The Desecration of City Hall
“Whatever the case, was it really worth it? All that effort? Is a paint job that important?’’
By Felix Bartel
The atmosphere around the Kaphedo toilet was raucous as usual. The toilet was a semi-circular construction with four tiers of benches like an amphitheater of flatulence. Each row had a dozen latrines, allowing a full quarter of the village to do their business at the same time. Typically, this capacity was more than sufficient, with the exception of one village feast where the food had been tainted, with tragic and messy consequences. The big runs was still remembered with shudders. The toilet was outdoors, close to the excrement treatment plant. In ancient times, the word “waste’’ would have been used instead. Khara had written an essay on that very subject for school once. His thesis was that the word “waste’’ for excrement reflected the careless extravagance of the previous age. The hubris which had led twenty-first-century humanity to deplete essential resources, leading to the fall (Khara had lost points for that word; the proper term was transformation) of their culture. The essay had done well, but then Khara’s history teacher had always had a soft spot for him.
On rainy, windless, or searing days most people would do their business as quickly as possible and hurry along. This day, however, was clear, warm, and a firm breeze was making the smell bearable. Thus, the air was abuzz with conversation and gossip as well as with flies. It was late in the morning, and the industrious or less sociable had headed off for work but many remained, faking constipation, to enjoy the pleasant morning and conversation a bit longer before starting the day proper. Khara, as a student of history, knew that individual toilets had once been the norm, but though Kaphedo could afford it, building a toilet for each household and connecting them all to the treatment plant would have been the real waste. Besides, the shared toilet was good for the community spirit. The idea of always pooping alone seemed terribly depressing to Khara. No wonder, he thought, that the old culture had crumbled if they couldn’t get something as simple as shitting right.
Khara was snapped out of his reverie when a snippet of conversation cut through the background murmur.
“I heard Seri is bringing a motion to the meeting tonight,’’ someone said.
“What is she suggesting?’’ A voice replied with lukewarm interest.
“She wants to repaint City Hall.’’
“Really? What color?’’
“Purple.’’
Khara felt a cold shiver run down his spine. That simply would not do. Purple would be a terrible match to the surroundings. This motion would be catastrophic.
“How many votes does she have?’’ Khara asked the gossip.
“I’m sorry, did you say something, lad?’’
Khara did not have the patience to indulge some half-deaf old fool.
“Answer the goddamn question man! How many votes does she have?’’
The old gossip was taken aback for a moment but rallied swiftly.
“Plenty, I think. I heard Connor is backing her.’’
Khara felt panic rising. Connor was the new head chef, the previous one having been encouraged to make a career change after presiding over the big runs years earlier. Connor was good at his job, and that made him popular. Any motion with his blessing was as good as adopted. And the meeting was that night. Khara sprang to his feet, gratefully accepting a roll of toilet paper which was handed to him by a neighbor. Khara turned to Budi, his colleague at the secretariat.
“Tell Embun I’m sick today.’’
Budi blinked slowly.
“Ok. What will you be doing?’’
Khara finished wiping.
“Politics,’’ he said.
Khara walked over to the mess hall. It was the largest building in Kaphedo, with capacity for the entire village. This was seldom needed. People ate at different times depending on their jobs, and feasts were typically held outside, but it was one of the places the people of the village tended to congregate in during the rain season. Flat land was at a premium in Kaphedo and the people didn’t tamper with the natural environment lightly, so most buildings were narrow and vertical. The mess hall, a large rectangle, was the exception. The flat roof provided a rare space for a good quantity of solar panels. Kaphedo, being on an island, mainly relied on wave power, but variety is the spice of life, and redundancy the succor of power grids. The hall was deserted this early in the day, and Khara made his way into the adjoining kitchen. There, work was going on at a leisurely pace, the only meal currently being prepared was a light snack of fruits for the school-aged children. Khara saw Connor immediately. He stood out with his bun of sandy blond hair, a rare sign of European ancestry.
“An old bird with poor digestion told me that some want town hall repainted,’’ Khara said as he approached.
Connor turned to face him.
“The color is starting to fade,’’ Connor responded, eyebrow raised in mock confusion. Khara wasn’t falling for it.
“I know Seri approached you for support. What did she offer you?’’
Connor snorted.
“She didn’t offer me anything,’’ he said.
“Then withdraw your support, I will offer you something.’’
