The chimney sweep

The headline leaves me stunned. Donald Trump explained on Fox News that "Iran asked him for a seven-day truce in attacks on power plants and other energy facilities, but he granted them ten." Apparently, Tehran is "very grateful" to him.

In other words, Iran (let's understand the perverse synecdoche when we say “Iran,” as we take the whole for the part) asks for seven days. Not six, not eight. It’s just that when you ask for extensions (for a job you have to submit, to think about things...) you tend to ask, unintentionally, for a week. You count by days, and when you ask for hour extensions, they are usually twenty-four. But Donald Trump, in his magnificence, says: “Quiet, don’t worry. I’ll give you three more than you asked for.”

Why? It’s a truce that will lead to negotiation. It’s not giving the green light to the attack. If it were the green light to the attack, it would be cynical to say: “I was going to attack you on Monday, but since I’m magnanimous, I’ll attack you on Thursday. And since I said ‘ten days,’ the attack will be precisely at six in the morning. So you had the possibility of dying on Monday, but that possibility moves to Thursday.”

Granting an extension in these circumstances is a sign of weakness, of self-doubt. If your partner asks you for seven days to think and you tell them you’ll give them ten, it means you’re not sure. Donald Trump’s personality makes me think of a gambler, someone who plays slot machines seeking immediate and ephemeral pleasure, non-sporting adrenaline; who, with a cocktail or beer in hand, puts a coin in the machine, sees they win, exclaims out loud, with pleasure, and immediately puts another coin in the machine, until they lose them all. They leave the bar sweaty, euphoric, dirty, thinking that tomorrow is another day.