Chapter 589 - 275: The Great Artist

Harrisburg, the Governor’s Mansion.

What was once Bob Campbell’s study was now William Saint Cloud’s dressing room.

William stood before a massive floor-to-ceiling mirror, examining his reflection.

He was wearing a well-tailored silk robe covered in an extravagant peacock feather pattern, a glass of bubbling champagne in his hand.

"Bernard."

William snapped his fingers at his chief of staff, who was standing to the side.

"What do you think of this outfit? It’s the latest from Armani. I feel it suits my mood today—languid, noble, and with a subtle hint of power."

Bernard Hayes had been personally assigned by Evelyn Saint Cloud to act as the new governor’s babysitter. Right now, he was dabbing the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.

"Governor, it’s very... very suited to your temperament," Bernard said with difficulty. "But, shouldn’t we be changing into a suit? In ten minutes, you have an important meeting with representatives from the agricultural association."

"The agricultural association?"

William frowned as if he had just heard a most unappetizing word.

"Those old geezers who smell of dirt and cow dung? Why should I meet them? Tell them the harvest was good this year, that they should keep up the good work, and then just send them some subsidies."

"You can’t do that, Governor." Bernard looked like he was about to cry. "They’re here about the corn subsidy bill. They’ve been protesting for a week straight. If you don’t see them, they’re going to drive their tractors to the State Capitol plaza."

"Tractors?"

William’s eyes lit up.

"What brand? John Deere? Those big green things? I love that color, very retro. If they could paint the tractors pink, I might consider taking a photo with them."

Bernard felt a wave of dizziness.

"Governor, this isn’t about color."

"Of course it’s about color!" William raised his voice. "Bernard, you have to understand, politics *is* aesthetics. If a state can’t even get its basic color schemes right, what’s the point of talking about economic development?"

He gestured around the room, which was steeped in history.

"Look at this place. It’s an absolute disaster."

"This lifeless mahogany furniture, these portraits of past governors with their dead-eyed stares hanging on the walls, and these curtains!"

William walked over and pinched the heavy velvet curtain, a look of disgust on his face.

"My God, is this a Victorian-era burial shroud? It’s heavy, oppressive, and completely blocks out the light. No wonder Campbell got depression."

"Change it! Change it all!"

William waved his arms.

"Paint the walls pure white. Replace all the furniture with minimalist Italian designs. Take down all the portraits and put up Andy Warhol’s pop art. I want Marilyn Monroe and Campbell’s Soup Cans."

"Replace the curtains with translucent linen. I want to let the sunlight in, to let this room breathe again."

"And this rug." William stomped on the priceless Persian rug underfoot. "It’s too old-fashioned. Replace it with self-leveling concrete. Industrial chic, you get me?"

"Governor..." Bernard’s voice trembled. "This is a historically protected building. We can’t just make changes..."

"Then change the law."

William waved his hand impatiently.

"I’m the Governor now. What I say, goes. If the law is in my way, then there’s something wrong with the law."

The first thing William did after taking office was to launch a complete aesthetic revolution in this mansion, so full of musty bureaucratic air.

William relished the feeling.

Power was secondary to him. Taste was what mattered.

But he still had to work.

Because Evelyn had warned him that if he didn’t keep playing the part of governor, she would cut off all his credit cards.

The thought of not being able to splurge extravagantly at the fashion shows in Paris made William feel suffocated.

So, he still had to meet with those plainly dressed farmers who talked of nothing but corn and subsidies.

"Let them in," William finally conceded. "But I’m only giving them five minutes."

As if granted a pardon, Bernard turned and fled the room.

「Five minutes later.」

A few stoutly built representatives of the farmers, dressed in flannel shirts, were led in.

They were prominent figures from the agricultural counties of central Pennsylvania, men whose word was law in their local communities.

They had come full of anger, ready to give the new Governor a piece of their mind about the cuts to the corn ethanol subsidies.

But when they walked into the office, they all froze.

They saw their Governor, dressed in a peacock robe and sunglasses, sitting casually on the enormous desk, swirling a glass of champagne.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen."

William raised his glass to them.

"I hear you have some opinions about the color of corn?"

The farmers looked at each other, bewildered.

All the technical terms they had prepared—"market prices," "federal subsidies," "energy policy"—were suddenly stuck in their throats.

They felt like they had walked onto the wrong movie set.

"Mr. Governor, we’re here to talk about the subsidies,"

the lead farmer, Miller, managed to say.

"Subsidies? Oh, right."

William hopped off the desk and walked over to them.

He didn’t look at the documents in their hands. Instead, he circled them.

"Nice boots. They have a good texture. What brand are they? They look very durable."

"Governor..."

"Don’t be nervous, my friend."

William patted Miller’s shoulder.

"I don’t really get the whole subsidy thing. The numbers are too complicated. They give me a headache."

"Let’s talk about something more interesting."

William’s eyes lit up.

"I was recently reading a book on organic farming, and I think your business model is far too outdated."

"Why do you only plant corn in your cornfields? It’s so monotonous."

"You could try planting some lavender next to the corn, or maybe sunflowers."

"Imagine it: golden corn, purple lavender, and orange sunflowers. That clash of colors would be like a Van Gogh painting."

"We could turn this into the most beautiful agricultural tourism destination in All of America. The ticket sales alone would be enough to buy your fertilizer for the next ten years."

The farmers just stood there, stunned, listening to the Governor enthusiastically expound upon his theory of "Chromatic Aesthetic Agriculture."

They couldn’t get a single word out.

You can’t argue about the combustion efficiency of ethanol with a man who wants to discuss the color of lavender.

It was on a completely different plane of existence.

Ten minutes later, the farmers walked out of the office in a daze.

They had even forgotten what they had come for in the first place.

All they could remember was the Governor enthusiastically discussing with them for ages how much better their barns would look painted Tiffany Blue.

"Is... Is that man an idiot?" a young farmer asked Miller.

Miller stared at the sketch of a barn color scheme that William had drawn for him, silent for a long time.

"I don’t know if he’s an idiot."

Miller shook his head.

"But I do know that going to the Governor for this kind of thing is useless from now on."

"So who should we go to for these things?"

"Who else? Saint Cloud, of course."

...

「The next day」 an opinion piece was published in the *Philadelphia Inquirer*.

"William Saint Cloud may be the most incompetent chief executive in the history of Pennsylvania. He is clueless about the budget, has zero interest in legislation, and his only political platform seems to be turning the State Capitol Building into a giant IKEA showroom."

"However, in a political arena filled with lies, betrayal, and conspiracy, a sincere fool who only cares about the color of his curtains and whether to plant lavender in cornfields somehow inspires a long-lost sense of security."

"Perhaps what we need isn’t a clever liar."

"But a beautiful fool who, at the very least, won’t lie to us."

This article resonated strongly with Pennsylvania’s middle class and intellectuals.

People began to view the new Governor in an entirely new light, one that was even tinged with a bit of mockery and affection.

He became a sort of political mascot.

A figure who could bring a bit of comic relief to this dreary state.

And beneath this harmless facade, behind the smokescreen of renovations and aesthetics.

The tentacles of Leo Wallace’s power were spreading wantonly through the corridors of Harrisburg at an unprecedented rate.