Half an hour before the event, two journalists are already idling about in front of the glass panels of the large building. They are not yet allowed in. Both of them are smoking cigarettes through the little gap between scarf and hat. I greet them in half-recognition, then, to truly blend in, fiddle about in my inside pocket for my Pall Malls. After about fifteen minutes, a Man Acting Very Official pushes through the crowd of reporters and tapes a note to the glass. We all crane our necks and push about to see, like adolescents being presented with a list of grades.
The first line of the note says the press conference is canceled. In the rest of it, great care is taken to point out the tentative status of this message. It is too soon, it reads, to make permanent decisions on the matter. Too many uncertainties to clear up first.
A few minutes later the Man Acting Very Official comes walking up again, as determined as the first time, with another note, which he tapes over the first one. This second note confirms the cancellation brought up in the first. Due to unforeseen circumstances, the situation is out of our hands, etc. The second part of the new note announces a second press conference, which, ostensibly, is to deal with any questions regarding the cancellation of the first one. This second event will take place in ten minutes, at the building we are all huddled in front of. By the time we finish reading, the Man Who Acted Very Official has long since vanished.
My colleagues and I all have our own way of dealing with this situation. Some shrug, mumble ‘news is news’, stay put. Others run off clutching their cell phones, calling up a colleague of theirs they consider more suited for this second event. A third group, to which I belong, obediently call their bosses wondering how to deal with the situation. Mine says go ahead, you're here anyway, might as well.
Everything in the press room is carefully arranged. As we reporters enter, we are asked after employer and function, and then guided into carefully mapped out sections. I am in the magazine-section, something my fellow magazine writers do not appreciate. After all, I am merely an internet blogger and everyone knows that does not count as real journalism.
Once everyone is seated and organized, the speakers enter, exuding the same solemnity that the Man Acting Very Official did. After the required niceties, the middle speaker - the prime spokesman of the company – makes to talk.
“First of all, I want to thank you all for coming here on such short notice. Our sincerest apologies for the manner in which this press conference was announced. As I hope you are well aware, this is not according to our standard procedure, and will have to go down as an unfortunate exception.”
“Now, to the matter at hand, for which you are all here. For today, a press conference was planned discussing the proceedings of an inquiry into best marketing practices. Unfortunately, as you have learned, this conference had to be canceled due to circumstances well out of our locus of control. There is, as of yet, no new date for the conference, but I can tell you that right now the conference’s official status is postponed, not canceled.”
He leaves it up to the ensuing silence to add weight to his words. “There will be time for questions now,” he adds finally.
Murmurs go through the audience, everyone looks around nervously. Finally, a man in the newspaper section stands up. “What circumstances caused the cancellation of the conference,” he wants to know.
“First of all,” the spokesman counters, “let me remind you that as of now the official status is postponed, not cancelled.” He seems extremely pleased with this remark. “As for the consequences, that is a matter of little concern.”
“Not to a man in my profession,” the newspaperman says, “we have an obligation to be as complete as possible when we collect the facts.”
“As you will, sir. The conference has been postponed because it was brought to our attention that rumors of its cancellation were a trending topic on the Internet. Since we have a policy of extreme care, any rumors compromising the conference are met with immediate action. We do not want to risk the possibility, however small, that the rumors are founded and we turn up unprepared.”
The newspaperman is aghast with this reply for a second and a radio journalist takes this opportunity to jump in. “Our team did some quick research,” he says, not being able to smother the triumphant hint in his voice foreboding what's to come, “and we came across these Internet rumors too. It turns out your company yourself was the one who issued a brief statement of uncertainty regarding the conference, and it was upon this statement that the rumors were based. What do you have to say about this?”
The spokesman laughs, as if it concerns comedian and punchline. “If it is based on a message by ourselves, there is absolutely no reason to doubt it, and that only confirms for me that we have taken the right decision.”
All the journalists around me are scribbling feverishly. A woman next to me stands up and starts asking a question in a tantalizingly slow, drawn-out tempo, as if she is still figuring it all out as she speaks. “Mr. Spokesman,” she starts, “if my information is correct, you were slated to appear at the cancelled press conference.”
“Postponed,” the spokesman corrects.
“Postponed press conference. You have therefore, I assume, your statement for this postponed conference ready and at hand?”
“I do.”
She seems to be searching for the right words, as if what she is about to express is a particularly alien thought. “I would appreciate it if you read out this statement, since that is what I - and I think I speak for most of the people here - came here for in the first place.”
The spokesman looks perplexed. “Why would you come to this conference to hear me read out a statement from another press conference? Pardon my saying so, madam, but that is not according to protocol.”
Here, the organizer of the conference butts in and sternly says: “Please, from now on, no more questions regarding the content of the postponed conference. This conference concerns only the news of the postponement.”
Visibly disappointed, the woman sits down. No one else stands up after that, and proceedings are wrapped up.
Back outside, all of us eagerly take to our cigarettes. Colleagues make calls to their headquarters. With absolute precision, they summarize the conference. Meanwhile I have opened up my suitcase and, my laptop half balancing on a ledge of the building's wall, start typing out my report. Some of us, encouraged by the many sudden changes this afternoon, linger after their work is done, hoping the Man Who Acted Very Official comes by again with a scoop.
Me, though, my article finished, I walk away, out of the solid cloud of cigarette smoke we erected in front of the building.
