The Dictator's Last Wish
A Political Story by EC - copyright 1986, 2001, 2007
The world's most powerful man is denied the one thing he most wanted: the right to tell the truth
Introduction
The Dictator’s Last Wish started out as the
concluding chapter of a political novel I was planning to write during
the mid 1980’s. The story, as originally planned, would have followed
the career of Dr. William F. Bolotti, the first dictator of the United
States.
On the surface William Bolotti would have been looked upon as one of the
most successful and powerful political leaders of human history, a man
who ruthlessly changed the United States, re-oriented the country’s
society and values, and went on to dominate the entire Western World.
For 30 years he ruled with almost no opposition and retired while he
still enjoyed widespread popular support.
The purpose of the story, however, was not to concentrate on William
Bolotti’s amazing political career, but instead the man’s internal
thoughts throughout his life. Bolotti’s original goal was to be a
reporter and political commentator. He wanted to “bear honest witness”
to his fellow citizens, not become a national leader. However, through a
series of chance encounters and events over which he exercised little
control, he ended up as a US government employee, then a Congressman,
and finally in a position of absolute power, by pure accident. Whatever
doubts he had about what he was doing, William Bolotti felt that he had
to keep them to himself and show nothing but ruthlessness and
determination to the rest of the world.
The story was in part inspired by George Orwell’s essay “Shooting an
Elephant”, in which Eric Blair, as a British colonial police officer
working in Burma, was forced by the psychological pressure of having an
audience to do something he personally did not want to do. The writer
described the incident as an insight to understanding why tyrannical
governments act in the way they act, because they are doing so to meet
public expectations.
The people expected it of me and I had got to do it; I could feel
their two thousand wills pressing me forward, irresistibly. And it was
at this moment, as I stood there with the rifle in my hands, that I
first grasped the hollowness, the futility of the white man's dominion
in the East. Here was I, the white man with his gun, standing in front
of the unarmed native crowd--seemingly the leading actor of the piece;
but in reality I was only an absurd puppet pushed to and fro by the will
of those yellow faces behind. I perceived in this moment that when the
white man turns tyrant it is his own freedom that he destroys. He
becomes a sort of hollow, posing dummy, the conventionalized figure of a
sahib. For it is the condition of his rule that he shall spend his life
in trying to impress the "natives," and so in every crisis he has got to
do what the "natives" expect of him. He wears a mask, and his face grows
to fit it. – George Orwell: 1936 –
“The Dictator” was designed to be a retelling of Orwell’s essay on a
grand scale, the story of an entire career and the resulting violent
regime built upon public expectations. William Bolotti became a
bloodthirsty tyrant not because that was what he wanted, but because he
found himself positioned in front of a mass movement that expected him
to act viciously towards its perceived enemies. On the surface he was in
absolute control, but underneath he understood that he didn’t control
anything and that his dictatorship was a sham.
At the end of his life Bolotti was tormented by the huge divide between
who he was to the outside world and how he saw himself as a person. Not
having the courage to tell the world about the contradiction of his life
while still alive, he opted for writing a confession to be published
after his death.
What happens to that confession was to encompass the final chapter of
the novel.
----------
The novel never was written as I originally envisioned it. There are a
variety of reasons (or justifications and excuses) why I never got very
far into the project. My own life circumstances did not give me the
opportunity to work on fiction at the time because I was tied up with
academic research. Eventually the story lost its focus in my mind, and
the turn of world events during the late 1980’s and early 1990’s
rendered much of what I wanted to say in the novel out-of-date. The
philosophy of William Bolotti’s political party was based upon my
interpretation of Latin American populism, socialism, and a hint of
neo-fascism, ideas that already were passing into obsolescence by the
time I was contemplating the story. The US was rapidly changing as a
society and the idea of writing a predictive political novel that could
accurately capture the dynamics of my country became impractical.
The saga of William Bolotti lay buried in my mind for 15 years
until I began writing “The Wanderings of Amy”. I decided to resurrect
the Bolotti project, not as a full-blown novel, but instead with the
much more modest goal of turning the conclusion into a short story. I
posted the story to a couple of writers’ groups (that no
longer exist), and finally decided to include it in my website.
Already at least one detail in the story is out of date. The Concord, which
is briefly mentioned in the end, doesn’t exist anymore. It was pulled
out of commercial service about a year after I first posted the story.
The Dictator’s Last Wish
Dr. William Franklin Bolotti died at age 94.
The facts, as known to the public, are as follows: The former US
dictator died approximately 20 kilometers to the west of his hometown of
Silverado, Colorado on October 26th at 5:40 p.m. Dr. Bolotti was driving
his vintage Ford Falcon on a farm road when he became aware of the
symptoms on an impending heart attack. He was following his usual route
for his pleasure drives, when he had his first, and less severe,
episode. Dr. Bolotti managed to pull his car to a stop, and had just set
the parking break when the second attack hit him. He pushed open the car
door and rolled out of the driver's seat onto the pavement. He managed
to pull himself into a sitting position next to his vehicle, and
remained in the same position until the time of his death. There was a
functioning alarm attached to Dr. Bolotti's belt. The alarm was not
activated.
