by Anna Dove
Peter quieted and frowned, as the questions continued to bombard Brando, primarily regarding the invasion.
The press conference ended with many hands still raised, and Carlos and Peter made their way into the plush office adjoining the briefing room. It had two desks, one of which was occupied by a press wrangler, and the other of which was empty.
“Let’s wait here until everyone clears out,” said Peter, as hordes of press people crowded the doorway. Carlos agreed.
At that moment, a woman stepped into the room, and as she did so, everyone fell quiet. She was tall, and slender, and was dressed in a sleek white dress that reached from the gold button at her throat to the slit at her knees. Dark hair, red lips. Deep blue eyes, like uncut brilliant sapphire.
The press stood still, awed momentarily in her presence, and Peter and Carlos were frozen still as well. They had heard about her, the First Lady whose beauty and elegance won the hearts of foreign diplomats, whose multilingual intelligence stunned the global community, whose musical voice melted the souls of millions. Her cheekbones, defined and elegant, her brow, firm yet kind, her eyelashes, sweeping heavily over brilliant blue irises.
“Hello,” she said quietly, and her eyes glanced from face to face as she paused in the office. “I’m just looking for Maurice, the assistant here.” Her eyes rested on Carlos, and stayed for a moment.
“I don’t know, ma’am,” he replied, straightening up. Peter closed the sliding door to the press room, shutting the gaping press out so that it was just the three of them. “No idea,” he rejoined.
“Oh, what a shame,” she said, and sighed almost imperceptibly. “Everyone is so difficult to find around here, constantly rushing around.” Her voice sounded so much like a song.
“You’ll get more used to it ma’am,” said Carlos, before he knew what he was saying. Her eyes flitted back to him.
“And what’s your name?”
“Carlos, ma’am.”
“Don’t call me ma’am. It makes me feel so terribly old.” There was a brilliant sparkle in her eye.
“Well, then, what would you like to be called?”
“Just call me Adela. Everyone else does,” she said, saying everyone as if she really did, in fact, mean every single person.
“Alright,” said Carlos, extending his hand, and she shook it genteelly, slipping her hand into his. He noticed that her hand was incredibly soft. “Very nice to meet you.”
“Now, where do you all work?” she asked.
“Council of Economic Advisers,” said Peter. “We were sitting in on this briefing to hear about the new China deal, but they didn’t mention it much unfortunately.”
“South China Sea invasion,” nodded the First Lady sadly. “I know, I know. Overtakes all the accomplishments. Well, just know that I appreciate your efforts; I really do. You all are invaluable, and my husband also appreciates your continued work.”
“Thank you,” replied Carlos sincerely.
Maurice, a small blonde woman with dark eyes and a pointy nose, came into the room at that moment, looking flustered.
“Ma’am, you were looking for me? Can I help you with something?”
“Oh, yes,” replied the first lady, and then with a delicate wave and a promise that she would see them again soon, she and Maurice disappeared from view back into the West Wing. Gone, in an instant, and the air moved after her as if even it wanted to be near to her. The room suddenly felt empty and insufficient.
Peter took a deep breath, held it, and then exhaled slowly.
Carlos had heard of this sort of thing happening. He had heard the boys in his university talk, in terms either vulgar or romantic, about this woman, this woman whose eyes could melt a soul and whose voice sounded like a thousand songs. I couldn’t work in the White House, joked his friends. I wouldn’t get anything done. See her walking in the corridors--you’d forget about everything else, wouldn’t you? Sailors to the sound of the sirens, were his friends. He preferred to be Odysseus, chained to his profession, restrained against his impulses.
