Christmas 1998 - Interview with Santa

Interview with Santa

Paul Brazier & Juliet Eyeions

The Journalist, alone as agreed, climbed off the machine and looked back across the vast plain of the arctic tundra. Nothing marred its perfect whiteness except the track of the snowski, which was fading even as he looked, and the snowski itself, with its gaudy high-visibility-painted extremity. Turning away from the vista, he looked up at the gates of the Ice Palace and shivered. It was a desolate place; but his duty had brought him this far and it was much too late to turn back, so he approached the gates.
With a creaking shimmer, words materialised in the air before him – enter not here lest ye mean to serve. He paused; but he served his public. It was his self-appointed duty to seek out and reveal corruption wherever it might be lurking. No matter that some of his targets were regarded as saints by their followers, if they had feet of clay he would reveal them, and this was going to be a seasonal scoop. He checked his eyecam was recording and stepped forward. The words dissolved as he passed through them, and the gates of the Ice Palace opened silently.

“Come in, dear boy, come in and welcome! You must be cold. Can I get you a hot drink? Or would you prefer something stronger?” The words tumbled around the ears of the Journalist as the doors closed silently behind him. “Come and sit by the fire, take the weight off your feet.” He gestured with his spectacles. “Give me your coat. My, but it’s good to see you! It’s been I don’t know how long since I had a visitor!”

The Journalist examined his host. He was a large man, but the red costume he wore disguised his bulk well. Blue eyes twinkled merrily from a round, rubicund face that was framed by masses of white whiskers which in turn merged into the ermine trim of his tunic.

“You are Santa Claus?” There was just a touch of frost in his voice, but it was important not to let the subject become too familiar. It made it more difficult later on, with the more probing questions.

“Of course I am, dear boy, who did you think I would be? Did you have a good journey? Did Rudolf behave? These snowskis can be temperamental, but I don’t know what I would do without them.”

“Santa Claus, also known as Father Christmas?” The Journalist put a little steel into his voice.

“People call me many things, but those are two of the names I respond to, yes.” He paused a moment, absently polishing his glasses on the ermine of his tunic. “Can I offer you a mince pie? A glass of punch? You must be famished after your journey.”

“It is kind of you to offer,” The Journalist replied, “but perhaps it would be more appropriate after the interview…”

“Of course, dear boy, of course. So, what did you want to ask me? And, please, sit down.”

Flames crackled in the grate, and a log settled. The Journalist noticed for the first time the two easy chairs pulled up to the fireplace as the fat man slumped into one of them. He looked more closely. There were dark shadows under his eyes, and not all the wrinkles on his face were laughter lines. His eyes were pink-rimmed, and he pinched and rubbed the bridge of his nose where his spectacles had made a painful-looking red mark.

“Santa Claus, why do you think you should have a monopoly on supplying Christmas cheer to children? Shouldn’t the whole enterprise be opened up to competition?”

“It is plain,” the man said wearily, “that you know little of my business. I had hoped for someone more knowledgeable.” He rested his head on the back of the chair and closed his eyes. The Journalist noticed with concern the food stains on the tunic, the scuffed and muddy boots, and the frayed cuffs; then his eyes opened again. “However, we must take the material we are given.”

“But is it right that you should have a monopoly?”

“It isn’t a monopoly. Just because I have no competitors does not mean no one is allowed to compete. The simple fact is that no-one can compete.”

“But why is that? Do you operate a sweatshop? Do you have an equal opportunities policy, or do you only employ elves? Have you implemented a proper Year 2000 compliance project? Why is Transmonitor due to fail on Christmas Day, 1999? And are you responsible for the acute shortage of furbies? In short, if no-one can compete, is it because you cut corners? Or is it because you have the ultimate unfair advantage – immortality?”

The fat man sighed deeply. “I can see this is not going to be easy. I don’t suppose it would be enough to tell you that the answer to all your questions is ‘magic’, would it?”

“Of course not. No rational person believes in magic anymore.”

“Hmm. And suppose I told you that I had a matter transmitter, a replicator, and a sophisticated time machine that I use to create and deliver toys to children, would that mean any more to you?”

“Of course.”

“Have you any idea what the operating principle of any one of these machines might be? Or how to use any of them?”

“No.”

“Then there is no real difference between this answer and the first one. Both are magic.”

“Errrm… let’s leave the mechanism of your monopoly to one side for the moment; there are more important subjects we need to get to. Santa Claus, there are grave worries that with your ability to come and go as you please and to promise but not deliver wonderful things, you are in fact abusing the children that you are supposed to be caring for.”

“Ho, ho, ho! You may be able to browbeat some people by brandishing vague terminology that your audience would rather not have defined too closely, but it won’t wash with me! Disappointing children is not abuse, it teaches them to modify their ambitions to match their abilities. Hmmm… The best way to illustrate this is to demonstrate it. Come with me.”

The fat man leapt to his feet and strode away. The Journalist was left flat-footed, but soon followed. Eager to discover more about the Ice Palace, he looked around, zooming the eyecam in and out, but found there was little to see. He appeared to be in an out-of-focus corridor, and then he was seated again, in front of a desk, and the fat man in his incongruous red suit was sitting behind it.

“This is what I do. As Christmas approaches, I project myself into the minds of families. Here, this family, the boy wants a furby, a sports yo-yo, a pair of trainers and a football outfit, the woman wants expensive earrings and an exotic holiday, and the man wants the holiday too and some new parts for his car, but the family budget won’t stretch to all these things. I gently remind them all that the spirit of Christmas is giving, not receiving, and the parents strike a compromise on their own presents while denying the child the things he wants that are actually of least benefit to him.

“Unfortunately, something has been going wrong recently. There are so many other influences on people now. I used to be able to pull everyone around, but nowadays it seems that my spirit of Christmas is just not strong enough to supplant avarice with grace, and Christmas is becoming a miserable time.”

The Journalist was spell-bound. He had even seen himself on the television in the room where the family whose dreams he had eavesdropped on had been sitting. So this was what it was to be Santa Claus. Still and all, it did seem unfair.

“This doesn’t answer the most fundamental query of all, though,” he said. “It is common knowledge that you are immortal. Is this not a completely unfair advantage in that no-one can possibly compete if you can just sit and wait for them to die? Of course, it will all be out in the open when this broadcast goes out, so perhaps you have lost your unfair advantage simply by revealing it to me.”

The fat man was silent for so long that The Journalist began to think he had gone to sleep. But then he looked up, and their eyes locked.

“No, Jeremy, I am not immortal, but the same magic that allows me to work has kept me alive for a long time. I have been doing this job for nearly a thousand years, and, as I said earlier, I am beginning to lose touch. I have seen many changes in mankind, and kept humanity largely on line, but that is coming to an end. Soon, Santa Claus will fade away, and a new cultural icon will arise to take his place – a Man of Peace with a strong moral sense, he will be prepared to serve. He will be strong and forthright, and will see through all the persiflage and bombast. He will be a champion of the people and a force for good. In short, Jeremy, he will be you.” Father Christmas stood up, walked around the desk, and shook The Journalist’s hand. “Good luck for the next thousand years.”

Jeremy, Man of Peace, closed his eyes and concentrated. He could feel the ebb and flow of human desires and concerns. All of humanity. Quite a challenge. But what an audience. He reached out and, touching, clarifying and moderating, the New Father Christmas went to work.

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