Looking to the future – part 2

It is August of 2013. 

The Sunday Times runs a front page story praising opposition leader Mario de Marco for his stand on the proposed development at Ta' Cenc.

Christian Peregrin pens the article, and the editorial calls on Prime Minister Joseph Muscat to reconsider the development. On page three, another article praises Dr Muscat's dialogue with the press.

Mario de Marco picks up the phone and dials. "Hi, is that Louis?"

Louis Farrugia, a director at The Times, is on the other end. "Yes. Bongu Mario."

"Louis, what was that article praising Muscat all about? Can't you control that editor?"

"I spoke to Adrian (Hillman), but he says that the newsroom is like the Tower of Babel."

"Louis, that's why I pushed to have you there. I want to control what gets out in the press. We have to get The Times editorial back to where it was when my father would read editorials before they went to print."

"I'll try my best, and I'll speak to Adrian."

Mario puts down the phone.

An SMS comes in on his Blackberry.

Hi Mario, this is Godfrey (Grima), the report on the electoral defeat has been emailed to you. Thanks.

Mario opens his laptop, and the opening jingle for Windows echoes around his house. The emails comes in.

He rolls his fingers on the touchpad and clicks twice on the email. Finally settling on the document, he quickly scrolls through it. He mumbles to himself: "Il-Gesu Bambin. Allahares this gets out."

As he reads, two particular paragraphs catch his attention. 'The situation in the party before the election was one of self-denial. Most of the time, many of the people interviewed said that they were too scared to object to Austin Gatt's highhandedness and destructive marketing. 

'They also added that Paul Borg Olivier clumsiness had led everyone to label him as Pawlu Frejjeg. Lawrence Gonzi was so also oblivious to the fact that the majority of people were reacting to all the new projects with disdain and they were having an undesirable effect on the electorate.'

Mario slumps back in his sofa. He picks up the phone and calls Marthese Portelli.

"Marthese? Morning, sorry to bother you, but as secretary-general, could you tell Godfrey Grima to ensure that the report is not circulated by email to anyone. If it gets out we are... err... you know."

"Halli f'idejja."

In Bumarrad, Muscat has just woken up. He gets out of bed and hobbles down to the kitchen to make a coffee. As he walks, he bends over to clutch his mobile which he leaves charging on the sideboard in the corridor.

He searches for the Gold Nescafe, but realises that he's only got Classic. As he fiddles with the glass container, he parses through the SMSes on his Blackberry.

Prim. ST have launched a scathing attack on Ta' Cenc development.  Mument have story on Cyrus and MT have story on the appointment of Silvio Parnis as chairman on the national commission on drug and alcohol abuse, and of Joe Grima replacing Lou Bondì on Tuesday and revealing that Alex Sceberras Trigona is Ambassador to Moscow. They also have a scathing article on promises that will cost money - Kurt

Muscat lets the jar slip and the coffee spills all over the floor. "Haqq."

The phone rings. A name comes up. It reads: LOU IL-BASSA.

He ignores it. He clumsily walks over the flakes of Nescafe granules. Once again, the phone rings. Once again, it's LOU IL-BASSA.

He decides to answer. "Ghidlu."

"Can I talk to you Joseph?"

"You are - just cut the crap, Lou, tell me what do you want?"

"Did you read the story in MT, is it true?  Is it true that Joe Grima will be replacing me?"

"I don't know, but if so, what's the big deal?"

"This is vindictive. Everyone knows that I'm much better than Joe."

"Lou, I am prime minister, not Chairman of PBS... now, could you kindly direct your complaints to the right person?"

"Joseph you cannot do this to me - this job is everything to me. Without TV I will go crazy. What would people say?"

"Lou, I can only tell you that I will talk to the Chairman to see what he can do."

"Joseph, Norman Hamilton can't stand the sight of me, if you mention my name he will simply not listen."

"Lou what can I do if nobody likes you. I have to leave now. Bye."

Muscat looks down. The floor is a mess, and the tiles are now brown-black.

The phone rings again. The name KARMENU VELLA comes up. Reluctantly he answers.

"Ghidlu!"

"Hawn Joseph, kollox sew?"

"Karm, my day is not looking good."

"Joseph, the chairman of Air Malta is saying that Dominic Azzopardi is warning that if you do not remove the English foreigners, they will be striking."

"Karm, that man is impossible. Tell Paul Bonello to calm him down, but do not promise him anything.

"And Karm, what's happening with Tony Zarb on Enemalta? We need to get him to understand that we need to shed more workers over there."

"The problem is not Tony, but that Ronnie Pellegrini - he is simply destructive. And did you hear the latest one? Jason Micallef is looking at taking a shot at the post of secretary-general of the GWU."

"That's all I need. Karm, I have to leave you because I dropped coffee all over the place."

The red landline phone rings.

"Il Marija, Marija, this really isn't my day."

"Sir, il-Kummissarju Cassar hawnhekk."

"Ghidli, Michael."

"We have a situation. We found 60 migrants roaming around at Delimara. But the press are already here. And we have a group of people with placards."

"Placards?"

"What placards?"

"Blacks go home. You are not welcome. Leave us alone. Leave Catholic Malta."

"My God. Did you phone Michael Falzon?"

"Yes sir, but he is hunting in Argentina and could not be contacted. Hmm, you are acting home affairs minister..."

The coffee granules continue to grind under the Prime Minister's feet.

"Ha nghidlek Michael, put the migrants on buses and take them away from the crowds but do not arrest or bother the protestors. By the way do you know any of them?"

"No not really."

"OK, gabbibo... erm, Michael. And thanks for phoning."

Muscat pinches himself. How could he have called him by his nickname?! He walks to the pantry to fetch a pail and mop for the kitchen. Another SMS rings out.

MaltaToday's online portal has posted a story. Police told not to block protestors from harassing migrants - Kurt.

Muscat, "Haqq..."

He drags his thumb over the touchpad of his Blackberry and looks for contacts.

I sip my espresso at the cafeteria in the Naxxar. Ivan Camilleri passes by and smiles at me.   That's strange. I ask myself: "He hated my guts, and now he's smiling..."

The phone rings. A name comes up. It reads: JOSEPH MUSCAT.