The result of my sitdown session with Chobber is a good news bad news situation. The bad news is that Chobber's attention has been focused on the twins. I would prefer to have Chobber forget about the fact that my children exist. The good news is that the death threat has been put in perspective. It is nonsensical to think that anyone could somehow have gone and sold our land, therefore the threat makes no sense and may reasonably be ignored.
        What I'm hoping for now is that life can return to normal. Or as close to "normal" as may reasonably be expected. Total normality, however, cannot be expected, because, as Chobber says, there are some very strange people in the world, and one of these people, whose fate is for the moment interwoven with mine, is Strom.
        As hereditary steward of the Udamana clan, Kentruck Stromothard Pelagresi is technically the most senior of our workers, for what it's worth. In theory, he's the most powerful and most important of our staff members. This doesn't alter the fact that he's idle, incompetent and more than a little odd. Additionally, his seniority doesn't mean that he can't be fired, though I think there are occasional moments during which Strom forgets this important fact.
        After dealing with Chobber, Strom is my next challenge. I want to know why the Yaplama is still a slum, an uncleaned mess, the cigarette butts still everywhere, the two old car engines not yet hauled away for collection, the outhouse not yet painted.
        "We're selling to these people," I say, breaking it right down, the way you sometimes have to for Strom. "Selling, not begging. We want to look as if we're worth something."
        "They want land," says Strom. "Not a process."
        True. For almost five hundred years, my family has specialized in making bamboo horses, animating the living fiber to make incredibly expensive toys for communal festivals and other extravaganzas. But those days are over. Our skills are worthless on the market, and, in any case, are not transferrable, since the only way to become capable of this kind of animation is to live for years on end here in this part of Yendo, subject to the particular influences of this unique place.
        The Merlercians will be coming for land, and the presence or absence of a few cigarette butts will not be critical. If we assume that objectivity is all. But, no, an objective critique of value is not everything.
        In my one-on-one dealings with Kitty, I feel I've done well. But, when she comes back, she'll be returning with a team. Perhaps I'm being over-anxious about this, but it's all too easy for me to imagine the team sitting around jeering at the dirty slum that I'm trying to sell them. It's all too easy to imagine the projected sales figure (which I think is too low already) being degraded even further.
        "I'm going to be in a negotiating situation," I say, "and I don't want to start off by looking like a downmarket slumlord. The Yaplama is where it happens. I want to animate a horse, here, for the visitors, and I want it to look good. I want to be oozing prosperity, contentment, success."
        "You want to be bluffing," says Strom.
        "If you must put it that way," I say, pained. "Looking prosperous will help the deal go better. So I'd appreciate having this place cleaned up, as per my instructions."
        Strom doesn't have to do the actual cleaning, merely to make sure that it gets done. Certainly we have enough hands, overpaid and underworked.
        At this stage I honestly expect some kind of emphatic "Yes, sir!" feedback from Strom. Agewise he outranks me, being in his mid-sixties, but the logic of my position is clear. Isn't it?
        "Now," I say, recalling the training videos, and deciding it's time to put the paraphrase method into play, "let's go over what I've said."
        My brother's wife, Valencia Jakatarina Udamana, is a great one for making unwanted inputs into the running of the business, all too often coming up with unhelpful little tweaks and suggestions, but the management training videos, a gift which I initially resented, actually make a lot of sense. You want to know if the worker got the message? Get the individual in question to reword the message. Very simple, very effective.
        If the individual in question is disposed to cooperate, and Strom, from the look on his face, isn't. Are we going to have another Big Unhappiness session? Is Strom going to ultimately break down and cry, as he did on the day of his dismal performance review two years ago? (He broke down and blubbered. Over what issue? I can't remember the details any more. And don't care.)
        "You can never find a hammer when your bladder's empty."
        That's one of Melshu's sayings. And, like a lot of the things Melshu says (drunk or sober) it makes no sense at all. Even so, it seems to fit the present moment. Looking at Strom, I have, very definitely, a helplessly disconnected hammer-bladder sensation.
        "Strom," I say, feeling myself start to escalate. "One more time. I'd like you to tell me, in your own words, what I've told you to do."
        "I know what you've told me," says Strom.
        "Then please paraphrase," I say.
        But Strom does not. Instead, he looks at me dubiously then wipes his face with his hand, as if it was dirty.
        "You think I'm stupid, don't you?" he says, sounding injured.
        Stupid? Well, I certainly think that Strom is not sharp enough for his scissors, to coin a phrase. But he's smart enough to find his own hind legs, and that's all we need to be going on with. What's missing is not smarts but goodwill.
        The managers in the video inhabit a more efficiently rational world than I do. In the training video, the cheerful subordinates (young, clean-shaven, smelling of cologne) respond with crisp assurance to managerial promptings, providing evidence that orders given have been properly received.
        Here, in my world, Strom, smelling of curry from his favorite takeout food place, wipes his fingers down the sides of his trousers, giving me, for an instant, the notion that perhaps he is thinking of hitting me. He wrinkles his nose. His mouth opens. To say something? To yawn? To vomit? Or out of sheer absence of self-possession?
        "One face per person is cheaper than a staple gun," as Melshu says, a thought which means nothing, and which, at the moment, makes as much sense as anything else.
        Strom twists at his right hand, fingers gripping his ring finger, from which his customary ring is gone. It has vanished, the thing he always wears, a thick gold band with a chunky stone of some kind, green (jade, emerald or whatever, I have no idea).
        "Lost your ring?" I ask, more by way of diversion than concern.
        "Ring?" says Strom. Then, realizing what he is doing, says, "No, no, I've given it to someone. It's a pledge."
        Saying this gives him a moment of smug happiness, and I have the less than welcome image of Strom privately embracing someone. Strom's hot passion, sticky with saliva: what a horrible thought.
        "Very well," I say, aborting that line of speculation. "Carry on. The Yaplama has to look good, because looking good is part of our negotiating strategy. I'm sure you understand that."
        And I leave it at that, as if kidding myself that Strom is with the program.
        Part of the problem is that Strom has no future. Surely he's figured this out. When we sell our lands, Strom is certainly not going to get a cut of the spoils. He's a worker, not a member of the family. He can take his old age pension (he'll qualify in a few years, if not immediately) and shift for himself.
        Strom hasn't asked us for a handout, but I've already decided that there won't be one. If the land sale goes through, we will have money, but no spare money. Nothing for charity projects, certainly. And even if we did, the fact is that I don't like Strom and never have. Help him? I'd rather burn a hole in my head with a slow turnip, to quote Melshu.