It is not from the benevolence of the butcher, the brewer or the baker

One day, around the time that they had Marie-Claude and everything at home was a chaotic whirlwind of diapers and short, sacred naps, Ulrich looked at him after a negotiation he’d led and said, simply: “You’re ready, I see.”

Philippe wasn’t stupid, he understood the implications. Ulrich was aging rapidly these days, gaining maybe a couple of years for every week they lived through at Parliament. What he was really saying was, I’m letting you take over, my place is yours now. It was embarrassing enough that he would never admit it, not even in Confession, but he got goosebumps. Like a holy commandment had been spoken to him.

As they hurried down the main hallway, away from the rooms where Philippe had managed to secure their demands for the coming round of proposals, the old party leader placed a hand on his shoulder and slowed him down for a second, just long enough to say, “My advice to you is: don’t fear the politician who will take your place. Influence him, that’s the best way to leave your mark.”

Thirty years later, he looks at Jean Louis across that same negotiation table, CDP’s demands having been presented and cut down mercilessly, wondering to himself where Ulrich apparently went right and where he himself has gone wrong.

After all, the idea was to create a successor, not a rival.

Yet, Jean Louis is silent and cold as he leaves the room, Fortesque trailing after him, one more shadow in their elaborate shadow play. Nevertheless, Philippe knows and never forgets that wherever he has ended up, Jean Louis, he started his journey with the man he is currently so relentlessly working to take over from.

Yes, it all started with Philippe.

That responsibility, too, he must bear. To the bitter end.

The hallways of Parliament are neutral ground; any ideology or inclination is welcome here, insofar it has been elected by the people of Luxembourg by rightful vote. They do not take their squabbles and disagreements with them out in these corridors, the Parliament members. There’s an unspoken rule that political talk is kept to a strict minimum. A man should be allowed to cross from A to B without having to defend the legislation he’s currently backing or the moves he’s had to make to get it through.

Women, too, of course. For that matter.

That is why it’s so noticeable, the way Philippe and Jean Louis interact after Philippe loses office and Liberté gains more than just one seat. Stéphane he can joke with, although they’re at each other’s throats in the Deputy Hall, because if nothing else, Philippe intends on leading a strong opposition.

When Jean Louis and Phillippe cross each other’s paths in the hallways, it’s done in a tight-lipped, tense silence, until the very last moment, when one of them, most often Jean Louis, finally bites over the other politician’s name. “Philippe.” “Jean Louis.” It’s ice cold and rock hard and Philippe hates it. He hates remembering how the man used to address him when they worked through the night, before.

He hates that there was a before, and now there’s an after, but that is the inevitable workings of consequences, he’s aware.

So naturally, he’ll bear it. He’s born worse.

And he thought he couldn’t hate anything more.

Then, one day, as they pass each other in front of Deputy Hall again, Jean Louis says his name, “Philippe”, and there is no ice left, only indifference, and Philippe can’t make himself say Jean Louis’ name the same way. Can’t make himself so cold that there’s not even coldness left. Coldness, at least, was something, this is nothing. Is that what they’ve been reduced to? Nothing. Is that what Philippe has made of them?

Jean Louis turns a corner further down, his PR manager – as always – trailing after, leaning down to hiss at him. Philippe halts, turns around fully and looks after him. A couple of Social Democrats fall silent on his right, like magic, those people never shut up otherwise. This moment in time lasts five seconds at most, then Philippe turns back and heads for Marie-Claude’s new office, even his home life having moved in here at this point.

The old days of separating one life from another are long gone. If he’d like them back, he doesn’t consider it in great depth. Beggars can’t be choosers, after all.

It is always enemy territory, entering the SDP leader’s office. He and Stéphane may nurture a relation that borders on friendly more than collegial, but that’s only because one is supposed to keep one’s enemies closer, isn’t that right?

The other man welcomes him with an affected display of open arms, getting up from his chair and showing Philippe to the small sofa arrangement in the far corner of the room, coffee already waiting. This was a scheduled meeting, after all. Philippe seats himself carefully and waits for Stéphane to do the same before he pours them both coffee. Mugs. Stéphane is a mug person, surprisingly.

Socialists.

Philippe takes a sip. It’s scalding, he blows on it a couple of times, then takes another mouthful.

“What brings you to these parts,” Stéphane wants to know, seeing as Philippe has simply scheduled the meeting, giving no official reason to his secretary. There are things people like Liberté’s PR manager, and he's only an example to give, of course, are allowed to see and there are things he must guess at as he best can, at everyone’s peril.

Philippe raises one eyebrow slightly. “I hear you’ve been having problems with Jean Louis regarding the taxing reform.”

Stéphane shrugs, “who doesn’t have problems with Jean Louis from time to time?”

It’s a badly concealed pointed finger.

Philippe frowns and puts his mug down, leaning back on the sofa, crossing his legs at the knees. “I do not require his vote quite as much as you do,” he replies, continuing after a rhetorical pause that can be felt, “and CDP is not as averse to taxing the wealthy as Liberté is. We might be persuaded to let you have our mandates instead. It is a morally sound equation, that those who have more give a little more.” Looking around the other man’s office, his own old PM office, though the interior design is vastly different than it was in his day; more modern, simpler, as to Stéphane’s liking. Stéphane is evidently still waiting for him to knock his point home. “A little more, of course.”

“That sounds like bribing techniques to me, Philippe,” the other man chuckles. “Are you certain your elected members share that standpoint?”

Hmm. Philippe chuckles, too. ”The bribing or the taxing?”

“Both.”

“CDP’s elected members agree that things need doing and as long as there are profits to be reaped, we can make accommodations. We call it politics.”

“No need to educate me on that, Philippe,” Stéphane drinks a few slow, measured mouthfuls of his coffee, “I’m the Prime Minister now, not you.”

“Of course.” The smiles are gone, now, suddenly, from the both of them. Enemy territory. He never forgets.

“I don’t take bribes, it looks so very bad on a politician’s track record.” Stéphane gets up in a way that reads, if that was all, so Philippe gets up as well and brushes down the front of his suit jacket. Stéphane’s whole demeanour has changed, the contrast between their jovial coffee party and this, the man in power, the king, telling his subjects to kneel before him. Luckily, Philippe is not easily intimidated. He moves around the table and heads for the door before the other man has to even say the words. He stops with one hand on the doorknob.

“Keep the offer in mind, then,” he says as a way of goodbye, like he isn’t leaving his own former land injured and bleeding, “when Jean Louis puts in his unreasonable demands to have things his way, my friend.”

“Ah, but sometimes Jean Louis’ way isn’t the worst thing to happen to us,” Stéphane replies, the smile back, cooler and sharper than before.

“On that, we must agree to disagree,” Philippe answers, nodding his head once, then exiting the office and closing the door after himself, a blood-soaked battlefield with trenches and bomb craters and no immediate victory in sight.