The autopsy indicated that he maintained consciousness for approximately
20 minutes, as he sat with his shoulders and head braced against the
open door of his vehicle, facing to the west. The sun was close to
setting at the time, and the US press speculated that Dr. Bolotti may
have wanted to see the last sunset of his life undisturbed.
Agents from the US Marshall's Service located and retrieved Dr.
Bolotti's corpse approximately one hour after his death. Dr. Bolotti,
during the final years of his life, had been adamant that no US Marshals
were to be within sight of him during his drives or hikes. He wanted the
prairie to himself, and Dr. Bolotti was a man who got what he wanted.
Dr. Bolotti's oldest daughter, Cynthia, announced the death of the
former dictator in a nationally televised statement shortly after the
body was transferred to the town mortuary in Silverado. The world was
shocked to learn that the man who had wielded so much influence just a
few years before died alone, slumped next to a cheap 1960's car, on a
deserted county road on a desolate prairie.
Cynthia Bolotti issued the following statement. "As Dr. Bolotti's
daughter I will say this. First, the agents who were assigned to my
father are not at fault for anything. They followed his orders to leave
him alone and keep their distance. He didn't need them when he was
alive; all he needed them for was to get his body out of there before
the coyotes got to him. He died the way he wanted to die, alone on the
prairie. Second, no one should grieve for my father. He was 94. That's
long enough for anyone to stay alive as far as I'm concerned. My father
did what he wanted to do, and finished his writings and life's work. He
was done. He finished what he wanted to accomplish, and it was time for
him to die. Third, I request that no one pray for my father. He was an
atheist. He is dead and that is that. The public service is tomorrow at
the Silverado City Gymnasium and the funeral is in three days. The
public is welcome to the service. The funeral will be in the Silverado
Public Cemetery and will be attended by family members only. Anyone
wishing to make donations can contribute to the Nationalist Party
Memorial Fund. Thank you."
----------
The death of Dr. Bolotti marked an end of an era that saw a huge
reconfiguring of the world's power structure. William Bolotti, as head
of the Nationalist Party and leader of the US for 31 years, lead a
world-wide effort by heads of state to re-assert governments as the
primary sources of power and decision-making. This effort by Bolotti and
his allies, and the simultaneous effort by Chinese political elite to
consolidate control over Asia, reversed the previous trend of
decentralization, privatization, and globalization. The world split in
two spheres of influence under state control as the dream of a unified
world under the control of non-governmental organizations ended.
Within five years of coming to power, Dr. Bolotti's government, through
a series of executive decrees, massive nationalizations, and public
executions, permanently transformed the US. Within a decade of his
ascension to power, Dr. Bolotti and his allies in Latin America had
transformed the entire Western Hemisphere. Bolotti became a hero to
hundreds of millions of people who wanted an end to the chaos brought
about by globalization and free-market ideologies. "The end of chaos"
became a slogan that resonated throughout the Western Hemisphere and
later throughout most of Europe. Bolotti's world became one of workers
and government policy. There was no room in Bolotti's world for
activists, criminals, and entrepreneurs. Bolotti surprised his critics
by not systematically moving against organized religion, but church
leaders learned very quickly not to express any opinions on
public policy.
William Bolotti and his allies were ruthless to their enemies. During
the first several years of the Nationalist Party's rule in the US,
nearly two million people were executed. As Nationalist Parties took
over Latin America, another 9 million were executed there. As the
Nationalist movement swept Europe, another 5 million were executed. US
forces annihilated three entire Middle Eastern countries when terrorists
launched attacks in North America. The rise of Nationalism was as bloody
as it was efficient.
Institutions throughout the Western world changed as the Nationalist
movement took over. Education, health care, labor laws, working
conditions, environmental conditions, and law enforcement became
standardized throughout the Nationalist world. Bolotti himself set most
of the standards. The dictator even went as far as heading a committee
that met on a yearly basis to approve the public education curriculum
and textbooks used in Nationalist countries. He also directed the US
National Censorship Board and personally reviewed many video and audio
productions. He was active in setting health policy and environmental
laws, always making decisions after listening to testimony from experts
in respective fields.
People throughout the Western World settled into secure lives,
guaranteed employment, and fixed working conditions. Life became less
interesting, but also much less stressful. Bolotti aggressively sought
to eliminate the social factors that caused crime, substance abuse, and
unemployment. Censorship laws, the banning of advertising, the seizure
of the Internet, and the closing of the professional entertainment
industry profoundly changed popular culture. The entertainment networks
vanished as radio and television stations became independent of each
other and played locally produced music. There was no gambling, no
businesses permitted to be open past 10 pm, and no violence permitted in
sporting events or portrayed in the media. The large corporations that
dominated the US prior to Bolotti's rise to power ceased to exist with
the first wave of nationalizations and executions. The abolition of corporate boardrooms removed any ability of businesses to influence
public policy. The Nationalist leaders had no desire to have to compete
with business executives as they created public policy.
