The Obama Identity

by Edward Klein

  The tick…tick…tick of the metronome began again. Obama started reading from the TelePrompTer, and Boogie Booker and the backup singers started snapping their fingers and swaying back and forth and singing the speech along with him.

  Obama recited:

  As Lincoln organized the forces arrayed against slavery, he was heard to say: ‘Of strange, discordant, and even hostile elements, we gathered from the four winds, and formed and fought to battle through.’

  And Boogie Booker and the chorus sang:

  …we gathered from the four winds, oh, yeah, and formed and fought to battle through… Oh, yeah….oh, yeah….

  Obama’s head was beginning to move rhythmically to the beat, and his voice was beginning to soar, and he was speaking in the hypnotic cadence of a Pentecostal preacher. He raised his chin and said loud and clear:

  That is our purpose here today!

  And the back-up singers chimed in:

  …Tell it, brother!

  And Obama said:

  That’s why I’m in this race. Not just to hold an office, but to gather with you to transform a nation.…

  And Boogie Booker sang out:

  Oh, yeah…. We’ve seen the Promised Land….

  The candidate and his words had crystallized into a single, powerful, inspiring, perfect message. And I could feel the goose bumps go up my leg. I had discovered the secret remedy that could cure every mind-numbing speech given by all the brain-locked millionaires in Washington. They just needed a little bit of soul.

  As Obama finished his run-through, everyone exploded in applause. The candidate stepped down from the practice podium and stopped in front of our small group. The room was suddenly suffused with the warm glow of his electrifying smile. He shook hands with each one of us, and then bent down to kiss Elvira on the cheek.

  “Thanks for coming today, Miss Roll,” he said. “I hope to see you again next Sunday at Trinity United Church.”

  “I’m there every Sunday,” she said. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  “I’ve been there every Sunday for the past twenty years,” Obama said proudly.

  Then, suddenly, Obama did a quick double take when he saw Vangie Roll. A flicker of recognition crossed his face. Did he remember their basketball game more than two years earlier, or was it just the sight of an attractive woman? He said a few words to Vangie, and went to a corner and lit a cigarette.

  “Elvira, come and sit over here with me,” said the Reverend Wright. “We have a few minutes before the festivities begin.”

  He wheeled Elvira over to a sitting area. Valerie Jarrett, Vangie and I followed. We settled into chairs around a coffee table.

  “Well,” the Reverend said, “this morning is the beginning of Stage Two. We have won the Invisible Primary.”

  “Invisible Primary?” I said.

  “Almost thirty years ago,” the Reverend said, “Arthur T. Hadley, an editor at the old New York Herald-Tribune, wrote about the 1976 presidential campaign and how a complete nobody named Jimmy Carter came along and won something that Hadley called the Invisible Primary, which is everything that goes on before New Hampshire. Whoever is ahead in this invisible contest goes on to win the nomination and then the presidency. And our plan to win this Invisible Primary has worked. Barack is already ahead of Hillary and John Edwards. Just look at that crowd out there and all these reporters trying to suck up to him! The entire media establishment is in the bag for Barack.”

  “Five minutes!” an advance man yelled.

  The candidate was still in the corner, talking to Valerie. Mrs. Obama and the girls appeared in their heavy winter coats. “Barack!” she commanded, and he looked up. “No more arms. You’ve got a speech to give.”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” he said, rising to his feet. “A speech that’ll make them love me. Love me, all of them, do you hear? All across the nation, all across the oceans, all across the whole wide—”

  “Barack, come on!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  On the way back from Springfield, I received a text message on my BlackBerry. It was from my son Vier.

  Hi Dad. Glad you’re back from your travels. I’m going to enter a talent contest at the Improv comedy club in D.C.

  How’s this for my opening joke? One night as a couple lays down for bed, the husband starts rubbing his wife’s arm. The wife turns over and says, “I’m sorry, honey, I’ve got a gynecologist appointment tomorrow and I want to stay fresh.” The rejected husband thinks for a minute then taps his wife again. “Do you have a dentist appointment tomorrow, too?”

