“Tasty, ladies?”

“Yes,” said one of them.

“That was a statement rather than a question,” said Maurice, winking.

“Here you are,” offered one woman, “would you like a wee nibble of mine?”

“Well, thank you,” said Maurice, leaning down teasingly. “It’s not often I get an offer like that.”

“Go on, then,” said the woman, blushing and reaching forward with her fork, the dark brown confection poised perilously on the end. Maurice closed his mouth around the cake, winked at the assembled crowd, smacked his lips around the cake, and exaggeratedly chewed and swallowed.

“Mmmm!” he exclaimed suborgasmically. “That is delicious. So rich!”

“I think it’s made with buttermilk,” said the woman.

“Really?” said Maurice, entirely as if the use of buttermilk in cakes were a point of great interest to him.

“You have to use buttermilk,” piped up someone from the crowd.

“I can’t get buttermilk these days,” said someone else.

“Buttermilk,” repeated Maurice, confirmingly.

“Me neither,” said another woman.

“You ladies can’t get buttermilk?” said Maurice.

“No,” they all chorused.

“That sounds to me like a problem,” said Maurice. “Is that a problem?”

“Yes,” chorused the ladies.

“Well, let’s make a note of that,” said Maurice. This was where he really came into his own, M ’n’ M; this was where his years of independent financial advising and his reading of Neuro-linguisic Programming For Dummies really came into play: he profoundly understood that people liked to think that they were being consulted, even when they weren’t, that you had to give people at least the illusion that they were in charge of their lives and their destinies. Hence one of his favorite phrases, “Let’s make a note of that.” Maurice didn’t make actual notes of anything himself, of course-that would have been ridiculous; he always had a secretary with him-whose pert behind went noticeably unpatted-whose job it was to make notes of things.

“Buttermilk,” he said as he got up from the table. “Let’s see what we can do about that. Ladies, I hope I can rely on your vote.”

Of course he could rely on their votes: Maurice was the tallest and the best dressed and the most pointlessly and aggressively articulate Unionist politician in Northern Ireland, where there was plenty of competition in the pointlessly aggressive articulation stakes and no competition whatsoever between parties outside of their secure geographical and sectarian areas, which made Maurice’s reelection a real possibility. All he needed to do was to win back the popular vote and to get people on his side again-including his wife, Pamela, who’d stood by him through thick and thin, even though she had every reason not to, given the…unique…stresses and strains that Maurice’s career had placed upon their marriage.

“Here he comes!” said Minnie. “Quick! Sit up!”

“Macher,” said Israel.

“What!” said Ted.

“It’s Yiddish,” said Israel.

“I don’t like the sound of it,” said Ted.

“It’s just a word,” said Israel. “It means-”

“I don’t care what it means,” said Ted, “Shut up. Here comes his lordship. I’m going to give him a-”

And then there he was, in the flesh, Maurice Morris, looming over them, teeth a-sparkling, tan a-glowing, body a-facing them-whenever Maurice spoke he consciously moved his body to face the person he was talking to, so that they could feel the full force of his personality.

“Gentlemen, I’m Maurice Morris. I wonder if I can rely on your vote next Wednesday?”

“Aye,” said Ted, resolve failing, and blushing like a schoolgirl.

“Marvelous. And how about you, young man?”

Israel looked up at Maurice Morris, up at the blue suit, at the shiny tie, the rosy cheeks, the hair with some sort of shiny product in it, and he smiled.

“Nope,” he said. “Thanks.”

“Oh,” said Maurice Morris.

“He’s Jewish,” said Ted apologetically.

“Ah,” said Maurice Morris.

“What?” said Israel.

“Also, he’s not from round here,” added Ted. “So he’s probably not illegible.”

“Eligible,” corrected Israel.

“It depends if he filled in the census,” said Maurice Morris, speaking to Israel as though he were wheelchair-bound. “Did you?”

“I have no idea,” said Israel. “But I’ll not be voting for you anyway.”

“So, anyway,” said Minnie, glaring at Israel, beginning to usher Maurice Morris away.

“Well, good to meet you, gents. Enjoy your coffees,” said Maurice, ready to move on.

“Hold on,” said Israel. “I’ve got a question for you.”

“Ssshh,” said Minnie.

“No, no, fire away,” said Maurice. “Always open to questions.”

“It’s a policy question,” said Israel.

“Good,” said Maurice.

“What are you going to do about global warming?”

Global warming was one of the many things that Israel felt bad about.

Minnie frowned but Maurice smiled his weird politician’s smile. This was not the usual traybake kind of a question. This was one of those questions that he’d said something about in his brochure. One of the things that had always distinguished Maurice from his rivals, according to his campaign literature, was the sheer quality and quantity of his campaign literature; his election brochure had been printed at an expense and in a style that might more properly have been used to advertise the first release of a complex of luxury apartments in Majorca, or a major development opportunity on the north coast, and Maurice also blogged (at mnmblogspot.com), and did e-mail circulars and had a MySpace site; he was, according to his brochure, Northern Ireland’s first and most successful cyberpolitican. And he couldn’t remember for the life of him what it was he’d said in the brochure about global warming.

“That’s still one for the scientists,” he told Israel.

“Not according to the scientists it’s not,” said Israel, one of whose only companions these days was the BBC World Service late at night and early in the mornings.

“Ha!” said Maurice, changing the subject rapidly. “Well, it’s been good talking to you.”

“I would still like an answer,” said Israel.

“Sorry, I don’t think we’ve met,” said Maurice to Israel. “You are?”

“I’m a librarian,” said Israel.

“Really?” said Maurice.

The phrase “I’m a librarian” usually excited a number of depressingly predictable responses, in Israel’s experience, responses that usually began with an “Oh” and were soon followed by a vague and slightly uncomfortable look in the eye. Maurice’s response was unusual.

“The mobile librarian?” said Maurice.

“Yes,” said Israel.

“Isaac Angstrom?”

“Israel Armstrong,” said Israel. Had Maurice been reading John Updike? Couples?

“Israel Armstrong,” said Maurice, savoring the words in his mouth. “The mobile librarian.”

“Yep,” said Israel. “That’s me.”

“Well, I hope you’re ashamed of yourself, you sick bastard,” said Maurice, striding away.