Bolotti had no faith in the state's ability to run the economy at the
retail level, so the economy quickly was taken over by smaller
businesses once the larger ones were shut down. The new retail economy
became similar to the one that had existed in the US prior to the rise
of department store and retail chains, one of small stores and
individual owners. The new class of small business-owners became a key
source of support for the new Nationalist regime. As long as the
Nationalist Party stayed in power their businesses were safe. Maybe they
could not expand, but neither could they be put out of business. The
huge malls and massive parking lots of the 20th Century vanished, torn
down and replaced by numerous tiny business districts and independent
specialty shops.
The strategy that led to the success of the Nationalist Party was no
secret. The Bolotti regime created a new middle class of independent
small businesses, small-scale entertainment centers, small farmers,
public service unions, teachers' collectives, and local entertainers'
guilds that relied on the regime's policies to stay in business. A huge
portion of the US population had a vested interest in the survival of
the Nationalist Party, which was an important factor in Bolotti's 31-year rule.
---------
Dr. William Franklin Bolotti directly ran the US from age 44 until he
was 75. Initially he had no intention of staying in office for three
decades, but the years sped by more quickly than he could have
anticipated. The public became used to having him as their leader,
as nearly two generations grew up not knowing anything else. Finally as
age and historical pressures began to build against him, Bolotti
arranged his own departure from office, passing control of the regime to
several younger members of the Nationalist Party and calling for
national elections.
William Bolotti knew when to quit. During the final years of his rule,
the opposition New-Federalist Party had become increasingly popular
among the younger generation, as well as members of the older generation
who remembered the days of the Constitutional Republic. The
New-Federalists were beginning to stage demonstrations at universities
demanding free local and state elections. To everyone's amazement,
Bolotti agreed. He personally met with New-Federalist leaders, worked
out an election schedule, and even proposed a constitutional amendment
to return some power to the state governments. Bolotti knew that
competitive national elections would be next, and prepared his party to
compete in free polling. He announced that he would not run for
President, nor would the Nationalist Party contest the elections if the
results favored the opposition.
As shocking as Bolotti's cooperation with the opposition may have
appeared, those closest to him understood that Bolotti's ceding of power
was not out of character at all. Bolotti himself put it best. "I am not
interested in whether or not I am the one sitting in the Oval Office. I
am interested in preserving the legacy of the Nationalist Party. The
time of the old leadership, and of my own control of the party has
passed. The party is what must move ahead, and it will need to do so
free of me, and in a competitive environment. We will survive, we will
give the New-Federalists everything they want, we will compete with
them, and we will give them every opportunity in the world to screw-up."
With that US society slowly began to loosen up again. Over the next
several years the censorship laws were relaxed and nightlife returned to
the social scene. Companies began to expand and even consolidate as the
New-Federalists changed some of the Nationalist business legislation.
The changes were slow, however. There was no counter-revolution, nor any
massive repudiation of Bolotti's values. Bolotti stepped aside long
before an effective opposition could force him out. He left power
entirely on his own terms, ones that safeguarded most of the Nationalist
legacy. The social changes the Nationalists implemented became
permanent. As much as the New-Federalists wanted a return to a pre-Bolotti
society, there was no way that could happen. The New-Federalists were
forced to operate in a social environment that the Nationalists had
created and make only incremental changes.
---------
For the 20 years following his exit from office William Bolotti worked
on preserving his influence and place in history. The first portion of
his legacy was a massive 14-volume history of the US during the
Nationalist Regime. Bolotti's doctorate was in Political Science, and
immediately following his retirement from public office he dusted off
his old writing skills in a voluminous research project on his own
government. Working with several other professional political analysts
and historians, William Bolotti created an extensive and detailed
history of the past 35 years. The history was not a personal memoir; it
was a genuine research project that was an honest assessment of the past
four decades. The project pre-empted any other serious academic effort
to study the Bolotti dictatorship.
Bolotti's next project was fiction. He wrote novel after novel of social
critique of the years leading up to his own rise to power. The theme
running through his novels was his critical view of the social
conditions that led to the rise of the Nationalist Party. He especially
liked writing about the challenges facing high school and college
students at the time he worked as teacher. However, he also published a
popular novel about a mid-level corporate executive, and another about a
social worker in a state agency. Bolotti wrote well, and opened a window
through which the younger generation could examine a world that he had
played an important role in destroying.
----------
Life moves on. The old leaders of the Nationalist Party died off. The
new leadership of Nationalists lost an election to the New-Federalists,
won the next, then lost again. Bolotti himself became a fixture of the
history books and departed the nightly news. Within 10 years of leaving
office no one in the media mentioned him at all, except on the days when
he released his latest book. He worked feverishly in his old family's
house in Silverado and began driving his old car along the isolated
roads on the deserted Prairie. He drove the old familiar routes, ones
that he had cruised 75 years before when he was in high school and his
future wife was just a young teenager under his arm.