Back in his office, and free from Peter, Carlos returned to his charts and graphs; he buried his head in his work and the outside world faded for a while, until glancing at his watch he saw that it was eight pm. This startling him out of his work, he packed some files into his leather bag, slung it over his shoulder, and went from the Eisenhower building into the streets, catching a cab to arrive at his house, a small brick row house in NE Washington, where he made himself a sandwich and read a news update--Syria, what a mess--and then went to bed. However, he found himself staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep, his mind a jumble of numbers and equations. It was two in the morning before he finally drifted off to sleep, and when he did, he found himself in a strange dream, in which he was trying to carry several books, his favorite economic books, and their weight bogged him down. Drop them, said a voice, a woman’s voice. Although it sounded strangely familiar he could not tell to whom it belonged, and though he looked about him wildly in the shifting scenes, he could see no one, and then it all faded as dreams do, wisping away into the forgotten corners of the mind where all the memories are kept hidden, never to see the light of day.
Over the next few months, Carlos found himself in the presence of the first lady more and more often, although unintentionally. He would run into her at the mess hall in the West Wing, or walking the halls of the Eisenhower Building. He admired her beauty but would always try to stay somewhat aloof during their conversations. He knew better than to make a fool of himself.
One Tuesday evening after these encounters began to happen, Carlos was packing up his office for the day when he heard a soft knock on the door.
“Come in,” he said, not looking up from his bag.
The door opened and shut and no one said anything, and Carlos looked up to find the first lady standing there alone with a very strange and somber expression on her exquisite face. They stood in silence for a few moments and then he started forward abruptly, stepping towards her.
“Hello, can I - how are you? Are you alright?”
She looked at him wordlessly, his finely shaped jaw and aquiline nose, and without saying anything she sat down wordlessly on the chair across from his desk. Sensing that something was not right, he pulled out the chair next to her and sat down. Her lashes swooped down over the eyes, and she averted her face a little. Carlos sat quietly, and after a minute or two, she broke the silence.
“It is sometimes very difficult,” she said softly, her voice sending a strange shiver to his heart, “to be in the position that I am in. If you would just indulge me a moment.”
“It is no bother at all,” quickly said Carlos, the words escaping his lips before he could even think. “None at all. You are welcome here.”
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“Would you like anything? Water? A bourbon? Are you feeling alright?”
“Bourbon? You have bourbon?”
“Yes. I was - I was given some as a gift. I have it here in my office.”
“I’d like a bourbon.”
“I don’t have ice.”
“That’s alright.”
Carlos stood up and went behind his desk, and reaching into a bottom cabinet, he pulled out a bottle of Four Roses bourbon. Then, he paused, and reddened a little.
“I don’t have glasses. Want me to get paper cups?”
“No,” she said, and put out her hand for the bottle. “We can drink it straight.”
Carlos hesitated and then put the bottle into her hand. Her eyes were still hidden under the half-lowered eyelids. She twisted off the top and raised it to her lips. Carlos watched as she drank, and then as she lowered the bottle, she shuddered and handed it back to him. Her brilliant eyes raised to his, still wrapped in a shroud of strange calmness and lacking their usual light. Taking the bottle, he seated himself next to her.
“I hope you don’t think I’m being ridiculous,” she said, staring at the desk in front of her. “I’ve just had suc
h a day.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yes,” she said absently.
Carlos looked around the room furtively.
“Please, take a drink,” she said. “You know what they say about drinking alone.”
He felt obligated to acquiesce. The bottle in his hand was a gift from a group that had met with him the previous week to talk about something that he couldn’t remember at the moment. He lifted it to his lips. It was a smooth bourbon but still bit the back of his mouth, leaving a smoky yet sharp aftertaste.
“Sometimes I think that it’s too much,” Adela began. “Too much. Three hundred and fifty million people. And my husband is the leader of them all. That,” and she reached again for the bottle, “is a great responsibility.”
“I wouldn’t pretend to be able to know what it’s like,” responded Carlos as she drank again.
“I feel” she said, the bottle in her hand, “I feel...like there is only so much that I can do.”
She was exquisite. Her hair was pulled into a soft bun at the nape of her neck. Her eyes possessed a new, dark quality that Carlos had never before seen.
