"Bruce Sterling - Shinkansen (2)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Sterling Bruce)

Prefecture. And then, accompanied by a silverhaired retainer of impressive
stolid dignity, comes the Crown Prince of Japan.
Opening ceremonies of this kind are among the many obligations of this
patient and graceful young aristocrat. The Crown Prince wears a truly
immaculate suit which, at an impolite guess, probably costs as much as a
small car. As a political entity, this symbolic personage is surrounded by
twin bureaucracies of publicity and security. The security is not immediately
evident. Only later will you discover that the entire building has been
carefully sealed by unobtrusive teams of police. On another day, you will
witness the passage of the Prince's motorcade, his spotless armored black
limousine sporting the national flag, accompanied by three other limos of
courtier-bodyguards, two large squads of motorcycle policemen, half-a-
dozen police black-and-whites, and a chuttering surveillance helicopter. As
you stand gawking on the sidewalk you will be questioned briefly, in a
friendly fashion, by a plainclothes policeman who eyes the suspicious bag
you carry with a professional interest.
At the moment, however, you are listening to the speeches of the Nagoya
politicians. The Prince, his posture impeccable, is also listening, or at least
pretending it with a perfect replica of attention. You listen to the hesitant
English on Channel Two with growing amazement. Never have you heard
political speeches of such utter and consummate vacuity. They consist
entirely of benevolent cliche'. Not a ripple of partisan fervor, not a hint of
ideological intent, colors the translated oratory. Even the most vapid
American, or even Russi

an, politician cannot resist a dig at a rival, or an in-
crowd reference to some partisan bit of political-correctness--but this is a
ritual of a different order. It dawns on you that nothing will be said. These
political worthies, sponsors and financiers of the event, are there to color the
air with harmless verbal perfume. "You're here, we're here"--everything that
actually needs to be said has already been communicated nonverbally.
The Prince rises to deliver a brief invocation of even more elevated and
poetic meaninglessness. As he steps to the podium, a torrent of flashbulbs
drenches the stage in stinging electrical white. The Prince, surely blinded,
studies a line of his text. He lifts his chin, recites it, and is blinded again by
the flashes. He looks back to the speech, recites a paragraph in a firm voice
with his head lowered, then looks up again, stoically. Again that staccato
blast of glare. It dawns on you that this is the daily nature of this young
gentleman's existence. He dwells within a triple bell-jar of hypermediated
publicity, aristocratic decorum, and paramilitary paranoia. You reflect with a
mingled respect and pity on the numerous rare personages around the
planet who share his unenviable predicament. Later you will be offered a
chance to meet the Prince in a formal reception line, and will go out of your

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way to spare him the minor burden of your presence. It seems the least you
can do.