‘Bring them,’ said the Leader, sweeping off the podium.

XX
The New Middle Way

Now we’re in trouble,’ said Tancredi as they were bundled down a corridor.

‘Nonsense,’ Stalin replied, ‘the man’s a weakling, without morals, as changeable as the wind. The “Middle Way” isn’t policy, it’s a marketing ploy. He’ll bend to my will in minutes.’

‘I fear your travels in time and space have affected your mind,’ said Tancredi. ‘This isn’t Russia before the revolution. Correctomondo is an advanced society, whatever your opinion of its politics. There’s a difference between short-termism and lack of principle.’

‘You’re naïve,’ came the curt reply. ‘They’re one and the same. And political correctness comes in many flavours. The Leader has a taste for the most pungent – personal failure suffused with jealousy. There are no depths of idiocy to which he will not descend – who will dare argue? Surely you can see that this system is spiralling into ever more self-defeating circles?’

Presently a door was flung open and they were marched into a palatial room with a magnificent view of Pious, the capital of Correctomondo. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, gold leaf adorned the walls, and the floor was of the finest marble. Assistants, all eager young political types, stood in clusters around the chamber. Tancredi thought the surroundings opulent given the modesty of the Leader. Stalin snorted and rolled his eyes. As they entered the room they caught sight of the Leader, his back turned to them, looking out of the window.

‘I know who you are,’ he said without bothering to turn towards them. ‘A man of evil, a monster, a …’

‘To some,’ Stalin cut in, not allowing him to finish his pre-planned diatribe. ‘A hero to others.’

He glanced at Tancredi, who glimpsed a hint of humour in his eyes.

‘Do you think that men wake up calculating how to do evil? Isn’t one man’s crime another man’s ideal? Or is it easier to believe that there are square answers, one formula that will make the world a better place?’

The Leader wasn’t accustomed to philosophical debate: his skill was in the art of the correct. He decided to retreat to safer ground. His entourage pretended to be busy; in fact they were tuned into the unusual situation developing.

‘So you ridicule the politics of the Middle Way? The language of centrality, fairness and consideration spoken in Correctomondo.’

He turned towards his adversary, unable to sustain his window-gazing pose.

‘But not understood elsewhere,’ Stalin replied in overt disgust.

He moved a few steps towards him, unfastening the top button of his coat.

‘Did the Romans, rulers of the world, operate according to your criteria? And were the Spartans a middle-of-the-road sort of people? By definition you repudiate anything great.’

The Leader sneered as he sized up the square-shouldered Russian in his old-fashioned coat. He had him now, he could recite the creed which had defined his life and propelled him to power.