The Arduous March in South America (2)

A full month had passed since the Arduous March was declared.

They say human beings are creatures of adaptation. Everyone who had at first thrown themselves into nothing but thrift had not merely adapted to their circumstances — they had evolved past them. They had gone beyond saving money. They had started bringing it in.

"The Ministry of Foreign Affairs, reporting."

In the dim conference room, by candlelight, Senior Secretary for Foreign Affairs Sophia opened her mouth with unmistakable pride.

"Our ministry formed a translation task force and secured subcontracting work from an American publisher. As a result, we generated approximately $13,500 in additional revenue last month alone."

"...You've worked hard."

Senior Secretary for Land and Housing Janko raised his hand, unwilling to be outdone.

"The Ministry of Land put idle ground to work! We cleared neglected state-owned plots on the outskirts of the city and leased them cheaply to farmers, depositing $32,000 into the national treasury!"

"Oh, is that so? Leasing neglected state land to raise budget — that's excellent policy. But how did you clear it?"

"After hours, I took the entire Land and Housing staff out and handed them shovels and pickaxes. I joined them, of course."

"No, I didn't mean for you to go that far..."

The follow-through was absurd. But the true king of this room was someone else.

"SIA, reporting."

It was Lucio.

Thud. He set down the black sports bag he had been carrying, and the floor resonated with the weight of it.

"This month as well, we invited our retired seniors for sincere conversations and received voluntary donations. The amount we collected..."

Lucio unzipped the sports bag and showed its contents.

"A total of $5.5 million."

Silence filled the conference ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠room.

The truth was, I had already heard it from Isabella. They were shaking down former officials over how those fortunes had been built, hauling in anyone found to have engaged in corruption, and extracting donations that were voluntary in name only. It was illegal, and under any ordinary circumstance I ought to have put a stop to it — but looking at those bundles of dollars, I found my head nodding before I knew it.

Well... they are donations.

And we were going to put them to good use, besides. In the end, all I could do was clap him on the shoulder.

"...Lucio."

"Yes, Your Excellency."

"Well done."

"I shall continue to give it my utmost."

A fire roared to life in Lucio's eyes.

Isabella, who attended Eugene as he led the Arduous March from the front, had lately found herself deeply moved. Eugene, having declared fiscal austerity, practiced thrift more rigorously than anyone else.

On paper, it was hardly astonishing. He had been the one to call for thrift, so of course he would practice it himself. That was only natural, in a sense. But what head of state anywhere in the world actually did such a thing?

Take Nicolas Maduro of neighboring Venezuela. His own misrule had driven the nation to the brink of bankruptcy, yet he went on flying about in a private jet, furnishing villas wherever he pleased, living in unrepentant luxury.

The leader of San Marcos was different. He had given the order, so he had to set the example — and he began with himself. He skipped the food of his homeland he loved so much and made do with meager tortillas. He had even tried to go out on inspection by bicycle, claiming the gas money was a waste, and it had taken the chief of security's desperate plea that the bodyguards might actually die trying to keep up before he finally agreed to take a car.

Nor was that the end of it. To cut food expenses, he had tilled a vegetable patch in a corner of the garden alongside Presidential Palace chef Paulo, and to save on the electric bill, he had unplugged the air conditioner. A miser in a class of his own. On top of all that, he had readily put up his entire fortune of one million dollars, telling them to use it for school operating expenses.

He had stressed about eleven times that it was a loan, not a donation — but Isabella never believed a word of it. A leader like Eugene would never begrudge a million dollars for the nation.

Who could believe a leader like this even exists.

Isabella, who had received that money herself, felt a sting in her nose whenever she thought back on it.

That's right. Pushing that man into the presidency was the right choice. He is the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠one who will become the true sun of San Marcos.

Attending Eugene late into the night in the presidential office, she made up her mind.

The people need to know this.

It was too precious to keep to herself. No — it felt like a sin. She wanted every citizen to know that their leader was grinding himself to the bone for them.

"Your Excellency."

Isabella called out in a resolute voice.

"Hm? What is it? Did something else come up that costs money? I don't have any left, you know."

