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The door opens just enough for the butler to speak. “Sir, your father wishes to see you in the study. He requests your immediate presence.”
Everything with my father is immediate. He is a man who will not tolerate waiting.
I sigh. “I’m coming.”
Each time I journey to my father’s office, I wonder if this is how Jesus felt when he walked through Jerusalem, burdened by the heavy cross on his shoulders.
Fear.
But Jesus knew he was headed toward his crucifixion. With my father, I never know when he’s going to strike.
When I arrive, the dark, imposing door to his study is shut. I take a deep breath, steeling myself for whatever is waiting for me on the other side.
Will he be amenable today? Is he in a foul mood? Which face my father wears tonight is anyone’s guess.
I raise my fist and rap three times on the door.
“Enter.”
His voice is weighted with power. Unyielding.
I open the door and step into his dark study. The only light in the room is coming from the brick fireplace behind his desk, along with a small reading lamp. He prefers to work in the dark.
With his back toward me, my father stands at the window with a pair of binoculars in one hand. In the other, he holds a cigar, with wisps of smoke curling from the end. “Close the door.”
I obey.
“Come here. I want you to see this.”
I cross the room until I reach the window, and then I wait.
“Here. Look.”
He passes the binoculars to me, and I place them to my eyes. I see what he sees: protesters from the Labor Party.
“They are growing restless,” he says. “Do you feel it?”
“Yes, Otets.”
“They are down there, and we are up here. Remember this moment. It is our duty to keep them in their place, to maintain order. It is a delicate balance. Too much bloodshed and it draws international attention. This is why we allow them just enough hope to keep them going, but the moment it gets out of hand—”
A loud bang makes me jump, and I nearly knock my eyes out with the binoculars. I cast a sideways glance at my father, who has squashed a bug against the glass. He takes out his handkerchief and cleans his palm.
“If it gets out of hand,” he continues, “you put them down like the dogs they are. Quietly.”
“I’m sure King Louis XVI said the same thing before his head was cut off. But by then, it was too late.”
As soon as the statement leaves my lips, I realize my mistake. Within a moment, I’m knocked to the floor, reeling from the backhand to my face.
“Get up.”
I obey, though when I stand, the room spins. But I cannot let him glimpse any show of weakness.
“A revolution will never happen,” he says. “Not while I’m leading this nation. But I worry about your reign. You’re too soft.”
“I am not soft.”
“Yes, you are! You will allow the scum to walk all over you when you succeed me unless you learn how to wield the power of this office.”