Khara could see Connor imagining the possibilities. In ancient times, there had been something called “bribes’’. Connor probably wasn’t familiar with the term; in a society where all material goods were held in common, only history nerds like Khara knew the word, but material goods weren’t the only thing that could be bargained with. Khara had unique skills and limited time. Connor probably only had the dimmest understanding of supply and demand, but he got it well enough to know that he was being offered something valuable. Khara’s time.
That in mind, Khara was shocked when Connor simply said “no.’’
“Why’s this paint job so important to you?’’ Khara pressed.
“I just think it’d look nice,’’ Connor said, seeming to hear the plainness of his own lie and cringing.
There was an awkward pause as Khara’s mind worked.
“You and Seri are fucking!’’ He deduced.
Connor grabbed Khara by the shoulder and roughly steered him out into the hall as his co-workers pretended not to look. Though Connor was a head taller than Khara, he was an affable man and was not wont to loom. He was looming now.
“We are dating,’’ he clarified. “And we’re not telling anyone yet. Neither will you.’’
That last bit didn’t sound like a suggestion. Khara saw that he wasn’t getting anywhere and excused himself.
Once outside, he felt a mild panic coming on. He needed to think. He needed to clear his head. He started towards an old favorite spot of his, some cliffs overlooking the ocean. It was a bit of a climb, and the vegetation was dense. A few scratches and a flood of sweat was more or less inevitable, but the struggle was worth it. As far as Khara knew, no one else ever went to that particular spot. Ever since he discovered it as a child it had been a place for Khara to go when he needed to be alone and to ponder the great questions of life.
Such as how to avoid getting City Hall painted fucking purple.
Khara waved lazily to his fellows as he passed, following the road uphill. He walked past the tallest building in the village, the hydroponic farm where the majority of Kaphedo’s food was grown. Then there was the orchard, a space for growing anything that wasn’t suited for hydroponics and that Kaphedo’s environment could sustain. A mid-tempo rock song blasted from a pair of large speakers, and the people at the orchard bobbed their heads to the beat as they cleared weeds, harvested fruits, and inspected the trees for disease. Someone whistled, prompting a wave of mock cat calls as Khara passed. Without breaking his stride, Khara affectionately flipped them off.
Next came the secretariat, which Khara ran past, to avoid any awkward encounters. Then he veered off the road, scurried through the undergrowth, climbed a steep cliff while occasionally stopping to swat mosquitoes, and after a few minutes of struggle he was rewarded with one of life’s great pleasures. The ocean breeze, like the caress of Venus herself on Khara’s clammy skin.
Or very nice, at any rate.
Khara sat down and took in the view. There were a few wind turbines strategically placed along the cliffs. There were Kaphedo’s modest docks, currently empty. Khapedo was mostly self-sufficient, so the docks were used infrequently for trade and travel.
Then there was the great ocean.
Back in the day, Kaphedo must have been a paradise, Khara reflected. These days careful and diligent decontamination work had made sure that the ocean looked lovely and inviting from a distance. You still wouldn’t want to swim in it though, and eating any fish from the sea was off limits. In all likelihood, neither would be possible within Khara’s lifetime. Not for the first time Khara cursed humanity of centuries past. Living on a tropical island surrounded by a toxic sea was a unique kind of aggravating. But for now Khara had more immediate problems.
If he didn’t do anything about it, City Hall would be repainted purple, something that Khara’s aesthetic sensibilities could not take. But what could he do? With Connor’s backing, Seri would have plenty of votes, and Khara did not have the time to work on every person in the village before the meeting.
He contemplated his options.
The most direct solution would be a personal attack on Seri or Connor that would erode their support. The fact that they were secretly dating was juicy but unlikely to cause a scandal. If Khara leaked it the only problem Seri and Connor would have would be sore palms from too many high fives. Khara strained but could not think of anything else he knew or might do that could discredit Seri before the meeting that night. In the end, he could conceive of only one solution.
Back in the day, there had been something called “political parties,” organizations where groups of like-minded people joined together to fight for common causes. A small, direct democracy like Kaphedo didn’t have such formal structures, you were expected to simply vote your conscience on an individual basis. But for all the changes in the structure of society since the chaos of the late 21st century, human nature remained the same. Most people of Kaphedo may not have known what a political party was, but they still congregated into factions. These were loose structures based on a shared outlook and personal affinity, and by no means could they be counted on to vote as a unit all the time, but if Khara could just flip a few key people who could bring their factions with them, he might have a chance to stop Seri’s motion.
Khara closed his eyes and visualized the relationships in Kaphedo like a web. He did some quick maths, trying to mentally build a coalition which could stand like a wall against Seri and Connor and their dastardly repainting plan.
