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Nov. 23rd, 2022
Nov. 23rd, 2022 08:56 am
fic: powerful.
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figureheading
His first day in office, the Prime Minister’s quarters located on the top floor of the Grand Ducal Palace, the secretary throws the doors open to the office space proper, welcoming him home, sir, his PR manager and Karl, newly appointed Minister of the Interior, following right at his heels as he enters, feeling unusually awe-struck.
The room has been furnished to his specifications, the large, old oak desk from the Barrault manor taking centre stage in front of the windows with their view of the square in front of the Palace. The rest is local craftmanship, chairs from an internationally renowned carpenter in Dudelange, lamps from a light designer living a solitary but productive life near the French border, shelves and cabinets from a newly founded design company showing great potential, in a few years they’ll be selling to all of Europe, no doubt.
Philippe blinks.
“Gentlemen, excuse me for a moment,” he says, voice dark and with a tiny hint of thickness. They exchange looks, Gerard and Karl, then they nod and retreat, Karl closing the doors carefully after himself. We’ll be right outside, he says as way of parting.
Reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose, Philippe huffs, shaking his head slightly. Maybe at himself. Maybe to clear it. Come now, he hasn’t cried since his mother’s funeral, he didn’t even cry at the birth of his daughter, what is this, really?
He walks around the desk, eyes tracing the well-known carvings along the edges and down the sides of roses in various stages of bloom. Only briefly does he run one palm over the tabletop, the smoothness of the old, weathered wood making his skin prickle. Then, he stops in front of the windows, looking out over the rooftops of the inner city. Christmas tourists, most of them German, if you must believe the statistics, here for the markets and the shopping, crossing the square under rainbow-coloured umbrellas.
Yes, it’s raining out, late November rain.
His cheeks feel hot from the tears, even as he wipes them off with one hand before they can get too far. Five minutes pass by like that before he goes to wash off in the adjoining bathroom, finally throwing the doors open again and inviting Gerard and Karl back inside.
“Shall we?”
They both pretend not to know. Good men that they are.
The room has been furnished to his specifications, the large, old oak desk from the Barrault manor taking centre stage in front of the windows with their view of the square in front of the Palace. The rest is local craftmanship, chairs from an internationally renowned carpenter in Dudelange, lamps from a light designer living a solitary but productive life near the French border, shelves and cabinets from a newly founded design company showing great potential, in a few years they’ll be selling to all of Europe, no doubt.
Philippe blinks.
“Gentlemen, excuse me for a moment,” he says, voice dark and with a tiny hint of thickness. They exchange looks, Gerard and Karl, then they nod and retreat, Karl closing the doors carefully after himself. We’ll be right outside, he says as way of parting.
Reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose, Philippe huffs, shaking his head slightly. Maybe at himself. Maybe to clear it. Come now, he hasn’t cried since his mother’s funeral, he didn’t even cry at the birth of his daughter, what is this, really?
He walks around the desk, eyes tracing the well-known carvings along the edges and down the sides of roses in various stages of bloom. Only briefly does he run one palm over the tabletop, the smoothness of the old, weathered wood making his skin prickle. Then, he stops in front of the windows, looking out over the rooftops of the inner city. Christmas tourists, most of them German, if you must believe the statistics, here for the markets and the shopping, crossing the square under rainbow-coloured umbrellas.
Yes, it’s raining out, late November rain.
His cheeks feel hot from the tears, even as he wipes them off with one hand before they can get too far. Five minutes pass by like that before he goes to wash off in the adjoining bathroom, finally throwing the doors open again and inviting Gerard and Karl back inside.
“Shall we?”
They both pretend not to know. Good men that they are.
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Nov. 23rd, 2022 02:52 pm
fic: graduation.
figureheading
He’s running late. Not entirely his fault, as Karl had brought some paperwork from the G7 summit before him all-haste, but he is rushing to his car and racing, as much as Philippe Barrault ever races, to the university where he finds her lecture hall with habitual ease, then a seat within the hall as discreetly as any former Prime Minister can, only five minutes past the clock. Marie-Claude doesn’t even look at him, focusing on her defence of her thesis, a historical contextualization of Anise Koltz’ poetic rhetoric.
She is naturally fully able to explain and argue every single point she has made. She graduates her Master’s degree with flying colours, meeting Philippe and her mother outside afterwards, dressed in full garb and mortarboard hat. He hugs her, she is stiff in his arms.
“You were late,” she notes. Violette sighs loudly, not this again.
“I thought you didn’t even notice,” he comments, teasingly, though it’s clear from the look she gives him, she isn’t buying into his mirth.
“You’re a hard man to overlook, Dad,” she replies.
“That said, have you looked for work, my dear, it isn’t like you to wait till the last minute with anything,” his wife asks, correcting a few folds in her daughter’s attire. He hadn’t even given that a thought, simply assuming she was either waiting for the right offer or had something up her sleeve already. They are very big, those coat sleeves, after all. Many things can lay hidden there.
