The Arrogance of Power. Part (2)
The accountant’s reaction to the metaphorical ripping open of my shirt, to reveal my HM Inland Revenue Inspector identity confirmed my suspicions about the Channel Islands. It would take time for him to recover. However, his boss, who had experienced my occasional strange behaviour, had calmed him when I phoned the next day. They were determined not to pay my expenses. It was only 20mil Pesetas, about £100, but for me, getting it became an obsession. Was it worth the struggle to get it back? Yes, it was.
They were bullies. Their behaviour was demeaning at best, but mostly a series of deplorable lies, deceit and manipulation of people for their own gain.
It was an old Quixotic notion of honour. The reward generally didn’t justify the effort, but there was the principle to be considered. The Paddy Factor, the ‘I bow to no-man’ syndrome, had been aroused.
However, there are other ways of solving a problem besides picking a fight with the biggest man in the room and getting yourself pulped. Born Irish but brought up in England I had the condition ‘English blood Irish heart’. Anglo-Saxon logic mixed with the irrational, a dangerous combination.
Before my exile, there was talk of a gathering of clients for a regatta to demonstrate the company’s influence in the Mallorca boating world. With an ally in their organisation, I acquired the date of the event. It was over eight weeks away, which gave me time to formulate a plan. In the end, there was no plan, just a fiendishly simple strategy.
They thought they held all the cards, but I had one. Their image was what they valued most, this was their Achilles heel. They knew I knew something about their business activities, in fact, I knew very little, but they didn’t know that. Fixated on image, I only had to threaten to tarnish it. The gathering of the clients would provide an ideal opportunity.
It was ironic I was dealing with a Scot. In Shakespeare’s Macbeth, when used for deceit, image becomes self-defeating. I was trusting that guilt and the fear of humiliation would be enough to get my money.
To achieve this goal, I should conduct myself in a quiet calm manner and not get agitated. If I acted like an idiot in front of clients, I would lose the moral high ground.
My position was simple, all I wanted was my expenses: no resentments, no personal attacks, no excuse to divert the narrative. The guilty mind ‘mens rea’ was enough to create the threat.
The dialogue was simple. ‘I’ve come for my money’, the outcome relied on their imagination.
All I had to do was turn up on the day and make-believe that at some inopportune moment, I was going to drop some devastating bombshell.
“There is no terror in the bang, only in the anticipation of it”. If it worked for Alfred Hitchcock, it would work for me.
The problem I had was that over the next two months, I didn’t want them to forget about me or my expenses. However, I didn’t want to be always in their face so they’d be prepared when I turned up. It was a delicate psychological balance.
The first fortnight I phoned twice a week. “I want my money” – “You’re not getting it” – “You will pay me”, end of the conversation, phone down. The next fortnight I phoned once a week. The following fortnight just one call. Two weeks before the gathering no calls. Now they thought I’d given up, they’d won, they didn’t have to deal with me again. However, I was still a fresh memory.
The day of the gathering, I drove to Cala d’Or early. I sat on the wall at the top of the steps that came up from the marina road. My position was directly across the terrace from the office.
Anticipating a drawn-out affair, I brought a cushion for the hard wall. To suggest endurance, I had a bottle of water, but I didn’t intend drinking it, I couldn’t very well ask to use their toilet.
As a distraction, I brought a book to read. For the occasion, I chose ‘The Arrogance of Power’ by Senator J. William Fulbright. It was a book I’d meant to read for some time, now seemed the appropriate moment.
First to arrive were the workers dressed in their uniforms, blue shorts, deck-shoes and white shirts with the company name embossed in blue across the breast pocket. They asked what I was up to. I gave a noncommittal shrug.
I didn’t look up from my book, but in my peripheral vision, I saw the accountant, the boss and his girlfriend come up the steps, they pretended not to see me. To an observer, I had my head down reading, but beneath the rim of my Panama sun-hat, I periodically looked over my glasses to the office. Occasionally the boss peered nervously out to see if I was still there.
Eventually, the accountant was sent out. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come for my money” he retreated to the office.
A little later, he came out again. “The boss said you have to get off the terrace”.
“I will when I get my money” again he retreated to the office.
Time passed. I was under continual observation. It was time for a higher authority, out came the boss. He ordered me to get off the terrace.
“This is a public terrace, I have every right to sit here and read a book” I carelessly raised the book revealing the front cover. “I’ll leave when I get my money”. He retreated.
Things got interesting when the clients started to arrive. They all knew me and believing I still worked for the company, wondered why I was sitting on the wall unconcerned in casual wear reading a book.
I could imagine the question in the office “What’s Bernie doing out there reading a book”. I would have loved to have heard the answer.
Time past, my bottom was numb, but my discomfort was small compared to the boss trying to act nonchalant with his clients, not knowing what the nutter on the wall was going to do.
Out he came again. “I know what you’re up to. Get off this terrace, or I’ll call the Guardia Civil”.
“Please do because someone’s been robbed”.
“You’re not getting that money” once more he retreated to the office.
I was glad he knew what I was up to. In truth I didn’t, I was just sitting on a wall reading a book waiting to see what transpired.
After a while, he came out again. With the sincerity of a whore’s smile, he offered me freelance work if I’d leave, we could discuss it later. Tempted as I was to bring up his previous offers, my response was the same.
The fourth time he came out, he was noticeably agitated. He said he had friends in Glasgow who knew how to deal with people like me. I looked totally shocked and asked if he was threatening me. He withdrew to his lair.
By that time I’d been sitting on the wall for almost five hours, my arse was beyond numb, and I really could have done with a pee. The clients began to stream out, I told them I’d see them after lunch. The boss glared at me and then withdrew into the office. A few minutes later, he reappeared and came towards me.
I heard a ‘Yoo Hoo’. On the road to my right, Sandy and Mardy were coming to see how I’d got on. With a hand behind my back, I waved them by. This was no time for a diversion.
He must have believed I was going to follow them to lunch. Whatever he thought I was going to disclose in front of the clients in a public place was obviously pressing on a nerve.
“I’ve told the accountant to pay you, now just go”. He scurried off to his clients.
Before the accountant countersigned my cheque, I made him aware it was a criminal offence in Spain to bounce a cheque.
As I walked out of the office, I furtively flashed the cheque at the receptionist, my friend Veronica, who gave me a discrete double thumbs up.
That evening I went into Cala D’or. Driving towards me was the service manager who waved me down. ‘What now’ I thought as I wound down the car window. To my surprise, he was laughing.
“That was bloody marvellous. When the clients left the boss said ‘There’s a fine line between genius and maniac, and that Bernie Butler just crossed it’ “.
I drove home wondering if I’d been a genius and I was now a maniac or if I’d been a maniac and I was now a genius. Either way, I’d got my money.