Vain Glory

The priest spread his arms like Christ on the cross. His fists shook and his gaze tilted to the sky. The crowd roared and the priest appeared to hang there, exultant, on the stone balcony of the Capitol building.

Donald regretted the priest. Picking him was a mistake, a moment of misjudged improvisation. Donald had planned everything else. After he won in November he knew precisely what he wanted to happen.

Golf first. A celebratory round with the six men he trusted most. They arrived at the course at noon, five hours after the election party. Donald, standing in the sun, smiled as his friends climbed onto the first tee.

‘The heat makes you feel better,’ he told their grey, hungover faces. ‘The heat...and one of these.’

From the top pocket of his golf bag Donald took a silver cigar box. The six men groaned in amusement. Pete, Sean, Rex, Casey, JT and Lennie each took one. Donald smiled as his underlings puffed on the cheap cigars and coughed like teenagers.

‘Let’s play.’

Donald won the match comfortably, if not honestly. A few times he walked into the tall grass, looked around deliberately and, out of sight, dropped a ball by his feet. Not that he would admit to cheating, even to himself. Years of practice, on and off the course, had taught him to shut out facts and free his mind from self-doubt. Without this skill his ambitions in business and government would not have been satisfied. That evening Donald led his team to the clubhouse buoyant from another victory.

‘Guess I can’t stop winning,’ he said with a fat smile, easing himself into a wicker chair and admiring the effect of the evening light on the golf course he had inherited from his father.

The men spent the evening discussing names. Who would join the clan in the White House? Of course, Donald knew the list already. But it was fun to watch the guys offer up candidates. They seemed to him like children, desperate for a nod from the all-knowing father.

Two days later the six minions arrived at Donald’s mansion for dinner, eager to meet their teammates. In a ballroom in Florida two dozen men and women stood with drinks, sniffing each other like dogs, talking up their special bond with the boss. When Donald appeared, the room applauded and whooped. At the head of the table, the president-elect stood and smiled for a long time until the battle for the last clap was won.

Donald spent the next week on the phone: to senators and bankers, millionaires and politicians, friends and enemies. From his golden office Donald wound the world’s compass in the direction of his choosing. He imagined his kingly self in four years. Who was in the mirror? A regal man. Flowing hair, twinkling eyes. Broad posture and tanned cheeks. Reclining in the same chair, perhaps, with the energy of a young man and the mind of a sage. When his wife came in with drinks and guests he pictured her future too. In the presidential suite, on the four-poster, propped on an elbow, waiting nakedly for him. He smiled when, as if summoned, she entered the study one afternoon. He misread her scowl for restrained lust and beckoned her to the desk. He would not divulge all the details of his plan, but some were too good to keep secret.

The next month they spent on vacation. Donald treated his wife and family to suites in Barbados. Four weeks of R&R before four years of hard work.

On Christmas Eve Donald’s fifth daughter was in a play. The Nativity, his wife reminded him. Little Evie was playing Mary. The only role for a daughter of the president. Donald sat in the front row of church pews with his wife, smiling at the children. When the play was over the crowd clapped. Donald was feeling warm inside and a little loose. He decided he would say something.

On the stage Donald shook hands with the children and patted little Evie on the head. He stepped in front of a microphone and praised the performance. He spoke of the church: a beautiful building, he said, a wonderful place of worship looked after by a great priest.

‘And by the way—here’s a Christmas treat,’ Donald paused for effect. He was unsure where this was going but trusted it would be genius. ‘The priest of this church will be introducing me on Inauguration Day. Isn’t that something?’

Donald was pleased. After all, unorthodox and unexpected were two of his favourite words. Yet the story took a Shakespearean turn. One of mistaken identity. Donald had chosen the wrong priest. The man the president-elect had met that night was not the priest of the church, but a stand-in for Wallace K Sam, the regular priest, who was under investigation for child abuse.

The media storm delighted Donald. He was all over the news, just in time for Christmas. The world wondered. Had Donald meant the stand-in or the original? Would Father Sam, the regular priest, be allowed to speak at the inauguration?

Naturally, Donald backed the accused. On January 2nd (he waited for the previous day’s hangovers to pass) he sent from his phone a missive defending Father Sam. He would be resurrected, like Jesus. Father Sam would get a second chance. And what a name: like Uncle Sam but for the Church. God Bless America.

Three weeks later, as the crowd roared and Father Sam bowed, Donald watched from his position on the frosty balcony with a grimace. The priest’s performance had been hammy. Self-important. Father Sam had stolen the show.

Donald listened with fury as the crowd hollered. He had slipped up. His advisors should have anticipated this. He would interrogate them later. Right now he needed to save the day. This was Donald’s day.

Donald stepped forward to take the oath. He rested his hand on a bible and his lips echoed the priest’s dull promises while in his mind he went through his own inaugural address.

He and his team had worked on the speech since Christmas. First the formalities: good riddance to the outgoing president; thanks to the voters. Then he should laud his father’s legacy and paint a vision for the country. The structure was rigid. But in his head Donald made room for ad libbing. He needed something spectacular.

Father Sam smiled and Donald smiled back. Donald approached the lectern and breathed in the applause. His bucket of self-assuredness was full again; all it had taken was a drop of quick thinking. After ten horrible minutes of insecurity, Donald felt big again. He was the Messiah, the object of worship. Donald was back.

He held up a gloved hand and the crowd hushed. Donald paused for a beat. Two beats. The president enjoyed the silence. Then he spoke. Throughout his speech Donald glanced back at his staff. He nodded at the six golfing buddies. He smirked at the old president and his ugly wife and grinned at the crowd.

An hour later they were still listening. Donald commanded the ears and eyes of the world. His vision for America, his stance on trade and war in the Pacific. This was the moment, Donald thought. Time for the magic trick. Time to save the day. Donald’s day. After another pause, the president stared at the crowd and, fizzing with excitement, told the biggest lie of his life.