Marie-Claude looks at him directly. “I’m starting Monday,” she says.
Silence. Violette looks up at him a bit uncertainly, Philippe frowning and crossing his arms over his chest, all good humour gone. Something up her sleeve, then. “Where,” he wants to know.
Marie-Claude takes off her hat and fixes her hair one-handedly. “Liberté. I’ll be their new speechwriter.”
Silence, again, stunned. Violette is practically staring at him now. His features freeze over, a notion of cold anger overtaking him. “First Stéphane and now this,” he grinds out. Marie-Claude doesn’t even blink, beginning to move around them. As she passes him by, she pauses briefly, her reply curt and precise, the exact way he’s taught her.
“Surely, it’ll be good experience.”
And so, she leaves to go talk to her professors, Philippe following her with his gaze. His daughter is going places he has not even a clue about, isn’t she?
He just hopes that it will indeed be, as she says, good experience.
She is naturally fully able to explain and argue every single point she has made. She graduates her Master’s degree with flying colours, meeting Philippe and her mother outside afterwards, dressed in full garb and mortarboard hat. He hugs her, she is stiff in his arms.
“You were late,” she notes. Violette sighs loudly, not this again.
“I thought you didn’t even notice,” he comments, teasingly, though it’s clear from the look she gives him, she isn’t buying into his mirth.
“You’re a hard man to overlook, Dad,” she replies.
“That said, have you looked for work, my dear, it isn’t like you to wait till the last minute with anything,” his wife asks, correcting a few folds in her daughter’s attire. He hadn’t even given that a thought, simply assuming she was either waiting for the right offer or had something up her sleeve already. They are very big, those coat sleeves, after all. Many things can lay hidden there.
Marie-Claude looks at him directly. “I’m starting Monday,” she says.
Silence. Violette looks up at him a bit uncertainly, Philippe frowning and crossing his arms over his chest, all good humour gone. Something up her sleeve, then. “Where,” he wants to know.
Marie-Claude takes off her hat and fixes her hair one-handedly. “Liberté. I’ll be their new speechwriter.”
Silence, again, stunned. Violette is practically staring at him now. His features freeze over, a notion of cold anger overtaking him. “First Stéphane and now this,” he grinds out. Marie-Claude doesn’t even blink, beginning to move around them. As she passes him by, she pauses briefly, her reply curt and precise, the exact way he’s taught her.
“Surely, it’ll be good experience.”
And so, she leaves to go talk to her professors, Philippe following her with his gaze. His daughter is going places he has not even a clue about, isn’t she?
He just hopes that it will indeed be, as she says, good experience.
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Nov. 23rd, 2022 04:09 pm
fic: water.
figureheading
By association, water and Luxembourg should automatically make you think of the Alzette. And Philippe does think of the Alzette first, but very quickly after, his thoughts shift – to the river Sauer and Esch-Sur-Sûre, the town closest to his parental manor, it’s a ten minute drive from the stables to the small shops there, the bakery and the pharmacy and the Saturday markets in the town square.
How many fish hasn’t he caught by those riverbanks? How many nights hasn’t he biked home in parallel with the Sauer, his surroundings shrouded in pitch darkness? It was in the shade of those trees that he had his first kiss, toes dipping into the cool waters.
The Alzette is a part of Luxembourg’s self-perception, certainly, but it is the Sauer that is part of Philippe’s. In that aspect, and perhaps only in that, he is not the most Luxembourgish he could be.
How many fish hasn’t he caught by those riverbanks? How many nights hasn’t he biked home in parallel with the Sauer, his surroundings shrouded in pitch darkness? It was in the shade of those trees that he had his first kiss, toes dipping into the cool waters.
The Alzette is a part of Luxembourg’s self-perception, certainly, but it is the Sauer that is part of Philippe’s. In that aspect, and perhaps only in that, he is not the most Luxembourgish he could be.
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Nov. 23rd, 2022 10:27 pm
fic: epistolary.
figureheadingApril 23rd, 2003
Dear Frederic,
Thank you for your attention on my birthday this past weekend, the paintings you have come across during your research of the old manor are of great interest to me, and I shall look forward to studying them more closely when I manage the time.
I will furthermore extend an apology for not appearing at the release party of the biography last month. As you have seen, work can get in the way even for the most anticipated events when you’re leading a country. As it is, anyway, the book is your achievement almost solely, I have only talked too much.
Given you a lot of editing to do, haven’t I? To make me look this good.
The invitation to dinner, I must unfortunately decline. Election season is soon upon us, and I just can’t spare the time. I do, however, wish you the best in all your future endeavours and hope to see more excellent literature from your hand.
Sincerely,
Philippe
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