World leaders often made the trek to Silverado to visit the former
dictator, but increasingly Bolotti's visitors were out of office and
retired as well. Increasingly Bolotti attended funerals. The young
idealists with whom he launched his political career, now more than 50
years before, became old, died, and ended up in the ground as rotting
corpses. Bolotti's old enemies in the pre-regime Democratic and
Republican parties died off, and he attended their funerals as well.
When he was 87, his second wife died. When he was 92, Bolotti's oldest
son, 24 years younger than his father, died of a sudden heart attack.
The following year, Bolotti's nephew died. Bolotti outlived them all,
but finally his time ended as well.
----------
Three days after his death, true to Cynthia Bolotti's word, Dr. William
Franklin Bolotti was buried in the Silverado Public Cemetery. The only
people present were the surviving members of the Bolotti clan; two
daughters, two sons, fourteen grandchildren, eighteen
great-grandchildren, four great-great grandchildren, his surviving niece
and nephew and their children, and two grandnephews from his brother's
son and their children. No other people, not even in-laws, were invited.
The former dictator was buried in the family plot, with his mother, his
brother and sister, his uncle and aunt, his son, and his two deceased
wives. Bolotti's grave was simple, his tombstone no more elaborate than
those of his other family members. There were no religious overtones to
the ceremony. His casket was draped in the US flag and the green and
black flag of the Nationalist Party.
Cynthia gave a short speech and threw a shovel of dirt on the casket
after it was lowered. She briefly looked at the other tombstones as she
passed the shovel to her younger sister. She thought about the
tragedies, which had struck down her father's relatives before she was
born. Her grandmother died in a car accident, her great-uncle died of
depression and alcoholism, her aunt was murdered, and her uncle died of
a drug overdose at a very young age. All of these deaths occurred a long
time ago, long before William Bolotti became a fixture of the nightly
news. However, it was precisely because of these deaths that Cynthia's
father had the drive, anger, and ruthlessness that carried him to his
spectacular success as a political figure. Cynthia's mother, Christina
Mendez Bolotti, died from an assassination attempt against her father
during the Counterstrike. Christina's younger sister, Yolanda Mendez,
married William a few years later and bore him two more sons, but now
she was dead as well.
The William F. Bolotti Presidential Library Trust Fund would take
possession of the cemetery and soon it, as well as the Bolotti family
house and about half of Silverado's public buildings, would become
tourist attractions. The Bolotti saga began in Silverado, and here was
where it would end. The dirt piled onto Bolotti's casket, and with that
the former dictator passed into history once and for all.
----------
Cynthia Bolotti was 73, but her trim body and sharp features still
reflected a face that had captivated the nation when she was a young
woman. During the heady days of the Nationalist Party's rise to power,
during the chaos of the Counterstrike and during the Final Revolution,
it was Cynthia who stood by her father's side and worked as his
spokesperson. She became the face of the Nationalist Party with her
continuous press announcements and public statements. Cynthia was at her
father's side when he announced the expropriations, when he announced
wars, and when he announced executive orders. She was there during the
assassination attempt that killed her mother and her father's Secretary
of State. She had been with him at the United Nations and when he
matched wits with the Chinese. She had been to more party rallies and
public ceremonies than she cared to remember. She knew Dr. Bolotti's
business as well as he did, and she believed that she understood his
thoughts and motives.
Cynthia's younger sister, Deborah, was 65. Unlike Cynthia, Debora looked
her age. She had raised six of her own children plus Cynthia's son,
leading a quiet life married to a member of the Swedish Royal Family.
Debora hated the world of her father and her sister and sought to escape
from anything related to the United States and the Nationalist Party.
She hated being a Bolotti, and she hated what her father had done. She
had not spoken to him for nearly 30 years. She had avoided any contact
with US citizens and for the last half of her life had insisted on
speaking only Swedish. However, for today at least, Deborah and her
offspring were reunited with the rest of the Bolotti family. Her father
was dead, and momentarily she felt that a huge weight had lifted from
her shoulders.
----------
Later that afternoon Cynthia and Deborah entered their old house, as the
Secret Service stood watch outside. The family had agreed that the two
sisters would be the only people allowed in the house to clean up and
prepare the dwelling for public display. The house itself was quite old,
much older than even their father. It had been built around 1910 out of
reddish sandstone. It had stood for 150 years and was totally different
from anything that had been built for a very long time. William
Bolotti's old Ford Falcon, retrieved from the prairie road and cleaned up, already was parked
in the garage with a small National Parks Service sign attached to it.
Probably it would never be driven again.
Bolotti's daughters planned to collect a few small items for themselves
or other family members, straighten up, and then the house and its
contents would be turned over to the Bolotti Presidential Library Trust
Fund. As Cynthia and Deborah walked through the house of their
childhood, they commented on how strange it was to think that it would
be a public museum within a few days. The two women rounded up documents
and family pictures and deposited them in several boxes in the living
room. Most of the items would be donated to the Presidential Library,
but the two sisters agreed that they wanted to review the pictures
before releasing possession of them.
