The Partisan

The tables and chairs began to occur like chance along the walkway, and if you sit, then someone will bring you something. It's like love. I sat. There is a nondescript young lady across from me. She says nothing, and neither do I. Ain't love grand?

I am brought the news that a certain Count has completed a project very dear to me. It wasn't, but I'm always glad to hear the news. What was the project?

Something involving an array of firearms. There is a picture of many pistols on a graph. It's supposed to be very creative. I am conscious that I am accepting regurgitated public wisdom again. I nod and grin. Here he comes, through the tables, smiling in the sun; the Count.

I stand and make to introduce my companion and the Count. Which isn't easy; I do not know the names of either. So I simply stall on names. "Count, this is - " and allow her to prompt me. "And this is Count - " and he gives the complete title. I promptly forget both names.

He has a model of his creation, which he sets before me with a flourish. We move off in various directions during the course of the general decorum of the setting, and when I return to the table, I find a note on the Count's graph.

"We in The League can no longer sustain you as a member. We are sorry, but your contribution to this atrocity is beneath our great mission and earnest hopes." There is a token messenger from The League, standing with great tacit opprobrium nearby.

Now she is reading me off quite proper. She repeats the dire terms of ostracism. When she is done and awaiting a reply, I say, "Okay."

She is disappointed. She had expected more turmoil, a row, maybe overturned chairs for the cause. But, really, my interest in the Count's project or The League either is no more heartfelt than my coming by the chairs and tables and the lady love and sitting there. I move off with precisely the same dedication as brought me to sit down in the first place.