I arrived for lunch a bit late and was led to the dining table. Our hostess disappeared back into the house to bring out the food, leaving me to acquaint myself with the other guests, an Englishwoman and an American. The Englishwoman said that yesterday she had fallen off the wagon after eight weeks and today she was terribly hung over. She didn’t feel guilty, however, because she had enjoyed herself very much. The American man’s eyes were hidden behind sunglasses but he had a warm smile and great teeth and an easy, open manner. He introduced himself by saying that this was his first time in France, and that he was checking out Italy and France as possible places of refuge in the not-so-far-fetched event that he had to flee America. ‘Trump?’ I said. He nodded ruefully, as one of the faithful to another.
My heart sank. This summer I have met several of his compatriots at the lunch or dinner table, and at the first opportunity they have cast a virtue-signalling aspersion on their president. It is a ploy to separate the sheep from the goats, the elect from the damned. It’s a bit like an evangelical chapel Christian asking, ‘And are you saved, brother?’ and noting whether you shrivel or bloom.
Over the summer I have learned to keep my mouth shut and my face expressionless when the subject of the Beloved Leader comes up. If pressed, I might test the boundaries of their hatred by wondering whether, if President Trump is as evil as all that, he shouldn’t be assassinated. They sort of blush and say, well, they know they shouldn’t think it, but that yes, they would be jumping for joy.
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