He saw a way.
Getting Juwita and Daud on his side might just do it. Only one problem.
They hated each other.
If Juwita was noted to be supportive of a motion, Daud might well oppose it on pure fucking principle. So Khara had to get Juwita and Daud’s support, and he had to do it fast enough for them to be able to organize their factions before the vote, all without either of them finding out that Khara’s working them both. The sun was at its blazing zenith.
Noon already.
Khara wasn’t an expert in multitasking, but he hoped he could run and scheme at the same time.
He tumbled back down the cliffs, earning a couple of scratches for the trouble, and dashed down the road. As he sprinted back past the orchard, he provoked a roar of facetious encouragement. Regrettably, Khara could not afford to slow down and flip them off. Driven by his great purpose he darted to his destination.
The clinic was one of the most elaborate buildings in Kaphedo, complete with its own water tower and backup generator. It was painted white to reflect sunlight and was built by the sea with big windows to catch the wind. Both measures to keep the temperature inside as manageable as possible. Sick people had enough worries without getting overheated or dehydrated. Khara, currently being both, longed to go inside. Yet he made himself stop and catch his breath. One of the oldest academic subjects studied by humanity was called Rhetoric. These days the word itself was largely forgotten (though its practice continued as it would as long as humanity endured) but Khara had access to vast stores of ancient learning. Over years of study Khara had learned hundreds of ways to increase his chances of persuading others. If he was to get both Juwita and Daud on his side he would need to deploy them all.
First was presentation. If Khara came in flushed and out of breath he’d seem desperate⸺and then he’d be facing an uphill struggle. So he took a few minutes to catch his breath, wipe his sweat with his sleeves and to make sure his hair looked nice in the reflection provided by a nearby window. Then he entered. He barely had time to absorb the scent of disinfectants and detergents before a voice rang out from an adjoining room.
“What can I do for you, Khara?’’
Leave it to Juwita to know him from just his footsteps. Living in a small community had its virtues, but there were drawbacks too. The element of surprise could prove elusive. Khara swallowed his apprehensions and walked into Juwita’s office.
“I’m feeling sick,’’ he said.
Juwita spun her swivel chair around and mentally dissected her patient. Her face was inscrutable as always.
“Sit down,’’ she motioned towards the bed.
Khara sat. Juwita kicked the floor, sending her chair careening towards Khara. With her left hand, she caught the bed, bringing her chair to a halt. With her right, she felt Khara’s forehead.
“You do feel warm, but it is hot out today. I’ll need to check your internal temperature.’’
“Is that really necessary?’’
Juwita sighed.
“You boys and your strange hang-ups. Drop your pants, mister.’’
Khara did and Juwita quickly and efficiently did the deed.
“Looks normal,’’ she concluded. “What exactly is wrong?’’
“I don’t know. I just feel sick.’’
“Hmmm.’’ Juwita adjusted her chair to bring herself to eye level with Khara. Her brown eyes had the first spots of cataracts but maintained a clear intensity. “Does it hurt anywhere?’’
“Not exactly. A bit in my stomach maybe. I just feel bad.’’ Khara made a show of averting his gaze.
“Are you worried about something?’’ Juwita asked.
Khara had to bite his tongue to keep himself from smiling. Juwita had taken the bait. She was not the type of person to take positions on public matters based on backroom dealings, and if she thought that Khara was trying to influence her, she’d take the opposite view as a matter of principle. She had to be tricked. But Khara knew from years of trying to feign illness to get out of various annoying duties that Juwita was not tricked easily.
“I have an appointment with Daud later,’’ Khara said. This served two purposes. First, if Juwita saw Khara going to Daud, it was better she’d think that he was there against his will on some business rather than eagerly to do politics. Secondly, it fit his story of emotional anguish. Khara could see in how Juwita nodded understandingly that she projected her own feelings and didn’t doubt that Khara would find the prospect of a meeting with Daud legitimately distressing.
“Odious man,’’ she said. “Back in the day, I spent months feeding the birds, gradually getting them used to me and luring them closer and closer to my house. It took a long time, but I eventually got these beautiful Fluffy-backed tit-babblers to come hang out at my balcony.’’ Juwita leaned in closer. “You know what Daud did?’’
Khara shook his head.
“He got a cat. Imported one from the mainland and sicced it on the birds. It’s been over a decade, and they still haven’t come back. Clever creatures. They talk to each other, you know. So I understand why Daud would make you uncomfortable, he’s petty and malicious, but he’s ultimately harmless.”
