Bad Touch by Pablo Vision
Absolutely no one could touch my father when it came to public speaking. He was persuasive, insightful, and controversial, but always with a touch of irony. He was never arrogant like some of his peers, or, more accurately, he could carry that arrogance with such style, that it was a pleasure to behold. Sometimes the performance would almost touch upon madness, with gestures more befitting of a demented preacher than a respected raconteur, but even the most low-key speech had nothing less than a completely rapt audience.
I recall once witnessing him tame a rowdy, and vindictive, crowd of servicemen, by first provoking them to heckle, and then by reflecting their insults back, with such cutting humour, and theatrical panache, that the battle was over almost before it began. Victorious, he then proceeded to play with them in earnest, speaking progressively quieter, so that the entire hall was silent, straining to hear every word; wine and expensive food untouched. His voice became little more than a whisper. There were long, heavily pregnant, pauses. Even the waiters stood spellbound. And just when the tension seemed almost unbearable, he smashed his fists against the table, and let out the loudest and most primal roar that man, or beast, could possibly issue. People flew from their seats, crockery crashing, amid undignified shrieks, and in the midst of this chaos, stood my father, in waistcoat and jacket, face red with exertion, making a sound like a mighty creature in mortal agony. He then simply stopped growling, composed himself once more, smiled benevolently, and, as a finishing touch, bowed with a full vaudeville flourish.
Slowly the panic subsided; there were occasional sounds of nervous laughter, and a short lull in which the crowd struggled to come to terms with what had just happened. At first I felt concerned for my father's safety, but then, reading the faces, I could see that they were all quite visibly shell-shocked. Stunned, these were men who had faced death on the battlefield; men who had walked enemy streets with sniper's bullets aimed at them. These were men who had killed other men, and my father had single-handedly brought them to submission. They had been touched in ways they would never be able to understand.
Someone must have started clapping, and this seemed to break the strange aftermath atmosphere. I remember my father receiving a standing ovation. I watched men rush to hug him, and jostle to shake his hand. It was the only time that I had seen my father looking uncomfortable in public. He thrived on the complete, and almost obscenely intimate control over minds, but seemed repulsed by such exuberance of physical touch.
So this was the man, my father, who could charm and enthral, mesmerise and astound, entertain and provoke; this great orator, who was so in-touch with everything and everyone. The same man who could barely bring himself to speak a single word to me, his son. This was the man who had not touched my mother for over ten years, a man who came alive in front of an audience, but was little more than a breathing corpse in the company of his own family.
I recall once witnessing him tame a rowdy, and vindictive, crowd of servicemen, by first provoking them to heckle, and then by reflecting their insults back, with such cutting humour, and theatrical panache, that the battle was over almost before it began. Victorious, he then proceeded to play with them in earnest, speaking progressively quieter, so that the entire hall was silent, straining to hear every word; wine and expensive food untouched. His voice became little more than a whisper. There were long, heavily pregnant, pauses. Even the waiters stood spellbound. And just when the tension seemed almost unbearable, he smashed his fists against the table, and let out the loudest and most primal roar that man, or beast, could possibly issue. People flew from their seats, crockery crashing, amid undignified shrieks, and in the midst of this chaos, stood my father, in waistcoat and jacket, face red with exertion, making a sound like a mighty creature in mortal agony. He then simply stopped growling, composed himself once more, smiled benevolently, and, as a finishing touch, bowed with a full vaudeville flourish.
Slowly the panic subsided; there were occasional sounds of nervous laughter, and a short lull in which the crowd struggled to come to terms with what had just happened. At first I felt concerned for my father's safety, but then, reading the faces, I could see that they were all quite visibly shell-shocked. Stunned, these were men who had faced death on the battlefield; men who had walked enemy streets with sniper's bullets aimed at them. These were men who had killed other men, and my father had single-handedly brought them to submission. They had been touched in ways they would never be able to understand.
Someone must have started clapping, and this seemed to break the strange aftermath atmosphere. I remember my father receiving a standing ovation. I watched men rush to hug him, and jostle to shake his hand. It was the only time that I had seen my father looking uncomfortable in public. He thrived on the complete, and almost obscenely intimate control over minds, but seemed repulsed by such exuberance of physical touch.
So this was the man, my father, who could charm and enthral, mesmerise and astound, entertain and provoke; this great orator, who was so in-touch with everything and everyone. The same man who could barely bring himself to speak a single word to me, his son. This was the man who had not touched my mother for over ten years, a man who came alive in front of an audience, but was little more than a breathing corpse in the company of his own family.