“And you,” she said, placing a hand on his arm, “you can do so much. You are so bright and talented, obviously so. My husband has praised you to me. He’s noticed you.”
“That’s an honor,” said Carlos, feeling the slight weight of her hand on his arm as if it were much heavier.
“Yes...an honor,” she said, and withdrew her hand. She took another sip, and then wincing at the aftertaste, she screwed the lid back onto the top.
“I’d like it if you didn’t tell anyone I came in here,” she said suddenly, turning her full face to him. “I just needed to stop for a moment. Keep it between us, yes?” And her hand again placed itself on his arm.
Carlos briefly was at an utter loss for words as his face turned to hers, and as he found himself staring into the deepest, most complex pair of brilliant blue eyes he had ever seen. He took a deep breath, and then bowed his head in agreement.
“I won’t say anything. I respect you.”
At his reply she smiled slightly, and a hint of the light in her eyes came back. Then, she rose from her chair and moved towards the door. Opening it, she looked over her shoulder.
“Thank you,” she whispered, and then she was gone.
+
It was the night before the gala, and Carlos was tired of liquor and Hallmark cards. He had been receiving an exorbitant amount of both lately. When anyone in the Eisenhower building does something that deserves praise, they receive copious amounts of cards and liquor. Carlos liked liquor, but not when the bottles interfered with his ability to physically organize his graphs and reports. This morning, he sat silently at his desk, his eyes fixed diligently on his computer screen. His hand rested on the coffee mug to the right of his desk.
The telephone on his desk rang, a low and pleasant tone. The little green button on line one lit up. His eyes glanced to it, and then to the time at the bottom of his computer screen, and then back to the telephone. He answered.
“Hello.”
A pause. Carlos’ eyes strayed from his computer to the window, peering out at his view of the White House Truman Balcony. Their gaze rested on the white rail, and trailed around as far as they could see, to the curtained windows.
“Yes, I am ready.”
His fingers tapped on the ceramic blue mug.
“You know I don’t thrive in that environment like you do, but I do appreciate the thought.”
He smiled, and chuckled, apparently amused at the response.
“Sure.”
After that, he took the receiver from his ear and pressed it down to hang up.
His eyes remained absently focused on the balcony, eyebrows furrowed, and his lips pressed together pensively. He was deep in thought when his telephone rang again, this time blinking red.
“Who is it?”
A pause.
“Send them in.”
The door to the office opened and Elizabeth Tremont entered, smiling. She was dressed neatly in a black pant suit, her white collar pressed professionally and sparkling studs in her earlobes. She took notice of the quantities of bourbon and raised her eyebrows.
“Preparing for a long week, I see?”
Carlos smiled.
“Come in! Sit down.”
Elizabeth acquiesced, seating herself graciously in the plush chair across the desk from Carlos.
“How was your weekend?” She asked, leaning forward.
Although he was reserved, there was a sort of subtle charm in his manner, completely unintentional on his part, that Elizabeth very much appreciated.
“Fine,” responded Carlos, glancing at his desk phone. “Didn’t do much.”
“Are you excited to go to the gala tonight?”
“Are you going?”
“Yes, Haley is attending in place of Senator McCraiben and I am going with her.”
“Wonderful,” said Carlos politely. “I am sure it will be a beautiful evening. I’ve invited my friend James Landon, the Under Secretary of the Navy, as my guest. I know that he is also a close friend to Senator McCraiben.”
“The Under? How do you know him?”
“Met him on a project. His parents knew mine; they were my parents’ immigration lawyers. He’s a spectacular person.”
“Spectacular?”
“He really is. You have to be, if you’re going to be the Under.”
“True.”
Carlos leaned back in his seat.
“So, Miss Elizabeth, what brings you here today?”
“I was hoping for your review on something,” said Elizabeth, and she pulled from her purse a manila folder. She placed it on his desk.