Khara hadn’t heard that particular story before. He squirreled it away at the back of his mind.
Juwita leaned back in her chair.
“Is there anything else that’s bothering you?’’
“There is one other thing. I know it’s probably silly to worry about, but since I’m here, I suppose you’d be the person to ask,’’ Khara trailed off theatrically.
Juwita’s face was blank. Khara had felt his voice quiver. Was that good or bad? Was she buying it? Had she seen right through him? Under Juwita’s impassive gaze, the plan felt utterly flimsy to Khara. But it was too late to backtrack.
The die has been cast, someone once said. How did things work out for them? Khara couldn’t remember.
“Do you know anything about what’s being discussed at tonight’s meeting?’’ Khara asked, hoping to provoke a reaction. Hoping to see anything other than that blank face and those cool eyes.
“Not particularly. What about it?’’
Had she furrowed her brow? Had her voice lowered just slightly? Had Khara imagined it?
“Someone wants to repaint City Hall purple, I think.’’ Khara had almost mentioned Seri but managed to correct himself at the last moment. He wanted to breathe a sigh of relief. Any hint of Seri’s name and Juwita would guess his true motives in a heartbeat. But he couldn’t break character. Not yet.
“The color is starting to fade.’’
Not that shit again.
“I agree,’’ said Khara, who disagreed vehemently. “But purple? Shouldn’t it be white like this place? City Hall is a place for everyone, and we have some elderly people on the island. Shouldn’t we try to keep it as cool as possible? I don’t know if it makes that big of a difference, I just want everyone to be able to participate comfortably. Am I worrying over nothing?’’
Khara held his breath. How had that come out? Calculated and cold? Melodramatic and fake?
Khara couldn’t tell.
Juwita just nodded.
“It’s good to see a young person think about his community. In this case, I don’t think that it will make a notable difference but I agree that we should take every measure to ensure that everyone can participate in our political process comfortably. Anything else would be anti-democratic. So how about this, tonight, I’ll tell everyone that I think City Hall should be white, I’ll even exaggerate the temperature effects a little. Does that make you feel better?’’
It took all of Khara’s will to smile rather than smirk.
“Much better. But is it really ok to bend the truth like that?’’
“This time, it’s for a good cause. Call it a white lie,’’ Juwita winked. “Now off you go, you wouldn’t want to be late to your meeting with Daud and make him even more irksome.’’
After being gently shooed out, Khara walked down the slope from the clinic, trying not to burst into laughter. He simply could not believe that his improvised plan had worked.
But it was too early to celebrate. Next, he had to get Daud’s support. Daud was the head custodian of Kaphedo, a role which was somewhat analogous to the police, firefighters, and other first responders of ages past. Khara had seen crime statistics from societies of the 21st century and knew that Kaphedo came nowhere close. There was little reason to steal when all goods were held in common, for instance. But personal grudges could still lead to violence if left to fester, and a Kaphedo citizen could still suffer a sudden psychosis and be a danger to themselves and others. In a similar vein, for all the strengths of Khapedo’s direct democracy, it didn’t respond well to unexpected crises. In the event of fire, earthquake, floods, or other natural disasters, it was the job of the custodians to take charge and coordinate the initial response. Much like Juwita, Daud had been at his post long and was respected, if not exactly beloved, for his service.
Why did Juwita and Daud dislike each other so much anyway? From where Khara was standing they were rather similar.
A mystery for later.
Khara hurried over to the Custodian building, carefully looking out for anyone from the Secretariat on the way.
The Custodian building was in the center of the village. From outside, it looked much like any other house on the island. Inside, it had storage for essential equipment and supplies as well as a holding cell. Khara assumed Daud was in. Crisis management in a place like Khapedo wasn’t the most demanding of occupations. Khara let himself inside and ascended the narrow stairs to Daud’s office and found his target who was leaning back in his chair, feet on the table and reading a novel. A translation of Catch-22.
Daud lowered the book and looked at Khara expectantly.
“I want you to sabotage a vote for me tonight,’’ Khara said.
Daud fished a bookmark from his pocket, marked his position, put down his book and kept looking at Khara with the same patient gaze.
“There will be a motion to repaint City Hall. I want you to get the word out to stop it,’’ Khara continued.
With Juwita he had been deceptive, but sometimes honesty works best. Daud was a rational man, if Khara offered him something good and kept Juwita’s name out of it, he was confident that he could get Daud on board.