For a while Cynthia and Deborah were able to forget their ages.
Momentarily they were teenagers again, with their brother and cousins
still in the house, their mother working in bank, and their father
working as a part-time school teacher and free-lance author. This was
long before anyone had ever heard of the Nationalist Party or its
predecessor, the Jobs Now! movement. It was before their father ran for
Congress. It was long before their father became the center of an entire
revolutionary movement.
Deborah felt a huge loss. She wanted her childhood back. She wanted her
father, the one of her early years, back in her life. She now was a
grandmother, but right now she felt her loss as a child. There had been
tragedy in this family, but at one time there had been peace and love as
well.
Cynthia was occupied with the practical task of making sure that nothing
remained behind that might lessen her father's stature and legacy. She
systematically searched his office and bedroom, but found nothing
noteworthy except some photos of her father at a topless beach in France
with an old girlfriend in college. The pictures were more than 70 years
old and totally inoffensive, but they were taken at a time that her
parents had broken up and each was momentarily dating someone else.
Well, the public did not need to be reminded of that. Cynthia pocketed
the pictures and negatives. She did not find anything else worth taking.
In the livingroom there was an old fireplace with a mantle. Just as they
were about to finish cleaning up the family's documents, Cynthia and
Deborah both noticed an envelope with the handwritten words "Cynthia,
please read this and release to the press. Love, Dad"
Cynthia snatched the envelope before Deborah had the chance to get a
good look at it. She pocketed it.
"Cynthia, would you please let me see that?"
"No. It has my name on it, not yours. I'll read it, then let you know if
it's anything important." Cynthia stared down her younger sister, just
like she did sixty years before. Deborah backed off. Both of them knew
that something important was in the envelope, but Cynthia now had it to
herself.
Cynthia went back upstairs to her father's office. She locked the door
and sat down in her father's ancient armchair. She momentarily
contemplated the view out the window. The town extended a couple of
streets past the Bolotti house, then the bleak gray-brown prairie
extended beyond. Sometimes the distant Rocky Mountains were visible in
the distance, but today dust storms obscured the horizon. Cynthia
reflected that she probably would be the last person to ever sit in this
chair and look out this window. By next week it would be a roped-off
museum exhibit.
Cynthia opened the envelope. She was surprised to see her father's
handwriting on the letter. Usually he used his computer to write his
thoughts. There was no question that this letter contained her father's
final reflections on his own life; the fact it was hand-written made
that obvious. With some trepidation Cynthia began to read...
Some thoughts on my life and the significance of my career
Throughout my life I have written. I believe my writing has covered the
full range of the possibilities for a person with my education: fiction,
journalism, historical research, political analysis, social commentary,
political commentary, speeches on every topic imaginable, class
lectures, and political ideology.
My career began as a writer, and my career ended as a writer. I consider
myself a writer. I looked upon everything else in my life as a diversion
from my purpose, to seek the truth through exploring my thoughts through
the English language. No one will understand my life and the
significance of my career without understanding this basic fact.
As I looked back through my life, back through my retirement, my
dictatorship, my years as a political activist, my aborted career in
Congress, my years as a teacher and columnist, my brief career with the
CIA, my time in the US military, and my time as a college student, I
have tried to understand what motivated me. I presume that I was
motivated by a desire to understand life, seek the truth, make others
see their potential, and put an end to exploitation.
Behind my chasing after the truth was an underlying anger that has been
with me since I was about 14 or so. As I witnessed the deaths of my
family, I realized that most of what happened to my relatives was not
their fault. They made bad choices, yes. But they made bad choices based
on social pressures and a value system that encouraged their
self-destructive behavior. Over time I blamed the society in which I
grew up for killing my family. From the beginning of my ability to
reflect on social issues as an adult, I sought to understand those
social issues, and promised myself to bring an end to the conditions
which I believe killed my relatives. At the time I also wanted
vengeance, but I did not fully realize that, nor what my feelings would
lead to in the future.
By the time I was 24, all of my relatives; my mother, my brother and
sister, and my aunt and uncle, were dead. I was the one left behind to
pick up the pieces of my family. I married my wife Christina, I adopted
my sister's two children and my brother's son, and had three children of
my own. I was determined that I should rebuild the Bolotti family, and
that the six children in my life should not have the chance to repeat
the mistakes of my brother, sister, and uncle. As I collected the
survivors of my family and struggled to raise them with Christina, my
anger at the society that had forced the situation on me burned inside
my brain.
I studied and worked, seeking to be the best I could be. I joined the
military to get my family out of debt, and from there went to the CIA. I
worked overseas, and witnessed the futility of my government's policies.