  By the way, Dad, Mom’s having her first one-woman sculpture show Feb 22 here in NY…. Can U come? We’d be a family again. Please! Xox. V

  That pitiful phrase—“We’d be a family again”—tugged at my heartstrings. Like all children of broken homes, Vier had fantasies that his mother and father would get back together.

  I shared his dream. Indeed, I wanted to reconcile with Taitsie more than anything in the world. I loved her more now than I did on the day I married her. This separation was her idea, not mine—and it was killing me.

  I suffered from what Winston Churchill called “the Black Dog”—that depressed state of mind where waking up and facing another day is almost unbearable. Getting out of bed took enormous effort; my arms felt as though they weighed a hundred pounds. Once awake, I was tormented by the same recurring thoughts: What could I have done to save our marriage? How could I tell Taitsie that it was my fault? And worst of all, who was Taitsie sleeping with?

  As I knew all too well, Elizabeth “Taitsie” Millard was a sensual woman. I had no doubts that she was back on the dating scene in New York, a paradise for singles, divorcees and separatees. The thought of Taitsie—my Taitsie—indulging her libertine impulses with another man was too much for me to bear.

  Taitsie and I hadn’t seen each other in a long time. Occasionally, we talked on the phone about Vier. But otherwise, we were separated by a cold, long-distance silence. Now, reading Vier’s text message, I began to wonder if Taitsie might be having second thoughts. Was she behind Vier’s invitation to me to attend her one-woman show in New York? Was this a face-saving way for Taitsie to see if we could reconcile? Or was I indulging in wishful thinking?

  I text-messaged Vier:

  I’ll gladly come to NY for your Mother’s show. Assume you want me to stay with you and your Mother in the apartment while in NY. I can use the guest room. Love Dad

  Less than a minute later, Vier replied.

  Great news you’re coming to NY. But I don’t recommend you stay in the guest room at Mom’s place. No way. Xox V

  Why didn’t Vier want me to stay in his Mother’s apartment? Was he trying to protect me from something—or somebody? Was there another man in Taitsie’s life?

  Well, whether Vier liked it or not, I decided that I was going to stay in Taitsie’s guest room and find out what this was all about.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  “Champagne?”

  A waitress in a short black skirt and colorful Christian Lacroix stockings offered me a tray with glasses of champagne, sparkling water, and wine. I had been sober for four years, seven months, and thirteen days, and although I was nervous over the prospect of facing Taitsie again, I had no intention of having a slip now. So I took a glass of sparkling water.

  It was a chilly Thursday night in SoHo, just off Gansevoort Street at the Eros & Agape Gallery. The gallery was one big, long rectangular room with stark white walls, a black ceiling, and a big window looking out on Little West 12th Street. It was crammed with Page Six boldfaced names from the worlds of art, society, and media. Flora Biddle, the former chairman of the Whitney Museum, was chatting up the painter Chuck Close. Caroline Kennedy was in an animated (one might even say “heated”) conversation with her heavyset husband, Edwin Schlossberg, a designer of museum installations. Mayor Michael Bloomberg was steering his lanky investment banker girlfriend Diana Taylor around the room. Richard Johnson, the guiding genius behind
the New York Post’s famous “Page Six,” was in a corner schmoozing Tony Frost, the editor of the National Enquirer….

  Among the many attractive women, two in particular caught my attention. They looked like twins: majestic, shapely, and with skin the color of the desert at sunset. Their bare arms and legs were incredibly long and limber. They stood together and shared a laugh. Their raw, natural beauty took my breath away.

  “Dad, you came!”

  Vier was dressed in a tie and jacket, though his shirttail was hanging out. With his glossy black hair and heavy straight eyebrows, he resembled his mother more than ever.

  “Hey,” Vier said, grabbing my wrist, “we gotta find Mom. She’s here somewhere.”