Daud gestured to the chair in front of his desk.
“Sit down.’’
Khara obeyed.
“Now, explain what you want. The whole story, please.’’
“There isn’t much to explain. I heard at the toilet this morning that there is going to be a motion to repaint City Hall. I want you to use your pull to stop it.’’
“And why would I do that?’’
Straight to the point, so refreshing.
“I’ll give you priority access,’’ Khara said.
One of the great treasures Khapedo had was a copy of the old Internet, saved just before servers started going down. It contained a near-infinite trove of knowledge, but navigating it was no easy feat. Including Khara, only three people in Khapedo spoke English, the lingua franca of the old world.
So Khara and the rest of the Secretariat spent much of their working days researching subjects that could benefit Khapedo. Naturally, plenty of citizens wanted various things looked into for private purposes, but if they submitted a request it would be added to the end of a queue that stretched on for years. Khara was offering Daud to look into a subject of his choosing on Khara’s own time, effectively bypassing the queue. In a society without money, few things were as valuable as this favor. Khara possessed the ultimate bribe, and he was more than willing to spend it. Anything to keep City Hall from being repainted fucking purple. Anything to keep Seri from getting her way.
Daud’s eyes narrowed.
“And why do you care about this?’’ He asked.
“Because a purple City Hall would look hideous. I’m trying to do you all a favor, so are you going to help out or what?’’
“Don’t bullshit me Khara. What are you really after?’’
Khara felt panic rising. This wasn’t how he had planned for this conversation to go and now he was off balance. He had lost his patience. Rookie mistake, but it was too late to do anything about it. He could only press on, try to get the conversation back on track.
“It’s Seri who wants City Hall repainted. Whatever the case, you still get priority access when we defeat this motion.’’
Don’t dwell on motivations. Keep the bribe front and center. Don’t phrase it as a question. Daud will do it. This is going to work.
“No,’’ Daud said.
Khara was stunned.
“I’m not getting involved in your little playground scuffles. I have a reputation to maintain. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m eager to find out how this second world war ends,’’ Daud said, reaching for his book.
“And getting a cat to scare Juwita’s birds, that wasn’t a playground scuffle?’’ Khara burst out.
Typically he didn’t like pissing off his negotiating partners, but anything was better than the conversation being over. Daud didn’t need to be happy. He just had to agree.
“That was different.’’
“How?’’
Daud put down his book, swung his legs from the desk and leaned forward. Khara could smell cigar smoke. A rare indulgence.
“Do you know what that woman did to me?’’
Khara shook his head.
“She violated patient/doctor confidentiality,’’ Daud said, radiating bitterness.
Khara waited a beat for elaboration. None came.
“This isn’t the same as whatever childish feud you have with Seri. Now it’s time for you to leave.’’ Daud got up and made to shove Khara out of his office.
Time to do or die.
“I’ve tricked Juwita into helping me,’’ Khara blurted out.
Daud froze.
“I gave her a sob story about how I was concerned about the elderly and the temperature or some shit. She’s helping me under false pretenses, and if you pitch in, we can win. Juwita will have used her credibility for a playground scuffle, she’ll make a total fool of herself.’’
Khara held his breath. That had been desperate, but he hadn’t been able to think of anything else.
“And why would I intervene? Why not just sit back and let Juwita embarrass herself?’’ Daud asked.
“What looks worse? Making a comment about a motion that passes anyway?’’ Khara displayed one palm. “Or using your authority as a doctor, your neighbor’s trust and respect, built up over decades, to squash a motion, just because some kid told you to?’’ Khara held up his other palm and weighed the options, the first falling short. “Juwita has walked herself to the cliff’s edge. She just needs you to give her a little nudge.’’ Khara made a pushing motion for emphasis. Too much, perhaps, but it was a flourish he couldn’t resist.
There was a strange rustling sound, like an old saw working through a thick log.
Daud was laughing.
“You’ve always been a little devil, ever since you were a kid. What the hell, I’m in.’’
Daud patted Khara on the shoulder, leaned in, and whispered.
“And I’m still getting priority access.’’
Greedy old sod. Khara felt like he should be frustrated, but if that was the price for prying victory from the jaws of defeat, then that was that.
Khara left Daud to his reading.
The afternoon came, and the workday ended for most. There were a few hours for the citizens to rest up, then darkness fell and the islanders began to file into City Hall. After some minutes of socializing the people of Khapedo found their places, and the meeting began. Every villager eligible to vote was given a slip of paper with the motions prepared for the evening. Then, those who had filed these motions got an opportunity to present their initiative, make their arguments, and take questions. When every voice had been heard the next speaker took the stage.