I returned to my home in Silverado, bought my house, and collected my
thoughts to write. I wrote well, and I believe that the best years of my
life were the ones I spent in Silverado as a young teacher and
columnist. However, as I watched high school students succumb to social
pressures and dysfunctional values that destroyed their lives, my anger
at the system increased.
Over time I became the spokesperson of the angry electorate. My style of
writing and my concern for the needs of average people allowed me to
connect with the middle class and small town citizens of the US. People
across the US were angry, and they needed a spokesperson. Without
realizing at the time what was happening, I became that spokesperson. I
was able to put into words and give coherence to the scattered thoughts
of the huge portion of the electorate, whose interests were not being
represented by the leaders of the Democratic and Republican parties.
I was elected to the US House of Representatives as a Republican, simply
because the party had no other viable candidates for my district.
Quickly I clashed with the House Republican Leadership and struck out on
my own. I knew that I could never be an effective legislator, so I used
my position as a pulpit from which I could express my views. I gathered
information about the US political system from my position as an elected
official, and prepared to continue my career as a columnist and
political commentator as soon as my term expired.
The country at the time was in crisis. My explanations for that crisis
are well known. Over the next couple of years I developed a platform
that argued the crisis was brought about by the lack of will by the
nation's political officials to directly confront problems through
government action. I argued that the government had failed to address
the nation's problems, of which crime and unemployment were the most
pressing. My answer, and that of the Nationalist Party, was an
aggressive government and strong state institutions, which would
suppress all criminal activity and ensure jobs. Everyone would work, and
everyone would be guaranteed work.
As I look back at the second year of my term in Congress and the year
that followed, I still am amazed at how quickly the US political
landscape changed. In a two-year period the movements Jobs Now! and the
Crime Victims' Justice League, both organizations demanding government
action, merged into the Nationalist Party. I was the angry one, the
party leader who the people wanted to hear. I was their voice. The other
Nationalist Council Leadership members stepped aside to let me take
over. We became a team, determined to win, but I was pushed out in
front. Overnight, I was in charge of everything. I spoke, always with my
grating, angry style, to tens of thousands and hundreds of thousands of
people. I led huge rallies and armed marches. The stock market crashed
the day I led 340,000 people on a blockade of Wall Street and dared the
New York City Police to do something about it. Nationalist activists
attacked and terrified CEO's and lobbyists. At the same time we
challenged the courts, and threatened judges who were soft on street
criminals. In just two years the Nationalist Party became the first real
challenge ever to face the corporate, judicial, and political elite, and
they were scared.
What the public does not know, and that I never confided until writing
these words, was that I too, was terrified. I worried about the safety
of my family, of course, and about the safety of the other members of
the Nationalist Leadership Council. I worried about my followers.
However, what truly scared me was the overwhelming social force
unleashed, an entire social wave of resentment, anger, and revenge.
Where would this take us? Often I felt that I controlled that human wave
of emotion no more than a surfer controls a huge storm wave he is
riding. A surfer can stay on the wave or fall off, but he cannot change
the wave's direction or determine when it breaks. That was how I felt
during those two years. I was caught up in the forefront of something
terrifying. I had to stay the course with my rhetoric and my actions.
One wrong move, and I would fall as surely as a surfer falls if he makes
the wrong move while on a wave. On the outside I was the vicious,
fearless leader. On the inside I was scared, and I felt truly helpless.
We took power, largely through default. Scandals and economic problems
had so discredited the Republican and Democratic Parties that only a few
interest groups and die-hard supporters defended them by the time we
took them down.
The Counter-Strike and the Final Revolution turned into a huge disaster,
not only for my opponents and the nation, but also for me and the
Nationalist Party. The Counter-Strike enraged the Nationalists and made
us truly blood-thirsty, myself included. I lost my wife and my friend
Edward O’Brien during the Counter-Strike. The tragedy was that Christina
and Edward were the only voices of restraint and moderation in my life.
The two best people in my life died, and with them what was good in me
died as well. Their deaths released the real demons in my soul.
By that time the Nationalist Party became something that neither I nor
the other members of the Directorate had intended. However, I never
believed that I could stop the executions that followed the
Counter-Strike, nor did I have any desire to do so. Revenge, revenge,
revenge. Revenge became our political program and my personal mission.
During my time in power my followers achieved great things, and to this
day I believe that on the balance the Nationalist movement was generally
a good influence on humanity. However, looking back, I am dismayed at my
own life and my failure to control my own destiny. I have the blood of
about 34 million people on my hands counting the wars and executions
that resulted from the Nationalist Movement worldwide. I will go to my
grave with that knowledge weighing on me. I will always wonder how it
could have been different.
I ask that you, my reader, understand why I was quite relieved when the
New Federalists formed a viable opposition to my regime. The New
Federalists offered me a means of escape from the trap that I built
around myself. I negotiated my way out of power and back to a peaceful
life. After 30 years, I was able to return to my true calling, writing
and social analysis. I became a witness to history instead of an actor.
It was only after I retired from public office that I could write my
commentaries and books. I achieved peace and a limited degree of
happiness after I retired that I never had during my regime.
