The P.M. quietly observed the buildings along the way – diluted concrete, clearly not enough reinforcement and what there was of it, obviously not rust-proofed – all leading to concrete cancer as the rust eats away at the cement.
“I worry about Max – he seems so slow.”
Pierre took his eye off the road –
“He’s certainly no intellectual.”
“Of course not, but he’s intelligent enough.”
“Definitely – we’ve already seen some great signs – like the Graph of Happiness.”
“Yes – it was a great little piece of work. Confronted with his first real taste of depression he responded with that graph. We loved it.”
Pierre slowed the vehicle -
“You did see the graph?”
“Of course – he was staring at it for what seemed like weeks.”
Frankly, the time Max had spent sitting in his room staring at the graph was the most excruciating viewing the P.M. had ever been forced to endure.
“To be honest, I lost interest – it was so boring,” he said.
“He was depressed – depression is boring.”
“But you’ve got to remember what was happening at the time. His career as a professional athlete was over. He’d been charged with an offence he hadn’t committed. His girlfriend, who he’d only just met, had been hounded back to Germany by the media. He’d been publically shamed in all the newspapers. He was…”
“I know all that!”
“And he comes up with the Graph of Happiness.”
“So it was actually his idea?”
“I thought it must have come from Brown.”
“No – we watched him produce it – the words, the lines – everything.”
The P.M. vaguely remembered various sets of lines on the graph. In truth, he’d been far more interested in Max’s night-life.
Pierre handed the P.M. a card.
The P.M. looked at the card – trying to find the magic.
“It’s very simple,” he said. “What’s so great about that?”
“Turn it over.”