MEPs step back from the brink

Date: 20/02/1997

This could have been the day it all went wrong. It could have been the day the unspeakable happened, the day when Euro MPs sent the European Commission packing - literally.

But, as European Voice went to press, it seemed certain that they would not, that the Breydel would be left standing and that normalish relations would be restored.

They'll never do it, say seasoned parliamentary watchers. MEPs will never have the courage to press the nuclear button, to dismiss the entire Commission, to carry out what is spoken of in hushed tones in the higher reaches of the Commission as 'the ultimate sanction'.

But one day they might and it is that fear which is keeping the current Commission on its toes. Who is calling whose bluff? Only time will tell.

If MEPs knew just how deep runs the fear within Commission headquarters about the ultimate sanction's potential to destroy not just personal ambition but also confidence in the European ideal, they would probably press the button now in a terrifying display of awesome power...

It had been a busier day than usual in the office of European Commission President Jacques Santer.

Santer himself was not there, of course. He was in Strasbourg, having his future decided upon by the European Union's directly-elected representatives. But Alfonse, the president's faithful right-hand man, had been hard at work all day, directing removal men and making sure nothing got broken.

Now it was dusk and just as Alfonse heaved the last packed cardboard box through the main door and out into the corridor, he heard the heavy footfall of his boss stepping out of the lift. Alfonse took a deep breath. This could be it, he knew. But as the boss swept into the room and surveyed the empty floor and the bare walls, Alfonse saw that he was beaming. Jacques Santer was actually smiling at the end of a trip to the European Parliament.

Alfonse moved across and took the president's coat. “You have had a good trip, Monsieur Le President?” he enquired smoothly.

“Absolutely,” replied Santer, as his smile grew broader, and he patted Alfonse on the shoulder and gazed around his empty office.

“After you have brought me a cup of coffee, you can put it all back: the books, the furniture, everything. For I, the president of le tout Europe, am staying, Alfonse. There will be no early departure!”

Alfonse bowed: “That is good news indeed, Monsieur Le President. But I thought the wretched Euro MPs were sending you for what I believe the British call an early bath? Did you not say only yesterday...?”

Santer waved a hand dismissively. “Nonsense, Alfonse! I was never in any serious danger! Who do these MEPs think they are? No, Alfonse, we were playing little games with democracy. But it was never a problem, my faithful friend. Your job here is safe.”

Alfonse bowed again in gratitude. “Then I shall fetch the coffee, with a little something in it for good measure.”

Santer could not sit down. His high-back leather swivel chair was already in the basement, being loaded into a removal van, destination Luxembourg. So he stood at the window, looking out across the Parc Cinquantenaire.

The trees looked greener than yesterday. The sky brighter, even at dusk. Alfonse, who was now returning with the coffee and a chaser, looked younger. How long had they been together? Was it only a couple of years since Santer had inherited this lowly but wise assistant from Jacques Delors?

He took the coffee. Alfonse hovered. It was that time of day when the boss liked to muse on the affairs of state, to throw ideas around, to say the things that he could not say, not even to the brightest of the bright young things in his cabinet.

Santer sipped his coffee and paced up and down. “Alfonse,” he said quietly. “I would not like anybody to think that I was in any way, how shall I put it, worried, by this censure motion in the European Parliament.”

Alfonse shook his head, mainly to remove memories of yesterday's blind panic and the firm orders to clear the office and buy a one-way train ticket to Luxembourg: “Oh no, Monsieur Le President. Perish the thought.”

Santer nodded. “So you will quietly go and ask the removal men to unremove everything. Give them something for their trouble. Tell them it was ... a time and motion study for a Eurostat survey.”

Alfonse nodded again. “Very well, Monsieur Le President, but it looks suspicious.”

Santer looked impatient: “Just make sure nobody gets an impression that the Commission president is being given the run-around by some hotheads in Strasbourg!”

Alfonse dismissed the removal men. Tonight he would have to lug all those cardboard boxes back into the room and unpack.

“There is nothing wrong with taking democracy seriously, Monsieur Le President,” he said.

Santer looked uncomfortable. “No, of course not Alfonse, but if people knew I was afraid of a few parliamentarians... Sacre Bleu! These people were today in grave danger of allowing democracy to interfere with the smooth running of my European Union!

Alfonse shook his head. “Not really, Monsieur Le President. When it comes to the crunch, they are as scared as you of pushing the button nucléaire. They have the ultimate sanction, but they dare not use it. They are like President Clinton.”

Santer nodded vigorously. “Exactly, Alfonse, exactly. But when democracy is allowed out of its cage, there is always the danger of a cock-up. If it had not been a Thursday afternoon, they might even have had enough members to make life very tricky! But frankly, I was never really worried. My Commission cannot be threatened by such trivial details like a censure motion.”

Alfonse looked up. “Then why did you instruct me to pack all your things yesterday?”

Santer flushed with embarrassment. “A simple precaution Alfonse,” he said, handing back his coffee cup. “But this matter must go no further. If anybody asks, my office was being inspected for woodworm. Understood?”

Alfonse took away the coffee cup. He paused at the door and turned. “Understood, Monsieur Le President. Your furniture will be back in place by tomorrow morning. And maman est le mot.”

Santer smiled. “Thank you, Alfonse. We shall not be moved, eh?”

Alfonse returned the smile. “Certainly not, Monsieur Le President,” he said, adding, sotto voce: “Not this week, at any rate.”

But Santer did not hear. He was gazing out across the gathering Brussels night and sticking little pins into an effigy of a certain José Happart...