I am an old man now, waiting to die. I wanted to bear witness for my
time, not lead. I ended up doing both. I will be remembered, and over
the years, I will be judged for my actions. I accept whatever judgment
the future chooses to impose on me, on my writings and on my ideas.
I am within a few days, or a few weeks perhaps, of reaching the end of
my life. You too, my reader, will experience death, and the future will
judge you as you lie in your grave. Then, over time, we will all be
forgotten. The Earth and Sky will continue on, long after the last human
has perished from this planet.
Dr. William Franklin Bolotti
----------
Cynthia finally finished reading. She was stunned as she stared blankly
at her father's handwriting. What the hell was this? Here, in these few
pages, her father had confessed that he really was not the resolute
activist that everyone believed him to be. He had led one of the
greatest political movements of human history, changed the course of the
world, and imposed his values on the rest of humanity in a way not seen
since the communist movement from more than a century before. Yet in
this letter, he was claiming not to have wanted any of that. He was, and
admitted to being, nothing but a frustrated author swept up in history
and his own anger.
Cynthia felt horribly betrayed. She had given up 50 years of her own
life for her father's cause. She had given up the chance to raise her
own son and instead sent him to live in a palace in Sweden. She had
given up any chance she could have had to re-marry or have other
children. She had given up any chance she might have had to develop her
own career. She had given up her own prospects of self-fulfillment, in
order to dedicate her life to her father's political ambitions. Now she
held, in her hands, her father's confession that he did not fully
believe in his own life's accomplishments.
How could she react to this? Fifty years! Fifty years of speech-writing,
fifty years of party rallies, fifty years of endless travel and public
appearances, fifty years of the Nationalist Party, the Nationalist
Party, always the Nationalist Party! Fifty years of defending the
viciousness of her father's regime. She had given up fifty years of her
life, given them to her father and his party, for nothing! Now on top of
everything else, Cynthia's father seemed determined to destroy his own
legacy, by describing himself as a person caught up in history instead
of making it. Not only was he destroying his own legacy, but probably
hers as well.
Cynthia's sharp mind quickly snapped out of her anger. She coldly
assessed the significance of her father's letter, and what it might mean
for the remainder of her own life and ambitions. Cynthia still was a
member of the Nationalist Party Directorate. Although she never had held
public office, her position made her the most influential person in the
Nationalist Party. Her stature as Bolotti's daughter gave her enormous
sway over the party's candidates and political platform and gave her de
facto veto power over most of the Directorate's decisions. She was
determined to hold on to that influence. She had to interpret this
letter (or "put a spin on it" as they used to say during the final days
of the Capitalist Republic) that would not harm her own position. That
would be difficult. If Cynthia's father were not what he made himself
out to be, if he was full of doubts and second thoughts about his own
life, how would people see her, the loyal daughter? What was she loyal
to, if her father did not fully believe in his own cause?
----------
Cynthia's thoughts turned to Deborah. Her sister had turned her back on
her family and on her country. She had lived a quiet sheltered life
raising seven children and attending social functions. Cynthia always derided her sister as "that Swedish ornament"
and viewed
Deborah's life as largely useless. Now her own mind filled with doubts.
Was Deborah's life useless? Deborah had raised seven children and had
been mostly happy with her existence. She had lived in peace, something
Cynthia had never experienced. She had the love and companionship of her
family, once again something that Cynthia had never experienced.
Cynthia's own son was a stranger and spoke English with an accent.
Cynthia felt a sudden urge to share this letter with Deborah. Maybe they
could talk. Maybe they could become close again, as they had been prior
to their father's political career. Maybe Cynthia could ...
No. Cynthia had to think about herself, not Deborah. Her father was
dead, so her worries about him changed. Cynthia decided that it was
William Bolotti's legacy that she had to protect, not the truth. The
myth, of the angry, unwavering, determined, resolute leader was part of
that legacy and could not be altered.
Another part of that legacy was Cynthia's own career. Cynthia realized
that there was no turning back for her. She was in her 70's, but in good
health and with a good 10 years ahead. Whatever the truth was about her
father, she still had things in this life that she wanted to accomplish.
The pattern of her life had been determined many years ago, the
political path, the quest for power and influence. She was too old to
start over, but too young to retire. All this family crap and hope for
love, and her own father's search for the truth...well, none of that
would help Cynthia in any way. There was only one solution. Cynthia
folded the letter and put it in her pocket with her father's France
beach pictures.
----------
Cynthia looked around the room one last time. It was almost the same as
it had been 65 years ago, when the family first moved into this house.
The desk chair and the easy-chair had been re-upholstered a couple of
times, but her father's old books, and even the books he had read to her
as a child, were here. Old family photos, some dating back to the
1800's, adorned the room, as did a handful of heirlooms. These items
still belonged to the Bolotti family, and Cynthia could have taken them
if she wanted to. However, to do so would violate this room, the room
from which her father had launched his career as a political columnist.