  I looked around the crowded room and caught a glimpse of the fabulous, breathtaking, amazing Taitsie. She was taller than all the other women in the room, including the two majestic Desert Girls with whom she was talking.

  “Have you seen Mom’s sculptures?” Vier asked.

  “Not yet,” I said. “Why don’t we take a look around together?”

  Vier and I approached a small sculpture mounted on a table. It was entitled “Gobi” and depicted a tall, thin woman, seated, legs wide apart, head down. I frowned slightly. All of Taitsie’s subjects had one thing in common: they were tall, thin, naked women. This piece made it appear that the woman was examining herself. I wondered if the model used for “Gobi” was one of the Desert Girls.

  The next work was a full-sized piece of two women, arm-in-arm, staring off at some faraway object. The label attached to the wall next to it read “Shared Destiny.” The two women were, as usual, thin and beautiful and nude.

  “Sir, would you like a program?”

  A gallery staffer was handing out Eros & Agape fliers. The cover read: Vaginal Art 2007. Elizabeth Millard.

  Taitsie had kept her maiden name as her professional name. I couldn’t blame her. Long before I met her, she had established a name for herself in the art world—a world that was as distant as you could get from my secret world at the CIA. However, in my other world—the world of my cover as the head of the Sticky Fingers Literary Agency—our two universes sometimes intersected. For instance, I had once pitched a book idea to Philippe Vergne, the senior curator of the Walker Art Center, to write the history of Neo-Avant-Garde. But Vergne declined the offer, explaining that it would “distract me from myself.”

  As Vier and I moved from sculpture to sculpture, I spotted George Soros, the enormously successful money speculator who was the chief backer of every left-wing cause du jour. He was wearing a blue Obama 2008 button.

  I sidled up to him as he studied another of Taitie’s pieces, this one titled “Eritrea.” The sculpture was a variation on Taitsie’s usual theme. It depicted two women partially dressed. Rags hung from their skeletal figures.

  “It’s sad about all the human misery in Eritrea, isn’t it?”

  I said to Soros. “And all the suffering throughout the rest of Africa.”

  He grunted without looking at me.

  So I tried again. “And it’s about time we had an African-American president.”

  “Excuse me,” Soros said, “but have we met?”

  I smiled in my most innocent manner. “I’m the artist’s husband, Theodore J. Higginbothem III.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” he said.

  “No, that’s my real name,” I said. “And this is my son, Vier.”

  As we shook hands, Soros looked me in the eye. He had what The Deuce called a “dour countenance.” But my reference to Barack Obama and his African background seemed to have roused his interest.

  “Yes, I believe Obama will be a transformational president,” Soros said.

  “You really think he can beat Hillary—and Bill?”

  “I know Bill,” Soros said with a deep insider’s gravity, “and he’s conflicted about Hillary. He only half wants his wife to win the nomination. His ego wants the Clinton brand to own the Democratic Party. But his vanity wants there to be only one president with the last name Clinton.”

  “Do you think the economy will help or hurt Obama?” I asked.

  “The American economy is a house of cards,” Soros replied even more loftily. “All it would take is one shrewd play to take down Lehman Brothers and the rest of the big banks. A collapse like that would help Barack Obama win the election.”

  “Is that so?” I said, playing along.

  “That is definitely so. Believe me, I know whereof I speak, Mr. Higginbothem.”

  I could see Soros was forgetting himself as he pontificated about a subject close to his heart—money.

  “And,” he continued, “you’re looking at the very man who can do it—make that play to take down the big banks and ensure that Barack Obama wins the White House. As they say, Mr. Higginbothem, stay tuned.”

  “I surely will,” I said.

  After George Soros left, Vier tapped me on the shoulder.

  “Dad, who was that?”

  “A man who knows his own importance,” I said.

  “His mother should have thrown him away and kept the stork,” Vier said, and we both laughed.

  Just then, Taitsie approached with Caroline Kennedy and her husband, Ed Schlossberg, in tow.

  “Caroline and Ed,” Taitsie said, “this is my soon-to-be-former husband, Theodore J. Higginbothem.”