“It’s not urgent, it’s only a proposal I’m researching. I wanted your input. Just get it to me in a week or so, if that’s alright.”
“Happy to oblige,” responded Carlos, and smiled.
“Well, thanks,” grinned Elizabeth. “Now I’ve got to get back to McPherson. I’ll see you tonight?”
“Absolutely,” her friend replied, and nodded to her as she stood, shouldering her purse, and exited the room with a brief wave.
5. The Back Room
“You have a grand gift for silence, Watson. It makes you quite invaluable as a companion.”
― Arthur Conan Doyle, The Complete Sherlock Holmes, Vol 1
Haley, her mind racing and her body tight with adrenaline, started her car as Elizabeth sat down in the passenger seat, both still dressed in their lavish gala attire. Speeding more quickly than advisable back towards the city, they sat in silence, Elizabeth watching the buildings pass by the car window and Haley’s eyes intent on the road in front of her. There was a twisted pit in the bottom of Haley’s stomach and she tried to fix her eyes on the car in front of her to distract her own mind from wandering to the worst case scenario. After what seemed like twenty hours but was really twenty minutes, they parked in front of an alley on a nondescript road in the northwestern part of the city.
Sandwiched in between an oyster bar and a hat shop nestled a tiny, grungy dive bar that saw a steady stream of individuals from every social class. Here and there sat the CEO’s who wanted to avoid recognition as they pulled away at their whiskey neat; there in the corner were the blue collar workers taking advantage of five-dollar beers. Professional call girls who could boast a few well known political conquests sipped on vodka martinis. There were legislative aides, Congressmen, and shopkeepers.
The owner of this bar was named Tom. He had served in Afghanistan with the Senator and the two were lifelong friends. Tom was a decent, plain sort of person, who had built the bar and who loved it with every bone in his body. He had created it, from an empty little building, and he served as a bartender almost every night of the week, chatting with the high and the low, offering advice and consolation, keeping classified secrets that people had drunkenly spilled. Tom knew and kept more secrets, miseries, and tragedies than Pandora�
�s Box.
His back room he kept secret, a little treasure of a place unknown to the majority. Only a select few were allowed behind its doors. There were no cameras, no audio, and he kept it that way for situations in which his friends might need it. His loyalty to his friends ran deep, and, in turn, the Senator regarded him as one of the most valuable and trustworthy people in the city.
Haley and Elizabeth now ducked into the front entrance, stepping down a brief flight of stairs and swinging open the iron-grated door. The inside of the bar was feebly attended this evening; a half-asleep man in a suit sat on one end of the bar, a few underage college students from Georgetown poured cheap beers down their polo-collared throats at the other end. Tom was nowhere to be seen. There was not much space between the bar and the wall, four feet perhaps, and Haley and Elizabeth passed the Greek life enthusiasts, reaching another door. This door led to a hall, which led to another door, which led to the bathroom on one side and a small, coded lock door on the other. There was a tiny glass peephole facing outward. Haley knocked.
The bolt slid open from the inside and the lock code box clicked. The door swung on its hinges inward, and there was Tom, a round, short man with a bald head dressed in loose jeans and a sweater. He motioned them in, and shut the door behind them.
In the corner of the tiny room, which was no bigger than the average bathroom, was a standing lamp and a lit bulb that afforded soft illumination to the people and shapes in the room. In the center of the floor stood the only furniture in the room: a square table, with four chairs. Nothing else--only four walls with peeling plaster leftover from the 1920’s, the original construction year of the building. The Senator sat on the far side of the table facing the door with his eyes fixed in absolute concentration on the two women’s faces. He wore a collared shirt and slacks but did not look as cut and neat as usual. The lines seemed to have deepened in his forehead and around the corners of his mouth. His hair was mussed, as if he had just woken up, and his eyebrows bushed fiercely above his piercing gaze. James Landon sat to his right, his brow furrowed.