Seri was third. She looked cool and put together as she rose to speak. She talked in general about how city hall needed a fresh coat of paint to a murmur of agreement. She then went on to argue for her choice of color. She had even made a little painting to illustrate how it might look. Khara thought it was cute how she pretended to make an effort even when she had secured the votes she needed in advance. She looked good as she calmly presented her case. It was almost believable the way she nodded thoughtfully while listening to the first question her presentation provoked (do we have enough paint?). Then Juwita got up and expressed concern about the temperature and the old folks. Shouldn’t City Hall be white? It’s a place for everyone, after all. Seri thanked Juwita for her opinion and assured her that she had taken the temperature into consideration. Improvements could be made to the ventilation system and meetings were generally held after dark anyway. Fairly well handled, Khara had to admit, but he could tell that the mood in the crowd was shifting. Seri didn’t look concerned in the least, though. No doubt trusting that her groundwork would be more than enough to handle this small hiccup. Khara couldn’t wait to see her shock when the votes had been counted. It was difficult not to smirk, but he made sure to keep his face neutral just in case Seri looked his way. She never did.
Typical.
Khapedo meetings could, at times, drag on and on. In the end, a majority vote would be the final word, but the village preferred consensus where possible and could debate controversial subjects ad nauseam in pursuit of it. Fortunately, no controversy arose that evening, and soon, the village lined up before an urn to cast their votes. There was a brief recess while the votes were counted, and Khara went out to enjoy the cool night air. His stomach was churning with anticipation. He had to bite his tongue to keep himself from vibrating. A bell rang. The results were ready.
While the first two results were read, Khara looked at Seri. He finally caught her gaze and permitted himself a slight smile, too late for her to change anything now. She looked concerned briefly, then turned her head away. Khara felt as though he was drinking water after days in a wasteland.
“The motion to repaint city hall fails,’’ a voice rang out. “Thank you everyone, meeting adjourned.’’
The people of Khapedo oozed out of city hall like blood from a wound, coagulating in large groups to discuss the meeting and to get in the way of everyone else. Khara scanned the crowd for Seri.
He saw her.
She saw him.
She flipped him off.
Khara’s soul soared.
Then Connor appeared and put his arm over Seri’s shoulder. She smiled, her rage and disappointment melting away in an instant, and the pair walked off, and all at once, Khara’s hard-won triumph turned to cold ash in his stomach. As he turned to leave, he saw Daud, walking up to Juwita. Daud leaned in and whispered something in her ear. She snapped back and, radiating fury, stormed off. Khara was not looking forward to the ramifications of that little gambit. The Juwita bridge was probably burned for years, if not forever. Khara shrugged to himself. It was a shame, but he had been desperate.
He started for home when someone grabbed his shoulder.
“I hear you’ve been philandering around doing politics today. Looks like your illness passed quickly,’’ Embun said.
“What are you gonna do? Fire me?’’ Khara was pleased to make the joke to one of the few people in Kaphedo who would recognize the concept of firing.
“No, but I will put in a motion to discipline you. And that’s one motion you won’t be able to overturn.’’
Worth it, Khara thought.
Embun left, and again Khara started walking, and again, was stopped.
“Looks like it went well today,’’ Budi observed.
“Very well,’’ Khara said, trying to muster more enthusiasm than he felt.
“How’d you pull it off?’’ Budi asked.
Khara perked up somewhat at the chance to brag and explained the day’s adventures with Budi making suitable noises at regular intervals.
“It’s incredible that you managed to get both Juwita and Daud on your side,’’ Budi said. “Did you know that they used to be an item?’’
“Really?’’ Khara hadn’t known that there were things he didn’t know about the people of Khapedo.
“It’s true. I don’t know any details, though, it was before we were born.’’
For a while, there was silence as the pair walked home but Khara could practically feel the nervous energy radiating off Budi.
“What is it?’’ Khara asked.
Budi stopped, turned, and looked Khara in the eyes.
“Isn’t it time you forgave Seri already?’’
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.’’
Budi sighed, threw up his hands and the pair kept walking.
“Whatever the case, was it really worth it? All that effort? Is a paint job that important?’’
“What would be more important?’’ Khara asked.
Budi froze.
“I’m sure there’s something.’’
“If you can think of anything, tell me tomorrow,’’ Khara said.
The pair said their goodnights and headed home to rest up for another day in paradise.