  Vier shot his mother a disapproving glance and walked away. I could hear him mumbling under his breath, “She didn’t have to say that….”

  “Caroline and I are old friends from Newport,” Taitsie told me. “She used to visit her mother’s childhood home at Hammersmith Farm, and my father and Mummy would have her over at Bailey’s Beach.”

  We shook hands. Caroline had a huge paw and her knuckles turned white as she gripped my hand. She wasn’t someone you’d want to challenge to an arm wrestle.

  “I thought you two should know each other,” Taitsie said. “Higgy might not have been the world’s greatest husband, but he’s a first-rate literary agent. And, of course, Caroline writes books.”

  “I was just speaking with George Soros,” I said, trying to make conversation. “That man’s got all the warmth of a Frigidaire.”

  “People say, you know, the same, uh, about me, you know,” Caroline said, and walked away.

  To cover the embarrassing lapse, Taitsie asked, “Where are you staying?”

  “In your guest room if that’s okay with you.”

  Taitsie looked at me with a strange expression, but she didn’t say anything.

  A few minutes later, Vier and I gathered up our things and walked the two blocks to Taitsie’s top-floor loft. It was the perfect apartment for an artist: one huge workspace crammed with sculpturing materials, buckets, stepladders, and even a hoisting device affixed to the ceiling. Taitsie had three bedrooms. Her master bedroom was at one end, next to a small kitchen. Vier’s bedroom and the guest room were at the other end.

  I reminded Vier that it was well past his bedtime.

  “Oh, Dad, can’t I stay up until Mom gets home so that we can all be together for a while?”

  I shook my head. “Son, tomorrow’s a school day. You and your mother and I’ll have breakfast together in the morning before I leave.”

  He kissed me good night. He had the same strange expression that I had seen on Taitsie’s face when I informed her that I was staying at her apartment.

  I went to the guest room, unpacked, brushed my teeth in the adjoining bathroom, and went to bed. But I couldn’t sleep. My mind kept replaying the events of the evening. George Soros’ warning about how he was going to fix the economy and create a financial crisis so Barack Obama could win the White House… visions of the nude women portrayed in Taitsie’s sculptures… the sight of Taitsie at the gallery….

  Sometime after one o’clock in the morning, I awoke and found myself hungry. I realized I hadn’t eaten anything since lunch. So I got up, threw on my trousers and a shirt and padded into the kitchen. Rummaging through the
refrigerator, I saw a few items I could fashion into a sandwich. As I was spooning some mayonnaise onto a slice of health nut bread, a woman walked into the kitchen. She was dressed in a red teddy—the kind of sexy lingerie I used to buy for Taitsie. I stared in disbelief. It was one of the Desert Girls.

  “Ah…hello,” I stammered. “I’m Taitsie’s husband.”

  I couldn’t stop staring at her. She was even taller than she had appeared in the gallery. Her dark black hair cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. Her nipples showed through the red teddy. The woman was the most stunning creature I had ever seen.

  Upon hearing that I was Taitsie’s husband, she stiffened and took a small step back.

  “I am Alem,” she said in an accent that I immediately recognized as North African.

  She didn’t look happy at all.

  “And I am Mihret,” said the other Desert Girl as she came into the kitchen looking like a twin of the first.

  The second Desert Girl was wearing a white towel wrapped around her torso. She looked as though she had just stepped out of the shower. What were these two beauties doing in Taitsie’s kitchen, ready for bed, at one in the morning?

  Before I could ask, I heard a voice coming from down the hall. It was Taitsie’s voice.

  My heart jumped.

  “Girls, where are you?” she called.

  The Desert Girls giggled and headed down the hall.

  Curious, I couldn’t help following them. I had to see the damning truth for myself. As I peered into the bedroom, I saw my wife sitting up in bed, wearing a filmy Oscar de la Renta nightgown.

  I coughed to cover my confusion, then asked:

  “Do you think we could try a little three-on-one-some?”