No. She would take nothing.
Cynthia's allowed herself one memory before leaving, of herself and her
father just shortly after they had moved into this house. Deborah had
just been born, and Cynthia had been ignored by her parents for a few
days as they attended to the baby. Her father then realized that he had
hurt his oldest daughter, and spent an entire day making it up to her.
After a day of fun, she sat on his lap in the evening as he read a Dr.
Seuss story to her in the easy chair. Cynthia was a bit too old for Dr.
Seuss, but today she wanted to hear the nonsense rhymes that had
captivated her a year or so before. Her father read her the book, then
another, then another. She fell asleep, in this very chair, in his lap.
Cynthia got up and left the room. Its contents would be roped off and
protected by electronic sensors in a couple of days, and would vanish
from Cynthia's personal life. Cynthia would return to her own life and
her efforts to win the next round of elections for Nationalist
candidates. Elections. Hell, things were so much easier when her father
ran things through executive orders. Too bad we can't do that anymore,
she thought to herself.
Cynthia went back downstairs, where Deborah was waiting for her.
"OK, what was in the letter?"
"Just some stuff for me, personal."
"Yeah, what about the comment about releasing it to the press?"
"I don't know why he had that on there. It's personal. I don't know why
he'd want it in the press, but it isn't going to the press, I can tell
you that."
Deborah paused. She knew full-well that letter had something important
in it, perhaps something that could help her make sense out of her
father and her own life. But there was no arguing with Cynthia. There
never had been any arguing with Cynthia. Maybe that was the problem with
her family, that Cynthia was not to be confronted.
"Well, what is in the letter? I have a right to know. I'm his daughter
just as much as you are."
Cynthia paused. Maybe...
No. It was too late. Too late for anything other
than for Deborah to finish her life in that Swedish palace, and for
Cynthia to finish her life with the Nationalist Party. Deborah needed to
get back to Sweden and out of Cynthia's life, before Cynthia's own
doubts overcame her ambitions.
"Don't feed me any bull about you being his daughter too. You're not,
and you haven't been for over 30 years. You turned your back on him, on
me, and on your country. You even turned your back on your language. I
didn't even want you here, the only reason you're even in this house is
because everyone else insisted. Don't tell me you're his daughter too.
Maybe you were at one time, but you're not now. I am his daughter, and I
will decide what happens to his stuff, the letter included."
Deborah was hurt. She had hoped that perhaps she could make things up
with Cynthia, that perhaps Cynthia would soften with their father now
dead. No. Cynthia was harder and more impenetrable than ever.
"Why do you have to be this way? Why can't you let me know what he
said?"
Cynthia again stared down her sister. "Look, just go back to your little
palace. Go back to your Swedish aristocrat and your Swedish parties.
Wear your little jewels and your French fashion. There's nothing here
that concerns you."
Deborah was dismissed. She walked to the front door and signaled one of
the US Marshals to help her with a couple of boxes. She was devastated.
She turned to look at her sister one last time, and left the house.
----------
Deborah and her family took a speed-shuttle out of the Denver
International Airport that evening. Within two hours they would be
safely back in Stockholm. Deborah's husband took her hand as the shuttle
leveled-off in sub-orbit and prepared to descend. She looked at him and
smiled, trying to make the best out of this moment. She knew that an
upset stomach lay ahead in just a few minutes. Deborah dreaded re-entry
in a speed-shuttle because it always made her sick. Deborah had wanted
to take a Boeing, but was over-ruled by her children because Boeings
were too slow.
Deborah sighed. She thought about the death of her father. The weight on
her shoulders had returned. She realized that she would never be free
from her past until her sister died as well. Cynthia had excellent
health and probably would outlive her. Deborah would carry the burden of
being a Bolotti for the rest of her life. She wished...just that...it
could have been different. That the funeral could have been different.
That her sister could have opened up.
No. Deborah's ghosts remained, and would always remain, whether she ever
returned to Colorado or not.
----------
From the ground Cynthia briefly looked up with disdain at the huge vapor
trail from her sister's speed shuttle as it shot out over the prairie.
Cynthia Bolotti had never ridden in a speed shuttle, because Nationalist
Party members were prohibited from using them. William Bolotti always
had said that the speed shuttle, and its predecessor, the Concord, were
toys of the rich and symbols of wealth. If the workers couldn't ride in
speed-shuttles, neither would the members of his party. Aristocrats,
Cynthia muttered to herself. They're all aristocrats, even my own son.
That night she burnt her father's beach pictures and the letter in her
living-room fireplace. The world didn't need to know about these two
details of her father's life, one important and one insignificant.
Cynthia Bolotti went to bed alone. Tomorrow she would begin the final
phase of her life and her career. Whatever grief she felt over the loss
of her family she would never admit, not even to herself.
----------
Dr. William Franklin Bolotti was a man who always seemed to get what he wanted.
The final irony of his life was that his last wish, his desire to speak
the truth from the grave, went unfulfilled.
