Art Pact 102

"I suppose," said Brightman, "that a person has at some point to plant a flag."

Rogers looked at him, bleary-eyed, and tried to focus. They had been drinking heavily, and now his eyes seemed to be under the control of some malignant operator who adjusted their lenses nearer and further, so that the objects along the rough line between him and Brightman swam in and out of clarity - first the half-empty pint-glass that Brightman was holding up near to his face, ready for his next swig, then the man's round magenta face itself, and the two thin lips trapped on its surface as though abducted from some other face at an early age, finally the light-up sign on the bar-room wall that advertised Heineken.

"Oh?" said Rogers, leaving his mouth open so that he could add something. After a few seconds he realised that the bon mot which he had been preparing was utter gibberish, and he closed his mouth again, embarrassed but at least relieved that he was not so far gone as to be unable to recognise when he was not in a fit state to speak.

"You mean literally plant a flag," Orlov said.

"I mean figuratively plant a flag," said Brightman. "I'm not suggesting we invade somewhere or discover a new country."

"That's what I said."

"No, you said... never mind." Brightman shook his head. "I can see you're not ready for this."

The arrogant fuck, thought Rogers, his anger sobering him up.

"Who do you think you are, Bertrand Russell? Tell us your idea, drunky."

"Yeah, drunky!" Orlov parroted, breaking out into a hysterical laughter. Brightman and Rogers shared a glance, then worked together to grab their companion under his armpits, one on each side. "Drunky..." he giggled. "Yeah, Drunky!" The shepherded him carefully into a chair at the booth they'd vacated, and arranged him so that he couldn't topple over easily, but nor could he without great effort get out again. When he was comfortable and secure, they left him and returned to their places by their drinks.

"Go on," Rogers said. "What do you mean, plant a flag?"

"I mean, put your ideas and opinions on display. Make sure that everyone knows what you support and what you're against."

"Complete disclosure of your principles, you mean? Wearing a badge, like in Nazi Germany?"

"Jesus," Brightman swore. "That was quick."

"OK, fine. Like... I don't know, but I can't see that being a good idea."

"It wouldn't be like that," Brightman explained. "Look, the badges and stuff in Nazi Germany weren't about what you thought, they were about what sort of person you were, things you couldn't change, like being Jewish or a Gypsy or Gay."

"...or a Communist, because I remember from biology class that they're born Communists."

"Alright," the other man conceded. "Sometimes it was like that. But mainly it was about birth, not about decisions."

"Fair enough. But I still think it would be a bad idea. People who might otherwise be friends would never meet, because they'd know already that they held opposing views on something they felt strongly about. He had been toting an empty bottle for a few minutes now, and finally realising what was wrong with the weight in his hand he signaled to the bartender, which slid smoothly along the bar towards him and stood there, silently blinking the one green light that served as its eye. "Another one.. actually, you know what? Never mind." He turned back to Brightman. "I think there'd be the same - what's the word? Begins with a B..."

"Balkanisation?"

"That's the one. Balkanisation, the same Balkanisation as on the net. Balkanisation," he repeated, trying the word out in his mouth. "Balkanisation."

"Yeah," said Brightman, smiling. "I think you made the right decision. Time to call it a night."

He downed the rest of his glass, then the two of them wrestled Orlov out of his chair and made their way to the bar door, which hissed open in front of them and then closed behind them with the serious clunk of a closing shop. Were we really the last customers? Rogers wondered.

"I think people are better than that," Brightman said. "I mean, I think they can be. They aren't always. I'm not, not always."

"I see. I think."

"I think once more opinions are out in the open there'll be more understanding about how popular certain feelings are, and why. There's a lot of talk of silent majorities, and I for one think that it's bullshit. You can't work with a silent majority."

"I suppose by definition," Rogers said carefully, "If someone's silent about something, they don't care about it as much as someone who's vocal about it."

"Possibly. But anyway, if everyone's position on something is known, there's no talk of majority this or minority that. It's just a case of counting up."

"So you relegate every decision to democracy? Isn't that just as - I mean, no-one wants to be told what to do by some dictator, but..."

"Everyone wants to be told what to do by some dictator!" Brightman said excitedly. "That's the most fundamental thing about us, we dislike responsibility, we're all always looking for someone else to tell us what to do. We have the phrase 'benign dictator', as if there could ever be such a thing. We invent god because we desperately want someone with a perfect plan, someone we can follow with confidence, someone we can submit to. But it's crap, we have the power to make up our own minds, but it scares us!" He threw his free hand up in the air, which caused him to lose balance and fall towards Orlov, who in his turn was far too drunk to balance and fell against Rogers. With some effort Rogers managed just about to right them before the whole group sailed sideways into the road.

"Whoa there!" he called.

"Sorry."

"I suppose you're right about that, though," Rogers said when they'd righted themselves again. "I mean, there is that trend. I guess you get it as a child, when your parents seem to know everything and things go right if you do what they say."

They walked on in silence for a few more minutes, putting the bar further and further behind them.