Eugene, who had been looking at documents, flinched and turned around.

"I have a proposal."

"Go ahead."

"I believe we should film a documentary of Your Excellency."

"A docu...mentary? About me?"

Isabella's eyes gleamed.

"I believe the people must be made aware of Your Excellency's noble sacrifice."

"Noble? What's noble about any of this... Can't we just not do it?"

"We cannot. They must be told."

Eugene waved his hands in distaste, but Isabella was not finished.

"If the people know how Your Excellency works, they will follow all the more faithfully, will they not? I shall write the script. Your Excellency need only act a little. I beg of you."

"I was in the acting world once, but that was a long time ago..."

"It is not difficult. Simply conduct yourself as you always do. I will write the lines, so you may read them as if from a textbook."

"No, that's not what I—"

"Your Excellency. The people are starving. You are the only one who can give them hope."

When Isabella looked at him with those wide, glistening eyes, Eugene no longer had any grounds to refuse.

"...All right. If it means giving the people hope, I suppose I can dust off the old skills."

And so, a few days later, Eugene's documentary aired on San Marcos's only state channel.

A melody both majestic and lyrical rose as the screen brightened. A deep night in San Marcos. The city slept, but high on the hill, a window of the Presidential Palace shone like a lonely lighthouse.

The camera passed down a darkened corridor and entered the office. To save on electricity, the chandelier overhead had been left dark; a single battered desk lamp stood as the only, precarious source of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠light. Beneath that narrow glow, the back of a man wrestling with a mountain of documents came into view. It was Eugene.

On the screen, Eugene pressed his fingers into his brow as if exhausted, then let out a sigh and reached for the plate beside him. All that lay on it was a shriveled scrap of bread and a glass of lukewarm water.

Eugene soaked the rock-hard bread in the water. Then he put it in his mouth and chewed with visible effort. The camera closed in on him patting his chest, as if the bread had caught in his throat. Cautiously, the lens drew nearer.

"Your Excellency, you cannot work on this alone. You must think of your health."

Eugene looked up from the documents, found Isabella there, and waved a hand in awkward protest.

"Even so, the burden of state affairs is so heavy..."

The next scene was the following morning. The camera lingered obstinately on Eugene putting on his shoes to go out on a field inspection.

The picture returned to the office. The midday sun beat down, yet the air conditioner remained off. Eugene sat at his work with his shirt soaked through with sweat, relying on a single rattling electric fan. He mopped at the sweat with a handkerchief again and again, but his eyes never left the documents awaiting his seal.

At last the camera caught him from behind, standing at the window, looking down over the whole of San Marcos. Over that back — lonely, yet unyielding — a quiet piano melody unfurled, and the closing words drifted out.

With that, the documentary came to an end.

The moment the broadcast finished, the whole of San Marcos became a sea of tears.

"Hhk... Dear God... and we never even knew!"

In a restaurant in the Libertad marketplace, merchants watching the television sobbed into their dishcloths.

"His Excellency, who stands as high as heaven, making do with scraps of bread! How is that possible?"

"Good heavens. He gave us food at half price, and all the while he was eating like that himself. I never imagined..."

The citizens were seized by shock, by feeling, and by guilt. Public sentiment spread like wildfire: their leader was enduring bone-grinding agony to save the country, and they could not simply sit still.

And the next day, an unprecedented spectacle unfolded before the Presidential Palace.

"Out of the way! These are the eggs my hen laid today. You must give them to His Excellency."

"This is the money I've saved for a year! Please tell him to put it toward the country's keep!"

"I made these shoes myself! I didn't know the size, so I made several pairs — please, you must give them to him."

Food and daily necessities and crumpled bills, brought by citizens each contributing what little they had, began to pile into a mountain. It was like watching zealots laying their possessions at the feet of a god. As the crowds swelled, the palace guards floundered, struggling to keep the scene under control.

And at that very hour, Eugene, who had just watched the documentary in which he himself had appeared...

"M-my retirement fund..."

The moment he confirmed that his entire fortune had been forcibly donated, he sank to the floor.