents. “Wenceslas is good,” was the most common comment made about him.

It was the Feast of Stephen. The weather had been harsh: a billowing body of freezing polar air had drifted down from Northern Sweden and

Finland, resulting in heavy snowstorms throughout the country. The snow now lay all about, deep and crisp and even. President Wenceslas had been in his office, working on the gay marriage bill that his government was introducing. It was difficult work politically, as it was hotly contested and President Wenceslas, for all that he was a politician, did not like politi

cal or social conflict. He wanted people to be happy, and he could not understand why anybody should desire otherwise. The problem, though, was different visions of the good; he understood that, of course. One of his aides suggested that he might travel back to the presidential residence by car, given that it was so cold, but he had refused.

“Other people have to take the train,” he said. “So why shouldn’t I? Besides, I can work on the train; if I try to read in the car I find that I feel a bit nauseous. It’s something to do with the movement.”

“As you wish,” said the aide. “Let me carry your bag, sir.”

“I’m perfectly capable of carrying it myself,” said President Wenceslas.

But then, immediately regretting his tetchiness, he apologised. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m a bit tired. Please forgive me.”

They walked down to the station and boarded the train. The aide seated himself next to President Wenceslas and a plain-clothes policeman took his place in the seat immediately behind them.

“I love this journey in winter,” said President Wenceslas. “I love looking out of the window and seeing the fields of snow. As a young man I was quite a good crosscountry skier, you know.”

“It’s very good exercise,” said the aide. “My wife and I sometimes go off for a weekend near her uncle’s village. There’s a long track there. You can go for miles.”

President Wenceslas nodded. “People should take more exercise,” he said. “But we can’t force them – just as we can’t force them to be kind to others.”

“No,” said the aide. “I don’t think we can.”

The train drew out of the station. It was four o’clock and already getting dark. “Aren’t winter evenings wonderful?” said President Wenceslas. “An evening by the fire. A bowl of warm soup, a hot bath, and then bed. I love all that.”

“I like going for a walk through the snow,” said the aide, “and then coming back to a glass of mulled wine.”

“Oh, I love that too,” said President Wenceslas.

The train crawled out through the edges of the town, stopping every few minutes at a small suburban station. There were very few people about; one or two alighted at these stops, but nobody boarded the train. President Wenceslas was now silent, staring out through the train window. He was thinking of the impending finance bill. He knew that there would be more suffering, and he hated the thought of it, but they had to control the deficit somehow or the Germans would start breathing down their necks.

He sighed. The train stopped at a small, rather scruffy station, the last one before their own stop. He looked out on to the platform.

There was a man standing beside one of the litter bins into which passengers tossed their newspapers, the wrappings of the snacks they had bought at the station café, their empty waxed-cardboard coffee cups. President Wenceslas watched him as he bent down and started to rummage in the bin, looking for anything of value, for any scraps of discarded food.

The train started to move very slowly down the platform.

“That man,” said President Wenceslas to his aide. “Who is he? Where do you think he lives?”

The aide used his sleeve to wipe the window clear of condensation. “Oh, he’s often there. I’ve seen him before. I ride my bike past his place at weekends – it’s a bit of a hovel, I’m afraid. It’s over by the mountain. About a mile away. I’ve chatted with him a few times.”

“Is he in work?”

The aide shook his head. “He was, but no longer. He had a job in a factory that made padlocks. Production shifted to China.” He looked apologetic, as if he had been personally responsible for moving the factory abroad.

President Wenceslas was silent. Then he turned to the aide and said, “I’d like us to get down there this evening,” he said. “Will your wife mind if you’re late?”

“Not at all,” said the aide. “I’ll call her and warn her.”

Once they reached the official residence, President Wenceslas supervised the loading of the car. Then they set off, with the plain-clothes policeman at the wheel and President Wenceslas and the aide in the back. Brightly shone the moon that night, though the frost was cruel.

“He’ll be terribly pleased,” said the aide. “And pretty surprised, I imagine.”

He was right. As President Wenceslas and his aide entered the rickety hovel, the poor man stood up, his eyes wide with astonishment.

“A case of Brunello di Montalcino,” said President Wenceslas. “It was given to me by the Italian ambassador, along with these three salamis. And this ham is pretty good, I’m told.”

“You’re too …too kind,” stuttered the man.

“And chocolate,” said President Wenceslas. “And this fruit cake. There’s a lot of rum in it, my wife informs me. She made it herself.”

The poor man stared at the largesse. Then he cleared his throat, “I didn’t vote for you, you know.”

President Wenceslas had not been prepared for this, and it took him a few moments to recover his composure. “But that’s got nothing to do with it,” he protested. “Nothing at all.” “Really?” said the man “Yes, really.”

The man looked thoughtful. “In that case I shall,” he said.

‘Shall what?”

“Vote for you next time.” President Wenceslas and the aide started their journey home. Neither said anything.

“I was merely doing my duty,” remarked President Wenceslas “That’s all. I wasn’t after any votes.”

“I know you weren’t, sir,” said the aide.

“Tell me,” said President Wenceslas. “Is it old-fashioned to say what I’ve just said?”

“What? About doing your duty? Perhaps a bit uncool,” said the aide. “But …” “But what?”

“But it was … it was a wonderful thing to do, sir. A wonderful thing! In fact …” The aide paused. “In fact it makes me want to burst into song.”

President Wenceslas looked out of the window. The moon had risen higher, suspended above the trees, so understanding of our messy lives, so forgiving, bathing the fields of snow in silver, a ghostly silver, almost white.